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liLvstRATBD BT FOUE PLATES ; Airb Rules for kxprkssiitq 









TEE NEW ynp*- 
PUBLIC LIB r^f:rf 






ON the ipeaking of npceches at schools, Walker^ 
On the actmi; of pUja at schools, ib. 

Rules for expressing with fwopriety, the prin- 
cipal passions and humorS) which oocui' ii 

readily orpnhlic speiJdng, 
Rules respecting elocntion, 

















to 5. Select' sentences. 
The fox and the goat, 
The fox and jUie stork. 
The coort of death, 
The partial judf^e. 

jirt of Thinking^ 
Dodtley'M Fablu^ 




The siek Hon, the fox and the wolf, t^. 
Dishonesty punished) Kant^M hint$y 

The picture, ib. 

The two bees, DodsUy''$ FahU*^ 

Beauty and deformity, PtrcimVa TaUt^ 

Remarkable instance of friendship, ^rt o/Speakingy 
Dionysius and Damocles, ib, 

eharaoter of Cataline, Salltut, 

A¥arice and Luxury, Sputotor^ 

Hercules^ choice, TattUr^ 

Will Honeycomb^s Spectator, Spectator^ 

On good breeding, CktsUrfidd^ 

Address to a young student, Knox^ 

S3. AdTaBta|;e« of^ and motirea to<cbeerColAes8, SptcM^r^ 





1. The bad reader, PercivaVs Taki^ 89 

2. Respect due to old age, Spectator^ 90 

3. Pietj to God recommended to the young, Blair^ ih, 

4. Modesty and docility, ib. 91 

5. Sincerity, ^ - ib. 92 
6i Benevolence and humanity, ' ib. , 93 

7. Industry and application, ib. 94 

8. Proper employment of time, ib. , 95 

9. The true patriot, »drt of Thinking 96 

10. On, contentment, Spectator^ 97 

11. Nee die- work recommended to the ladies, ib. > 100 

12. Ob pride/ Guardian^ 102 

13. Journal pf the life of Alexander Severus, Gibbm^' 104 

14. Charactir of Julius Cesar, Middhton^ 105 

15. On mis^pent'time, Guardian^ l06 

16. Characier of Francis I. Robertson^ 110 

17. The sVipper and grace, Sleme^ 113 

18. Rustic felicity, ib. 115 

19. House of mourning, ib. 116 


1. The honor and advantage of a constant 

adherence to truth, PgrcivaVs TaleSy 119 

2. Impertinence in discourse, Theophrastus^ ib. 

3. Character of Addison as a writer, Johnson^ 120 

4. Pleasure and Pain, Spectator^ 121 

5. Sir Roger de Coverly's family, ' ib. 123 

6. The folly of inconsis'lcnt expectations, Aitkin^ 126 

7. Description of the vale of Keswick, in 

Cumberland, Brotm^ 128 

8. Pky, an allegory, ^ilcin^ 131 

9. Advantages of commerce, Spectator^ 133 

10. On public speaking, ib. 135 

11. Advantages of history, Hume^ 136 

12. On the immortality of the soul. Spectator^ 139 

13. The combat of the Horatii and tlie 

Curiatii, r-* Livy^ 141 

14. On the power of custom, Spectcttor^ 144 

15. On pedantry, Mirror^ "146 

16. The journey of & day ; a picture of 

human fife, RawhUr^ 148 


1. Description of the ampitheatre of 

Titns, Gihhim^ 153 

S. Reflections t&Westmi&Bl^flCbbey, Sputater^ 154 


3< The chaneter •f Mary, qaeen •t Scoti, Jlo6erf mh, 

4. The character of qaeen Uizabetb^ Hunu^ 

5. Charles V^s. resignation of lui dwniniom, Robertson^ 
9. Importance of virtue, Priee^ 

7. Address to art, Hwrris^ 

6. Flatter/, Tkecphrattui^ 
9. The absent man, Speciaiwr^ 

10. The Monk, Aenu, 

11. On the hea4 dress of the ladies, Sptitaior^ 

12. On the present and a future state, ib, 

13. Uncle Tobj^s benevolence, 5<eme, 

14. Stoiy of the siege of Calais, F09I tf (iuaUtp^ 


1. On grace in writing, FUsbonuU Letters^ 

%. On the structure of animals, Uptctator^ 

3. On natural and fantastical pleasures, Guanfiari, 

4. The folly and madness of ambition 

illustrated, World^ 

5. Battle of PharscJia, and the death of 

Pompej, Gcldtmith^ 

6. Character of king Alfred, Hume^ 

7. Awkwardness in company, Ckeittrjuldj 

8. Virtue man^s highest interest, Harris^ 
9 On the pleasure arising from objects 

of sight, Spectator^ 

10. Liberty and slavery, Slmu^ 

11. Thecant of criticiso), ib, 

12. Parallel between Fope and Dryden, Johnton^ 

13. Story of le Fcvre, 5/tme, 


1. The shepherd and the philosopher, 

2. Ode to Leaven Water, 

3. Ode from the 19th psalm, 

4. Rural charms, 
5« The painter who pleased nobody and 

every body, 

6. Diversity in the human character, 

7. The toilet, 
^ The hennit, . 
•• On the death of Mrs. Mason, 

10. Extract from the temple of fame 

n. A panegyric on Great Britain, 

12* Hyma to the Deity, on the seasons of 

the ^ear, s(. 

A 9 


























1. The camelioB, Merrick, 

S. On the order of nature, i^trfc. 

3. Description of a country alehouse, Goldsmith^ 

4. Character of a country schoolmaster) ib. 

5. Story of Palemon and Lavipia, Thomsonj 

6. Celadon and Amelia) ib. 

7. Description ef Mab, queen of the fairies, Skake^eare, 
S, On the existence of a Deity, Yotmgy 

9. Evening in paradise descrilked, Milton^ 

10. Elegy written in a country church yard, Gray, 

11. Scipio restoring the captive lady to her 

lover, Thomson^ 

12. Humorous complaint to Dr. Arbuthnot, 

of the impertinence of scribblers. Pope, 

13. Hymn to adversity, Gray^ 

14. The Passions — An ode, GollinSf 


1. Lamentation for the loss of sight, Milton, 

^. L^ Allegro, or the m«rry man, i6. 

3. On the pursuits of maiusind. Pope, 

4. Adam and Eve^s morning hymn, Milton, 

5. Parting of Hector and Andromache, •Momer^ 

6. Facetious history of John Gilpin, Cowptr, 
' 7. The creation />f the world, Milton, 

S. Overthrow of the rebel angels, ib, 

9. Alexander's feast, or ike power of music, Drydm, 









1. On traih and integrity^ 

S. On doing as we would be done unto, 

3. On benevdence and charity, 

4. On happiness, 

" '" hedM^oCClolst, 




1. speech of the Earl of Chesterfield, t93 

2. Lord Ma&flfield, 298 


1. Pleadiogpi of Cicero againat Verresy 303 

2. Cicero for Miio, 306 


1. Romulas to the people of Rome, after building 

the city, JJooke^ 3l$ 

2. Hannibal 'to Scipio Africanui, i6. 314 

3. Scipio^s reply, t&. 315 

4. Calisthenes^ reproof of Cleon's flattery 

to Alexander, Q, Curtiui^ 319 

5. Cains Marius to the Romans, Hookt^ 317 

6. Publius Scipio to the Roman army, ib, 320 

7. Hannibal to the Carthaginian army, ib, 320 
S. Adherbal to the Roman senators, Salliut^ 325 
0. Canoleins to the Roman consuls, Hookt^ 329 

W, Junins Brutus over the dead body ef Lncretia, t6. 331 

11. Demosthenes to the Athenians, Lavudcwn^ 333 

12. Jupiter to the inferior deities, Homer ^ 338 

13. ^neas to queen Dido, yirgil, ' 339 

14. Moloch to the infernal powers, MiUony 341 

15. Speech of Belial, advising peace, i^. 343 

DRAMATIC PIECES.— I. Dial«ov«s. 

i, Belcour and Stockwell, Wett Indian^ 344 

2. Lady Towuly and Lady Grace, Protoked Husband^ 348 

3. FriuL' and Jaifier^ Vtniet Prutrved^ 351 

4. Boniface and Aimwell, B^aux Straiagem^ 353 

5. LoTegold and Lappet, Mittr^ 355 
«. Cardinal Wolaey and Cromwell, JAniy ViO. 3i9 


7. Sir Charles and Lady Racket, Thrte weeh aftermarriage^Sdi 

8. Brutus and Cassiusy ShakespeareU JuUus Cesar^ U6& 

1I»— Speeches an© SoLix^oquiKs. 

1. Hamlet's advice to the playei's, Tragedy of Hamlet, 369 

2 Douglas' a«count of himself. Tragedy of Douglas, 370 

3. the hermit, ib. 371 

4. Sempronius' speech for war, Tragedy of Cato^ 372 

6. Lucius' speech for peace, t6. ib. 

6. Hotspur's account of the fop, 1 Henry IK 372 

''• soliloquy on the contents of a letter, ib, 373 

8. OtheDo's apology for his marriage, Tragedy of Othello, S74 

9. Henry IV's solUoquy on sleep, t Henry IK 375 
10 Bobadil's method of defeating an 

army, Every ^man in his humor^ 376 
11. Soliloquy ©f Hamlet's uncle on the 

murder of his brother, Tragedy of Hamlet, 377 

12 Soliloquy of Hamlet on death, ib. 37a 

13, Falstaff 's encomiums on sack, 2 Henry IK ib 

14. Prologue to the Tragedy of Cato, Fope, 379 
16. Gate's soliloquy on the immortality 

of the soul, Tragedy of Cato, 380 
16. Speech of Henry V. at the siege of 

Harfleur, Shakespeare^s Henry K 381 

18. — — —before the battle 

ofAgincourt, ib, 382 

19. Soliloquy of Dick the apprenSce, Faree the JipprerUice, ib. 
SO. Cassius instigating Brutus to join the 

conspiracy against Cesar, Tragedy of Julius Cejar, 383 

21. Brutus' harrangue on the death of Cesar, ib, 385 

22. .Antony's oration over Cesar's bo^, ib, ib,, 
23 Falstaff 's soliloquy on honor, Henry IK 388 

24. Part of Richard Illd's soliloquy the night 

preceding the battle of Bosworth, Tragedy of Richard Hid, ib, 

25. The world compared to a stage, J3is you like it, 389 

APP£NDIX«-Containing concise lessons on a new plan, 390 



On the Sfieakhiff of Sfieechea at Schoch, — Walter. 

p^ LOCUTION has, for some years past, been an ob- 
"^ jecl of attention in the most respectable schools io 
this country. A laudable ambition of instructing youth, 
in the pronunciation and delivery of their native Ian- 
guage, has made J^nglish speeches a very conspicuous 
part of those exhibitions of oratory, which do oar semi- 
naries of learning so much credit. 

This attention to English pronunciation has induced 
several ingenious men to compile exercises in elocution) 
for the use of schools, which have answered very use- 
ful purposes ; but none, so far as I have seen, have attemp- 
ted to give us a regular system of gesture, suited to the 
wants and capacities of schoolboys. Mr. Burgh, in his 
Art of Speaking, has given us a system of the passions ; 
and has shown us how they appear in the countenance, 
and operate on the body ; but this system, however 
useful to people of riper years, is too delicate and com- 
plicated io be taught in schools. Indeed the exact adap- 
tation of the action to the word, and the word to the ac- 
tion, as Shakespeare calls it, is the most difficult part of 
delivery, and, therefore, can never be taught perfectly 
to children ; Io say nothing of distracting their attention 
with two very difficult things, at the same time. But 
tliat boys should stand motionless, while they are pro- 
nouncing the most impassioned lang uage, is extremely 
bsurd and unnatural ; and that they should sprawl ii)to 
n awkward, ungain and desultory action, is still more 
'^'''^nsive and disigusting. What then remains, but that 


such a general style of action be adopted, as shall be ca- 
sily coDceired, and easily executed; which, though not 
expressive of any particular passion, shall not be incon- 
sistent with the expression of any passion ; which shall 
alwayg keep the body in a graceful position, and shall so 
vary its motions, at proper intervals, as to see the sub-» 
ject operating on-the speaker, and not the speaker on the 
subject. This it will be confessed, is a great desidera- 
tum ; and an attempt toHhls, is the principal object of 
the present publication. 

The difficulty of describing action by Words, will be 
allowed by every one ; and if we were never to give any 
instructions, but such as should completely answer our 
wishes, this difficulty would be a good reason for not at* 
tempting to give any description of it« But there are 
many degrees between conveying a precise idea of a 
thing and no idea at all. Besides, in this part of deliv- 
ery, instruction may be conveyed by the eye , and this 
organ is a much more rapid vehicle of knowledge than the 
ear. This vehicle is addressed on the present occasion ; 
and plates, representing the attitudes which are described 
are annexed to the several descriptions, which it is not 
doubted, will greatly facilitate the reader's conception. 

Plate I, represents the attitude in which a boy should 
always place himself when he begins to speak. He 
should rest the whole Aveight of his body on the right leg ; 
the other, just touching the ground, at the distance at 
'which it would naturally fall> if lifted up to show that 
the body does not bear upon it. The knees should be 
Straight, and braced, and the body, though perfectly 
straight, not pcrpentlicular, but inclining as far to the 
right as a firm position on the right leg will permit. 
The right arm must then be held out, with th© palm 
open, the fingers straight and close, the thumb almost 
as distant from them as it will go ; and the flat of the 
hand neither horizontal nor vertical, but exactly between 
both. The position of the arm, perhaps will be best des- 
cribed, by supposing an oblong hollow square formed by 
the measure of four arms as in plate I, where the arm 
in its true position, forms the diagonal of such an imag- 

ry figure* Sq that if lines ^ere drawn at right angles 




from the sbovlderi extending downwards, farwards and 
udewaya, the arm will form an angle of fertj-five de* 
greea every way. 

When the papii has proRoonced one sentence^ in the 
position thus described} the hand, as if lifeless, must drop 
down to the side, the Terjr moment the h^t accented 
word is pronounced ; and the body, without altering the 
place of the feet, poise itself on the left leg, while tho 
left hand raises itsrtf into exactly the saise positkMi as 
the right was before, and continues in this position till 
the end of the next sentence, when it drops down ea the 
aide as if dead ; and the body, peiatng itself on the right 
leg as before, continues with the right arm extended^ 
till the end of the succeeding sentence ; and so on, from 
fight to left, and from left to right, alternately, till the 
apeech is ended. 

Great care must be taken, that the pupil end one sen* 
tence completely before he begin another. He must 
let the arm drop to the side, and continuei for a moment^ 
in that pasture, in which he concluded, before he poises 
his body on the other leg, and raises the other arm into 
the diagonal position, before described; both which 
should be done, before he begins to pronounce the next 
sentence. Care must also be taken« in shifting the body 
from one leg to the other, that the leet do not alter their 
distance. In altering the position of the body, the feet 
will necessarily alter their position a little, but this change 
must be made, by turning the toes in a somewhat diflTcr- 
ent directidn without suffering them to shift their ground. 
The heels, in this transition, change their place, but not 
the toes. The toes may be considered as pdvots, on 
which the body turns, from side to side. 

If the pupil's knees are not well formed, or incline lb* 
wards, he must be taught to keep his legs at as great a 
distance as possible, and to incline his body so much to 
that side on which the arm is extended, as to oblige 
him to rest the opposite leg upon the toe ; and this will, 
ID a great measure, hide the defect of his make. In the 
Same manner, if the arm be too long, or the elbow incline 
inwarJs, it will be proper to make him turn the palm of 
his hasA do wnwards^ so as to tmkt it perfectly berixott** 


tal. This" will infallibly bcline the ^Ihovr outwards, and 
prevent the worst position the arm can possibly (all into> 
which is, that of inclining the elbow to the body. This 
position of the hand, so necessarily keeps^e elbow out, 
that it would not be improper to make the pupil some- 
times practise it, though he may have no defect in hi& 
make ; as an occasional alteration of the former position 
to this, may often be necessary, both for the sake of just- 
ness and variety. These ^two last positions of the legs 
and arms are described in Plate II. 

When the pupil has got the habit of holding his hand 
and arm properly, he may be taught to move it. In this 
notion he must be careful to keep the arm from the body« 
He must neither draw the elbow backwards, nor suffer it 
to approach to the side ; but while the hand and lower 
joint of the arm are curving towards the shoulder, the 
whole arm, with the elbow, forming nearly an angle of 
a square, should move upwards from the shoulder, in the 
same position as when gracefully taking off the hat ^ that 
is, with the elbow extended from the side, and the upper 
joint of the arm nearly on a line with the shoulder, and 
ibrming an angle of a square with the body ; (See Plate 
III ;) this motion of the arm will naturally bring the 
hand, with the palm downwards, into a horizontal posi* 
tion, and when it approaches to the head, the arm should, 
with a jirk, be suddenly strsdghtened into its first posi- 
tion, at the very moment the emphatical woid is pro- 
nounced. This coincidence of the hand and voice, will 
greatly enforce the prpnunciltion ; and, if they keep 
time, they will he in tune, as it were, to each other ;. and 
to force and energy, add harmony and variety. 

As this motion of the arm is somewhat complicated, 
^d may be found difficult to execute, it would be ad- 
visable to let the pupil at first speak without any motion 
of the arm at all. After some time, he will naturally iall 
into a small curvature of the elbow, to beat time, as it 
were, to the emphatic word ; and if, in doing this, he is 
constantly urged to raise the elbow, and to keep it at a 
distance from the body, the action of the arm wUl natu- 
rally grow up into that we have just described. So the 
diagonal positimi of to igmi) .though the most graceful 


B S 

n GESIUBB. 1* 

and euf When the body is at restt may be too dificult 
Jbr boys to fall into at first; and therefore ic may be ne«i 
ceasary» in order to avoid the wont extremci for some 
time) to make them extend the arm as far from the body 
as they can, in a somewhat similar direction, bot higher 
from the ground, and inclining more to the back. Great 
care must be taken to keep the hand open, and the 
thumb at some distance from the ingers i and particular 
attention must be paid, to keeping the hand in an ex* 
act line with the lower part of the arm, so as not to 
bend at the wrist, either when it is held oat, without 
motion, or when it gives the emphatic stroke. Andy 
above all, the body must be kept in a straight line with 
the leg on which it bears, and not suffered to bend to the 
opposite side. 

At first, it may not be improper for the teacher, af« 
ter placing the pupil in the position, (Plate 1) to stand 
some distance, exactly opposite to him, in the same po* 
sition, the right and left sides only reversed } and while 
the pupil is speaking, to show him by example, tho 
action he is to make use of. In this case, the teacher's 
left hand will correspond to the pupil's right ; by which 
means he will see, as in a looking-glass, how to re^u* 
late his gesture, and will soon catch the method of domg 
it by himsel£ 

It is expected the master will be a little discouraged 
althe awkward figure his pupil makes, in his first ati 
tempts to teach him. But this is no more than what 
happens in dancing, fencing, or any other exercise 
which depends on habit. By practice the pupil will 
soon begin to feel his potttion, and be easy in it. Those 

Bsitions which w^rie at first distressing to him, he will 
\ into naturally; and if they are such as are reaU/ 
graceful and becoming (and such it is presumed are 
those wluch have been just described) they will bo 
adopted, with more facility than any other thai cao be 
tiught Um. 


On ^ Acting of Flay 9 at ScAoaU^\7Attpm» 

THOUGH the acting qF plays^ at schools^ has bees 
uaiversaiif supposed a very useful practice, it has» 
of iate J^^^ heen much laid aside. The advantages $l^ 
rising from it have net been judged 6^ual to the inconve* 
pienees ; and the speaking of single speeches^ orthe act*' 
ing ofsingle s&a-s, has been generally substituted in iUi 
stisad. Indeed, when we consider the leading principle, 
and prevailing sentiments of most plays, we shall not 
wonder, that they are not always thought to be the most 
suitable employment for youth at school; nor when we 
ireflecton the l|»ng interruption to the common sehool 
exercises, which the preparation tor a play must neces<«^ 
sarily occasion, shall we think it consistent with general 
Improvement. But, to wave every objection from pru- 
dence, or morality, it may be confidently afiirmed, that 
the acting of a play is not so cor/tiucive to improvemest 
ki elocution, as the speaking of single speeches. 

In the first place, the acting of plays is of all kinds of 
delivery the most difficult ; and therefore cannot be the 
Hiost suitable exercise for boys, at school. In the next 
I^ace, a dramatic performance requires s0 much atten. 
tion to the deportment of the body, so varied an expres- 
Mon of the passions, and se strict an adherence to char- 
acter, that education is in danger (^ being neglected ; be- 
sides, exact propriety of action, and a nice discrimination 
of the passions, however essential on the stage, are but 
of secendary importance In a school. It is plain, open, 
distinct and forcible pronunciation, which school buys 
should aim at ; and not that quick transitibn from one 
passion to another, that archness of look, ssui ttrntjeu tie 
theatre^ as it is called, so essential to a tolerable dramatic 
-K;Kt«in»^ and whidi actors themselves can scarcely at* 
^hort, it Is speaking rather, than acting, which 
— %)mMi ko taught i^ while the performance 


of plajs is calculated to teach them actiof, rather thaa 

But there is a contrary extremey into which many 
teachers are apt to run, and chiefly those who arc inca-* 
pable of speaking themselves ; and that is, to condemn 
every thing which is vehement and forcible) as^ thcatrkai^ 
It is an odd trick, to depreciate what we cannot attaij) ; 
and calling a spirited pronunciation theatrical^ is but an 
artful method of hiding an utter inability of speaking, 
with force and energy. But, though school boys ought 
not to be taught those nice touches which form tke 
greatest difficulties in the profession of an actor, they 
should not be too much restrained from the exertion of 
voice, so necessary to strengthening the organs of sound, 
because they may sometimes be too loud and vociferout. 
Perhaps nine out often, instead of too much confidence, 
and too violent a manner of speaking, which the^e teach-* 
•rs seem so much to dread, have, as Dr. Johnson calh it, 
a frigid equality, a stupid languor, and a torpid apMhy. 
These must be roused by something strong and excessive, 
or they will never rise even to mediocrity ;^hile the few 
who have a tendency to rant, are very easily rcclainicd, 
and ought to be treated, in pronunciation and action, as 
Quintillian advises us to do, in composition ; that is> we 
should rather allow of an exuberance, thanj hy too much 
correctness, check the vigor and luxuriancy of nature* 

Though school boys, therefore, ought not to be taught 
the finesses of acting, they should,* as Tnuch as posEkible, 
be accustomed to speak such speeches, as require a ftlli 
open, animated pronunciation; for which purposi^ they 
should be confined, chiefly, to orations, odes and such 
Single speeches of plays, as are in the declamatory and 
vehement style. But as there are many scenes of plays, 
which are justly reckoned amongst the finest compos!* 
tiops in the language ; some of these may be adopted 
among the upper class of boys, and those, more pard€u« 
larly, who have the best depoitments ; for action. In 
scenes, will be found much more difficult, than hi single 
speeches. And here it will be necessary to ^ive some 
additional instructions respecting action ; as a spei^ker 
who delivers himself sin^^y to an auditory^ and one who 


addresaes another speaker, in view of an aodtitoiyi are 
under very different predicaitieuts. The former has 
only onq object to address ;. the latter has two. For if 
a speaker on the stage were to address the person he 
Speakfl to, without any regard to the point of view in 
which he stands, with respect to the audience, he would 
he apt to turn his back on them, and to place himself ift 
cuch positions as would be highly ungraceful and dis* 
gusting. When a scene, therefore, is represented, it is 
necessary that the two personages, who speak, should 
form a sort ©f picture, and place themselves in a position 
agreeable to the laws of perspective. In order to do this^ 
it will be necessary that each of them should stand ob- 
liquely, and, chiefly make use of one hand. That is,^ 
supposing the stage or platform where they stand to be 
quadrangle^ each speaker should, respectively, face the 
corner of it next to the audience ; and use that hand» 
and rest upon that leg, which is next to the person het 
speaks to, and which is farthest from the audience. 
This disposition is absolutely necessaiy, to form any 
tbing like a picturesque grouping of objects, and without 
it, that is, if both speakers use the right hand, and stand 
exactly fronting ^ach other, the impropriety will be pal- 
pable, and the spectacle disgusting. 

It need scarcely be noted, that if the speaker in a 
scene, uses that hand which is next the audience, he 
ought likewise to poise his body upon tlie s^ime leg : This 
is almost an invariable lule in action ; the hand should 
act on that side only, on which the body bears. Good 
actors and speakers may sometimes depart from this 
rule, but such only will know when to do it with propriety. 

Occasion may be taken in the course of the scene, to 
change^sides. One Spe^er, at the end of an impassion* 
ed speech, may tross over to the place of the other, 
while the latter, at the same moment, crosses over to the 
place of the forn*er* This, however must, be done with 
^reat care, and so as to keep the back from being turned 
to the audience. But if this xtransition be performed 
adroitly, it will have a very good effect in varying the 
position of the speakers, i^nd giving each an opportunity 
of using his right hand-»ttie most favorable to gract 



and ezpretftioa'-' And) if» from so humble a scene as the 
school may be permitted to raise our observations to 
the^senatCi it may be hinted, tliat gentlemen on each 
side of the house, while addressing the chair, can, with 
grace and propriety, only make use of one hand ; name* 
ly, that which is next to the speaker; and it may be 
observed in passing, that to all the other advantages of 
speaking which are supposed to belong to one side of 
the house— may be kidded— the graceful use of the right 

The better to conceive the position of two speakers 
ID a scene, a plate is given, representing their respective 
attitudes : And it must be carefully noted, that, when 
they are not speaking, the arms must hang in their natu* 
ral place, by the sides : Unless what is spoken, by one, is 
of such importance, as to excite agitation and surprise, 
in the other. But if we should be sparing of gesture at 
all times, we should be more particularly so, when yrt 
are not speaking. 

From what has been laid down, it will evidently ap- 
pear, how much more difficult and complicated is the 
acdonof a scene, thanlhatof a single speech ; and, in 
teaching both to children, kow necessary it is, to adopt 
as simple and easy a method as possible. The easiest 
method of conveying instruction, in this point, will be 
sufficiently difficult ; and therefore, the avoi^iig of awk- 
wardness and impropriety, should be more the object of 
instruction, than the conveying of beauties. * ^ 

There are, indeed, some masters, who are against 
teaching boys any action at all, and are for leaving them 
in this point entirely to nature. It is happy, however, 
that they do not leave that action to nature, which is ac- 
quired by dancing ; the deportment of their pupils, 
would soon convince them, they were imposed on by the 
sound of words. Improved and beautiful nature is the 
object of the painter's pencil, the poet's pen, and the 
rhetorician's action, and not that sordid and common 
nature, which is perfectly rude and uncultivated. Na- 
ture directs us to art, and art selects and polishes the 
beauties of nature : It is not sufficient for an orator, 
saysQuintilian, that he is a man : He must be an improv- 
C * 


ed and cultmted man ; he must be a man, fa voted by 
nature and fashioned by art. 

But the necessity of adapting some method of teach- 
ing action, is too evident to need proof. Boys will in- 
fallibly contract some action ; to require them to stand 
stock still while they are speaking an impassioned speech 
is not only exacting a very difficult task from them, but 
is in a great measure, checking their natural exertions. 
If they are left to themselves, they will, in all probalnli* 
ty, fall into very wild and ungraceful action, whichi 
when once formed into habit, can scarcely ever be cor- 
rected : Giving them therefore, a general outline of 
good action, must be of the utmost consequence to their 
progress and improvement, in pronunciation. 

The great use, therefore, of a -system of action liko 
the present, is, that a boy will never be embarrassed, for 
want of knowing what to do with his legs and arms ; 
nor will he bestow that attention on his action, which 
ought to be directed to his pronunciation : He will al- 
ways be in a position which will not disgrace his figurOf 
and when this gesture is easy to him, it may serve as a 
groiindwork to something more {lerfect : He may either 
by his own genius or his master's instructions, build 
some other action upon it, which may, in time, give it 
additional force and variety. 

Thus what seetned either unworthy the attention, or 
too difficult for the execution of others, the author of 
the present publication has ventured to attempt. A 
conviction of the necessity of teaching some system of ac- 
tion, and the abundant success of the present system, in 
one of the most respectable academies near London, 
has determined him to publish it, for the use of such 
seminaries as make English pronunciation a part of their 

It may not be useless to observe, that boys should be 
classed in this, as in every other kind of instruction, ac- 
cording to their abilities ; that a class should not consist 
of more than ten ; that about eight or ten lines of some 
speech should be read first by the teachers, then by the 
boy^ who reads besit^ and then by the rest in order, all 
hav^g a book of the same kind, and all reading the same 


portion. This portion they must be ordered to get bf 
heart against the next lesson ; and then the first hoj must 
speak it, standing at some distance before the rest, in the 
manner directed in the Plates ; the second boy must suc- 
ceed him, and so on till they have all spoken. After 
which another portion must be read them, which they 
must read and spoak in the same manner as before* 
When they have gone through a speech in this manner 
by portions, the two or three first boys may be ordered, 
against the next lesson, to speak the whole speech ; the 
next lesson, two or three more, and so on to the rest. 
This will excite emulation, and give the teacher an op* 
portunity of ranking them according to their merit 



Mules for e^Jireasing^mttUh ftrofitiety^ the princifial Faa^ 
. aions and Numorsj which occur in Readings or fiublic 

EVERY part of the human frame contributes to ex- 
press the passions and emotions of the mind, and 
to shew in general its present state. The head is some- 
times erected, sometimes hung down, sometimes drawn • 
suddenly back with an air of disdain, sometimes shews 
^y a nod a particular person, or object j gives assent, or » 
denial, by different motions ; threatens by one sort of . 
movement, approves by another, and expresses suspi- 
cion by a third. 

The arms are sometimes both thrown but, sometime^ 
the right alone. Some'times they are lifted up as hig^ 
as the face, to express wonder ; sometimes held out be- 
fore the breast, to shew fear; spread forth with the 
hands open, to express desire or affection ; the hands 
clapped in surprise, and in sudden joy and grief ; the 
right hand clenched, and arms brandished, to threat- 
en ; the two arias set akimbo, to look big, and express 
contempt oif courage. With the hands, we solicit, we 
refuse, we promise, we threaten, we dismiss^ we invite, 
we entreat, we express aversion, fear, doubting, denial, . 
asking, affirmation, negation, joy, grief, confession, pen- 
itence. With the bands we describe, and point out 
ail circumstances of time, place, and manner of what 
we relate ; we excite the passions of others, and soo^h' 
them, we approve and disapprove, permit, or prohibit, 
admire or despise. The hands serve us instead of many 
sorts of words, and where the language of the tongue is 
\inknown, that of the hands is tmder stood, being univer- 
sal, and common to all nations. 

The legs advance, or retreat, to express desire, or 
aversion, love 9r hatred,courage or fear, and produce ex- 
ultation, or leaping in sudden joy ; and the stamping of 
the €oot expresses earnestness, anger and threatening. 


Especially the face being furniBhed with a rariety of 
muscles does more in expresung the passions of thd 
mind than the whole human frame besides. The change 
of colour (in white people) shewsi by turns, anger by redf 
besst and sometimes by paleness, fear likewise by pale^ 
11CS89 and shame by blushhig. Erery feature contributes 
its part. The mouth open, shews one state of mind ; 
shut, another; the gnashing of the teeth, another. The 
forehead smooth, eyebrows arched and easy, shew tran- 
quillity or joy. Mirth opens the mouth towa^ the ears* 
c risps the nose, half shuts the eyes, and sometimes fills 
them with tears. The front wrinkled into frowns, and 
the eyebrows overhanging the eyes, like clouds, fraught 
with tempest, shew a mind agitated with fury. Abore 
all, the e^e shews the very spirit in a visible form. lo 
every dlnerent slate of the mind, it assumes a different 
appearance, loy brightens and opens it Grief half 
closes, and drowns it in tears. Hatred and anger, flash 
from it like lightning. Love, daits from it in glances, 
like the orient beam. Jealousy and squinting envy, dart 
their contagious blasts from the eye. And devotion 
raises it to the &kit:s, as if tlie soul of the holy man were 
going to take its flight to heaven. 

The force of attitude and looks alone appears in a 
wondrously striking manner, in the works of the painter 
and statuaiy ; who have the delicate art of making the 
flat canvas and rocky marble utter every pasbion of the 
human mind,, and touch the soul of the spectator^ as if 
the picture, or statute, spoke the pathetic language, of 
Shakespeare. It is no wonder then, that masterly action^ 
joined with powerful elocution, should be irresistable. 
And the variety of expression, by looks and gestures, is 
so great, that, as is well known, a whole play can bo 
represented without a word spoken. 

The following are, I believe, the principal passions, 
humom, sentiments and intentions which are to be ex- 
pressed by speech and action. And I hope, it will be 
allowed by the reader^ t^iat it is nearly in the following 
iDanner,'that nature expresses them. 

Tranquillity^ or afiathy^ appears by the composure of 
the countenance, and general repose of the body and 


limbSy withcut the exertion of aiK^ one muscle. The 
countenance open ; the forehead smooth ; the eyebrows 
arched ; the mouth just not shut ; and the eyrs passing;^ 
'With an easy motion from object to object, but not dwel« 
liag long upon any one. 

Cheerfulneaa^ adds a smile^ opening the mouth ^ little 

Mirth or laughter^ opens the mouth still more to- 
wards the ears ; crisps the nose ; lessens the aperture of 
the eyes, and sometimes fills them with tears ; shakes 
land convulses the whole frame ; givuig conbidera- 
\ble pain, which occasions holding the $ides. 

Raillery^ in sport, without real animosity, puts on the 
aspect of cheerfulness. The tone of voice is sprightly. 
With contempt, or disgust, ft casts a look asquint, from ' 
time to time,'at the object ; and quits the cheerful as- 
pect for one mixed between an affected giin and sour- 
ness. The uppei lip is drawn up with an air of disdain. 
The arms are set akimbo on the hips ; and the right 
hand now and then thrown out toward the object, aB if 
one were going to strike another a slight back hand 
blow. The pitch of the voite rather loud, the tone arch 
and sneering, the sentences short ; the expressions satir- 
ical, with mockpra^so intermixed. There are instan-* 
CCS of raillery in scripture itself, as I. Hings xviii, and Isa. 
xliv. It is not, therefore, beneath the dignity of the pul- 
pit orator, occasionly to, in the cause of virtue, by 
exhibiting vice in a ludicrous appearance. Nor should 
I think raillery unworthy the attention pf the lawyer ; 
as it may occasionally come in, not uhustfuUy, in his 
pleadings, as well as ftny other stroke of ornament, or 

Buffoonry^ assumes an arch, sly, leering gravity. 
Must not quit its serious aspect, though all should laugh 
to burst ribs of steel. This command of fa^e is some- 
vhat difficult ; though not so hard, I should think, as to 
restrain the contrary sympathy, I mean of weeping with 
those who weep. * 

«/0y, when sudden and violent, expresses itself bf 
flapping ofhands, and exultation or leaping. The eyes 
)tf e opened wide ; perhaps filled with tears \ often rsdsed 


to heaven) especially hj deyout penoot. The counte* 
nance is smiling, not composedly, but with features ag- 
gravated. The Toice rises, from dme to tiiney to very 
high notes. 

Delight or Pleasure, as when one is entertained) or ray* 
ished with music, painting, oratory, or any such elegancyt 
shews itself by the looks, gestures, and utterance of joy ; 
but moderate. 

, Gravity or ScrieumcoBj the mind fixed upon some im« 
portant subject, draws down the eyebrows a little, casts 
down, or shuts, or raises the eyes to heaven ; shuts the 
mouth, and pinches the lips close. The posture of the 
body and limbs is composed, and without much motion. 
The speech, if any, slow and f«]emn ; the tone unva- 

Inquiry^ into un obscure subject j fixes the body in one 
posture, the head stooping, and the eye poring, the eye- 
brows drawn down. 

Mtcntion^ to an esteemed, or Superior character, has 
the same aspect ; and requires silence ; the eyes often 
cast down upon the ground ; sometimes fixed on the 
speaker ; but not too pertly. 

Modesty or ^i^dmmion, bends the body forward ; levels 
the eyes to the breast, if not to the feet of the superior 
character. The voice low ; the tone submissive, and 
words few. 

Perfitexity or anxiety^ which is always attended with 
some degree of fear and uneasiness, draws all the parts of 
the body together, gathers up the arms upon the breast^ 
unless one hand covers the eyes, or rubs the forehead ; 
draws down the eyebrows; hangs the head upon the 
breast ; casts down the eyes» shuts and pinches the eye- 
lids close ; shuts the mouth, and pinches the lips closoi 
or bites them. Suddenly the whole body is yc^icmently 
agitated. The person walks about busily, stops ab- 
ruptly. Then he talks to himself, or makes grimaces. 
If he speak to another, his pauses are very long ; the 
tone of his voice unvarying, and his sentences broken, ex- 
pressing half> and keeping in half of what arises in his 


Fexatiofij ccc9Lsioned by seme real or imaginai^ mh^^ 
fortune, agitates the whole frame ; and besides express- 
in^f itself with the looks, gestures, restlessness, and tone 
ef perplexity, it adds complaint, fretting and lament- 
ing. ^ - 

Piiyj a mixed passion of love and grief, looks down 
upon distress with lifted hands ; eyebi;ows drawn down ; 
mouth open ; and features drawn together. Its expres* 
sign, as to looks and gesture, is the same with those of 
suffering, (aee suffering) but more moderate, as the 
painful feelings are only sympathetic, and therefore one 
remove, as it were, more distant from the soul, than 
what one feels \ti his own person. 

Grief ^ sudden and viplent, expresses itself by beating 
the head ; grovelling on the ground, tearing of garments, 
hair and flesh ; screaming aloud, weeping, stamping with 
the feet, lifting the eyes, from time to time, to heaven ; 
hurrying to and fro, running distracted, or fainting a«- 
way, sometimes without recovery. Sometimes viole^nt 
grief produces a torpid silence, resembling total apathy* 

Melancholy y or fixed grief, is gloomy, sedentary, mo- 
lionless. The lower jaw falls ; the lips pale, the eyes 
are cast down half shut^ eyelids swelled and red or liv- 
id, tears trickling silent, and unwip^U ; with a total ia^ 
attention to every thing that pfasses. Words, if any, 
few, and those dragged out, rather than spoken ; the acf 
cents weak, and interrupted, sighs breaking into the 
' middle of sentences and words. 

Deafiaivj as in a condemned critninal, or one,^ who 
lias lost all hope of salvation, bends the eyebrows down- 
ward ; clouds the forehead.; rolls the eyes around 
frightfully ; opens the mouth towards the ears \ bites the 
lips ? widens the nostrils ; gnashes the teeth, like a 
fierce wild beast: The heart is too much hardened to 
suffer tears to flow ; yet the eye balls will be red and in- 
flamed like those of an animal in a rabid state. The 
head is hung down upon the breast. The arms are 
bended at the elbows, the fists are clenched hard ; the 
veins and muscles swelled ; the skin livid ; and the 
whole body strained and violently agitated ; groans ex- 
pressive of inward torture, more frequenely uttered than 


wordsr If any words, Hiey are few» and expresaed with * 
a 8oUeii,eag6r^ bitterness; the tone of voiee often load 
and furious. As it often drives people to distractioDt 
-and aelf murder, it can hardly be overacted by one, who 
would represent it. 

Fcar^ violent and sudden, opens very wide the eyes and 
mouth; shortens the nose ; draws down the eyebrows; 
gives the countenance an air of wildness ; covers it with 
a deadly paleness ; draws back the elbows parallel with 
the sides ; lif^s up the open hands, the fingers together, 
to the height of the breast, so that the palms face the 
dreadful object, as shields opposed against it. Ooe foot 
18 drawn back behind the other, so tliat the body seems 
drinking from the danger and putting itself in a posture 
for flight. The heart beats violently ; the breath is 
fetched quick and short ; the whole body is thrown in* 
to a general tremor. The voice is weak and trembling : 
the sentences are short, and the meamng confused and 
incoherent Imminent danger, real or fancied, produ* 
cesintiviorbus persons, as women and children, violent 
shrieks without any articulate sound of words ; and 
sometimes irrecoverably confounds the understanding | 
produces fainting, which is sometimes followed by 

^amr, or a sense of one's appearing to a disadvan* 
tage, before one's fellow creatures ; turAs away the face 
from the beholders ; covers it with blushes ; hangs tho 
head ; casts down the eyes ; draws down the eyebrows ; 
either strikes the person dumb,or, jf he attempts to say 
any thhig in his own defence, causes his tengue to foultep 
a^d confounds his utterance, and puts him upon mak- 
&g a thousand gestures and grimaces, to keep himself 
in countenance ; all of which only heighten the confu* 
sion of his appearance. 

i?^m«r«^, or a painful sense of gtiilt, casts down tho 
countenance, and clouds it with anxiety ; hangs down 
the head, draws the eyebrows down upon the eyes. The 
right hand beats the breast The teeth gnash with an- 
guish. The whble body is strained and violently agitat- 
ed. If this strong remorse is succeeded by the more 
gracious dispositions of penitence, or contrition ; then the 
eyesare raised (but with great appearance of doubting 


andl fear) to the throne of heayenly merey ;* and iitim^« 
diately cast down again to the earth. Then floods of 
tears are seen' to flow. The knees are bended ; or the 
body prostrated on the ground* The arms are spread ir 
a suppliant posturey and the voice of deprecation is uttet^- 
ed with sighs, groans, timidity, hesitation and trembling. 

Courage^ steady and cool, opens the countemoice, gives 
the whole form an erect and graceful air. The ac- 
Ktents are strong, fullmouthed and articulate^ the voice 
firm and even. 

\BoaBtingj or affected courage^ is loud, blustering ; 
threatening, the eyes stare ; the eyebrows drawn dovn ; 
the face red and bloated ; the mouth pouts out ; the voice 
hollow and thundering ; the arms are set akimbo ; the 
head often nodding in a menacing manner; and the right 
fist, clenchef , is brandished, from time to time, at the 
person threatened. The right foot, is often Itaroped upon 
the ground, and the legs take such large strides, and the 
steps are so heavy, that the earth seems to tremble under 

Pride^ assumes a lofty look, bordecing upon the aspect 
and attitude of anger. The eye^ open, but with the eye- 
brows considerably drawn dawn ; the mouth pouting out, 
mostly shut, and the lips pinched close. The words walk 
out astrut with a slow, stifi*, bombastic affectation of im- 
portance. The arms generally akimbo, and the legs at a 
distance, from one another, taking large tragedy strides* 

Ob9tinacyj Adds to the aspect of pride, a dogged four* 
ness, like that of malice. See Malice. 

jtuthorityj opens the countenance ; but draws down 
the eyebrows a little, so far as to give the look of gravigr. 
See Gravity, J 

Commanding^ requires an air a little more perempto* 
ry, with a look a little severe -or stern. The hand is 
held out, and moved toward the person, to whom the or? 
der is given, with the palm upwards, and the head nods 
toward him. 

Forbidding^ on the contrary, draws the head backwards 
and pushes the hand from one with the palm downward^ 
as if going to lay it upon the person, to hold him down 
immoveable, that he may not do what is forbidden him. 

Affirming^ especially with a judicial oath, is expressed , 


by lifting the open right hand^ and eyes, toward heaven ; 
er» if conscience is appealed to, by laying the right hand 
«pon the breast. 

Dcnyingy is expressed by pitohing the open right hand 
from one ; and taming the face the contrary way. See 

Differing^ in sentiment) may be expressed as refusing. 
See R^uHng. 

Agreeing in opinion^ or cQnvictl^n^ as granting. See 

Exh^rtingi as by a general at the head of his army, re- 
quires a kind, complacent look ; unless matter of offence 
has passed, as neglect of duty, or the like. 

Judgint^j demands a grave, steady look, with deep at- 
tention, the countenknce altogether clear from any ap- 
p^rance of either disgust or favor. The accents slow, 
distinct, emphatical, accompanied with little action, and 
tiiat very grave. 

Refirovittgf puts on a stem aspect, roaghena the voice, 
and is accompanied with gestures not much different 
from those of threatening^ but not so lively. 

Acquitting^ is performed with a benevolent, tranquil 
countenance, and tone of voice ; the right hand, if not 
both, open, waved gently toward the person acquitted, ex- 
pressing diimiission. See Vismiseing. 

Condemning^ assumes a severe look, but mixed with 
pity. The sentence is to be expressed as with reluctance. 

Teackingy explaining, inculcatiiig, or giving orders to 
an inferior, requires an air of superiority to be assumed. 
The features are to be composed to an authoritative 

Savity. The eye steady, and open, the eyebrow a little 
awn down over it ; but not so much as to look 
surly or dogmatical. The tone of voice varying accord- 
ing as the emphasis requires, of which a good deal ia 
necessary in expressing matter of this sort. The pitch 
of the voice to be strong and clear ; the articulation dis- 
tinct ; the utterance slow, and the manner peremptory. 
This is the proper manner of pronouncing the comnand- 
inents in the communion office. Bi;^ (I am sorry to say 
it) they are too commonly spoken in the same manner as 
.the prayers, than which nothing «ao be more unaaturaL 


Pardeningy ffifTers from acquitting, in that the latter 
meuis clearing a person aftisr trial of guilt : whereas th« 
former supposes guilt^and singnilies merely delivering the 
guilty person firom punishment. Pardoning requires 
some degree of severity of aspect and tone of voidC) be* 
cause the pardoned person is not an object of entire uti- 
mixed approbation, otherwise its expression is mmch the 
same as granting. See Granting. 

Atguingy requires a cool, sedate, attentive aspect, and a 
clear, slow, emphatical accent, with much demonstration 
by the hand. It differs from teaching (sec Teaching) in 
that the look of authority is wanting in arguing. 

Dismiaaingj with approbation, is done with a kind as- 
pect and tone of voice ; the right hand open, gently wav- 
ed toward the person ; with displeasure, besides the look 
and tone of voice which suit displeasure, the hand is 
hastily thrown out toward the person dismissed, the back 
part toward him, the countenance at the same time turn- 
ciaway from him. 

Refusing^ when accompanied with displeasure, is ex- 
pressed nearly in the same wayi Without displeasure, it 
is done with a visible reluctance, whiph occasions the 
bringing out the words slowly, with such a shake of the 
head, and shrug of the shoulders, as is natural upon hear- 
ing of somewhat, which gives us concern. 

Granting^ when done with unreserved good will is ac- 
companied with a benevolent aspect, and tone of voice ; 
the right hand pressed to the left breast, to signify how 
heartily the favor is granted, and the benefactor's joy in 
conferring it. 

Defiendance. See Modesty. 

Veneration, or worshipping, comprehends several arti- 
cles, as ascription, confession, remorse, intercession^ 
thanksgiving, deprecation, petition, &c. Ascription of 
honor and praise to the peerless supreme Majesty of 
heaven, and confession and deprecation, are to be uttered 
Ivith all that fiumility ot looks and gesture, which can 
exhibit the most profound selfabasement and annihila- 
tion, bpfere One, whose superiority is infinite. The head 
is a littie raised, b«t with the most apparent timidity, and 
dread ; the eye is lifted ; but immediately cast down 

or GESTURE. «r 

again or closed for a nomeiit; the eye-brovi Are drawn 
down in the most respectful manner $ the features, and 
the whole body and limbs, are ail composed to the most 
profound gravity ; one posture continuing^ without cob* 
«tderable change, during the whole ^rformanoe of the 
duty. The knees bended, or the whole body prostratOy 
or if the posture be standings which sca lyture does not 
disallow, bending forward, as ready to prostrate itself. 
The arms spread out but modestly, as high as the breast ; 
the hands open. The tone of the voice will be snbmiso 
sive, timid, equal, trembling, weak, suppliant. The 
words will be brought out with a visible anxiety and 
diffidence approaching to hesitation ; lew and slow ; noth- 
ing of vain repetition, haranguing, flowers of rhetoric, 
or afiVcted figures of speech ; all siQ^phcity, humility and 
lowliness, such as becomes a reptile of the dust^ when 
presuming to address Him, whose greatness is tremen- 
dous beyond all created conception. In intercession for 
our fellow creatures which is prescribed iu the scriptures, 
and in thanksgiving, the countenance will naturally as- 
sume a small degree of cheerfulness, beyond what it was 
clothed witb in confession of sin, and deprecation of 
punishment But all affected ornament of speech or 
gesture in devotion, deserves the severest censure, as 
being somewhat, muck worse than absurd. 

Eeefiecty for a mtierior^ puis on the looks and gesture 
of modesty. See Mudeaty^ 

Hoficy brightens the countenance ; arches the eye- 
brows ; gives the eyes an eager, wishful look ; opens tho 
mouth to half a kiniie ; bends the body a little forward, 
the feet equal ; spreads the arms, with the hands open, 
as to receive the object of its lon^ngs. The tone of the 
voice is eager, and unevenly incfming to that oi joy ; but 
curbed by a degree of doubt and anxiety. Desire di^ 
fers from hope as to expression, in this particular, that 
there is more appearance of doubt and anxiety in the 
former, than in the latter. For it is one thing to desire 
what is agreeable, and another to have a prospect of ac« 
tuall)? obtaining it. 

Denire^ expresses itself by bending the body forward 
and stretching the arms toward the object as to grasp it^ 


The cou|»tenance smiling* but eager and wiftbful ; the 
eye wide opeO} and eyebrows raised ; the mouth open ; 
tone of yoice suppliant, but lively and cheerful, unless 
there be^^distress as well as desire ; the expression fluent 
and copious ; if no words are used, sighs instead of them ; 
but this is chiefly in distress. 
Love^ (succe^^ful) lights up the countenance into smiles. 
The foK^head is smoothed jind enlarged ; the eyebrows 
are arched ; the mouth a little open, and smiling ; the 
eyes languishing and half shut, dote upon the beloved 
object.* The countenance assumes the eager and wish- 
ful loot of desire ; (see DeMre) but mixed with an air 
of satisfaction and repose. The accents are soft and 
winning ; the tone of voice persuasive, flattering, pathet* 
ici vaiipus, musical rapturous, as in joy. (See «/oy.) 
The attitude much the same with that of deure. Some- 
times both hands pressed eagerly to the bosom. Love, 
unsuccessful, adds an air of anxiety and melancholy. 
See Ftrfilexity and Melancholy. 

Giving^ inviting^ Boliciiing^ and such like actions, which 
suppose some degree of affection, real or pretended, are 
accompanied with much the same looks and gestures as 
express love ; but more moderate. 

Wonder^ or amazement, (without any other m/^r^^/m^' 
passion, as hve^ esteem^ &c.) opens the eyes, and makes 
them appear very prominent ; sometimes raises them to 
the skies ; but oftener, and more expressively, fls^es them 
en the object ; if the cause of the passion be a present and 
visible object, with the look, all except the wildness, of 
fear. (See Fear.) If the hands hold any thing, at the 
time when the object of wonder appears, they immedi- 
ately let it drop, unconscious ; and the whole body fixes 
in the contracted, stooping posture of amazement ; the 
mouth open ; the hands held up open, nearly in the at- 
titude of fear. (See Fear,) The first excess of this pas- 
sion stops all utterance. But it makes amends afterwards 
by a copious flow of words and exclamations. 

Jdmirationy a mixed passion, consisting of wonder, 
with love or esteem, takes away tlie familiar gesture, and 
expression of simple love. (See Lovr)Keeps the respect- 
ful look and attitude. (See Modfhty and Feneration.) 


The eyes are open ivide, aiid now and then raised toward 
heaven/ The mouth is opened. The hands are lifted 
up. The tone of tiie voice rapturous. This passion ex- 
pi^sses itself copiously, making great use of the figure 

Gratitude^ puts on an aspect full of complacency. (See 
JLwe,^ If the object of it is a character greatly supe- 
rior, it expresses much submission. (See Modetty.) The 
right hand pressed upon the breast accompanies very 
properly, the expression of a sincere and hearty sensi- 
bility of obligation. 

CurioMityy as of a busy body, opens the eyes, and mouth, 
lengthens the neck, bends the boily forward, and fixes it 
in one posture, with the hands nearly in that of admira- 
tion. (See jidmiraiion, — See also Daire^ Attention^ 
HefiCy Inquiry yWCidi Perplexity,) 

Persuasion^ puts on the looks of moderate love. (See 
Love, J Its accents are soft, flattering, emphatical and 

Tempting^ or wheedtingj expresses itffelf much in the 
same way ; only carrying the fawning part to excess. 

PromUing is expressing with benevolent looks, the nod 
of consem, and the open hands gently moved towards the 
pers(Hi to whom the promise is made; the palms up- 
-wards. The sincerity of the promiser inay be expressed 
by laying the right hand gently on the breast. 

./f^i-r/ar<oir, displays itself in a thousand different get-^ 
tures, motions, airs and looks, according to the charac- 
ter which the person affects. Affectation of learning 
gives a stiff formality to the whole person. The words 
come stalking out with the pace of a funeral procession ; 
and every sentence has the solemnity of an oracle. Affec- 
tation of piety turns up the goggling whites of the eyes 
to heaven, as if the person were in a trance, and fixes 
them in that posture so long that the brain of the beholder 
grows giddy. Then comes up deep grumbling, a holy 
groan from the lower part of the thorax; but so tremen- 
dous in sound, and so long protracted, that you expect 
to see a goblin rise, like an exhalation through the solid 
earth. Then he begins to rock from side to side, or 
backward and forward, like an aged pine on the side of an 


billy^hen a brisk vind blows. The hands am clasp^^ 
together, and often lifted, and the head often shaken with 
foolish Tehemence. The tone of the voice is Ganting, or 
«ing song lullaby, not much distant from an Irish howl ^ 
aodthe words godly doggered. Aifectation of beauty^ 
and killing,, puts a fine woman by turns into all sorts of 
■ forms, appearances, and attitudes, but amiable ones. She 
undoes, by art, or rather by awkwardness, (for true art 
conceals itself) all that nature had done for her. Nature 
jbrmed her almost an angel, and she, with infinite pains^ 
snakes herself a monkey. Therefore, this species of af« 
fectation is easily imitated, or taken off. Make as many^ 
and as ugly grimaces, motions and gestures as can be 
made; and take care that nature never peep out; and 
you represent coquetish affectation to the life* 

Stothy appears by yawning, dozing, snoring, the head 
dangling sometimes to one side, sometimes to the other» 
the arms and legs stretched out, and every sinew of the 
body unstrung. the eyes heavy or closed; the words, if 
any, crawl out of the mouth, but half formed, scarce au- 
dible to any ear, and broken off in the middle by pow^* 
ful sleep. 

People who walk in their sleep, (of which our inimita- 
ble Shakespeare has in his tragedy of Macbeth, drawn 
but a fine scene) are said to have their eyes open ; though 
they are net the more for that, conscious of any things 
but the dreanv that has got possession of their imagina- 
tkh. I never saw one of those persons ; therefore can- 
not describe their manner from nature ; but I suppose^ 
their^peechispretty much like that of persons dream- 
ing, inarticulate, incoherent, and very different, in it* 
tone, from what it is when waking. 

Intoxieatiotiy shews itself by the eyes half shut, sleepy^ 
stupid, inflamed. An idiot smile, a ridiculous surliness^ 
or affected bravado, disgraces the bloated countenance* 
The mouth open, tumbles out nonsense in heaps, without 
articulation enough for any ear to take it in, and unwor- 
thy of attention, if it could be taken in. The head seems 
too heavy for the neck. The arms dangle from the 
shoulders, as if they were almost cut away, and hung by 
shreds. The legs totter and bend at the knee^ as rei|^ 



tD shik under the weight ef the reeling bodf . And • 
general iDcapacity, corporeal and mental) exlabits hu- 
man nature sunk below the brutaL 

AngeTy (violent) or rage, expresses itself with rapidityit 
interruption, noise, harshness and trepidation. Tlie neck 
stretched out ; the head forward, often nodding and 
shaken in a menacing manner, against the object of the 
pasMon. The eyes red, inflamed, staring, roiling, and 
sparkling ; the eyebrows drawn down over them ; and 
the forehead wrinkled into clouds. The nostrils stretch* 
ed wide ; every vein swelled ; isytry muscle strained ; the 
breast heaving and the breath fetched hard. The mouth 
open, and drawn on each side towards the ears, shewing 
the teeth, in a gnashing posture. The face bloated, pale, 
red, or sometimes almost black. The feet stamping \ 
the right arm often thrown out, and menacing with the 
clenched fiat shaken, and a general and violent agita* 
tion of the whole body. 

Pecifiahneaty or ill nature, is a lower degree of anger ; 
and is therefore expressed in the above manner, only 
more moderate ; with half sentences, and broken speech- 
es, uttered hastily ; the upper lip drawn up disdainfully ; 
the eyes squint upon the object of displeasura. 

Malice, or spite, sets the jaws, or gnashes with tha 
teeth ; sends blasting flashes from the eyes ; draws the 
mouth towards the ears ; clenches bolh fists, and bends 
the elbows m a straining manner. The tone of voice and 
expression, are much the same with that of anger ; but 
the pitch not so loud. 

•En-vy^ is a little more moderate in its gestures, than 
malice ; but much the same in kind. 

Revenge^ expresses itself as malice. 

CrutUy. (See Anger^ Aversion^ MAlice^ and the other 
irascible passions.) 

Comfllainingj as when (me is under violent bodily pain^ 
distorts the features ; almost closes the eyes ; sometimes 
raises them wishfully ; opens the mouth ; gnashes with 
the teeth ; draws up the upper lip ; draws down the 
head upon the breast, and the whole body together. 
The arms are violently bent at the elbows, and the fists 
str(»gly clenched. The voice is uttered in groans, la* 


mentations) and violent screams. Extreme tortm^ 
produces fainting and death. 

Fatigue J from severe labor, gives a general languor 
tf> the whole body. The countenance is dejected. (See 
Grief. J The arms Iwng listless ; the body, if sitting, or 
lying along, be not the posture, stoops, ^^ in old age. 
(See Dotage, J The legs, if walking, are dragged heavily 
along, and seem at every step ready to bend under the 
weight of the body. The voice is weak, and the words, 
hardly enough articulated to be understood. 
^ Averaiotiy or hatred, expressed to, or of any person or 
^'thing, that is odious to the speaker, occasions his draw* 
ing back, as avoiding the approach of what he hates ; the 
hands, at the same time, thrown out spread, as if to keep^ 
it off. The face turned away fram that side toward 
which the hands are thrown out ; the eyes, looking an- 
grily and asquint the same way the hands are directed ; 
the eyebrows drawn downwards; tlie upper lip disdain- 
fully drawn up ; but the teeth set. The pitch of the 
voice loud ; the tone chiding, and unequal, surly, vehe-^ 
ment. The sentences short, and abrupt. 

Commendation^ (m* approbation, from a superior, pats, 
on the aspect of love, (excluding Desire and Resftect} 
and expresses itself in a mild tone of voice ; the arms gen- 
tly spread ; the palms of the hands toward the person ap* 
proved. Exhorting, or encouraging^ as of an army ^y 
a general, is expressed with some part of the looks and 
, actions of courage. 

Jealousy f would be likely to be well expressed by one 
who had oft«i» seen prisoners tortured in the dungeons 
of the inquisition, or who had seen what the dungeons of 
the- inquisition are the best earthly emblem of ; I mean 
bell; For next to being in the Pope's or in Satan's pris« 
•n,i8 the torture of him who is possessed with the spir* 
it of jealousy. Being a mixture of passions directly con- 
trary to one another, the person whose soul is the seat of 
such confuuonand tumult, mi»st be in as much greater 
misery than Prometheus, with the vulture tearing his liv* 
er, as the pains of the mind art greater than those of the 
body. Jealousy is a ferment of lovey hatred, ho/iCy fear^ 
9hamc^ anxicti/j 9uapi^Umy tprief^pityy envy^ firidei ragcy 


crueiiyj vtngeanccy madneas^ and if there be any other 
tormenting passion, which can agitate the human mind. 
Therefore to express jealousy well, requires that one 
know how to represent justly all these passions by turns.. 
(SecLevcj Hatred^ &c.} And often, several of them to- 
gether. Jealousy shews itself by restlessness, peevish* 
ness, thoughtfulness, anxiety, absence of mind. Some* 
times it bursts out in piteous complaint, and weeping ; 
then a gleam of hope, ttiat all is yet well, lights up the 
countenance into a momentary smile. Immediately the 
&ce, clouded with a general gloom, shews the mind over- 
cast again with horrid suspicions and frightful imagina- 
tions. Then the arms are folded upon the breast ; the 
fists violently clenched ;'the rolling, bloody eyes dart fu**y. 
He hurries to and fro ; he has no more rest than a ship 
in a troubled sea, the sport of winds and waves. Again 
he composes himself a little to reflect on the charms of 
the suspected person. She appears to his imagination 
like the sweetness ofthe rising dawn. Then his monster 
breeding fancy represents her as false as she is fair. Then 
he roai'soutasonepn the rack, when the cruel engine 
rends every joint, and every sinew bursts. Then he 
throws himself on the ground. He beats his head against 
the pavement. Then he springs up, and with the look 
and action of a fury, bursting hot from the abyss, he 
snatches the instrument of death, and after ripping up 
the bosom ofthe loved, suspected, hated, lamented fair 
one, he stabs himself to the heart, and exhibits a striking 
proof,how terrible a creature, a puny mortal is, when 
agitated by an infernal passion. 

Dotage J or infirm old age, shews itself by talkative- 
ness, boasting of the past, hollowness of eyes and cheeks^ 
dimness of sight, deafness, tremor of voice, the accents, 
throughdefaultofteeth, scarce intelligible ; hamsweak^ 
knees tottering, head paralytic, hollow coughing, fre- 
quent exp«ctorati(H), breathless wheezing, laborious 
groaning, the body stooping under the insupportable 
load of years which soon shall crush it into the dust, from 
whence it had its origin. 

Fallyy that is of a natural idiot, gives the face an habit- 
ual thoughtless^ ^rainless grin. The eyes dance from ob- 

M £LEM£N1*8 

jectto object, without ever fixing steadiij^tijMm anf ( 
A thousand different and incoherent passions, looks, 
gestures, speeches and absurdities, are played off every 

DiatractioHy opens the eyes to a frightful widetiess ; 
rolls them hastily and wildly from object to object ; dis- 
torts every feature ; gnashes with the teeth ; agitates all 
parts of the body ; rolls in the dust ; foams at the mouth; 
utters with hideous bellowings, execrations, blasphemies, 
and all that is fierce and outrageous i rushes furiously 
on all who approach ; and if not restrained! tears its own 
flesh and destroys itself. 

Sicknessy has infirmity and feebleness in every motion 
and utterance. The ejres dim and almost closed ; cheeks 
pale and hollow ; the jaw fallen ^ the head hung down, 
as if too heavy to be supported by the neck. A gener- 
al inertia, prevails. The voice trembling ; the utterance 
through the nose ; every sentence accompanied with a. 
g^roan ; the hand shaking, and the knees tottering un- 
der the body ; or the body stretched helpless on the btd. 

Fainting^ produces a sudden relaxation of all that 
holds the human frame together, every sinew and liga- 
ment unstrung. The color flies from the vermilion 
cheek ; the sparkling eye grows dim. Down the body 
tlropsi as helpless and senseless as amass of clay, to 
which, by its color and appearance, it seems hastenmg 
to resolve itself. Which leads me to conclude with 

Deathy the awful end of all flesh j which exhibits 
nothing in appearance diflcrent from What I have been 
just describing ; ibr fainting continued ends, in death; a 
subject almost too serious to be made a matter of artifi- 
cial imitation. 

Lower degrees of every passion are to be expressed 
by more moderate exertions of voice aud gesture, as ev- 
ery public speaker's discretion will suggest to him. 

Mixed passions, or emotions of the mind, require- a 
mixed expression. Pity^ for example, is composed of 
grief and love. It is therefore evident that a correct 
speaker must, by his looks and gestures, «nd by the tone 
and pitch of his voice, exptessboth grief and love^ 
in expressing pity, and so of the rest 


. It is to be remembered) that the actioDy in expressing 
Ihe various humors and passions, Cor which I have here 
^yen rules, is to be suited to the age, sex, condition and 
circttmstances of the character. Violent anger, or rage, 
for example, is to be expressed with great agiutioiu 
(see Anger) but the rage of an infirm old man, of a wo- 
man, and of a fouth, are all different from one another, 
and from that of a man in the flower of his age, as every 
speaker's discretion will suggest. A hero maf shew 
fear or sensibility of pain ; but not in the same manner as 
a girl would express those sensations. Grief may be ex- 
pressed by a person reading a melancholy story, or a de- 
scription in a room. It may be acted upon the stage. It 
may be dwelt upon by the pleader at the bar ; er it may 
have a place in a sermon. The passion is still griet 
But the manner of expressing it wUl be different in each 
of the speakers, if they have judgment 

A correct speaker does not make a movement of limb| 
er feature for which he has not a reason. If he address- 
es heaven, he looks upward. If he speak to his fellow- 
creatures, he looks round upon them. The spirit of 
what he says, or is said to him, appears in his look. If 
he expresses amazement, or would excite it, he lifts up 
his hands and eyes. If he invites to virtue and happi- 
ness, he spreads his arms, and looks benevolent. If he 
threatens the vengeance of heaven against vice, he bends 
his eyebrow into wrath, and menaces with his arm and 
countenance. He does not needlessly saw the air with 
his arm, nor stab himself with his finger. He does not 
clap bis right hand upon his breast, unless he has occa- 
sion to speak of himself, or to introduce conscience, or 
somewhat sentimental. He does not start back, unless 
he wants to express horror or aversion. He does not 
come forward, but when he has occasion to solicit. He 
does not raise his voice, but to express somewhat pecu- 
liarly emphatical. He does not lower it, but to contrast 
the raising of it. His eyes, by turns, according to the 
humor of the matter he has to express, sparkle fury ; 
brighten into' joy ; glance disdain ; melt into grief; 
frown disgust and hatred^ languish into love \ or glare 


[Gxiracted from VTaulbb's Speaker.3 

Let your Articulation 'be Distinct and Deliberate. 

A GOOD apticulation consists ini giving a clear and 
full utterance to th« sereral- simple and complex 
sounds. The nature of these sounds, therefore, ought Xm 
be well understood ; and much pains should be taken to 
discover and correct those faults in articulation, which, 
though often ascribed to some defect in the organs of 
speech, are generally the consequence of inattention or 
bad example. Many of these respect the sounding of the 
consonants. Some cannot pronounce the letter /, and 
others the simple sounds r, «, /A, sh ; others generali]i 
omit the aspirate h. These faults may be corrected, by 
reading sentences, so contrived as often to repeat the 
faulty sounds, and by gaurding against them in familiar 

Other defects in articulation regard the complex sounds^ 
and consist in a confused and cluttering pronunciation of 
wordn. The most effectual methods of conquering tkis 
habit, are, tp read aloud passages chosen for the purpose 
(such, for instance, as abound with long and unusual 
words, or in which many short syllables come together) 
and to read, at ceitain stated times, much slower than 
fhie sense and just speaking would require. Almost all 
persons, who have not studied the art of speaking, have 
a habit of uttering their words &o rapidly, that this latter 
exercise ought generally to be made use of for a con- 
siderable time at first ; for where there is a uniformly 
rapid utterance, it is absolutely impossible that there 
should be Strang emphasis, natural tones, or any just 

Aim at nothing higher, till you can read distinctly 
and deliberately. 

Learn to speak bIow» all other graces^ 

Will fbUow in their proper placet . 




Lei y0ur Pbonunoiation be Bold and FwxihU. 

AN insipid flatness and languor is alniost the uniYer- 
sal fault in reading, and eyen public speakers often suffer 
their words to drop from their lips with such a faint and 
feeble utterance, that they appear neither to understand 
or feel what they say themselyes, nor to have any desire 
that it should be understood or felt by their audience* 
This is a fundamental foult ; a speaker without energy 
is a lifeless statue. 

In onler to acquire a forcible manner of pronouncing 
your words, inure yourself while reading, to draw in as 
much air as your lungs can contain with ease, and to 
expel it with Tchemecce, in uttering those sounds which 
require an emphaticsl pronunciation ; read aloud in the 
open air, ar^d with all the exertion you can command ; 
preserve your body in an erect attitwle while you are 
speaking ; let all the consonant sounds be expressed with 
« full impulse or percussion of the breath, and a forcible 
action of the organs employed in forming them ; and let 
all the vowel sounds have a full and bold 'utterance. 
Practise these rules with perseverance, till you have ac- 
quired strength and energy of speech. 

But in observing this rule, beware of nmning into the 
extreme of vociferation. We find this fault chiefly 
among those, who, in contempt and despite of all rule 
and propriety, are determined to command the attention 
of the vulgar. These are the speakers, who in Shakc- 
peare^s phrase, « offend the judicious hearer to the soul, 
by tearing a passion to rags, to very tatters, to split the 
ears of the groundlings.'* Cicero compares such speak-^ 
ers to cripples, who get on horseback because they can* 
aot walk ; they bellow, because they cannot speak. 


Acquire a com/iaB9 and variety in the Height of your voice, 

THE monotony so much complained of in public 

. speakers, is chiefly owing to the neglect of this rule. 

They generally content themselves with one certain key 

which they employ on all occasionsi and on every sub* 


ject; orif they attempt Tnriety, it is only in proportion 
to the number o£ their hearers, and the extent of the 
places in which they speak; imagining that speaking in 
a high key, is the same thing as speaking loud ; and not 
^bsei ving, that whether a speaker shall be heard or not^ 
depends more upon the distinctness and force with which 
he utters his words, than upon the height at which he 
pitches his voice. 

But it is an essential qualification of a good speaker, 
to be able to alter the height, as well as the strength and 
the tone of his voice, as occasion requires. Different 
species of speaking require different heights of . voice. 
Nature instructs us to relate a story, to support dn aigu- 
ment, to command a servant, to ulter exclamations of an- 
ger or rage, and to pour forth lamentations and sorrows, 
not only with different tones, but different elevations of 
voice. Men at different ages of life, and in different 
situations, speak in very different keys. The vagrant, 
when he begs ; the soldier, when he gives the word of 
command ; the watchman, when he announces the hour 
of the night; the sovereign, when he issues his edict-; 
the senator, when he harangues ; the lover, when he 
whispers his tender tale, do not differ more in the tones 
which they use, than in the key in which they speak. 
Reading and speaking, therefore, in which all the varia- 
tions of expression in real life are copied, must have 
continued variations in the height of the voice. 

To acquire the power of changing the key on which 
you speak at pleasure, accustom yourself to pitch your 
Voice in different keys, from the lowest to the highest 
notes you command. Many of those would neither be 
proper nor agreeable m speaking ; but the exercise will 
give you such a command of voice as is scarcely to be 
acquired by any other method. Having repeated the 
experiment till you can speak with ease at several 
heights of the voice ; read, as exercises on this rule, such 
compositions as have a variety of speakers, or such as 
irelate dialosi^ucs, obsei*ving the hde^ht of voice which is 
proper to eacb^ and endeavoring to chuige them as na« 
ture directs. 


In the wime oompoution there lOaf be frequent occa- 
eions to alter the height of the voice, in paasiog from one 
|iart to another, without anj change of person. Shake- 
speare's ** All the world's a stage," 8cc. and his descrip- 
tion of the Queen of the Fairies, afford examples of this. 
Indeed every sentence which is read or spoken will ad- 
mit of different elevi^ns of the race in different parts 
<if ii i and on this chiefly, perhaps entirelyi depends the 
inelody of pronunciation. 


ProI^oukox yourvordt with firofiriety and elegance, 
IT is not easy indeed to fix upon your standard^ by 
which the propriety of pronunciation is to be de« 
termined. Mere men of learning, in attempting te 
make the etymology of words the rule of pronunciatioBy 
often pronounce words in a manner, which brings upon 
them the charge of affectation and pedantry. Mere 
men of the world, notwithstanding all their politeness* 
often retain^o much of their provincial dialect, or com« 
mit such errors both in speaking and writing, as to ex* 
elude them from the honor of being the standard of 
accurate pranunciation. We should perhaps look for 
this standard only among those who vnite these two 
characters, and with the correctness and precision of true 
learning combine the ease and elegance of genteel 
tife. An attention to such models, and a free inter* 
oourse with the pofjite world, are the best guards against 
the peculiarities Mid vulgarisms of provincial diadectt • 
Those which respect the pronunciation of words are in« 
numerable. Some of the principal of them are—omit' 
ting the aspirate k where it ought to be used, and insert* 
ing it where there should be none : confounding and in- 
terchanging the tf and w ■; pronouncing the dipthong 
^u like au or fike oo, and the vowel i like oi or e ; and 
cluttering many consonants together without regarding 
the vowels. These faults, and all others of the «ame 
nature, must be corrected in the pronunciation of a gen* 
tleman, who is supposed to have seen too much of the 
world, to retain the peculiarMes of the district in which 
he was bom. 




Pronounce every ^ord coH9i9ting of more than one eylla^ 
tie with its firofur Accent. 
THERE /is a necessity for tliis direction, because 
many speakers have affected an unusual and pedan- 
tiexnode of accenting words^ laying it down as a rule, 
that the accent should be cast as far backwards as possi- 
ble ; a rule which has no foundation in the construction 
of the English language, or in the laws ef harmony. In 
accenting words, the general custom and a good ear 
are the best guides : Only it may be observed that ac- 
cent should be regulated, not by any arbitrary* rules of 
quantity, or by the false idea that there are only two 
lengths in syllables, and that two short syllables are al- 
ways equal to one long, but by the number and nature 
of the simple sounds. 


In every Sentence^ distinguish the more $i6iiiyioANT 
Woans by a natural^ forcible and varied emfihasie. 
EMPHASIS points out the precise meaning of a sen- 
tence, shews in what manner one idea is connecteit 
with and rises out of another, marks the several clauses 
of a sentence, gives to every part its proper sound, and 
thus conveys to the mind of the reader the full import 
of the v/hole. It is in the power of emphasis to make 
Ic^ng and complex sentences appear intelligible and pert 
spicuous. But for this purpose it i& necessary that the 
reader should be perfectly acquainted with the exact 
construction and full meaning of every sentence which 
he recites. Without this it is impossible to give those 
inflections and variations to 'the voice, which nature re** 
quires ; and it is for want of this previous study, more 
^perhaps than from ^ny other cause, that we so often hear 
persons read with an improper empha^s,or with no em- 
phasis at all, that is, with a stupid monotony. Much 
study and pains is necessary in acquiring the habit of 
just and forcible pronunciation ; and it can only be the 
effect of close attention and long practice, to be able 
with a mere glance of the eye, to read any piece wiUi 
good emfihaeif and good discretion* 


It is another office of emphasis to express the oppo- 
sition between the several parts of a sentence where the 
style is pointed and antithetical. Pope's £ssav on Many 
and his Moral Essays, and the Proverbs of Solomon, 
will furnish many proper exercises in this species of 
speaking. In some sentences the antithesis is double, 
and even treble ; these must be expressed in reading, 
by a very distinct emphasis on each part of the opposi- 
tion. The following instances are of this kind t 

Ang^r may glance into the breast of a wise man ; but 
rests only in the bosom of fools. 

An angry man who suppresses his passion, thinks 
worse than he speaks ; and an angry man that will chide 
speaks worse than he thinks. 

Better reign in hell» than serve inheave&i 

He raised a mortal to the skies ; 
She brought aa angel down. 

Emphams likewise serves to express some particular 
meaning not immediately arising from the words, but 
depending upon the intention of the speaker, or, some 
incidental circumstance. The following short sentence 
may have three different meanings, according to the dif- 
ferent places of the Emphaus ; Do you intend to go to 
JLonden thu aummer ? 

In order to acquire a habit of speaking with a just and 
forcible emphasis, nothing more is necessary than previ- 
ously to study the construction, meaning and spirit of 
every sentence, and to adhere as nearly as possible to 
the manner ii\ which we distinguish one word from an- 
other in conversation ; for in familiar discourse we 
scarce ever fail to express ourselves emphatically, or 
place the emphasis improperly. With respect to artifi- 
cial helps, such as distinguishing words or clauses of 
sentences by particular characters or marks ; I believe 
it will always be found, upon trial, that they mislead, in- 
stead of assist the reader, by not leaving him at full lib- 
erty to follow his own understanding and feelings. 

The most common faults respecting emphasis are lay- 
ing so str(Hig an emphasis on one word as to leave no 
power of giving a particular^ force to other words,. 


-which, thottgbnoteqtially, arein a certun degree em« 
phatical; aixl placing the greatest stress on conjuoctiv^ 
particles, and other words of seeondarf importance. 
These faults are strongly characterized in ChurchiU^a 
censure of Mossop* 

With studied improprieties of speech 

He soars beyond the hackney cri tick's readi^ 

To epithets allots emphaiic state, 

Whilst principles, un graced, like Ucquies wait t 

In ways first trodden hy himself excels 

And stands aloD« in undectinables ; 

Conjunction, preposition, adverb, join 

To stamp new vigor on the adverse line. 

In monosyllables bis thunders roll, 

Hi, shb, it, AX9, WB, ts, tbkt, fright the souL 

Emphasis is often destroyed by an injudicious attempt 
to read melodiously. Agreeable inflections and easy va» 
nations of -the voice, as far as they arise from, or are 
cbnsistent with just speaking, are worthy of attention. 
But to substitute t>ne unmeaning tone, in the room of 
nil the proprieties and graces of good elocution, and 
then to applaud this manner, under the appellation of 
musical speaking, can only be the effect of great igno- 
rance and inattention, or of a depraved taste. If public 
speaking must be musical, let the words be set to mu« 
sic in recitative, that these melodious speakers may 
no longer lie open to the sarcasm : Do you read or sing f 
If you singf you sing very ill. Seriously, it is much tO 
be wondered at that this kind of reading, which has so 
little merit considered as music, and none at all consid* 
ered as speaking, should be so studiously ppactised by 
many speakers, and so much admired by many hearers^ 
Can a method of reading, which is so entirely different 
from the usual manner of conversation, be natural and 
right ? Is it possible that all the varieties of sentiment 
which a public speaker has occasion to introduce, 
should be properly expressed by one melodious tono 
and- cadence, employed alike on all occasions, and foi^ 
all purposes i 



Acquire a juBt Variety Qf PAVSSand Cadshos. 

ONE of the worst faults a speaker can have, is to 
viiake no other pauses, than what he finds barely ne« 
cessaiy for breathing. I know of nothing that such a 
speaker can so properly be compared to, as an alarm 
bell, which, when once set a going, clatters on till the 
weight that moves it is run down. Without pauses, 
the sense must always appear confused and obscure, 
and often be misunderstood ; and the spirit and energy 
of the piece must be wholly lost. 

In executbg this part of the office of a speaker, it will 
by no means be sufl^cientto attend to the points used in* 
printing ; for these are finr from marking all the pauses 
which ought to be made in speaking. A mechanical 
^ittention to these resting places has perhaps been one 
chief cause of monotony, by leading the reader to an 
uniform cadence at every full period. The use of 
points is to assist the reader in discerning the gramsiat- 
ical construction, not to direct his pronunciation. In 
leading, it may often be proper to make a pause where 
the printer has made none. Nay, it is very allowable, 
for the sake of pointing out the sense more strongly, 
preparing the audience for what is to follow, or enabling 
the speaker to alter the tone or height of the voice, 
sometimes to make a very considerable pause, where 
the grammatisal construction requires none at all. In 
doing this, however, it is necessary that in the word im- 
mediately preceding the pause, the voice be kept up 
in such a manner as to intimate to the hearer that the 
sense is not completed. Mr. Garrick, thje first of speak* 
ers, often observed this rule with great success. This 
particular excellence Mr. Sterne has described in his 
usual sprightly manner. See the following work. Book 
VI, Chapter III. 

Before a full pause it has been customary in reading 

to drop the voice in an uniform manner ; and this has 

been called the cadence. But surely nothing can be more 

destructive of all propriety and energy than this habit. 


5^ AN BS&AT Olr 

The tones and heights at the close of a sentence ought 
to be infinitely divcr8ifie"d, ( according to the general na- 
ture of the discourse) and the particular construction 
&nd meaning of the sentence. In plain narrative, and 
espeeially in argumentation, the least attention to th^ 
manner in which vre relate a story, or support an argu- 
ment in conversatiorn, will shew, that it la more frequent- 
ly proper to raise the voice, than to fall at the end of 
a sentence. Interrogatives, where the speaker seems 
to expect an answer, should almost always be elevated 
at the close, with a particular tone to indicate that a 
question is asked. Some sentences are so constructed^ 
that the last words require a stronger emphasis than 
any of the preceding ; while others admit of being clos- 
ed with a soft and gentle sound. 

WHere there is nothing in the sense which requires 
the last sound to be elevated or emphatical, an easy fall 
sufficient to shew that the sense is finished, will be prop* 
er. And in pathetic pieces, especially those of the 
plaintive, tender or solemn kind, the tone of the passion 
will often require a still greater cadence of the voice. 
Butbefore a speaker can be able to fall his voice with 
propriety and judgment at the close of a sentence, he 
must be able to keep it from falling-, and raise it with all 
the variation which the sense requires. The best 
method of correcting a uniform cadence is frequently to 
read select sentences, in which the style is pointed, and 
frequent antitheses are introduced, and argumentative 
pieces or such as abound with interrogatives. 


Mcomfiemy the EmBtityns and PasHonsvfkkhyourftford^ 
§xfires8yby correspondent rosi&Sy looks (^ gbsturss. 
THERE is the language of emotions and passions 
as well as of ideas. To express the latter b the pe- 
culiar province of words ; to express the former^ na- 
ture teaches us to make use of tones, looks and gestures. 
When anger, fear, joy, grief, love, or any other active 
passion arises in our minds, we naturally discover it by 
the particular manner in which we utter our words j by 
the features of the countenance^ and by other well known 
signs. And even when we speak without any of the 

xxocunoN. «5 

move vioUiA tmotkiMf some kuid of feeliiig uftually ac- 
cooipamet our wordt, and thisi whatever it be, hath its 
proper external expression. Expresuon indeed hath 
heen so little studied in public speaking, that we seem 
almost to have forgotten the language of nature, and 
are ready to consider erer^ attempt to recover it, as the 
labored and aifeeted eifort of art But nature is always 
the same ; and every judicious imitation of it will al« 
ways be pleaung. Nor can any one deserve the ap« 
pellation of a good speakeri much less of a complete 
orator, till to distinct articulationi a good command of 
voiceyandjustemphasisyheis able to add the various 
expressions of emotion and passion. 

To enumerate these expressions, and describe them 
in all their variations, is impracticable. Attempts have 
been made with some success to analyse the languaf o 
of ideas ; but the language of sentiment and emotioi» 
has never yet been analysed ; and perhaps it is not with* 
out the reach of human ability, to write a philosophical 
grammar of the passions. Or if it were possible in any 
degree to execute this design, I cannot think, that from 
such a grammar it would be possible for any one to in** 
struct himself in the use of the language. All endeav- 
ors therefore to make men orators by describing to 
them in words the manner in which their veice, coun- 
tenance and hands are to be employed, in expressing 
the pasuons, must, in my apprehension, be weak and 
ineffectual. And, perhaps, the only instrucdon which 
can be given with advantage on this head^ is this gener- 
al one : Observe in what manner the several emo^ns 
or passions are expressed in real life, or by those who 
have with great labor and taste acquired a power of im- 
itating nature ; and accustom yourself either to follow 
the great original itself, or the best copies you meet witb^ 
always however, << with this special observance, that 
yeu overstep not the modesty of nature." 

In the application of these rules to practice, in order 
toacquirea just and graceful elocution, it will be ne- 
cessary, to go through a regular course of exercises ; 
beginning with such as are most easy, and proceeding 
by dow steps to such as are most difficult. In tho 


choice of thesei the p«*actitionep should pvy a pardculu' 
attention to his prevailing defects^ whether they regard 
articulationi i^ommand of Toicoi emphaus or cadence s 
And he should content himself with reading and speak- 
ing with an immediace view to the correcting of his fun- 
damental faults, before he aims at any thing higher. 
This may be irksome ,and disagreeable} it may require 
much patience and resolution ; but it is the only way to 
succeed. For if a man cannot read simple sentences^ 
or plain narrative) or didatic pieces, with distinct ar- 
ticulation, just emphasis, and proper tones, bow can he 
expect to do justice to the sublimer descriptions of po- 
etry, or the animated language of the passions ? 

In performing these exercises, the learner i»hould dai- 
ly read aloud by himself, and as often as he has an op- 
portunity, under the direction of an instructor or friend. 
He should also frequently recite compositions memorUer* 
This method has several advantages: it obliges the 
speaker to dwell upon the idea which he is to express, 
and hereby enables him to discern their particular 
meaning and force, and gives him a previous knowledge 
of the several inflections, emfihasis and tones which the 
words require. And by taking his eyes from the book, 
it in part relieves him from the influence of the school- 
boy habit of reading in a different key and tone from 
that of conversation ; and gives him greater liberty to 
attempt the expression of the countenance and gesture. 

It were much to be wished, that all public speakers 
would deliver their thoughts and sentiments, either from 
memory or immediate conception : For, bes*des that 
there is an artificial uniformity which almost always 
distinguishes reading from speaking, the fixed posture 
and the bending of the head, which reading requires, are 
inconsistent with the freedom, ease and variety of just 
elocution. But if this is too much to be expected, es- 
pecially from preachers, who have so much to compose^ 
and are so often called upon to speak in public ; it is 
however extremely desirable, that they should make 
themselves so well acquainted with their discourse as 
to be able with a single glance of the eye, to take id 
several clauses, or the whole of a sentence. 






MAN'S chief good is an upright mind, which n^ 
earthlx power can bestow, nor tako from him. 

Weought to distiustour passionsi otod when they 
appear the most reasonable . 

It is idle as well as absurd to impose our opinions up* 
on others. The same ground of conTiction operates dif* 
ferently on the same man in different circumstances* 
and on different men in the same circumstances. 

Choose what is most fit ; custom will make it the 
most agreeable. 

A cheerful countenance betokens a good heart. 

Hypocrisy is a homage that rice pays to virtue. 

Anxiety and constraint are the constant attendants of 

Men make themselves ridiculous, not so much by the 
qualities they havei as by the affectation of those they 
have not. 

Nothing blunts the edge of ridicule so effectually as 
good humor. 

To say little and perform much, is the eharacteristie 
of a great mind. 

^ A man who gives his children a habit of industry, pro- 
vides for them better tlian giving them a stock of money. 

St LESSONS. [)PabtI 


OUR good or bad ibrtane depends gt^at^ on the 
choice we make of our friends, 

The jToung are slaves to novelty, the old to custom. 

No preacher is so successful as time. It gives a turn 
of thought to the aged) which it was impo^ble to inspire 
while thfey were young. 

£very man, however little, makes a figure in his owa 

Self-partiality hides from us those very faults in our- 
selves, which we see and l»lame in others. 

The injuries we do, and those we suffer, are seldom 
weighed in the same balance. " - 

Men generally put a ' greater value upon the favors 
they bestow, Ihan upon those they receive. 

He who is puffed up with the first gale of prosperity, 
will bend beneath the first blast of adversity. 

Adversity borrows its sharpest sting from our impa- 

Men commonly owe their virtue or their vice, to 
education as much as to nature. 

There is no such fop as my young master, of his ladj 
mother's making. She blows him up with self-conceit 
and there she stops. She makes a man of him at twelve, 
and a boy all his life after. 

An infallible way to make your child miserable, is to 
satisfy all his demands. Passion swells by gratification ; 
and the impossibility of satisfying every one of his de- 
sires will oblige you to stop short at last, after he has be- 
come headstrong. 


WE esteem most things according to their Intrinsic 
merit ; it is strange man should be an exception. We 
prize a horse for his strength and courage, not for his 
furniture. We prize a man for his sumptuous palace, 
his great train, his vast revenue ; yet these are iua fur- 
nit^jg^not his mind. 

Sect. L] IN BEADING. ft 

The true conTeniences of Ufe are commen to the king 
intb his Bieanest subject. The king^s sleep is not 
sweeter, nor his appetite better. 

The pomp which diatingui^es the great man from tho 
jnoby defends him not from tbe ferer, ner from giief. 
Gire a prince all the name^ of majesty that are found in 
a folio dictionary, the first ttttack of the gout will make 
him forget his palace and his guards. If he be in chelert 
will bis princedom prevent him from turning pale, and 
gnashing his teeth Uke a fool ? The smallest prick of a 
nail, the slightest paauon of the soul, is capable of ren- 
dering insipid the monarchy of the world. 

Narrow minds think nothing ri^bt that is above their 
•wn capacity. 

Those who are the most faulty, are the most prone to 
find £Eiult in others. 

The first and most important female quality is sweet- 
ness of temper. Heaven did not give to the female sex 
iDsinuatien and persuasion, in order to be surly ; it did 
not make them weak in order to be imperious ; it di4 
not i^ve them a sweet voice in 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 blfssing to be what you ought to be. 

Let your conduct be the result of deliberation, nev- 
er of impatience. 

In the conduct of life,let it be one great sum to show tnat 
every thing you do proceeds from yourself, not from 
your passions. 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 Chrysippus who acts, but bis passions. 
We shun him in wrath, as we shun a wild beast; and 
this is all tho authority he hath over us. 

Indulge not desire, at the expense of the slightest ar^t 
tide of virtue ; pass once its lunits, and you fall head* 
long into vice. 

Examine well the counsel that favors your desires, 

T ; e e:ratification of desire is sometimes the worst 
thing that canbefal us* 

M IiBftSONS . tP^'^h 


T6 be angrjTjis to puniih mytdf for the lBndtofanotii«^ 

A word dropped by chance from your friendi offends 
your delicacy. Avoid a hasty reply; «nd heware of 
opening your discontent to the first person you meet. 
When you are cool it will vanish^ and leave no iropres* 

The most profitable revenge, the most rational, and 
the most pleasant, is to make it the interest of the inju* 
rious 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 dirink. 

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 be- 
stowed on trifies makes a great part of the account ; 
trifles which, neglected, are nothing. How shameful 
such a weakness 1 

The pensionary De Wit being asked how he could 
transact such a variety of business without 63nfusiony 
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 over the Alps, into Italy, Amarel, his fool, 
«prung from a comer, 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 rhe world should know. 

Solicitude in hiding failings makes them appear the 
j^reater. It is a safer and easier course, frankly 
knowledge them. 'A man owns that he is ignc- 
we admire his modesty. He says he is old ; we t 
think him so. He declares himself poor ; we do nc 
fieve it. 


When you deicaat on the &uU« of others, eontider 
whether you be not guilty of the same. Te gain knowl* 
edge of ourselves, the best way is tocooTertthe imper- 
factimis of others into amii'rory for discoTeringour own. 

Apply yourself more to acquire knowledge than to 
show it. I^treomnionly take great pains to put •ff 
the little stock they have ; but they take little pains to 
acquire more. 

gJ^erer suffer your courage to be fierce, your resolu- 
uK obstinate, your wisdom cunning, nor youf patience 

To measure all reason by our own, is a plain act of in* 
justice ; it is an encroachment on the common rights 
sf mankind. 

If you would teach secresy to others, begin with 
yourself. How can you expect another will keep your 
secret, when yourself cannot I 

A man's fortune is more frequently made by his 
tongue, than by his virtues ; and more frequently crush- 
ed by it^ than by his vices. 


Even self interest is a motive &r 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 friendsy by whom you can govern 


i The first ingredient in conversation is truth ; the next^ 

good sense ; the third, good humor ; the last, wit 

The great error in conversation is, to be fonder of 
speaking than of hearing. Few show mere complais- 
ance than to pretend to hearken, intent all the while up- 
( ~ it they themselves have to say, not considering, 
t eek one*s own pleasure, so passionately, is not 

1 to please others. 

"- e an Englishman in London, a Frenchman in Par- 
i ^aniard in Madrid, is no easy matter, and yet it is 
I ary. 

. F 


62 LESSON& [PabtL 

A man entirely irithout ceremony has need of great 

He who cannot bear a jest, ought nerer to make one. 

In the deepest distress, yirtue is more illustrious than 
Tice in its highest prosperity. 

No man is so foolish but he may give good counsel at, 
a time ; no mai> so wise but he may err, if he take no 
counsel but his own. 

He whose rulmg passion is love of praise, is a 8laye||§ 
every one who has a tongue for detraction. 

Always to indulge our appetites, is to extinguish 
them. Abstain, that you may enjoy. 

To have your enemy in your ^ower, and yet to do 
him good, is the greatest heroism. 

Modesty, were it to be reejommended for nothing else, 
leaves a man at ease, by pretending to little, whereas 
vain glory requires perpetual labor, to appear what one 
is not. If we have sense, modesty best sets it off ; if not, 
best hides tlie want. 

When, even in the heat of dispute, I yield to my an* 
tagonist, 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 vciy pleasure they arc intended to 
promote ; for, by soliciting the appetite, the3rexcludG 
the greatest pleasure of taste, tibiat wMch arises from 
the gratification of hunger. 

yi.— 7'Atf Fqx and the Goaf.— Dodslet's Fables. 

A FOX and a Goat travelling together, in a very suU 
try 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 dufliciently 
allayed their thirst, began to consider how they should 
get out- Many expedients for that purpose, were mu- 
tually proposed and rejected. At last, the crafty Fox 
crieH out with great joy^I have a thought Just struck 
into my mind, which, I am confident, will extricate us 
out of our diffiiculty : Do you, said he to the Goat, on* 


lyrear yourself up upon your hind legSiWid rest your 
fore feet agaiast the aide of the well. In this posture I 
will ciinb up to your head, from which I shall be ablo 
with a spring) to reach the top ; and when I am oooe 
there, you are sensible it will be very easy forme to pull 
you out by the horns. The simple Goat liked the pro* 
posal wellr 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, hiidst thou but half as much brains as beard, thou 
wottldst neyer hare believed that I would hazard my 
own life to save thine. However, I wiU leare with thee 
apiece of advice, which may be of service to thee here- 
after, if thou shouldst have the good fortune to make 
thy escape : Never venture into a well again^ before 
thou hast well considered how to get out of it. 

VII.— 7%r Fqx and the Stork.^lM. 

THE Fox, though, iirgeneral more inclined to rogue- 
ry than wit, had once a strong incliaation to play the 
Wag with his neighbor the Stork. He accordingly in- 
vited her to dinner in great form ; but when it came up* 
on the table, the Stork found it consisted entirely of dif- 
ferent soups, served up in broad shallow dishes, so that 
she could only dip in the-end of her billy but could not 
possibly satisfy her hunger. The Fox lapped it up 
ytTj readily ; and every now and then, addressing him* 
sett to his guest, desired to know how she liked her en- 
tertainment; hoped that every thing was seasoned to 
her mind ; an^ protested he was very sorry to see her 
eat so sparingly. The Stork perceiving she was played 
upon, took no notice of it, but pretended tf> like ever dish 
extremely ; and, at parting, pressed the Fox so earnest- 
ly to return her visit, that he could not in civility re- 
fuse. The day arrived, and he repaired to his appoint- 
ment ; but to his great mortification, when dinner ap- 
peared, 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 impossible for 
him |o ta^te. The Stork thrust in her long bill and 

M LE8S0KS t^Am 1. 

helped herself veiy plemifiilly ; then) tnnung to Rey- 
nard, who was eagerly licking the outside of a jar, 
vrhere son»e sauce had been spilled-— I am very glad, 
aaid she, smiling, that you seem te have so good an ap- 
petite ; I hope you will make as hearty a dinner at my 
table, as I did, the other day, at yours. Keynard hung 
down his head, and looked ver/ much displeased* Nay, 
tiay,>said the Stork, don't pretend to be out of humor 
about the matter ; they that cannot take a jest should 
never make one. 

V^IL— 7%f C9urt of JDeath.-^lB. 

DEATH, 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 honor of this il- 
lustrious office. Fever urged the numbers he destroy- 
ed ; cold Palsy set forth his pretentions, by shaking all 
Ids limbs ; and Dropsy, by his swelled, unwieldy car* 
case. Gout hobbled up, and alledged his great power 
in racking every joint ; and Asthma's inabDity to speak, 
was a strong though silent argument in favor 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 the midst 
of this contention, the court Was disturbed with the 
noise of music, dancing, feasting and revelry ; when im^ 
mediately entered a laay, 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 ; 
name was iKTBMrBRAKcE. She waved her hand, thus addressed the croud of diseases ; give way> ye 
sickly band of pretenders, nor dare to vie with my su- 
perior merits in the service of this great monarch* Am 
1 UQt your parent ? the author of your beings ? do ye 
net derive the power of shortening human Kfe almost 
wholly from me ? Who, then, so fit as myself for this 
important office ? The grisly monarch grinned a smile of 
approbation, placed her at his right hand, and she imme- 
diately became his principal favorite and prime minister. 


lX,^nt Pattial Jadfej^U. 

A FARMER came to a neigbborin^ Ift^er^ expres- 
sing great concern for an accident whicb» he said, bad 
just bappened. One of your oxen^ continued be, bas 
been .gorged by an unlucky bull of mine ; and I s^uld 
be glad to know how I am to make you reparation. Tjiou 
arta rery bonest fellow, replied the Lawyer, and wilt 
aot think it unreasonable) that I expect one of thy ox- 
en in return. It is no more than justice, quoth the Far- 
mer, to be sure t But, what did I say ?— I mistake. It 
is your bull that has killed one of roy oxen. Indeed! 
says the Lawyer; that alters the case : I must inquire* 
into the affair ; and if— And if I said the Farmer — the 
buuness, I find, would have been concluded without an 
I?, had you been as ready to do justice to others, as to 
exact it from them. ^ 

X.^TAe aick Li^n^thc FoXf and the WoI/.—Ib. 

A LION, having surfeited himself with feasting too 
luxuriously on the carcase of a wild Boar, was seized 
with a violent and dangerous disorder. The beasts of 
the forest flocked,^ in great numbers, to pay their re- 
spects to him upon the occasion, and scarce one was 
absent except the Fox. The Wolf, an illnatured and ma- 
licious 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 accusajdon, and observ- 
ed the Lion's countenance to be kindled into wrath, 
thus adroitly excused himself, and retorted upon his ac- 
cuser ; I see many here, who, with mere lip servicci 
have pretended to show you their loyalty ; but, for my 
part, from the moment I heard of your majesty's ill- 
ness, neglecting useless compliments, I employed my- 
self, day and night, to inquire* among the most learned 
phy^ians, an infallible remedy for your disease, and 
have, at length 4iappily been informed of one. It is a 
plaster made of part of a Wolf's skia taken warm from his 
F 2 

back and laid to your majesty's stomach* Thia remedy 
i¥as no sooner propo^^ than it w.a«. detecimned that the 
experiment should be tried ; and whilst the operation 
•was performing,, the Fox, with a sarcasttC' smile,. whis* 
pered this 'useful maxim in the Wolf's ear; if you 
would be safe fioni harm yourself, leap, for the future, 
not to meditate mischief against others. 

XL-^Biaboneaty fiunished.'-^KA.v^'s Hints. 

AN usurer, having lost anitiundred pounds in a bag^, 
promised a reward of ten pounds to the person who 
should restore it. A man having brought it to him, de- 
manded the reward. The usurer, loth to give the re« 
ward, now that he had got the bag, alledged, after the 
bag was opened, that there was an hundred and ten 
I)ounds in it, when he lost it. The usurer, being called 
before the judge, unwarily acknowledged that the seal 
t?as broken open in his preaenee, 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 in it" "Yes my lord.'* 
" Then,** replied the judge, " this cannot be your bag, 
aft it contseihed but a hundred pounds ; therefore the 
plaintifT must keep it till the true owner appears ; and 
you must look for your bag where you t:an find it.** 

Xlh^The jPicture.—lm. 

Sir William Lelt, a famous painter in the reigif 
of Charles I, agreed beforehand, for the price of a pic- 
ture he was to draw for a rich London Alderman, who 
was not indebted to nature, either for shape or face. 
The picture being finished, the Alderman endeavored 
to beat down the price, alledging, that if he did not pur* 
chase 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,** 
Bays the Alderman, "for *tis like nobody but myself?** 
^ True,'* replied Sir William ; "but I can draw a tail 
to it, and then it will be an excellent monkey.'* Mr. 
Alderman to prevent being exposed, paid down the 
money demanded^ and carried off the picture. 

MMcm. I.} IN BBADING. ey 

Xni* — Tke two Bet9^^l}0Ti^^\*% Fablsb. 

ON afineiBornin^in May two B«e« set forward id 
quest of honey ; the one wise and temperate, the other 
careless and- extravagant. They soon arrived at a gar* 
den enriched with aromatic herbs, the most fragrant 
flowers, and the most delicious fruits. They regaled 
themselvts for a time, on the vaiious dainties that were 
sju'ead before them ; the one loading his thigh, at inter- 
vals, with provisions for the hive, against the distant 
winter $ the other revelling in sweets, without regard 
to any thing but Ids present gratification. At length 
they found a wide mouthed phial, that hung beneath 
the bough of a peach tree, filled with honeyi ready tern* 
pered, and exposed to their taste, in the most alluring 
manner. The thoughtless epicure, in spite of all his 
friend's remoRStrancesi plunged headlong into the vessel, 
resolving to indulge himself in all the pleasures of 
sensuality* The philosopher, on the other hand, sip- 
ped a little with caution, but, being suspicious of dan« 
ger, fiew off to fruits and flowers, where, by the moder- 
atioo of his meals, he impreved his relish for the true 
'enjoyment of them. In the evening, however, he call- 
ed 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 tOr 
gether 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. 

XI V.-«-B«6«/y and i)t/brmi7y.— Percival*s Tales. 

A YOUTH, 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 exhibiiion of wild beasts. 
The size and figure of the Elephant struck him with awe; 
and he viewed the Rhinoceros with astonishment. But 
his attention was soon drawn from these animals, r\nd 
^eeted te. another^ of the most elegant and beauti* 


«S LESSOKS [Paat I. 

ful form ; an^ he stood contemptatiog with silent acbni* 
ration the glossjt^ smoothness of his hair, the blackness 
and regularity of the streaks with which he was marked, 
the symmetry of his limbsi and above M, the placid 
sweetness of his.countenance« What is the name of 
this lovely animal, i^id he tp the keeper, which you 
have placed near one of the ugliest beasts in your 
collection, as if you meant to contrast beauty witb de- 
formity ? Beware, young man, replied the intelligent 
keeper, of being so easily captivated with external ap- 
pearance. The animal which you admire is called a Ty- 
ger ; and notwithstanding the meekness of his looks he is 
fierce and savage beyond description : I can neither ter* 
rify 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 ef 
nan, he traverses the sandy deserts of Arabia, where 
drink and pasture are seldom to be found $ and will con- 
tinue six or seven days without sustenance, yet still pa- 
tient of labor. His iiair is manufactured into cloathing ; 
his flesh is deemed wholesome nourishment i and the 
milk of the female is much valued %y the Arabs. The 
Camel, therefore, for such is the name giv^n to this ani- 
mal, is more worthy of your admiration than the Tyger ; 
notwithstanding the inelegance of his make, and the two 
hunches upon his back. For mere external beauty is of 
little estimation ; and deformity, when associated with 
amiable dispositions and useful qualities, does not pre- 
~ elude our respect and approbation. 

XV. — Remarkable instance cf Pfiend^hifi, 

Art 07 SpsAKnre. 
DAMON and Pythias, of the Pithagorean sect VBt 
philosophy, lived in the time of Byonisius, the tyrant 
of Sicily. Their'mutual friendship was so strong, that 
they were ready to die for one another. One of the 
two (for it is not known which) being condemned ta 
death by the tyrant, obtained leave to go into his owtt 
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 

flk(^. I.] TSt READIKG. M 

of the tyrant himself) was excited to the highest pitch, 
as eveiy body was curioas to see what would be the event 
of so strange an afPair. When the time was almost 
elapsed, and he who was gone did not appear; the rash- 
ness of the other, whose sanguine friendship had put him 
upon running so seemingly desperate a hasard, was uni- 
versally blamed. But he still declared, that he had net 
the least shadow of doubt in his mind, of his friend's 
fidelity. The event showed how well he knew him. 
He came in due time, and surrendered himself to that 
&te, 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 Dyonisius 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.— DyoftMtt* and />amoc/^«.— 'la. 

DIONYSIUS, the tyrant of Sicily, khowed ho^far 
he was from being happy, even whilst he abounded in 
riches, and all the pleasures wh;ch riches can ph>cure. 
Damocles, one of his flatterers, 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 you a mind, Damo- 
cles," says the king, <* to taste this happiness and know 
by experience, what my enjoyments are, of which you 
have so high an idea?" Damocles 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 embroidenr, and sideboards 
loaded with gold and silver plate ot immense value. 
Pages of extraordinary beauty were ordered to wait on 
him at table, and to obey his commands with the greatest 
readiness, and the most profound submission. Neither 
omtments, chaplets of flowers, nor rich perfumes were 
wanting. The table was loaded with the most exquisite 
delicacies of every kind. Damocles fancied himself 
amongst the gods. In the midst of all his happiness, 
he sees let down from the roof, exactly over his neck, 
ashelay indulging himself in state, a glittering swords 

?-• liESSONS CFabt I. 

hung by a single hair. The sight of destruction, thu9 
threatening him from on high, soon put a stop to his joy 
and irevelling. The pomp of his attendence^ and the 
glitter of the carved plate gave him no longer any pleas- 
ure. He dreads to stretch forth his hand to the table ; 
he throws off the chaplet of roses ; he hastens to remove 
from bis dangerous situation ; and, at last, begs the king 
to restore him to his former humble condition, having 
ao desire to enjoy any longeiv such a dreactful kUid of ^ 

XVlL^^Character of Ca/a/t«tf .—Sullust. 

' LUCIUS CAT ALINE, by'birth a Patrician, Wts, by 
nature, endowed with superior advantages, both bodily 
and mental ; but his dispositions were corrupt and wick- 
ed. FFom his youth, his supreme delight was in vio- 
lence, slaughter, rapine and intestine confusions; and 
such works were the employment of his earliest years. 
His constitution qualified him for bearing hanger, cold 
and want of sleep, to, a degree exceeding belief. Hit 
mind w^s daring, subtle, unsteady. There was no char* 
acter which he could not assume^ and putoff atpleaaureu 
Rapacious of what belonged to others, prodigal of Ids 
own, violently bent on whatever became the object of 
his pursuit. He possessed a considerble share of el^ 
quence, but little solid knowledge. His insatiable tem- 
per was ever pushing him to grasp at what was immod- 
erate, romantic and out of his reach. 

About the time oi the disturbances raised by Sylia^ 
Cataline was seized by a violent lust of power ; nor 
did he at all hesitate about the means, so he could but 
attain his purpose of raising himself to supreme donua- 
ion. His restless spirit was in a continual ferment, oc- 
casioned by the confusion of his own private affairs, and 
by the hoiTors of his guilty conscience ; both which h* 
had brought upon himself, by living the life above de« 
scribed. He was encouraged in his ambitious projects 
by the general corruption of manners, which then prevail- 
ed amongst a people infested with two vices, not lesa ^ 
opposite (o one another in their natures, than miachiey-^ 
OMs in their tendencies : I mean Luxury and Avarice. 

Sect. I.] IN READING. 71 

XVIII.— w/vortee and Xujrttry.— Spzotatoa. 

THERE were twe Tcry powerful tyrantt engaged in 
a perpetual war against each other ; the name of the first 
was Luxury, and of the seeond Avarice. The aim of 
each of themi was no less than universal monarchy 
ever the hearts of mankind. Luxury had many gener- 
als under him, who did him great service ; as Pleas* 
are, Mirth, Pomp and Pashioo. Avarice was likewise 
very strong in his officers, being fathfully served by 
Hunger^ Industry, Care and Watchfulness ; he had 
likewise a privy counsellor, who was always at his elbow, 
and whispering something or other in his ear : the name 
of this privy counsellor was Poverty. As Avarice con- 
dacted hiaiself by the counsels of Poverty, his antago* 
nist wab enterely guided by the dictates and advice of 
menty, who was his first counsellor and minister of 
Hate, that concerted all his measures for him, and never 
departed out af his sight. While these two great rivals 
were thus contending for Empire, their conquests were 
very various. Luxury got possession of one heart, and 
Avarice of another. The father of the family would of- 
ten range himself under the banners of Avarice, and the 
son under those of Luxury. The wife and husbaifd 
would often declare themselves of the two different par- 
ties ; 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 1 their numbers were not considerable. At 
length, when these two potentates had wearied them* 
selves with waging war upon one another, they agreed 
upon an interview, at which neither of the counssllors 
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 be- 
lieved they two should be very good friends, were it not 
for the institutions of Poverty, that pernicious counsel* 
lery who made an ill use of his ear, and filled him with 
groundless apprehensions and prejudices. To this Av« 
arice replied thai he looked upon rlcntyj (the first min« 

72 LESSONS [PiJiTl. 

istercfhis antafonist) to be a much more destnied?e 
counsellor than Poverty : For that he was perpetually 
4iuggesting pleasures} banishing all the necessaiy cautions 
against want, and cpnsequently undermining those prin* 
ciples on which the goveniment of Avarice was found- 
ed. At last, in order to an accommodation, they agreed 
^upon this preliminary ; that each of them should imme- 
diately dismiss his privy counsellor. When things 
were thus far adjusted towards a peace, all other dif- 
ferences were soon accommodated ; insomuch, that 
for the ^tur^, they resolved to live as good friepds and 
confederates, and to share between them whatever con- 
quests were made on either side. For this reasos we 
now find Luxury and Avarice taking possession of 
the same heart, and dividing the same person between 
them. To which I shall only add, that since the dis- 
carding of the counsellors abovementioned, Avarice 
supphes Luxury, in the room of •Plenty, as Luxury 
prompts Avarice, in the place of Poverty. 

XlX.'-^fferculea^a Choice. — Tattler. 

» WHEN Hercules was in that part of his youth, in 
wiiich it was natural for him to consider what course of 
life he ought to pursue, he one day retired into a desert, 
where the silence and solitude of the palace very muc h 
favored 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 
him. One of them had a very noble air and graceful 
deportment ; her beauty was natural and easy, her per- 
son clean and unspotted, her eyes cast towards the 
ground, with an agreeable reserve, her motion and be- 
havior full of modesty, and her raiment as whijte as snow. 
The other had a great deal of health and floridness in 
her countenance, which she had helped with an artificial 
white and red j and phe endeavored to appear more 
$yraceful than ordinary in her mien, by a piixture of af- 
fectation in all her gestures. She had a wonderful con- 
fidence and assurance in her looks, and ail the variety of 
colors in her dress, that she thought were the most 

Sbot. L] in BEADINGw 78 

proper tD show her complexioB toadvuiUge. She cast 
her eyes upcm herseif, then turned them on those that 
were present, to see how they liked her ; and often look- 
ed on the figure she made in her own shadow. Upon 
her nearer approach to Hercules, she stepped hefore the 
other lady, who came Sorward with a regular composed 
carriage ; and running 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 o^ife 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 remore you from all the noise and 
disquietude of business. The aflFairs of either war or 
peace shall have no power to disturb you. Your whole 
employm^it shall be to make your life easy, and to en* 
tertun every sense with its proper gratifications. 
Sumptuous tables, beds of roses, clouds of perfumes, 
oonoerU of music, crowds of beauties, are all in readiness 
to receive you. Come along with me into this region 
of delighti^ this world of pleasure, and bid farewell for« 
ever, to care, to pain, to business.'* 

Hercules, hearing the lady talk after this manner, de- 
aired to know her name ; to which she answered, << my 
friends, and those wheare well acquainted with me, caU 
me Happiness; but my enemies, and those who would 
injure my reputalaon, have given me the name of Pleas- 

By this time the other lady was4:ome up, who addres- 
«ed herself to the young heroin a very different man* 

« Hercules,?' says she, << I offer myself to you, because 
I know yeu are descended from the gods, and ^ive 
proofs of that descent by your love to virtue, and applica* 
tion to the studies proper for your age. This makes 
me hope you wiH gain, both for yourself and me, an ini* 
mortal reputation. But, before I invite you into my so« 
ciety and friend^ip, I will be open and sincere widi 
y^u, and must lay down tlus, as an established truth, 
Aat diere is nothing truly valuable which can be 

74 LESSONS P^art L 

purchased withdiat pain» and labor. The gods have set 
a piice up<m every real and noble pleasure. If you 
would gain the favor of the Deity, yon must be at the 
pains of worshipping him ; if the friendship of good 
meni you must study to oblige them ; if you Would be 
honored by your country, you must take care to serve 
it : In shoity if you would be ' eminent in war or peace 
you must become master of all the qualifications that* 
can make you so. These are the only terms and condi*- 
tions uppn which I can propose happiness.** The god« 
dess of l^leasure here broke in upon her discourse : 
« Tou see/' said she, << Hercules, by her own confessioni 
the way to her pleasure 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 pro« 
pose ? 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 de« 
licious music, which is the praise of one's 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 tiiey are hoarding^ 
itp anguish, torment and remorse for old age.*' 

^< As for me, I am the friend of gods and of good 
inen# an agreeable companion to the artisan, an house- 
hold guardian to the fathers of families, a patron and pro- 
tector of servants, an associate in all true and generous 
friendships. The banquets of my vi>taries are never 
costly but always delicious ; for none eat and drink at 
them, who are not invited by hunger and thirst. Their 
slumbers are soupd, and their wakings cheerful. My 
young men have the pleasure . of hearmg themselves 
praised by those who are in years ; and those who are 
ju) years of being honored by those who are young. In 
a word, my followers are favored by the gods, beloved 
by their acc^uaintaiK:e,esteem<^,iby their country, and 
after the clt>se cf their labors, hon<N:*6d by poster* 

Star, t] IN BEADING. 75 

We know, by the life of this memorable hero, to 
which of these two ladies he gave up his heart ; and I 
belieyeeyeryoile who reads thiS) will do him the jua* 
tice to approve his choice. 

XX.— m/f Honeycomh*$ Sfieeiat^^-^noTATU* 

MY friend. Will Honeycomb, has told me, for abow 
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 writ* 
ings in my works. This morning I received from him 
the following letter ; which after having rectified some 
little orthographical mistakes, I shall miidte a present of 
to the public. 

<< Dear Spec— I was about two nights ago in compa* 
ny with v^ry agreeable young people of both sexeSf 
where talking of some of your papers, which are writ- 
ten on c6njugal love, there arose a dispute among us, 
whether there were not more bad husbands in the world 
tiian bad wives. A gentleman, who was advocate for the 
ladies, took this occaaion to tell us the story of a b* 
mous siege in Germany^ which I haTO «bee found relat-* 
cd in my historical dictionary ; after the following 
manner. When the emperor Conrad III, had beseiged 
Ouelphus, Duke of Bavaria, in the city of Hensbei^, tlie 
women, finding that the town eould not possibly hold 
outlong, petitioned the emperor that they might de- 
part out of it, with so much as each of them could car- 
ry. The emperor, knowing they could not convey a- 
way 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 extolled the women 
for their conjugal affection, gave the men to their wivesy 
and received lh% Duke into his favor. 

^ The ladies did not a little triumph at this story ; ask- 
ing us, at ^he same time, whether, in our eonscienceSf 
we believed, that the men in any town of Great-Britain 
womld,upon the same offer, and at the same conjuncture, 
have loaded themselves with their wives i Or rathen 


vhe^ertkey would not have been glad of tuch an op* 
portunity to get rid ot Ihem I To this my very good 
£riend» Tom Oapperwiti who took upoo him to he 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 WQmen» considering that their strength would be 
greater,, and their burdens lighter. As we were amus- 
ing ourselves with discourses of this nature, in order to 
pass away the evening, which now began to grow tedi* 
ous, 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 ladies, under 
pain of my displeasure, to tell the company ingenuously, 
in ease they had been in the siege abovementioned, and 
had the same oiFers 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 ques- 
tion, which entertained us till bedtime. This filled my 
mind With such a huddle of ideas, that upon my going 
to ^esp, I fell into the following dream : 

^ I saw a town of this island, which, shall be nameless, 
invested on every side, and the inhabitants of it so strait- 
ened as to cry for quarter. The general refused any oth- 
er terms thim those granted to the above mentioned town 
of tiensberg, namely, that the married women might 
come out, with what they could bring along with them. 
Imtnediately the city gates^ew open, and a female pro- 
cession appeared^ multitudes of the sex following one a- 
nother in a row, and staggering under their respective 
burdens. I took my stand upon an eminence, in the eme- 
my's camp, which was appointed for the general rende- 
vous of these female carriers, being very desirous to look 
into their several ladings. The first of them had a huge 
sack upon h^ shoulders, which she set down with great 
care ; upon the opening of it, when I expected to have 
seen her husband shotoutof it.I found it was filled with 
China ware. The next appeared in a more decent figure, 
carrying a handsome young fellow upon her back : I 
could not ^Mbear commending the young woman for her 
conjugal affection^whenit^^o^yp^ soxprise, I found 

gk^. t} IN HEADING. 77 

fliat slie had left Uie good bbmi at homei imd bfouglit a* 
way her gailaaU 1 saw a thirds at some diatanccy with a 
Uttie withered fi&ce peeping over her shoulder, whom I 
eoald not auspect for any but her spouse, till, upon her 
setting him down, I heard her call him dear pug, and 
found him to be her &yorite monkey. A fourtti brouglit a 
huge bale of cards along with her i and the fiftii a Bolog- 
na 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 tjld «s that her spouse was ' 
very old, and by the course of nature, could not expect 
to live long ; andjthat to show herteiuler regard for him> 
she had saved that which the poor man loved better than 
his life< The next came towurds us with her son upon 
kerback, who we were told, was the greatest rake in 
tiie place, but so much the mother's daibng, that she left 
her husband behind, with a large family of hopeful sons 
and daughters, for the sake of this graceless youth* 

^ It 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 ribbands, broaches, embroidery, and ten thou- 
sand other materials, sufficent to have furnished a 
Whole street of toyshops. One of the women, having 
an husband who was none of the heaviest, was bringing 
him off upon her shoulders, at the same time that she 
carried a greit bundle of Flanders lace under her arm ; 
but finding herself so overloaden that she could not save 
both of them, she dropped the good man, and brought 
away the bundle. In short, I found but . one husband 
among this great mountain of baggage, who was a lively 
cobler, that kicked and spurred alt the while his wif«^ was 
carrying him off, and, as it w^ said, had scarce passed 
a day in his life, without giving her the discipline of the 

*< I cannot conclude my letter, dear Spec, without tel- 
ling thee one very odd whim in this my dream. I 
saw methought, a dozen women employed in bringing 

7ft LESSoicar [Fab^ i^ 

oStone mm ? I ooxdd n«»t g«ie«fi who it* t%#^]d be, tilly. 
upon his nearer approach^ I discovered thy short phizt 
The women ail declared that k was lor the sake of thj 
works, and not thy parson^ that they brought thee ofT^ 
and that it was on condition tiiat thou shouTdst continue 
the Spectator. If thou thinkeat this dream will mako* 
a tolerable one^ it is at thy servicei £rom» dear Specy 
thine, sleeping aadwakingr 

Will HowsTaoMB.*' 
The ladies will sec by this letter, what I have often^ 
told tham, that Wi)l is one of those old fashioned meor 
of wit and pleasure of the townr who show tbek parts by 
vaillery on marriage, and ^le who has often tried hiar 
fortune in that way, without success. I cannot, howeverr 
dismiss this letter, without observing, that the true story 
on which it is built, does honor to the sex. ; and that, 
in order to abuse them, the writer is obliged to have re- 
course to dream and fiction. 

XXL-^On g^od ilre^i/inj'.p'«-C]SEST£RFi£tB'. 

A FRIEND of yours and mme has very justly defin<-^ 
ed good breeding to be, <^ the result of much good sense^^ 
some good nature 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 haa> 
good sense and good nature^ can essentially £siil in good, 
breeding. As to the modes of it, indeed, they vary accor*: 
ding to persons, places and circumstances, and are only ta. 
be acquired by observation and experience ; bat the sub* 
stance of it is every where and eternally the same. Good 
manners are, to particular societies, wnat good morals av» 
to society in general-— >their cement and their security. 
And as laws are elected to enforce good morals, or at 
least to prevent the ill effects of bad ones ; so there are 
certain rules of civility ,univeP8ally implied and received^ 
to enforce good maimers, and pimish bad mies. And in« 
deed, there seems to me to be less difference bo& be* 
tween the ciimes and punishments,thatt,at first,one would 
iQiagine. The Unmoral mft% who invadaa another's prop* 

Bmct. L} in BBADINO. 79 

crtfti&iurtlybangedfiMril; widthe illbred nan, who^ 
by his ill naDoersiinyades and disturbs the quiet and com- 
forts of private life, is, by common consent, as justly ban* 
ished society. Mutual complaisancesy attentions, and sa- 
crifices of little conveniencesr are as natural an implied 
compact between civilized people, as protection and o« 
bedience are between kings aod subjects; whoever, in 
cither case, violates that compact, justly foijfeiwS all ad« 
Tantages arising from it. For my own part, I really 
think that, next to the consciousness of doing a good ac* 
tian, that of doing |i civil one is one of the most pleas- 
ing ; and the epithet which I should covet the mostf 
next to that of Aristides, would be that ef wellbred. 
Thus much for good breedmg, ki general ; I will now 
consider some ofthe various modes and degrees of it. 

Very few, scarcely any, are wanting in the respect 
which they should show to those whom they acknowl- 
edge to be highly their superiors ; such as crowned 
beaidsy princes, and public persons of distinguished and 
eminent posts. It is the manner of showing that respect 
which is different. The man of fashion and of the 
worlds expresses it in its fullest extent ; but naturally, 
casi^ and without concerns Whereas, a man who is 
not used to keep good company, expresses it awkwardly^ 
one sees that he is not used to itf and that it costs . h^m a 
great-deal ; but I sever saw the worst bred man. Ii>ing9 
guilty of lolling, whistling, scratching his head, and 
such like indecencies, in company that he respected. 
In such companies therefore, the only point to be at- 
tended to ist 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 £>r the time at least, supposed to be 
upon a fiM>ting of equality with the rest ; and, conse* 
quently, as there is no one principal object of awe andi 
Inspect, people are apt to take a greater latitude in their 
behavioryandtobe less upon their goard; and so they 
may, provided it be within certttui beunds, which are, up- 
on 90 oGcaiknb ^ be traasgrcMed. But^xpoo these. 

f6 L&SSO]^S ^AB* I^ 

crcca&ioDSi tKotigh no one h entitled to dktiiigidshedl 
fnarks of respect, every one claims, and very justly,! 
every mark of civility and good breeding. Ease is allows 
ed, but carelessness and negligence are strictly for*' 
bidden. If a man accosts you, and talks to you ever so' 
dullyorfiivolously, it is worse than rudeness, is brutal-" 
ity, to show him by a manifest inattention to vrhat b^ 
says, that you think hhn a fool, or a blockhead, and not 
worth bearing. It is much more so with regard to* 
women, who, of whatever rank they are, are entitled, in 
consideration of their sex, not only to an attentive, but 
tn officious good breeding from men. Their little wantSf- 
likings, dislikes, preferences, imtipathies and fancies^ 
liiust be officiously attended to, tad if possible^ 
guessed at and anticipated, by a wellbred man. Ton: 
must never usurp to yourself those conveniences and 
gratifications which ate of common right, such as thiT 
best places, the best dishes, Sec. but on the contrary? al« 
ways decline them yourself and offer them to others^ 
who in their turns will offer them to you; so that up-" 
On the whole, you will in your turn, enjoy your share 
of the common right. It would be endless for me to en-* 
timerate all the particular circumstances, in Which a well 
bred man shows his good breeding, in good company ;; 
and it would be injurious to yoU to suppose, that 
your own good sense will not point them out to you / 
and then your own good nature will recommend,^ and 
your self interest enforce the practice. ^ 

There is a third sort of good breedbg, in Whictr 
jjeople are the most apt to fail, from a very mistaken 
notion, that they cannot fail at all. I mean with regard 
to one's most familiar friends and acquaintances, or those 
who really arc our inferiors ; and there, undoubtedly, 
t greater degree of ease is nOt only allowable, but 
proper, and contributes much to the comforts of a* 
private social life. But ease and freedem have their 
bounds, which must by no means be violated. A cei^*- 
tain degree of negligence and carelessness becomes in- 
jurious and insulting, from the real or supposed inferi-* 
crity of tbe persons ; and that delightful liberty of con- 
Yersation, among a few frieBda> is soon deatroyed^ as lil^ 

Bbct. Lj IN BEADING. « 

erty often has beeiH by keing carried to Kcentiousnesi. 
But example explains thuiga beat ; and I will put 
a pretty strong case. Suppose you and me alone togeth- 
er ; I beliereyou will allow, that I have as good a right 
to unlimited freedom in your company, as either you 
or i can possibly have in any other ; and I am apt to be- 
Ueve, too, that you would indulge me in that freedom 
as &r as any body would. But notwithstanding this, 
do you imagine that I should think there were no 
boimds 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 mannersto you, as by oth- 
er degrees of them to other people. The most familiar 
and intimate habitudes, connexions, and friendships^ 
require a degree of good breeding, both to preserve and 
cement them. Thebestef us have our bad sides; and 
it is as imprudent as it is ill bred, to exhibit them. I shall 
not use ceremony with you ; it would be misplaced be- 
tween us I but I shall certainly observe that degree 
of good breeding with you, which is, in the first place, 
decent, and which, I am sure, is absolutely necessary^ 
to make us like one another's company long. 

XSlh'^Mdr^99 to a ffpung Studtnt'^Kvox. 

YOUR parents have watched over your helpless in- 
fancy, and conducted you, with many a pang, to an age 
at which your mind is capable of manly improvement. 
Their solicitude still continues, and no trouble nor ex- 
pense is spared, in giving you all the instructions and 
accomplishments which may enable you to act your 
part in life, as a man of polished sense and confirmed 
virtue. You have, then, already contracted a great 
debt of gratitude to them. You can pay it by no other 
method, hut by using properly tlie advantages which 
(heir goodness has afforded you. 

If your own endeavors are deficient, it is in vain that 
you have tutors, books, and all the external aptiaratus of 
literary pursuits. You must love learning, if you would 
possess it. In order to love it, you must feel its de- 
lights ; in order to feel its deHghts, you must apply 
to it^ however irksome at firsts closely> oonstantly. 

m USSSOliS [PjibtI* 

and for a oonslderable time. If yra hare resoludcni 
enough to do this> you cannot bat love learning ; for 
the mind always loves tliat to which it has been longi 
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 po- 
lite and elegant literature. Yours then, IS surely a lot 
particularly happy. Your education is of fruch a sort, 
that its principal scope is^ to prepare you to receive a 
refined pleasure during your life. Elegance^ or delica^ 
cy of taste, is one of the first objects of classica} disci- 
pline ; and it is this fine quality, wliich opens a new 
world to the scholar's view. Elegance %f taste has a 
connexion with- many virtues, and all of them virtues 
of the most amiable kind. It tends to render you, at 
once good and agreeable. You must, therefore^ be aa 
enemy to your own enjoyment) if you enter en the disci- 
pline which leads to the attainment of a classical 
and liberal education, with reluctance. Value duly the 
epportunities you enjoy, and which are denied to thou* 
sands of your fellow creatures. 

Without exemplary diligence you will make but a 
contemptible proficiency* You may, indeed, passthiougH 
the forms of schools and universities ; bat you will brings 
nothing away from them of real value. The proper sort 
and degree of diligence, you cannot possess, but by tli^ 
efforts of your own resolution. Your instructor may 
indeed confine you within the walls of a school, a cer- 
tain ntimber ef hours. ^'He may place 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 
(he most serious lectures, may be ranging in the wild 
pursuits of trifles and vice. Rules, restraints, commands 
and punishments, may, indeed, assist in strengthening 
your resolution ; but, without your own voluntary 
choice, your diligence will not often condtice to your 
« pleasure and advantage. Though this truth is obviouS} 
yet it seems to be a secret to those parents, who expect 
to find their sob^s improvement increase, in profovHsm 

Sser. L] IN SEADINa •» 

to the number of tutors^ and external asnaUnee whicb 
diwc^iilence has enabled them to proyide. These as* 
listanees, mdeed, are sometimes afforded, chiefly, that 
Ihejroiuigheirtoatitleor estate nuy indulge himself 
in idleness asd nominal pleasures. The lesson is con* 
strued to hitn, and the exercise written for him, by the 
pxivate tutor, while the hapless youth is engaged in 
some ruinous pleasure, which, at the same time, prevents 
himfromleamingany thing desirable, and leads to the 
Ibrmatien of destructive habit^ which can seldom be 

Bat the principal obstacle to your imprpvement at 
echool, especially if you are too plentifully supplied 
with money, is a perverse ambition ef being distinguished 
as a boy of spirit, in mischievous pranks, in neglecting 
te tasks and lessons, and for every vice and irregulsri* 
ty 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 detractiony 
which endeavors to render the ooy who applies to 
books, and to all the duties and proper business of the 
school, ridiculous. You will see, by the light of your 
reason, that the ridicule is misapplied. You will dis* 
cover, that the boys who have recourse to ridicule, are^ 
fi>r the most part, stupid, unfeeling, ignorant and vi- 
cious. Their noisy folly, their bold confidence) their 
contempt of learning, and their defiance of authority! 
ar^ for the most part, the genuine effects of hardened 
ansenubility. Let not their insults and ill ti^eatment 
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 
pursuits, equal in degree to the obstinacy in which they 
perust in theirs. Your fortitude will soon overcome 
theirs, which is, indeed, seldom any thing more thae 
Ihe audacity of a bully. Indeed, you cannot go through 
a school with ease to yourself, and with success, with' 
out a considerable share of courage. I do not mean that 
sort of courage which leads to battles and contentions, 
but which enables you to have a will of your own, and 
to pursue what is righty amidst all the persecutioas of 

m XB8SON8 |PawI« 

ittrrovndiiif t niderSf dumes^ and detractors. Ridkute 
b the weapon made use of at school, as well as in th* 
world, when the fortresses of virtue are to be assailed. 
You will effectually repel the attack by a daiuntless spir* 
stand ttByieldin^;. perseverance. Though numbers are 
gainst yoU| y&t| with truth and rectitude on your aide^ 
jiOU may, though alone, be equaHo any army. 

By laying in a store of useful knowledge, adorning 
j^ur mind with ekgant IHerature, improving and es» 
tablishing your conduct by virtuous principles, you can^ 
not fail of being a comfort to those friends who hare 
supported you, of being happy with yourself, and of be- 
ing well received by manlund. Honor and success In 
life will probably attend you. Under all circumstances, 
you will have an internal source of consolation and enter*' 
tainroent,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 honorable and useful. 
While you appear in society as a respectable and val« 
uable member of it, they will, perhaps, have sacrificed 
at the shrine of yanity, pride and extravagance, and 
false pleasure, their health and their sense, their fortua* 
and their characters. 

XXIII Mvantag€9 ^, and Motivet to CheerfulnfSf 


CHEERFULNESS is in the first place the best pro^ 
tnoter of health. Repinings, and secret murmurs of the 
heart, give imperceptible strokes to those delicate fibres 
of which the viti.1 parts are composed, and wear out the 
machine insensibly ; not to mention those violent fer* 
ments which they stir upin the blood, and those irregu- 
lar, disturbed motions which they raise in the animal 
spirits. 1 scarce, remember, in my owii observatioti, tO' 
have met with many old men, or with such who, (to use 
our English phrase) wear weUihvX had not at least a cer- 
tain indolence in their humour, if not a more than ordi- 
nary gaiety and cheerfulness of heart. The tnith of it 
iS| health and cheerfulness mutually beget each otheff 


witii this differencet that we seldom meet with a great 
des;ree of health, which is not attended with a certain 
cheerfulnessi but very often see cheerfubess where 
there is no degree 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 gre^t soul of the universe, and pro* 
duces all the necessaries of life, has a particular influence 
BQ 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 munc, furnish us with game, er raise 
pleasing ideas in us by the delighifulness of their appear- 
ance. Fountains, lakes and rivers are as refreshing to 
the imagination, as to the soil 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 
ether color, as being such a right mixture of light and 
shade, that it comforts and strengthens 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 
coloring. A famous modem philosopher accounts for 
it in the following manner : All colors that are more lu- 
minous, 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 
sufficient exercise ; whereas, the rays that produce in 
us the idea of green, fall upon the eye in such a due 
proportion, that they give the animal spirits their 
proper play, and by keepin|^ up the struggle in a |ust 
balance, excite a very pleasing and agreeable sensatioiw 
ILetthe cause be what it will, the effect is certain; for 

se LESSONS [PabtI 

which reason the poets ascribe ta this particular color, 
the epithet of cheerful. 

To consider further this double end in the tTorks of na- 
ture and how they are at the same time both useful and 
entertaining, we find that the most important parts in 
the yegetabie world, are those which are the most beau* 
tiful. These are the seeds by which the several races 
ofplants are propagated and continued, and wliich aro 
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 gar- 
den 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 ndan, 
by having formed it after such a manner, as to make it 
capable of conceiving delight from several objects which 
seem to have very little use in them ; as from the wild- 
ness of rocks and deserts, and the like grotesque parts 
of nature. Those who are versed in philosophy, maf 
still carry this consideration higher, by observing, that 
if matter had appeared to us endowed only with those 
real qualities which it act^ually 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 colors, sounds 
and smells, heat and cold, but that man, while he is con-* 
versant in the lower stations of nature, might have hid 
mind cheered and delighted with agreeable sensations ? 
In short, the whole universe is a kind of theaire, filled 
with objects that either raise in us pleasure, amusement 
or admiration. 

The reader's own thoughts will suggest to him the 
vicissitudes 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 sereral entertainments of 
art, with the pleasures of friendship, books, conversation 
and other accidental diversions of life, beeause I would 
only take notice of such incitements to a cheerful tem- 
per, as offer themselves to persons of all ranks and con- 
ditions, and which may sufficiently shew us that Provi- 
dence did not design this world should be filled with 
murmurs and repimngs, 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 virtue in which our countrymen are observed to be 
more deficient than any other nation. Melancholy is a 
kind of demon that hay nts our island, aitd of^en conveys 
herself to us in an easterly wind. A celebrated French 
novelist, in opposition to those who begin their roman- 
ces 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 
disconsolate 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 considerations which may givo him a se- 
renity of mind and enable him to bear up cheerfully, a- 
gainst those little evils and misfortunes which are com- 
mon to human nature, and which, by right improvement 
of them, vrill produce a satiety of joy, and \minterrupted 

At the same time that I would engage my reader to 
consider the world in its most agreeable lights, I must 
own there are many evils which naturally spriiig up, a- 
midst the entertainments that are provided for us ; but 
these if rightly considered, should be far from overcast- 
ing the mind with sorrow, or destrojdng that cheerful- 
ness of temper which I have been recommending. This 
interspersioQ of evil with good, and pain with pleasure, 
in the works of nature, is very truly ascribed, by Mr. 
I^cke, in his essay on human understanding, to a mor- 
al reason, in the following 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 af- 


feet us, and ¥lended them together io almost all that our 
thoughts and senses have to do with ; that we, findmg 
imperfection, dissatisfaction, and want of complete hap- 
piness in all the enjojrments which the creatures can aif* 
ford us, might be led to seek it in the enjc^mentfrfHiBi, 
with whom there is fulness ofjoy, and at whose right 
hand are pleasureH foreyermore/^ 


l.—The bad J^racT^r.— ^Peroi^al's Tales. 

JULIUS had acqttiredgreat credit at CaTnbridge, bf 
his compesitions. They were elegant, animated 
and judicious ; and seyeral prizes, at different times, 
had been adjudged to him. An oration which he deliv- 
ered the week before he left the university, had been 
honored with particular applause ; and on his return 
home he was impatient to gratify his canity, and to ex- 
tend his reputation, by having it read to a number of his 
father's literary friends. 

A party was therefore collected ; and after dinner 
Hie manuscript was produced. Julius declined the ofike 
c€ reader, because he had contracted a hoarseness on his 
journey ; and a conceited young man, with great for* 
wardness, offered his services. Whilst he was settling 
himself on his seat, licking his lips and adjusting his 
XQouth, hawking, hemming and making other ridiculous 
preparations for the performance which he had under- 
taken, a profound silence reigned through the com- 
pany, the united effect of attention and expectation. 
The reader at length began ; but his tone of voke was 
so shrill and dissonant, his utterance so vehement, his 
pronunciation so affected, his emphasis so injuriousf 
and his accents were so improperly jHaced, that good 
manni^rs 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 thp coxcomb who delivered it But he proceeded 
with full confideiice m his own elocution ; uniformly 
overstepping} as Shakespeare expresses it, the modesty 
^of nature. 

When the oration was concluded, the gentlemen re- 
turned their thanks to the author ; but the compliroents 
which they paid him were more expressive of politeness 
«md civility, than the conviction of his merit. Indeed 
the beauties of bis composition had been conrerted, by 
H 3 

90 LESSONS [Vamt L 

bad reading» hito blemishes ; and the iense of it rendered 
abftcure» and even unintelligible. Julius and his father 
ceutd not conceal their vexation and disappointment ; 
and the guests, perceivrog they laid them under a pain- 
ful restraint, withdrew, as soon as decency permitted, to 
their respective habitations. 

U.m^Re9ftect due to Old ^^^.— Sv'EOTATOit. 

IT happened at Athens, during a public representa- 
ti«i of some play exhibited in honor, of the common* 
wealthy that an old gentleman came too late for a place 
suitable to his age and quality. Many of the young 
gentlemen who observed the (Ufficulty and confusion he 
was hi, made signs to him that they would accommo* 
date . hinb 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 
te tit close and expese him, as he stood out of counte- 
nance, to the whole audience. The frelic went round, 
all the Athenian benches. But on those occasie^s there 
were also particular places assigned for foreigners. When 
the good man skulked towards the boxes appointed for 
the Lacedemonians, that honest people, more virtuouft 
than polite, rose up all to a man, and with the greatest 
respect, received him among them. The Athenians be* 
ing suddenly touched ^ith a sense of the Spartan virtue 
apd their own degeneracy, gave a thunder of applause % 
and the old man cried out, ^< the Athenians understand 
what is good, but the Lacedemonians practice it" 

III.— •PiV/yro Godreiommendedtothe Fotif^.— >Bi«AXft» 

WHAT I shall first recommend, is piety to God. 
With this I begin, both as the foundation of good mor- 
als, and as a disposition particularly graceful and becom- 
ing 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 gen- 
erous emotions. The heart should then spontaneous- 
ly 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 


•B7 object be finmd Ba proper to kindle these affectioiitf 
«ft the Father of the vniversey and the Author of all fe* 
licity ? Unmored by veneratton^ can you contemplate 
that grandeur and majesty which hia works every where 
disi^ay ? Untouched by gratitudC) can you view that 
profusion of good, which, in Uiis pleasing season of lifcy 
his beneficent hand poors around you ? Happy in the 
lore and affection oi those with whom you are connect* 
ed, look up to the Supreme Being, as the inspirer of 
all the friendship which has ever been shewn you by oth- 
ers ; himself your best and your first friend ; formerly 
the supporter of your infancy and the guide of your child- 
hood ; now, the guardian of your youth, and the hope 
of your coming years. View religious homage as a 
natural expression of gratitude to him for all lus good- 
ness. Consider it as the service of the God of your fa- 
thers ; of Him to whom your parents devoted you ; of 
Him, whom in former ages, your ancestors honored ; 
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- 

lY. —Modtity and DoeUUy.~lB. 

TO piety, join modesty and docility, reverence to 
your parents, and submission to those who are your su« 
periors in knowledge, in station and in years. Oe« 
pendence 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 yourself to the guidanco 
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 eithet* 
deform its present appearance, or blast the prospect of 
its future prosperity, more than self conceit, presump* 
tion and obstinacy. By checking its natural progress 
m improvement, they fix it in long immaturity ; and 
frequently produce mischiefs which oan never here* 

9i liESSONS. CPabst L 

psured. Yet tbeae are Ticee too comtnonlf found a* 
niong the young. Big with enterprise and elated by 
hope, they resolve to trust to success to none but them-* 
selves. Full of their bwn abilities^ they deride the ad<« 
monitions which are given them by their friends, as the 
timorous suggestions of age. Too wise to learn, too 
impatient to deliberate, too forward to be restrained, 
they plunge with precipitafit indiscretion, into the midst 
of all the dangers with which life abounds. 

IT is necessary to recommend to you sincerity and 
truth. These are the basis of every virtue. That 
darkness of character, where we can see no heart ^ those 
foldings of art, through which no native affection is al- 
lowed to penetrate, present an object unamiable in every 
season of life, but particularly odious in youth. If| 
ht an age when the heart is warm, when the emotions 
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 ap- 
pearance is the fated omen of growing depravity and fu- 
ture shame. It degrades parta and learning, obscurest 
4he lustre of every accomplishment, and sinks you intq 
contempt with God and man. As you value thereforej 
the approbation of heaven, or the esteem oi the world, 
cultivate the love of truth. In all your proceedings, be 
direct and consistent. Ingenuity and candor possess the 
most powerful charm : They bespeak universal favor^ 
and carry an apology for almost every failing. The 
path of truth is a plain and sale path ; that of falsehood 
is a perplexing maze. After the first departure from 
sincerity, it is not in your power to stop. One artifice 
unavoidably leads on to another ; liil as the intricacy of 
the labyrinth increases, you are left entangled in your 
own snare. Deceit discovers a little mind, which stops 
at temporary expedients, without rising to comprehen- 

8£CT. n.] IN BEADIHO. n 

rive riewsof conduct Itbetnysi at the ssme tme) m 
dastardly spirit. It is the resource of one who wants 
courage to avow his designs, or to rest upon himself. 
Whereas, openness of character displays that generoua 
boldness which ought to distuiguish youth. To set out 
in the world with no other principle than a crafty at- 
tentifKi to interest, betokens one who is destined for 
creeping* through the inferior walks of life ; but to give 
an early preference to honor above gain, when they 
stand in competition ; to despise every advantage which 
cannot be attained without dishonest arts ; to brook no 
meanness, and to stoop to no dissimulaUon ; are the in- 
dications of a great mind, the presages of future emi^ 
nence 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 cunningy 
not to true wisdom. It is not the umplicity of a wcsSl 
and improvident, but the candor of an enlarged and no^ 
ble mind ; of one who scorns deceit, because he accounts 
it both base and unprofitable ; and who seeks no dis* 
guise, because he needs none to hide him. 

YOUTH is the proper season for cultivatmg the be* 
nevolent and humane affections. As a great part of 
your happiness is to depend on the connexions which 
you form with- others, it is of high importance that yon 
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. 
Engprave on your mind that sacred rule of << doing in 
all things to others according to your * wish that they 
should do unto you>" For this end impress yourselves 
with a deep sense of the original and natural equality of 
men. Whatever advantage of birth or ' fortune you pos* 
sess, never display them with an ostentatious superiority. 
Leave the subordinations of rank to regulate the inter- 
course of more advanced years. At present it becomea 
you to act among your companions as man with man. 

Oi LESSONS. (Vxvr L 

Remember hon^ unknown to you are tke vicissitudes of 
tbe world ; and ho^ often they, on Whom i^orant and 
contemptuous young men once looked down with scom^ 
bare risen to be their superiors in future years. Confi- 
passi«n is an emotion of which you ought never to be 
ashamed. Graceful in youth is the tear of sympathy, and 
the heart that meltsatthe tale of woe. Let not ease and 
indulgence contract your affections, and wrap you up 'in 
selfish enjoyment. Accustom yourselves to think of: the 
ilistresses of human life ; of the solitary cottage, the dy- 
ing 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.— Jn<afM«/ry and Jpiilication.'^l^, 

DILIGENCE, industry, and proper improvement 
of time, are material duties of the young. To no piir« 
pose are they endowed with the best abilities, if thev 
want activity for exerting them. Unavailing in this 
case, will be eyery direction that can be given them, ei- 
ther for their temporal or spiritual welfare. In youth 
the habits ef industry are most easily acquired ; Ib youth 
the incentives to it are strongest, from ambition and 
from duty, from emulation and hope, from all the pros- 
pects which the beginning 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 instrument 
of improvement, but the foundation of pleasure. Noth- 
ing is so opposite to true enjoyment of life, as the re- 
laxed and feeble state of an indolent mind. He who it 
a stranger to industry may possess, but he cannot enjoy. 
For it is labo)* only which gives the relish to pleasure* 
It is the appoiftted vehicle of every good man. It ii 
the indispensable c6ndition. of our possessing a sound 
mind in a sound body. Sloth is so inconsistent w.ith 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, itf effects arc fatally powerful. Though it appear 
a slowly &>wing stream, yet it undermines all that is stable 

Sect. U.] IN READIMO. f» 

end flourbbiflg. It not only saps the foundation of eT«iy 

Tii'tue, but pours upon you a delug^e of crimes and evils* 
It IS like water, which first puUifies by •tagnatiooi and 
then sends up noxious vapors, aiKl fills the atmosphere 
with death. Fly therefore firom 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) perpetually engaged in frivolous society 
or public amiisemeius ; in the labors of dress or tho 
ostentation of their persons. Is this the foundation 
which you lay for future usefulness and esteem ? By sucii 
accomplishments do you hope to reccommend yourselves 
to the thinking part of the world, and to answer the ex« 
pectations of your friends and your country ? Amuse^ 
ments youth requires ; it Were vain, it were cruel to 
prohibit them. But though allowable as the relaxation, 
they are most culpable as the business of the young. 
For they then become the gulf of time, and the poison 
of themind^ They foment bad passions. They weak* 
en the manly powers. They sink the native vigor of 
youth into contemptible effeminacy, 

VIIL— Pro>kf r Employment of Tllme.— >Ib. 

REDEEMING your time from such dangerous wastCf 
seek to fill it with employments which you may review 
with satisfaction. The acquisition of knowledge is one 
of the most honorable occupations of youth. The da* 
siieofit discovers a liberal mind, and is connected with 
many accomplishments and many virtues. But though 
your train of life should not lead you to study, the course 
of education always furnishes proper employments to 
a well disposed mind. Whatever you pursue, be emu** 
lous to excel. Generous an^ition, and sensibility to 
praise, are, especially at your age, among the marks of 
virtue. Think not that any affluence of fortune, or a«y 
elevation of rank, exempts you from the duties of ap-> 
plication and industry* Industry is the law gf our bd<> 
ing ; it is the demand of nature, of reason and of God. 
Remember, always, that the years which now pass over 
your heads, leave permanent memorials behind tliem* 


FNim the thoughtless nibds the^ may escape ; but the^ 
remain in tlie remembrance of Ged* They form an im* 
poriantpart of the register of your life. They will 
heresi'terbear testimony 9 either lor, or against you, at 
that day, when, for all your acUons, but particularly for 
the employments of youth, you must give an account 
to God. Whether your future course is destined to be 
long or shorty after this manner it should commence, 
and if it sontinue to be thus conducted, its conclusion, 
at what time soever it acrives, will not be ingloriousi or 

IX. — The true PaMo/.-^Art o# Thikking. 

ANDREW DORI A, of Genoa, the greatest aea cap** 
tain of the age he lived in, set his country free from the 
yoke of France. Beloved by his fellow citizens, and 
supported by the emperor Charles V. it was in his pow- * 
er to assume sovereignty, without the least sU'uggle, 
But he preferred the virtuous satisfiEtction of giving lib* 
erty to his countrymen. He declared in public assem- 
bly, that the happiness of seeing them once more res* 
tored to liberty, was to him a full reward for all his ser- 
vices ; that he claimed no preeminence above his' equals, 
but remitted to them absolutely- to settle a proper form 
of government. Dorians magnanimity put an end to fac- 
tions, that had long vexed the state ; and a form of gov^* 
emment was established, with great unanimity, the 
same, that with very little alteration^ subsists at present* 
Doria lived to a great age, beloved and honored by his 
countrymen ; and without ever making a single step out 
of his rank, as a private citizen, he retained to his dying 
hour, great influence in the republic. Power, founded 
on love and gratitude, was to him more pleasant 
than what IS founded on sovereignty. His memory is 
reverenced by the^ Genoese ; and, in their histories and 
public monuments, there is bestowed on him the most, 
honorable of all titles— Father of his COUNTRY, 
and Rbstomr of its LIBERTY. 

9E«r. IL] or RBADINO. . Wt 


CONTENTMENT prodooet, in aome^mcMsui^f U 
tbosceffecti which the alchemitt usually ascribda to 
what he oaila the fihU94qfiher*9 tt^ne s and if it doea not 
taring richea» it doea the aame thing, by baoiahing the de- 
aire of them. If it cannot remove the disquiet udea a* 
rising out of a lean's mmd, body or fortane, it makes him 
easy under them. It iuts* indeed, a kindly inilu- 
ence on the soul of a naan, in reapect oi tyery being to 
whom he stands related. It extinguishes aU mumur> 
repining and ingp:atitude towards that Being, who haa 
allotted him his part to act in this world. It deatroya 
all inordinate ambition, and every tendency to corrupt 
tiOD, with regard to the community Wherein he ia plac* 
ed. It gives sweetness to hia conversaticM), and perpet- 
ual serenity to all hia thoughts. 

Among the mai^ methods whkhmigfat be made use 
of for* acquiriiig this virtu^f i shall only mon^on the 
two following. First of all, « man should always con- 
ttder how much be has more than he wants ; and, sec* 
ondly, how much more unhappy he might be, than he 
really is. 

First of all, a man should always consider how much 
he haa more than he ws^nts. I am wonderfully well 
pleased with the reply which Aristippus made to one 
who condoled him upon the loss of a farm : ** Why," 
said he, ^ I have three farma still, and you have but 
one, ao that I ought rather to be afflicted for you than you 
for me.** On the contrary, fooliah meit are more apt to 
conaider what they have lost, th»i what they possess ; and 
to fix their eyes upon those who are richer than them« 
selves, rather than en those who are under greater diffi- 
culties. All the real pleasures and con vemencies of life 
lie in a narrow compaas ; but it is the humor of mankind 
to be always looking forward, and strairang afler one 
who has got the start of them in weaMh and honor. For 
. this reason, aa there are none can be properly called rich 
who have not more than they want ; there are few rich 
meut in any of the politer nations, but among the mid- 
dle aortirf^j^eoplei who keep their wiahea within their 

9ft LteSSONS • [PaAt f. 

fortunes, ami have^tnarc Wealth than lh€y know how to 
./tfnjoy. Persons of higher rank lire in a kind of splen* 
dlAffOt^fstf 1 sftM arc perpetually Vanting, because, io- 
steart^ol acqfiirscing in the solid pleasures of life, they 
endeavor to outvie one another in shadows and appear- 
ancea. Men of sense have at all 'times beheld, with a 
great deal of mirth, this silly game that is playing over 
their heads ; and by contracting their desires, enjoy all 
that secret satisfaction which others are always in quest 
of. The truth is, this ridiculous chase after imaginary 
pleasure cannot be sufficiently exposed, as it is the great 
source of those evils which generally undo a nation. Let 
a man's estate be what it will, he is a poor man if he 
does not live within it, and naturally sets himself to 
sale to any one who can give him his price. When Pit.- 
tacus, after the death of his brother, who had left him a 
good estate, was offered a great sum of money by the king 
of Lydiaj he thanked him tor his kindness, but told him 
he had already more by half than he* knew what to do 
with. In short, content ia equivalent to wealth, and 
luxury to poverty ; or, to give the thought a more a- 
greeable turn, ** Content is natural wealth," says Socra- 
tes ; to which I shall add. Luxury is artificial poverty. 
I shall therefore recommend to the consideration of 
those who are always aiming after superfluous and in^ 
aginary enjoyments, and will not be at the trouble of 
contracting their desires, an excellent saying of Bion the 
philosopher, namely, ^ That no man has so much care 
as he who endeavors after the most happiness.** 

In the second place every one ought to reflect how 
much more unhappy he tnight be than he really is- The 
former consideration took in all those who are sufiicient- 
ly provided with the means to make themselves easy ; 
this regards such as actually lie under some pressure or 
misfortune. These may receive great alleviation from 
such a comparison as the unhappy person may make 
between himself and others, or between the misfortune 
which he suffers, and greater misfortunes which might 
have befallen him. 

i like the story of the honest Dutchman, who upon 
breaking his kg by a fall from the maincaast, told tlie 

SEer. II.] IN READING. »fl 

standersbyyitwasa great mercy it was not hit neck. 
To which) ssBce I am got into quotaiionty give me 
leave to add the saying ofan old philosopher^ whO) after 
having invited some of his friends to dine with himy 
Wits ruffled by his wife, who came into the room 4n a 
passion, and threw down the table that stood bcfoie 
them : ^^ Every one,'* s:iys he, ^ has his calamity, and 
he is a happy man that has no greater than this." We 
find an instance to the same purpose in the life of doctor 
Hammond, written by 'bishop Fell. As this good man 
was troubled with a complication of distempers, when he 
had the gout upon hiiti,he used to thank God that it was 
lK>t the stone; and, when he had the stone, that he had 
not both these distempers on him at the same time. 

I cannot conclude this essay, without observing^, that 
there was never any system, besides that of Christianity, 
which would effectually produce in the mind of man the 
virtue I have been liithcrto speaking of. In order to 
make us contented with our condition, many of the 
present philosophers tell us, that our discontent only 
hurts ourselVe^, ^tho^lJ^eing able to make any altera- 
tion in our ciftibmj^y |^j^ ^tf>tbers, that whatever evil be- 
fEdsusis derivedv w«^ii« fatal necessity, to which 
the gods themselves are subject; while others very 
i^ravely tell thp man who is mistrable, that it is necessa- 
ry he should be so, to keep. up the harmony of the uni- 
verse, and that the scheme of Providence would be 
troubled and perverted were he otherwise. These, and 
the like considerations, rather silence than satisfy a 
man. They may shew him that his discontent is un- 
reasonable, but are by no means sufficient to relieve it. 
They rather give despair than consolation. In a word, 
a man might i*eply to one of these comforters, as Au- 
jP^ustus did to bis friend, who advised him not to grieve 
mr the death of a person whom he loved, because his 
grief could not fetch him again : << It is for that very 
reason," said the Emperor, " that I grieve." 

On the contrary, religion bears a more tender regard 
to human nature. It prescribes to every miserable man 
the means of bettering his condition : Nay it shows 
him that the bearing of his afflictions as he oUght to do^ 


«eo X<ES80NS tPiBT I. 


will Bfttarally end in the removal of them. It makes 
mm easy here> because it can make him happy hereafter* 

'SLL^^^eedlevfork recommended to the Ladie9,mm.lB, 

«« I HAVE a couple of nieces under my direction» 
who so often run gadding abroad, that I do not know 
where to have them. Their dress, their tea, and their 
visits take up all their time, and they go to bed as tired 
with domg nothing as I am after quUting a whole un* 
derpetticoat. The whole time they are not idle, it 
while they read your Spectators; which being dedi^ 
cated to the interest of virtue, I desire you to recom- 
mend the long neglected art of needlework* Those 
hours which in this age, are thrown away in dress, play, 
visits, and the like, were employed in my time ha 
writmg out receipts, or working beds, chairs, and 
bangmgs for the family. For my part, I have plied my 
reedle these fifty years, and by my good will would 
never have it out of my hand. It gi^i^VrCtS my heart to 
see a couple of proud idle fiirt9>j^>pd^g ^^^f. ^^^9 foi* * 
whole aflernoon, in a great W^^ " - round with the 
industry of their great grand?(^]^^y^®^ray sir, take the 
laudable mystery of embroidery into your serious con- 
sideration, and as you have a great deal of the virtue of 
the last age in you, continue your endeavors to reform 
the present.** / am^ Is^c. 

In obedience to the commands of my venerable cor- 
respondent, I have duly weighed this important subject, 
and promise myself from the arguments nere laid down, 
that all the fine ladies in England will be ready, as soon 
astheir mourning is over, to appear covered with the 
work of their own hands. 

What a delightful entertsdnment must it be to the 
fair sex, whom their native modesty, and the tenderness 
of men towards them, exempts from public business, to 
pass thsir hours in imitating fruits and flowers, and 
transplanting all the beauties of nature into their own 
dress, or raising a new creatioain their clothes and a- 
partmenta. Mow pleasing is the amusement of walk- 
ing among the shades and groves planted by themselves, 

Shot. II.] IN BEADING. lOl 


in ftvrreying heroes dain by their needles^or little Cupidi 
which they hare brought into the world without pain. 

This is methiiiks, the meat proper way wherein a la- 
dy can show a 6ne genius, and I cannot forbear wiahing 
that several writers of that sex, had chosen rather to ap« ' 
ply themselves to tapestry than rhyme. Your pastoral 
poetesses may vent their fancy in rural landscapes, and 
place despairing shepherds under silken willows, or 
drown them in a stream ef mohair. The heroic writers ' 
may work up battles as successfully, and enflame them 
with gold or stain them with crimson. Even those who 
have only a turn to a song, or an epigram, may put many 
valuable stitches into a purse, and crowd a thousand 
graces into u psdr of gartera. 

If I may without breach ef good manners, imagine 
that any pretty creature is void of genius, and would 
perform her part herein but very awkw&rdly, I must 
nevertheless insist upon her working, if it be only to 
keep her out of harm's way. 

Another argument for busying good women in works 
f>f fancy-, is, because it takes them off from scandal, the 
usual attendant of teatables, and all other inactive scenes 
t)f life. While they are forming their birds and beasts, 
their neighbors will be allowed to be the fathers of their 
own children ; and Whig and Tory will be but seldom 
mentioned, where the great dispute is whether 
blue or red is the more proper color. How much 
greater glory would Sophrona do to the general, if she 
would choose rather to work the battle of Blenheim 
in tapestry, than signalize herself, with so much ve- 
hemence, against those who are Frenchmen in their 

A third reason that I shall mention, is the profit that 
is brought to the family where these pretty arts are en- 
couraged. It is manifest, that this way of life not only 
keeps fair ladies from running out into expenses, butk 
is at the same time, an actual improvement* How me- 
morable would that matron be, who shall have it inscribed 
upon her monument, <*that she wrote out the whole 
Bible in tapestry, and died in a good old age, after hav 
I 3 

14» LE98€(NS [F/m^ I. 

ing covered three lumdced yards of well ki the tteMion 
house ! 

These premises being considered) I bumb^ submit 
thefellowing proposals to all mothers in Gr#at Britain* 

I. That BO youDg virgin whatsoever be allowed to 
reodve the addresses of her first lover but in a suit of 
her own embroidering. 

II. That before every fresh servant she be obliged to 
appear with a new stomacher at the least 

IIL That BO one be actually married until she hath 
the childbed) pillows^ Sec. ready stitched) as likewise the 
mantle for the boy quite finished. 

These lawS) if I mistake not| would effectually re« 
stoie the decayed art of needlework) and make the vir- 
gins of Great Britain exceedingly nimble fingered in 
their bofiiness. 

XIL— 0» JPriile.— GuABniAK. 

IF there be ^y thbg that makes human nature ap- 

Kar ridiculous to beings of superior faculties) it must 
pride. They know so well the vanity of those inv* 
aginary perfections that swell the heart of man, and of 
those little supernumerary advantages) whether in birth) 
fortune or title, which one man epjoys above another) 
that it must certainly very much astonish) if it does not 
very much divert them, when they see a mortal puffed 
up) and valuing himself above his neighbors) on any of 
these accounts) at the same tinvethatl^ is obnpxioua to 
^1 the common calamities of the species. 

To set this thcHight in its true li^ht) we will fancy if 
you please) that yonder molehill is mhabited by reason- 
jMe creatures, and that evei^ pismire (his shape and 
way of Hfe only excepted) is endowed with human pas* 
«ions. How should we smile to hear one give us an ac- 
count of the pedigrees, distinctions and titles that reign 
•among them ? Observe how the whole swarm divide, 
Aodmake way &r the jusmirethat passes through them ; 
you must understand he is an emmet <^ quality) and has 
better blood in his veins than any pismire in the mole- 
hill. Don't you see how sensible he is of iti^ how 
slow he marches forward) bow the wBole rabble of 

sxcT. n.] nr reading. loa 

«Qts teep thrir dbttnce ? Here ymx maj obterre one 
placed upon a little eminence, aii4 looking down on a 
long roir of laborers. He ia the richest insect on this 
aide the hiUeck, he has a walk oi half a yard in length, 
and a quarter of an inch in breadth, he keeps an hundred 
aaeaial servants, and has at least fifteen barley corns in,^ 
his granary. He is now chiding and beslaving the em- 
met that stands before him, and who for all that we can 
discover, is as good an emmet as himself. 

But here comes an insect of figure ! Don't you take 
notice of a little white straw he carries in his mouth ? 
That straw, you must understand, he would not part with 
fer the longest tract about the molehill s Did you but 
know what he has undergone to purchase it ! See how the 
ants ef all qualities and con^ions swarm about himw— 
Should this straw drop oifX of his mouth, you would see 
all this numerous circle of attendants follow the next that 
took it up, and leave the discarded insect, or run over 
bis back to come at its successor. 

If now you have a mind to see all the ladies of the 
molehill, observe first the pismire that listens to the em* 
met on her left hand, at the same time that she seems to 
turn away her head from him. He tells this poor insect 
she is a goddess, that her eyes are brighter than the suny 
that life and death are at her disposal. She believes him, 
and gives herself a thousand little airs upon it. Mark 
the vanity of the pismire on your left hand. She can 
scarce crawl with age, but yen must know she values 
herself upon her birth ; and if you mind, spurns at eve- 
ry one tlyt comes within her reach. The little nimble 
coquet that is running along by the side of her is a wit. 
She has broke many a pismire's heart. Do but observe 
what a drove of lovers are running after her. 

We wilt here finish this imaginary scene ; but first 
of all to draw the parallel closer, will suppose, if you 
please, that death comes upon the molehill, in the shape 
of a cock sparrow, who picks up, without distinction, 
the pismire of quality and his flatterers, the pismire of 
substance and his day laborers, the whitestraw officer 
and Ins sycophants, with ail the goddesses, wits, and 
beauties of the molehill. 


May we not imagine) that beings of ■ superior natures 
and perfections regard all the instances of pride and 
vanity, among our own species in the same kind of view, 
when they take a^survey of those who inhabit the earth, 
or in the language of an ingenious French poet, of those 
pismires . that people this heap ef dirt, which humaa 
vanity has divided into climates and regions. 

XIII.— /oarwfl/ ^ the l\fe of Alexander Severua.^^ 

ALEXANDER rose early. The first momentsof the 
day were consecrated to private devotion : But as he 
deemed the service of mankind the most acceptable wor« 
ship of the gods, the greatest part of his morning hours 
were employed in council ; where he discussed public 
affairs, and determined private causes, with a patience 
and discretion above his years. The dryness of business 
was enlivened by the charms of literature ; and a por- 
tion of time was always set apart for his favorite studies 
of poetry, history and philosophy. The works of Vir» 
gil and Horace, the republics of Plato and Cicero, form- 
ed his taste, enlarged his understanding, and gave hira 
the noblest ideas of man and of government. The ex- 
ercises of the body succeeded to those of the mind ; and 
Alexander, who was tall, active and robust, surpassed 
most of his equals in the gymRastic arts. Refreshed by 
the use of his bath, and a slight dinner, he resumedi 
with new vigor, the business of the ilay : And till 
the hour of supper, the principal meal of the Roman% 
he was attended by his secretaries, with whom he read 
and answered 'the multitude of letters, memorials, and 
petitions^ that must have been addressed to the master 
of the greatest part of the world. His table was serve4 
with the most frugal simplicity ; and whenever be was 
at liberty to consult his own inclination, the company 
consisted of a few select friends, men of learning _and 
virtue. His dress was plain and modest; his demean- 
or courteous and affable. At the proper hour, his paif- 
ace was open to all his subjects ; but the voice of a crier 
..was heard, as in the Eleusinlan mysteries, pronounc- 
ing the same salutary admonition.— -<< Let none enter 


thes^holf wallff, uqIcm heis amscumtof a piirt nd in- 
nocent mind." 

XLV^CAarmcttr qf JuUu4 C^mt.— Mxddmtm. 

CESAR was endowed with every p^eat and noble 
quality that could exalt human nature} and give a man 
die ascendant in society ; formed to excel in peace 
as well as war, provident in council, fearless in actio% 
and executing what he had resolved with an amaa« 
ing celerity ; generous beyond measure to his 
friends, placable to his enemies ; for parts, learning and 
eloquence, %carce inferior to any man. His orations were 
admired for two qualities, which are seldom found togeth- 
er, strength and elegance. Cicero ranks him among the 
greatestorators that Rome ever bred: And Quintilllaa 
says, that he spoke with the same force with which he 
fought ; and, if he had devoted hhnself to the bar, would 
have been the only ;Hian capable of rivalling Cicero. Nor 
was he a master only of the politer arts, but conversant 
also with the most abstruse and critical parts of learning ; 
and, among othefr works which he published, addressed 
two books to Cicero, on the analogy of language, or the 
art of speaking and writing correctly. He was a most 
fiberal patron of wit and learning, wheresoever they were 
found; and, out of his love of these Ulents, would read- 
ily pardon those who liad employed them against him- 
self; rightly judging, that, by making such men his 
mends, he should draw praises from the same fountain 
from which he had been aspersed. His capital passions 
were ambition and love of pleasure ; which he indulged 
intheirturns, tothe greatest excess; yet the first was 
tfways predominant; to which he could easily sacrifice 
all the charms of the second, and draw pleasure even 
from toils and dangers, when they ministered to his 
glory. For he thought tyranny, as Cicero says, the 
greatest of goddesses ; and had frequently in his mouth 
a verse of Euripides, which expressed the image of his 
soul. That if right and justice were ever to be violated, 
they were to be violated for the sake of reigning. This 
was the chief end and purpose of his life ; |he scheme 
that he had formed from his early youth ; ao that, as 

iOd LESSOKS [PaUt r. 

Cato truly declared of him» he caixie with sobriety and 
meditation to the subversion of the republic. He used 
to say, that there were two things necessaiy to acquire 
and to support power— soldiers and money ; which yet 
depended mutually on each other : With money, there* 
fore, he provided soldiers, and with soldiers extorted 
money ; and was, of all men, the most rapacious in plun« 
dering both friends and foes; sparing neither prince, nor 
state, nor temple, nor even private persons, who wer^ 
known to possess any share of treasure. His great abil- 
ities would necessarily have made him one of the first 
citizens of Rome ; but, disdaining the condition of a sub- 
ject, he could never rest till he had made himself a mon- 
arch. In acting this last part, his usual prudence seem" 
ed to fail him ; as if the height to which he >V£is mount- 
ed had turned his head, and made him giddy : For by a 
vain ostentation of his power, he destroyed the stability 
oi it ; and as men shorten life by living too fast, so, bjr 
mn intemperance of reigning, he brought his reign to a 
Tiolent end." 

XV.— Q« Mispent T'imf..— Guabdjan. 

I WAS yesterday comparing the industry of man with 
that of other creatures ; in which I could not but ob- 
«erve, that notwithstanding we are obliged by duty to keep 
ourselves in constant employ, after the same man- 
ner as inferior animals are prompted to it by instinct, we 
fall very short of them in this particular. We arc 
here the more ine^ccusable, because there iS a greater 
variety of business to whieh we may apply ourselves. 
Reason opens to us a large field of affairs, which other 
creatures are not capable of. Beasts of prey, and, I be- 
lieve of all other kinds, in their natural state of being, 
divide their time between action and rest. They are 
always at work or asleep. In short, their waking hours 
are wholly taken up in seeking after their food or in 
consuming it. The human species only, to the great re- 
proach of our natures, are filled with complaints, that 
« the day hangs heavily on them," that «Uhey do not 
know what to do with themselves," that « they are at a 
iosshow to pass away their ,time ;" with maiay of the 

8kCT. U.] IN READING. lor 

like shamefbl murmurs, which we often find in the 
meuths of thoae who are styled retsonable beings. How 
monstrous are such expressions, amon^ creatures who 
have^the labors of the mind, as well as those of the 
bod]r, to furnish them with proper employments ; who, 
besides the business of their proper callings and ptofLS* 
sions, can apply themselves to the duties of religion, to 
meditation, to the reading of useful books, to discourse ; 
ig a word, who may exercise themseWes in the unboun- 
ded pursuits of knowledge and virtue, and, every, hour of 
their lives, make themselves wiser or better tnau they 
were before. 

After having been taken up for some time in this course 
of thought, I diverted myself with a book, according to 
my usual custom, in order to unbend my mind before I 
went to sleep. The book I made use of on this occasion 
was Lucian, where I amused my thoughts for about an 
hour, among the dialogues of the dead ; which, in all 
probability, produced the following dream : 

I VI as conveyed, methought, into the entrance of the 
infernal regions, where I saw Rhadamanthus, one of the 
judges of the dead, seated on his tribunal. On his 
left hand stood the keeper of £rebus, on his right the 
keeper of Elysium. I was told he sat upon women that 
day, there being several of the sex lately arrived, who 
had not yet their mansions assigned them. I was sur- 
prised to hear him ask everyone of them the same ques- 
tion, namely, what they had been doing ? Upon this 
question, being proposed to the whole assembly, they 
sta^d one upon another, as not knowing what to an- 
swer. He then interrogated each of them separately. 
Madam, says he to the first of them, you have been up- 
on earth about fifty years : What hav6 you been doing 
there all this while ? Doing, says she ; really, I do 
not know what I have been doing : I desire I may have 
time given me to recollect. After about half an hour's 
pause she told him that she had been playing at criiTip ; 
upon which Rhadamanthus beckoned to the keeper on 
his left hand to take her into custody. And you, Mad« 
am, says the judge, that look with such a soft and Ian-* 
guishing air ; I think you set out for this place in yotur 

tM liESSOXS [Pakt r. 

lune imd twendei^ jwar, what hare you been doiog iM 
tbis while I I had a greal deal ef buainesm en my hands, 
aays slie, being taken up the fi^rst tweWe jrears of my life 
19 dressing a jointed babyi and all the remaining part dE 
\t in reading plafs and romances. Ver^ well, says he, 
you have employed your time to good purpose: Away 
with her. The next was a plain country woman : 
Well) mistress^ says Rhadamanthus, and what have you 
been doing ? An't please your worship, says sLe, I 
did not live quite forty years ; and in that time brought 
my husband seven daughters, made him nine thousand 
cheeses, and left my youngest girl with him, to look af- 
ter his house in my absence ; and who, I may venture 
to say, is as pretty a housewife as any in the country. 
Rhadaraanthus smiled at the simplicity of the good wt>- 
man,and ordered the keeper of Elysium to take her in- 
to his cAre. And yQU, lair lady, says he, What have yott 
been do^ng these five and thirty years ? I have been 
doing no hurt, I assure you, sir, said she. That ia 
well, said he: But what good have you been doing? 
The lady .was in great conrasion at this question : And 
not knowing what te answer, the two keepers leaped 
out to seize litrr at the same time ; the one took her by 
the hand to convey her to Elysium, the other caught 
hold of her to carry her away to Erebus. But Rhada- 
man thus observing an ingenious modesty in her counte-» 
nance and behavior, bid them both let her loose, and 
set her aside fbr reexamination when he was more at 
leisure. An old woman, of a proud and sour look, 
presented herself next at the bar ; and being asked what 
she had been doing ? Truly, said she, I lived three 
score and ten ysars in a very wicked world, and was sa 
angry at the behavior of a parcel of young flirts, that I 
passed most of my last years in condemning the follies 
of the times. I was every day blaming the silly fconduct 
of people about me, in order to deter those I conversed 
with from falling into the like errors and miscarriages. 
Very well, says Rhadamanthus, but did you keep the 
same watchful eye over your own actions? Why, truly, 
said she, I was so taken up with publishing the faults 
cf others,r that I had«otime to consider my own. Mad- 

flscT. n.} IN BEADING. IM 

•ni» says Rhadamanthus. be pleated ta file off to the 
left, and make room for the venerable matron that 
stands behind you. Old genllevomani taya hei I think 
you are fourscore : You have heard the question-*- Wiiat 
have you been doing so long in the world ? Ah, sir, says 
she, 1 have been doing what I should not have done ; 
but I had made a firm resolution to have changed my 
life, if X had not been snatched off bv an untimely end. 
Madam, says he, you will please to toUow your leader* 
And spying another of the same age, interrogated her in 
the same form. To which the matron replied, I havo 
been the wife of a husband who was as dear to me in bis 
old age as in his youth. I have been a mother, and 
very happy in my children, whom I endeavored to bring 
up in eveiy thing that is good. My eldest son is blest 
by the poor, and beloved by every one that knows him. 
I lived within my own fanuly, and left it much rooro 
wealthy than I found it.. Rhadamanthus, who knew 
the value of the old lady, smiled upon her in such • 
manner, that the keeper of Elysium, who knew his of* 
fice, reached out his hand to her. He no sooner touch* 
ed her but her wrinkles vanished, her eyes sparkledy 
her cheeks glowed with blushes, and she appeared in 
full bloom and beauty. A young woman, observing 
that this officer, who conducted the happy to Elysium^ 
was so great a beautifier, longed te be in his hands ; so 
that pressing through the crowd, she was the next that 
appeared at the bar : And being asked whait she had 
been doing the five and twenty years that she had passed 
in the ^orld ? I have endeavored, says she, ever siuce I 
came to years of discretion, to make myself lovely, and 
gain admirers. In order to it, I passed my time in hot* 
^ngup Maydew, inventing whitewashes, mixing co1<h 
ours, cutting out patches, consulting my glass, suiting 
my complexion.— Rhadamanthus without hearing her 
out, gave the sij^n to take her off. Upon the i^preach 
of the keeper of Erebus» her color faded, her face was 
puckered up with wrinkles, and her whole person lost 
ia deformity. 

I was then surprised with a distant sound of a wholo 
troop of females, that came forward, lauglung^ singing 

ti^ tES90NS tJtxwt t; 

flftid d^cfaij^. i mis: very desifoiiti to know the tettp'^ 
tton thtev would meet with, and, withal, was rer^ ap- 
prehensive tiiat Rbads^manthtis would spoil their mirth ;[ 
tot aft their nearer ^upproach, the noii^ g;iew so very^ 
^reat that it awakened me. 

I lay aume time, reflecting in myself oti the oddhetia of 
tM& dream ; and conld not forbear asking mjr own l^eart,, 
what I waB doing f t answered myself, that I was wiitini; 
HuardtunB, If my readers make s^s ge^d a use of ttAf^ 
Work af{ 1 design they should, I hope it wfll nerer be im« 
ptited to me, as a work that is vain and unprofitiLble. 
' I shall conchidb this paper with recommending to them 
the se^me short selfes^mination. If everr on^ of thetn 
frequently lays his hand upon his heart, and^considers wiiat 
he ijs doing, it will check him in all die iidle, or what Is 
worse, the vicibvs moments of his lif e ; lift up his mind. 
When it is runnihg on in a series of l^diffleirent actions, and 
encourage. !hifti when he is engaged in those whieh are 
tirtuous and iaudiible. In a word, it will very much alle- 
Ti^e that gtiflt,whidh the be^t of men have reason to ac-v 
kpowledj^e in their daily confessions, of ^ leaving undone 
those things wliich they ought to have done, and of doing;^ 
those things which they ought not to have done.** 

XTii— C^imitfrr of ^PrsH^ J.«^Ro>bxrtsow. 

VRAMCIS died at Rafliibouai«t» dn tlie last daf «r 
Maircb in the'filqF tiritrd yeatr of his«|fo, and «he th^f**^ 
tliM«f ^his reign. Bering twenty^-eight years of that 
tkxie ftn avowed ri^aiship swtbsistted bcttween hm and the* 
Otamperor; which invfolved, net only iihek^ own dbttua-i' 
iOAsrbvt the greater part of Burope, in wairs, proseeut* 
ed Wit^ the more ^Meiit anteesity, anddraiwn cmt t» n- 
greater length than liad been known in any former pe^ 
riod. lAsAy cireumotaiioes conti^uted to bollt Their 
«iim08i«f was fofunded in o^^ltidD Of lfllei«st^ btdglA* 
ened ^ personal emufotion, and exaeperaVsd^ not enlf^ 
toy metual injeries, bia by leciprodil inauks. At the? 
same time, whatever advantage one seemed to possess* 
Howards gaining the a8€endttilt,'was wondbfMIy balanced 
somelMForsMe oireumstaMe peenliar te (he ^otfaeri 

9liaT, HO IN BSADINO. isH 

The empsory domiraoim were of grrvt Mtnt ; Hit 
French kiqg'a lay more coxnpacl ; Francie governed hit 
tungdom with s^iseluie posrer ^ that of Charlee waa iiai« 
Uedf but be anpplied the want of authority bjr addreas t 
The troopa of the former were more imiKctuoii^ and ei^ 
terprizing ; those of the Uttw hetier diac^dmed aad 
more patiaot of fatigue. 

ThetaleotaAiidahiUtieaofthe.twf mooaipcha were a$ 
Cerent aa the ad^anlagea whioh they poMetied, and 
CQotrihutedoolewtopirolofigihe cooleat betvpeeo thena. 
Fca»cis took hia rea^Ltttiooa auddenly ; proae^aled thesif 
at firatwith warmth ^ and puahed theaa i^to eateeutios 
with a moat advenlaroua -courage ; but| hei^g deatitute 
of ihe perfeveranceiieceatary to aurmouiit cUffioultieat he 
often abaudoaed hia dceigaa» or relaxed the vigor efyiir*' 
auitf from impatiencct and aomelimea from levity. 
CbarlesdeUberatedioi^yjttd determined with coelaeass 
But haviag once fixed hia pbD) he adhered to it with in* 
flexible obatkiacy ; and neither danger nor diacoura^e^ 
ment could turn him nside bom Ihe e«ee«tion of it. 

The aucceaa of their eater^aea wae aa diffexent aa 
their charactera, and was uniformly inflttwced by them. 
Fraocias by hia impeluoua activity^ often diacooeerlf d 
the em^ierdr's beat laid achemea ; Chai4e8» by a mere 
(aim, but steady prBaecuAon of hia deaigna> che&fced tiie 
rapidity of his rival'a careen, and baOed or repulsed hia 
moat vigoroua efbrta; The fercaer, atfbe opemng of e 
war,or4i campaigo^reke in upon hb enemy with the Tir 
olenceef e torrent, end carried all before him $ the latser 
waiting until he saw the force of his rival begin to ahet^ 
recovered, in the end, not only eU that he had loat, but 
made new acquisitiena. Few ef the French monajncVe 
atiempta towards conqneat, whatever promising eepedt 
thegr might wear at first, were conducted to an happy in* 
sua ( many of the emperorVt eaterprisea,even aftear they 
Sippeared despemte and impracdcable, terminated in the 
meatproaparoua manner. 

The degree, kowever^eftbehrcDmiparative merit end 
wputationt haa net been fixed* either by strict scrutiny 
into their i^litiea fisr gevermnent, or lay an impartial oeo- 
n4em4on of the greatneM and aucceaa of their wider^ 


takings ; sad Francis is one of those tnonarchs, whd 
occupy a higher rank in the temple of fiume, than either 
tiieir talents or performances entitle them to hold. 
This pre-eminence he owed to many different circum* 
stances. The superiority nrhich Charles acquired by 
the victory of Pavlatsnd which, from that period, he pre- 
served through the remainder of his reign, was so man- 
ifest, that Francis' struggle against his exorbitant and 
growing dominion, was viewed by most of the other 
powers not only with that partiality which naturally aiis- 
es from those who gallantiy maintain an unequal contest, 
liiut with the favor due to one who was resisting a 
common enemy, and endeavoring to set bounds to a 
monarch, equally formidable to them all. The charac- 
ters of princes, too, especially among their cotempsra- 
ries, depend, not only upon their talents for govern- 
ment, but upon their qualities as men. Francis, not- 
virithstanding the many errors conspicuous in his foreign 
policy and domestic administration, was neverthelesSi 
humane, beneficent, generous. He possessed dignity 
without pride, affability free from meanness, and cour- 
tesy exempt from deceit. All who had access to know 
him, and no man of metit was ever denied that privilege, 
respected and loved him. Captivated with his personal 
qualities, his subjects forgot his defects as a monarch ; 
and admiring him, as the moat accomplished and amiable 
gentleman in his dominions, they hardly murmured at 
acts of maladministration, Which in a prince of less en- 
gaging disposition, would have been deemed unpardon- 

This admiration, however, must have been temporary- 
only, and would have died away with the courtiers who 
bestowed it ; the illusion arising from his private virtues 
must have ceased, and posterity would have judged bf 
his public conduct with its usual impartiality : But an- 
other circumstance prevented this ; and his name hath 
been transmitted to posterity with increasing repstatiom 
Science and the arts had, at that time, made little prog- 
ress in France. They were just beginning to advance 
■beyond the limits of Italy, w^ere they had revived, and 
which had lutherto been >tiieir only seat. Francis 


tomk item iamdiktMf Mder hb p0eltclioii» aad iM 
wth L«o himiAlfy an tbe 4«fd mi4 mnMicmoc^ vkk 
vhkh lie •ooottTftged thenk He inrited Icamed meD 
t0 hiscQur^ ht amTencd witk chem £uBUiarisr« be ea^ 
frioyfd ttMm in buaneis, ho nSmd tiie«& tm ofice* cf 
digjiii^y iod honored Ih^n with hit ^Mfidenoe. Thnt 
»Me ^ jnen, not oioto ^rooe to complftin when denini 
$bm respect to wbkh they &iic|r theaitelTet entitled, than 
mpt lo %e pleensd when trotted with the dietincliflii 
vhiich they ooimMer ee their dtti% iheaght they could not 
naocqed in gretitndn to Hich a bnnefiictor) and etmftned 
tfanir i»y eatteoy and emplofred all their ingeniiitiri in pan^ 

$«cseeeding authors, wanned with their desenptione 
cf Fvaneis' bounty, edited their enconiutnSf and re* 
fined open them. Tiie appeUatien oi Fmiker ^f Letiwfw^ 
bnsHowed iqHMi Fnmci% had rendered his neoaory sa« 
cred amonf hislorians ; and they seem to hare regarded 
ft a^ e sort of impiety, to uooevnr h» inirmitiesi or le 
pmat out hie defeets* Thus Francis, notwithstindinf 
his inferior abilities and want of success, hath more than 
nqoelM the ftiMof Gharke* The vittnes which ho 
^sessed tso man, have entitled him to greetnr admiral 
laoQ and praioe Ihan Jiafe been i>eat»wed upon the ex*- 
toBsiTegeniuetaMlfiKtanaleartsief amere capataieybtf 
leso amutble rind. 

XVII.— STAr SufiMr and Grac«-^STK^HM* 

A SHOE cozxun|: loose from the forefoot of the thill* 
horse, at the beginning of the ascent of mount Taurir^ 
the postillion .dismounted, twisted the shoe off and put 
}t in his pocket : As tbe ascent ivas of five or u^ milea, 
and that horse our main dependence, I made a point of 
having the shoe fastened on egaio as YfM as we could i 
but the postillion had thrown away the nails, and th^ 
hskian^r in the chaise box being of no great use without 
Uiem, I submitted to go on. 

He had not mounted half a mile higher, when com- 
ing to a flinty piece of road| the poor devil tost a ^ecopfl 
jihoe, sind from oflT his other forefoot. I then got out of 
the chaise in good earnest ; and, seeing a house abeut 

114 - LESSONS [Pa&t I. 

a quarter of a mile to the left hand, with a great detft 
«do I prevailed upon the postillion to turn up to it. The 
look of the house, and every thing about it, as we drew 
nearer, soon reconciled me to the disaster. It was a lit- 
tle ifarm house, surrounded with about twenty acres of 
vineyard, about as much com ; and close to the house, 
on one (ude, was a potageric of an acre and a half, fuH 
of every thing which could make plenty in a French 
peasant's house ; and on the other side, was a little wood, 
which furnished wherewithal to dress it It was about 
eight in the evening when I got to the housiB ; so I left 
the poitillion to manage his point as he could ; and, for 
mine, I walked directly into the house. 

The &mily consisted of an old grey headed man and 
liiB wife, with five or six sons and sons in law, and their 
several wives, and a joyous genealogy out of them. 

They were all sitting down together to their lentil* 
soup : A large wheaten loaf was in the middle of the 
table ; and a fiaggon of wine at each end of it promised 
joy through the stages of the repa8t«->it was a feast of 

The old man rose up to meet me, and with a respect- 
ful cordiality would have me sit down at the table. My 
heart was sit down the moment I entered the room ; so 
1 sat down at once, like a son of the family ; and, to in* 
yest myself in the character as speedily as I could, I 
instantly borrowed the old man's knife, and takmg up the 
loaf, cut myself a hearty luncheon ; and, as I did it i 
saw a testimony in every e^e, not only of an honest wel- 
come, but of a welcome muxed with thanks, that I had not 
seemed to doubt it. 

Was it this, or tell me, Nature, what else was it that 
made this morsel so sweet— and to what magic I owe 
it that the draught I took of their flaggon was so deli- 
cious with it, tibat it remains upon my palate to this 

if the supper was to my taste, the grace which follow- 
'ed was much more so. ^ 

When supper was oTer, the old man gave a knock 
upon the table with the haft of his knife, to bid them pre- 
pare br the dance. The moment the signal was giv- 

8<«T«a] IN READING. 119 

en the women and girla ran altogether into the back a-* 
IMurtments to Ue up their hair, and the young men to the 
door to wash their facea, and change their aabots, (wQod* 
en ahoetj and in three minutea every loiil waa ready, 
upon a little esplanade before the house to begin. The 
old man and his wife come oat last, and, placin|^ me be^ 
twist them, sat down upon a aob of turf by the door. 

The old man had some fifty years ago, been no mean 
performer upon the vielle ; and, at the age her was then 
o^touched it well enough for the purpose. His wife 
sung now and then a little to the tune, then intermitted, 
and jouied her old num again, as their children and grand** 
children danced before them. 

It was not till the middle of the second dance, when 
for some pauses in the movement, wherein they all seeni* 
ed to look up, I fancied I could distbguish an elevation 
ofs^rit,di{lferent from that which is the cause or the 
effect of simple jollity. In a word, 1 thought I beheld 
religion mixing in the dance ; but, as 1 hid never seen 
her so engaged, i should have looked upon it now as one 
of the illusions of an imagination which ia eternally 
misleading me, had not the old man, as soon as the dance 
ended, said, that this was their constant way ; and that 
aU his life long, he made ft a rule, after supper was ffrttf 
to call out his family to dance and rejoice ; believing, 
be said, that a cheerful and contented mmd was the best 
sort of thanks to heaven that an illiterate peasant could 
pny^^—Or learned prelate either, said 1. 

MANY are the silent pleasures of the honest peasant, 
who rises cheerfully to his labor^^-Look into his dWelK 
ing— where the scene of every man's happiness chiefly 
fies ;— --he has the same domestic endearmenta— ^as much 
joyand comfort in his children, and as flattering hopcm 
of their doing well—to enliven his boura and gladden 
bis heart, as you would conceive in the most affluent sttf- 
tian. And I make no doubt, in general, but if the true 
account of h^ joys and sufferings were to be balanced 
with those o^>4s betters«-that the upshot would prove 
lo be little mere than this^ that the rich man had the 

M6 VOSKSOXS [Pam 1» 

«n«re m«ftt4-4»ui th» yMMrisatt^t tetter «lemadi $»^«tte 
we ted more 4iwuryr-4iiore atil» pbjBiciaaB to «itm4 
lKi4 let him to righto s*-^lhe other, more Jiealtfa md, 
iKHiAdae»» to his bMtee, jBiKlkm occaaioo for their iiflJp i 
thfit, after ttiese tvoorticleB bet vuU them were balaiico4 
•m-ioiai other thiofs their otood iifMosi a level-^Hthaft the 
tun 9hioe8 o$ v»r]o«*-the ok* hlowBos frefih^aodtho earth 
jbrfathoftooieagraot upon the one am the other>*-aiid 
Ihof hare on equal ahai* in ail the beauties att4 reel 
kcoeitiof aoture* 

I^T MS ^o joto the haa^e of moamius ma^^ w ^f 
f^iph aflUctioosas bave^^en biwugbt in m^i^ bjr tili# 
^QOfOinooprpwaAcMeiiiUiai44i^«l<er oon* 

dition is^:Kpo8od-r-vhero, perbapBf the «^ed i^areiiU sil 
brokf^heartedt pierced to liheir ^oniJaf with the feUj 
I4id indiacretioo of a thankless child-r-tho child* of their 
pnty^^niffio whom »11 their hopes and expectations ceac 
|ero4 >^Per)iap6» % w^e a0<pcting acpQO<-^ viitiioaa 
^mlyljrii^pijBphed witbwaati where the uofortoseibe 
support of it, hjuviag long struggled with a train of nue* 
fortm)es,aad braiF^ly fpvglpit «»p agaiast theiii« is oomi 
piteottsly boroo down at the lastT-^rerwhekned with o 
^ruel bloW) which no Ibflecast or frugalky ooiild havio 
ppevienteid. & God 1 look upoa his i^icfioas* 9ahold 
him distracted with foeny sorrowo> svrroiioded with t|^ 
tender pledges of his love ; and the partner of his cares— 
without bread to give them ( unable from the remem* 
brance of better days to dig ;-~to beg, ashamed. 

WKfn we cater into the home of mourniog, suek aa 
diis-^it is impossible to kault die unfortunate, even wkk 
on improper look. Under wtrataver levity and dissipa- 
turn of heart such objects catch our eyes— they catcli 
likewise our attenttons^ cotiect and call home our scat* 
(ered thOuffhte, and exercise them with wisdom. A 
transient scone of distress, such as is here akelched, how 
aoon does it furnish materials to set the mind at work I 
How necessarily does it engage it to tke coosideration of 
the miseries aad misfortunes, ^e dangera kid calamities 
to which the lite of OMa is subject 1 H^^ bedding up such 

Bect. II.] IN HEADING. 117 

m glass before ft, it forces the mind to see and refect 
upcm the yanity-^the perishiog condition and uncertain 
tenure of every thing in this world. From reflections 
cf this seiioubcasty hoMr in^nsibly do the thoughts car* 
ly us farther ;-^-and, from considering what we are» 
-what kind of world we live in, and what evils befall us 
in it, how naturally do they set us to look forward at 
"What possibly we ^all be ;— *ibr what kind of world we 
are intended— what evils may befall us there— -and what 
provisions we should make against them here, whilst we 
have time and opportunity ! If these lessons are so in* 
saparable from the house of mourning here supposed— 
we shall find it arstill more instructive school of wisdom, 
when we take a view of the place in that affecting light 
in which the Wiseman seems to confine it in the text; 
In which, by the house of mourning, I believe he means 
that particular scene of sorrow, where there is lamen- 
tation and mourning for the dead. Turn in hither, I 
beseech you for a moment. Behold the dead man ready . 
to be carried out, the only son of his mother, and she a 
widow. Perhaps a still more affecting spectacle, a kind 
and indulgent father of a numerous umily Hes breath- 
less-snatched away* in the strength of his age— torn, 
andin an evil hour, from his children, and the bosom 
of a disconsolate wife. Behold much people of the 
city gathered together to mix their tears, with settled 
sorrow in their looks, going heavily along to the house 
of mourning, to perform that last melancholy office, 
which when the debt of nature is paid we are called 
upon to pay to each other. If this sad occasion, which 
leads him there, has not done it already, take notice 
to what a serious and devout frame of mind every man 
is reduced, the moment he enters this gate of affliction. 
The busy and fluttering spirits, which, in the house of 
mirth, were wont to transport htm from one diverting ob- 
ject to another— see bow they are fallen I how peace- 
ably they are laid ! In this gloomy mansion, full of 
shades and uncomfortable damps to seize the soul-— see 
the light and easy heart, which never knew what it was 
to think before, how ^^pensive it is now, hew soft, how 
susceptible, how full of religious iropressiens, how deep 

k 19 98aitt«i iritti^ teBAC) wd «utli n b>m ^ wtkmi-^ 
Could w^ in thin cmms^ wk^ this ^empire of rftsuMHi 
land ir0%]pn ktelsi aiul (!># heart is tbas ^xercis^d wUli 
wi^doBc^ i^d bu^ed wjith h€}av«i4y eonUixifdatiotiis:*-^ 
poujd we >0e it iwked as k U-^-stripped of its |^MioB% 
liBspolted by At 'Wodc^ tund ivgandless of its pteafiQve^^ 
9Pe(iBi^ght itiea eafcly rest oqr cause afioii tUsBii^^ 
cvidenG0> and appeal to tbe most se»sual« whether Solk 
mnoDhassotmadeia just detemnination here in &¥or 
lof the heuse of mcxvnm^ I Not for its owa sake, but 
as it i^ fnutiiul id virtoe, and becomes the eceasiori cf 
so much good. Witltout this end, sorrcrw, I own, has no 
use bjattoehoirten aman'ttdays—- nor ean gpatity, witb 
all its studied solemnity of look and carriage, serve 
any end but to mal^e cue baUf of tbe world mettfyKs^ 
im^ofts :«piHi tbeotiier. 

TpT—rM -Sonar ^wtJdvoiUti^ciif a.^ouU4nt JdAanfma$ 

P^TKARCH, a. (xkbraled Italian poet, who ftouji* 
ifthed about &ur huadred. fMra ag;p» recommeiidttl 
hiinftelf to the confidence and aJectuNi of. Cardinal Co» 
lonna, in whose family be neaidedi bj hia candor and 
strict regard to truth. A \iolent q]iarxel occurred in the 
l^QH^ehold of thia nobleman; which waa carried ao &ry 
that recourse was had te arms. The Cardinal wished to 
lUiQW the foundation of this- affair ^ and that he might be 
able to decide with juatice, he assembled all hie peoploi 
and obliged them to bind themselveSf by a moat solenm 
oath on the^ ge^ielS) to declare the whole truih* hTery 
one without exception, submitted te this determination ; 
ewen the Bisbop- of Lum^ brother to the CajrdinaU waa 
1^ excused. Petraecb) in hia* turn, presenting himself 
tfttake the oath, the Cardinal eloaed the beok, and said| 
.4e to y»fij PetnaarehrVnt vf^rd UH^jjUient. 

U^-^In^urtmente in I>itvur9e.'^Tamo^HiiABTnH» 

THIS hind of impertiaence is a. habit of talking muck 
without thinking. 

A man who haathis distemp^'in hia tongue shall en^ 
tertain^oU) though he pefer. saw yeubeforet with a long 
atory in praise of his own wife ; give you the particulare 
of last night's dreamt, or thedeaciiption of aiieaat he haa 
he^n at without letting a sinfgle diah escaf^ hinw Whe^ 
hie is thus entered into converaationy he g^wa veiy wise 
•w'-deacanta upon the corruption of the times, and the de« 
l^eneracy of thes^e we lure in ; from which, as hia trao4 
«tiona4u;e somewhat suddei^he falls upon the- price of 
^m,and thenumhen of atran^rs that are in town. H# 
midertafcea to prevet that it la better putting to sea i» 
summer fhan in winter|,andrtbatrainianecesaary to pr«» 
dbace a. go<d o«iy of om^v teUing. %p^ m tin 

IM lESSONS [Pabv I« 

breath, that he intends .to plough up such part of hifl 
estate next year, that the times are hard, and that a 
man has much ado to get through the world. His 
whole discourse is nothing but hurry and incoherence* 
He acquaints you, that Demippushad the largest torch' 
at the feast of Ceres ; asks you it you remember how 
many pillars are in the music theatre ; tells you that he 
took physic yesterday ; and desires to know what day 
of the month it is. If you have patience to hear him he 
will inform you what festivals'aie kept in August, what 
in October, and what in December. 

When you see such a fellow as this coming tawards 
you, run for your life. A man had much better be vis- 
ited by a fever; so painful is it to be fastened upon by 
one of this make, who takes it for granted that you have 
nothing else to do, but to give him a hearing. 

llL'^Charaeter of Addison a« a JTrir^r.-^JoHSrsoK. 

AS a describer of life and manners, Mr. Addison must 
be allowed to stand perhaps the first in the first rank. 
His humor is peculiar to himself ; and is so happily dif- 
fused, as to give the grace of novelty to domestic scenes 
and daily occurrences. He never o'^erstefiB the modesty of 
nature^ nor raises merriment or wonder by the violation 
of truth. His figures neither divert by distortion, nor 
amaze by aggravation. He copies life with so much 
fidelity, that he can hardly be said to invent ; yet his 
exhibitions have an air so much original, that it is diffi- 
cult to suppose them not merely the product of imagi- 

Asa teacher of wisdom he may- be confidently fol- 
lowed. His religion has nothing in it etithusiastic or 
superstitious ; he appears neither weakly credulous, nor 
Wantonly sceptical ; his morality is neither dangerously 
lax, nor implacably rigid. All the enchantments oi 
fency, and all the cogency of arguments, arc employed 
to recommend to the reader his real interest, the care of 

casing the Author of his being. Truth is shown some- 
...n«s as the phantom of a vision, sometimes appears 
half veiled in an allegory, sometimes attracts regard XQ 
the rbbbs of fancy, and sometimes steps forth in tha 

8fe#r. BL] IN nSADINtt. iff 

confidenee of VeMOn. She wear* a thouMnd dbetsessMid 
in all is pieaaing. 

His prose is the model of the middle style ; on grave 
eubjectanetformalyon light occasioos not groToUing | 
pure without scrupulosity, and exact without apparent 
elaboratien; always equahl^, and always easy, without 
glowing words or pointed setitences. His page is al- 
ways luminous, but never biases in unexpected splea* 
dor. It seems to have been his principal endeavor to 
svoid all harshness and severity of diction ; he is there- 
fere sometimes verbose in his transitions and connexionsy 
' and sometimes descends toe much to the language of con* 
veraation ; yet, if his language had been less idiomaticali 
it migfht have lost somewhat of its genuine Anglietam. 
Whathe sttempted he performed; he is never fteble^ 
a&d he did not wish to be energetic ; he is never rapidy 
and he never stagnates. His sentenees have neither 8tu« 
died amplitude nor affected brevity ; his periods, though 
not diligently rounded^ are voluble and easy. Whoever 
wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse^ 
and elegant but not estentatious, must give hu days and 
niyhta to the volumes of Addison. 

W.^-^Pleoiute and Pdtfn.— Spbotatok. 

^ THERE were two families, which, from the begin* 
ning of the world, were as opposite to each other as light 
^nd darkness. The one of them live4 in heaven, and 
the other in hell. The youngest descendant of the first 
fiiniily was Pleasure, who was the daughter of Happi- 
ness, who was the child of Virtue, who was the offspring 
of the Gods. These, as I said before, bad their habita- 
tion in heaven. The youngest of the opposite familf 
was Pain, who was the aon of Misery, who was the child' 
of Vice, who was the offspring of the Fifties. The hab- 
itation of this race of beings was in heU 

The middle station of nature between these two oppo* 
site extremes was the eai-th, which was inhabited by 
creatures ^a middle kind ; neither so virtuous as the 
one nor so ricioos as the other, but partaking of the 
good and bad qiulities of thk>se two opposite families.— 
lapiuri considering that this species, commonly called 

ttz LESSONS [Part !• 

MAVy ^as too virtuous to be miserable and too vicious 
to be happy, that he might make a distinction between 
tlie good and the bad, ordered tlie two youngest of the a- 
bovemeniioned families (Pleasure, who was the daughter, 
of Happiness, and Pain, who was the son of Misery) to 
meet oRe another upon this part of nature which lay in 
the half way between them, having promised to settle it 
HpoB them both, provided they could agree upon the di« 
vision of it,. so as to share mankind between them. 

Pleasure and Pain were no sooner met in their new 
habitation, but they immediately agreed upon this point, 
that Pleasure should take possession of the virtuous, and 
Pain of the vicious part of that species which was given 
up to them. But upon exsnnining to which of them any 
individual they met with belonged, they found each o f 
them had a right to him ; for that, contrary to what they 
bad seen in their old place of residence, there was no 
person so vicious who had not some good in him, nor any 
person so virtuous who had not in him some evil.— 
The truth ofit is, they generally found, upon search, that 
in the most vicious man Pleasure might lay claim to 
an hundredth part, and that in the most virtuous man 
Pain might come in for at least two thirds. This they 
saw wo\jdd occasion endless disputes between them, un- 
less they could come to some accommodation. To this 
end, there was a marriage proposed between them, and 
at length concluded. Hence it is that we End Pleasure 
and Pain are such constant yoke fellows, and that they 
either make their visits together, or are never far asun- ' 
dcr. If Pain comes into an heart, he is quickly follow-* 
ed by Pleasure ; and if Pleasure enters, you may be sure 
Pain is not far off. 

But notwithstanding this marriage was very convene 
lent for the two parties, it d id not seem to ans\frer the 
intentionof JupitQT in sending them among mankind-^ 
To remedy, therefore, this inconvenience, it was stipulat- 
ed between them by article, and confirmed by the con- 
sent of each family, that notwithstanding they here pos- 
sessed the species indifferently, upon the death of every 
single person,if he was found to have in him a certain pro- 
• portion of evil, he should be ^patched into the infernal 

Sect. I|L] IN BEADING. 1^ 

regions by a passport from Pain^ there to iyreW with Mis« 
ery, Vice and the Furies ; or, on the contrary, if he had 
in him a certain proportion of good, he should be dis- 
patched into heaven, by a passport from Pleasure^ there 
to dwell with Happiness, Virtue and the Gods. 

v.— iSir Roger de Gewerly^a Family'^lB, 

H A VING often received an invitation from my fi iend 
Sir Roger de Cove rly, to priss away a month with him 
in the country, I last week accompanied him thither, 
and am settled with him for some time at his country- 
bouse, where I intend to form several of my ensuing 
speculations. Sir Roger, who is very well acquainted 
with my humor, lets me rise and go to bed when I 
please, dine at bis own table or in my chamber, as I 
think At, sit still and say nothing, without bidding me 
be merry. When the gentlemen of the country come 
to see him, h? only shews me at a distance. As I have 
been walking in the fields, I have observed them stealing 
a sight of me over an hedge, and have heard the knight 
desiring them not to let me see them, for that I hated to 
be stared at. 

I am the more at ea^e in Sir Roger's family, because 
it consists of sober and staid persons ; for as the knight 
is the best master in the world, he seldom changes his 
servants ; and as he is beloved by all about him, his ser- 
vants never care for leaving him ; by this means his 
domestics are all in years and gmwn old with their 
master. You would take his valet de chambre for his 
brother ; his butler is gray headed, his p^room is one of 
the gravest men I have ever seen, and his coachman has 
the looks of a privy counsellor. You see the goodness 
of the master even in the old house dog, and in a gray 
pad that is kept in the stable with great care and tender- 
ness, out of regard to his past services, though he has 
been useless for several years. 

I could not but observe, with a gre^t deal of pleasure, 
the joy that appeared in the countenances of these an- 
cient domestics, upon my friend's arrival at his country 
seat. Sone of them could not refrain fromteajs at the 
sight of their old master ; everyone of them pressed for- 


"ward to d<t something for him, and teened discour 
if thef were not einpiojred. At the sarae time) the good 
. old kiught, with the niixtare of the fether and the mas^ 
ter of the fkaiilj) tempered the enquiries after his owb 
affairs with several kind questions relating to themselves. 
This humanity and good nature engages every body to 
him; so that when he is pleasant upon any ofthem, all 
his family are in good humor, and none so much as the 
person whom he diverts himself with ; on the contrary^ 
if he coughs, or betrays any infirmity of old age, it is 
casyforastander-by to observe a secret concern in the 
looks of all his servants. 

My worthy friend has put me under the particular 
care cf his butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as 
well as the rest of bis fellow servants, wonderfully de- 
sirous of pleasing me, because they have - often heard 
their master talk of me as his particular friend. 

My chief companion, When Sir Roger is diverting him* 
himself in the woods or in the fields, is a very venerable 
tnan who is ever with Sir Roger, and has lived at his 
house in the nature of a chaplain, above thirty years.^— 
This gentleman is a person of good sense and some lear- 
ning, of a very regular life and obliging conversation ; 
he heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very 
much in the old knight's esteem ; so that he livc» in the 
family rather as a relation than a dependant. 

I have observed in several of my papers, that my 
friend Sir Roger, amidst !\11 his good qualities, is some- 
thing of an humorist ; and that his virtues, as well as im- 
perfections, are, as it were, tinged by a certain extrava- 
gance, which makes them particularly his, and distin- 
Ig^uishes them from those of other men. This cast of 
mind, as it is generally very innosent in itself, so it ren- 
ders his conversation highly agreeable, and more de- 
lightful than the same degree of sense and virtue would 
appear in their common ordinary colors. As I was 
walking with him last night, he asked me how 1 liked 
the good man whom I have just now mentioned ;— and, 
without staying for my answer, told me that he was 
^afyaid of being insulted with Latin' and Greek at his 
own table ; for which reason he desired a particular 


friend of his at the univervitfyto find him out a clerffmaA 
rather of plain venae than mocli learning} of a good 
aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper ; and if possible, 
a man vho understood a little back gammon.-^M7 
friend, says Sir Roger, found me out this gentleman; 
who, besides the endowments required of him, is, 
they tell me, a good scholar, .though he does not show 
it. I hare given him the parsonage of the parish ; and 
because I know his value, have settled upon him a good 
annuity for life. If he outlives me, he shall find that he 
was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks he 
is. He has now been with me thirty years ; and, though 
he does not know I have taken notice of it, has never, in 
all that time, aftked any thing of me for himself, 
though be is every day soliciting me for something in 
behalf of one or other of my tenants, his parishoners. 
There has not been a lawsuit in the parish since he has 
lived among them. It any dispute arises, they apply 
themselves to him for tjie decision ; if they do not ac- 
quiesce in hisjudgnaent, which I think never happened 
above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. At his 
first settling with me, I made him a present of all tfte 
good sermons which have been printed in English ; and 
«nly begged of him that every Sunday he would pro- 
nounce one of them in the pulpit. Accordingly h^ has 
digested them into such a series, that they fcAlow one 
another naturally, and make a continued system of prac* 
tical divinity. r 

As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentle- 
man we were talking of came up to us ; and, upon the 
knight's asking him who preached to>morrow (Cor it 
was Saturday night) told us the Bishop of St Asaph, 
in the morning, and Dr. South in the afternoon. lie 
then shewed us his list of preachers for the whole year ; 
where 1 saw with a great deal of pleasure. Archbishop 
Tillotson, Bishop Saun<ierson,Dr. Barrow, Dr. Calamy, 
with several living authors, who have published discour- 
ses of practical divinity ^ I no sooner saw tliis venerable 
man in the pulpit, but I very much approved of my 
friend's insisting upon the qualifications of a good aspect, 
amd a clear voice ; for I was so charmed with the grace- 
L8 t> ^ 

1«« IJESSQNBl {PiJtxL 

liiUiie$8 nf his .figure and dtUverff as veil aa with the dls-« 
couraea he pronouBced, that I think 1 xiever paaaed* a* 
vy time more to my aatisfaction, A aermoo repeated 
aher thia manner, ia like the compoaition pf a poet, in the 
mouth of a i^raceful aQtor, 

yi.— -JVitf fvUy o/incBnaieicnt E^fieefationS'^AirKiN. 

THIS world may he considered as a great mart of 
commerce, where fortune exposes ^o our riew various 
commodities ; riches, ease, tranquillity, fame, integrity^ 
knowledge. Every thing is marked at a settled price. 
Our time, our labour, our ingenuity, is so much ready 
money, which we are to lay out to the best advantage^. 
Examine, compare, choose, reject ; but stand to your 
own judgment; and do not like children, when you' 
have purchased one thing, repine that you do not possess 
another, which you did not purchase. Such is the force 
c^f well regulated industry, that a steady and vigorous 
•xertion of our faculties, directed to one end, will gener- x 
ally insure success. Would yoa for instance, be rich? 
Do you think that suigle point worth the sacrificing 
every thing else to ? You may then be rich. Thousands 
have become so from the lowest beginnings, by toil, 
ftnd patient diligence, and attention to the minutest arti- 
cles of expense and profit. But you must give up the 
pleasures of leisure, of a vacant mind, of a free unsuspi- 
cious temper. If you preserve | our integrity, it must 
be a coarse spun and vulgar honesty. Those high and 
lofty notions of morals, which you brought with you 
from the school8,must be considerably lowered, and mix- 
ed with the baser alloy of a jealous and worldly minded 
prudence. You mustleamto dohard, if net unjust things; 
and for the nice embarrassments of a delicate and ingen- 
uous spirit, it is necessary for you to get rid of them as 
fast as possible. You must shut your heart against the 
Muses, and be content to feed your understanding 
with plain household truths. In short you must not at«> 
tempt to enlarge your ideas, or polish your taste, or refine 
your sentiments ; but must keep on in one beaten track, 
without turning aside, either to the right hand or to the 
left:*^ SutI cannot submit to drudgery like this*— 1 feel 

Sbct. m .] IS BEADING. 127 

a spint ab«Te it" It ia well ; b« abore it tlieo ; only do 
Bot repine that jrou are not rich. 

Ia knowledge the pearl oi priee t That, too, may be 
purchaaed^-by steaiy application, and long solitary hears 
of study and reflection.— Bestow these and yon shall be 
learned; <' But,*' says the man of letters, « what a hard- 
aldp it is, that many an illiterate fellow, who canaot con* 
strue the motto of the arms of his coach, shall raise a 
fortune and make a figure, while I have little more than 
the common conveniences of life !'* Was it in order to 
raise a fortune that you consumed the sprightly hours of 
youth in study and retirement ? Was it to be rich that you 
grew pale over the midnight lamp, and distilled the sweet- 
ness from the Greek and Roman spring ? You have then 
mistaken your path, and ill employed your industry.-* 
<* What reward have I then for all my labors ;*' What 
reward ! a large comprehensive soul, well purged from 
. vulgar fears, and perturbations, and prejudices, able to 
comprehend and interpret the works of man— of God. 
A rich, flourishing, cultivated mind, pregnant with inex- 
haustible stores of entertainment and reflection. A per- 
petual spring ef fresh ideas, and the conscious dignity of 
superior intelligence. Good Heaven ! and what reward 
can you ask besides ? ^ 

^ But is it not some reproach upon the economy of 
Providence, that such a one, who is a mean dirty fellow, 
should have amassed wealth enough to buy half a nation ?" 
Not in the least. He made himself a mean dirty fellow 
for that very end. He has paid his health, his conscience, 
his liberty, for it ; and will you envy his bargain ? Will 
you hang your head and blush in his presence, because 
he outshines you in equipage and show ? Lift up your 
brow, with a noble confidence and say to yourself, <^I have 
not these things, it is true ; but it is because I have not 
soQght, because I have not desired them ; it is because I 
possess something better ; I have chosen my lot ; I am 
content and satisfied.*' 

You are a modest man-— you love quiet and indepen- 
dence, and have a delicacy and reserve in your temper, 
which renders it impossible for you to elbow your way. 
ID the world, and be the herald of your own merits. ^Bo 

l<e» LESSONS [Pabt I. 

content then M^ith a modest retirementy vith the esteem 
of four intimate ftiends, witii tlie praises of a blamelesa 
heart, and a delicate ingenuous spirit ; but resign the 
splendid distinctions of the world to those who can better 
scramble for them. 

The man whose tender sensibility of conscience and- 
strict regard to the rules of morality makes him scrupu" 
lous and fearful of offending, is often heard to complaia 
of the disad\ antages he lies under, in every path of hon- 
or and profit. " Could 1 but get over some nice points, 
and conform to the practice and opinion of those about 
me, I might stand^as fair a chance as others for dignities 
and preferment." And why can you not ? What hinders 
you from discarding this troublesome scrupulosity of 
yours which stands so grieTously in your way ? If it be a 
small thing to enjoy a healthful mind, sound at the very- 
core, that does not siirink itom the keenest inspection ; 
inward freedom from remorse and perturbation, unsullied 
whiteness and simplicity of manners ; a genuine integrity. 

Pure in the last recesses of the mind : 
if you thinkjthess advantages an inadequate recompense 
for what you resign, dismiss your scruples this instant, 
and be a slave-merchant, a director— or what you please. 

VlL^^Descrifitionofthe Vale of K€smck\%n Cumberland, 

Brown. . 

THIS delightful vale is thus elegantly described by the 
late ingenious Dr. Brown, in a letter to a friend. 

In my way to the north from Hagley, I passed through 
Dovedale } and to say the truth, was disappointed in ife 
When I came to Buxton, I visited another or two of 
their romantic scenes ; but tliese are inferior to Dove- 
dale. They are all but poor miniatures of Keswick, 
which exceeds them more in grandeur than ycm can 
imagine ; and more, if possible, in beauty than in gran* 

Instead ol a narrow slip of valley, which is seen at 
Dovedale, you have at Keswick a vast amphitheatre, in 
circumference above twenty miles. Instead of a meagre 
rivulet, a noble living lake ten miles round, of an ob- 
long form, adorned with a variety^f wooded islan 

Sbot. HI.] IN READING. . iif 

The rocks indeed of Dovedsde are finely wild} p^^nled 
and irregular; bat the hills are both little 6c unanimated ; 
and the margin of the brook is poorlf edged with weeds^ 
aiorass and brushwood. But at Keswick, you will on one 
aide of the lake, see a rich and beautiful landscape of 
cultivated fields, rising to the eye in fine ineqoalitiesf 
with noble groves of oak, happily dispersed, and climbing 
tiie adjacent hills, shade above shade, in thenost various 
kkI picturesque forms. On the opposite shore, you will 
find rocks and cliffs of stupendous height hangipgbrok* 
en over the lake, in horrible grandeur, some of them ik 
thousand feet high, the woods cli^a^bing up their steep 
end shaggy sides, where mortal foot never yet approach- 
ed. On these dreadful heights the eagles build their 
nests ; a variety of watsrfalls are seen pouring from their 
summits, and tumbling in vast sheets from rock to rock« 
in rude and terrible magnificence ; while, on all sides of 
this immense amphitheatre, the lofty mountains rise 
round, piercing the cloucls, in shapes as spiry and fan- 
tastic as the very rocks ef Dovedale. To this I must 
add the frequent and bold projections oi the cliifs into the 
lake, forming noble bays and promontories^. In other 
parts they finely retire from it, and often open in^ abrupt • 
chasms, or clefts, through which at hand you aee rich 
and uncultivated vales ; and beyond these at various |ia« 
tance, mountain rising over mountain ; among which* 
new prospects present themselves in mist, till the eye ia 
lost in an aorreeable perplexity ; 

Where active fancy travels beyond sense* 

And pictui es things nnseeo -<- 
Were I to analyse the two places into their constitu- 
ent principles, I should tell you, that the full perfection 
of Keswick consists in three circumstances ; beauty, hor- 
ror and immensity, united ; the second of which alone is 
found in Dovedale. Of beauty it hath little, nature hav* 
ing left it almost a desert ; neither its small extent nor 
the diminutive and lifeless form of the hills, admits 
magnificence ; but to give you a complete idea of these 
three perfections, as they are joined in Keswick, would 
rftpuire the united powers of Claude, Salvator and Pous- 
\ The first should throw his delicate sunshine over 

no LESSONS {Pakt !• 

iht cultivated vales, the scattered cots, the groresjthe 
lake, and wooded Ulands. The second shoukl dash out 
the horror of the rugged cliffs, the steeps, the hanging 
woods, and foaming waterfalls •, while the graad pencil 
of Poussin should crown the whole, with the majesty of 
the impending mountains. 

So much for what I would call the permanent beautjr 
of this astonishing scene. Were I not afraid of being 
tiresome, I could now dwell as long upon its varying or 
accidental beauties. I would sail round the lake, anchor 
in every bay, and land you on every promontory and 
island. I would point out the perpetual change of 
prospect ; the woods, rocks, cliffs and mountains, by 
turns vanishing or rising into view ; now gaining on th& 
sight, hang:ing over our heads in their full dimensions, 
beautifully dreadful, and now, by a change of situation, 
assuming new romantic shapes ; retiring and lessening 
on the eye, and insensibly losing themselves in an azure 
mist. I would remark the contrast of light and shade, 
produced by the morning and evening sun ! the one 
gilding the western, the other the eastern side of this 
immense amphitheatre ; while the vast shadow, project- 
ed by the mountains, buries the opposite part in a deep 
and purple gloom, which the eye can hardly penetrate. 
The natural variety of coloring which the several objects 
produce, is no less wonderful and pleasing ; the ruling 
tints in the valley being those of azure, green and gold ; 
yet ever various, arising from an intermixture of the 
lake, the woods, tl\e grass, and cornfields; these are 
finely contrasted by the gray rocks and cliffs ; and the 
whole heightensd by the yellow streams of light, the 
purple hues, and misty azure of the mountains. Sojue- 
times a serene air and clear sky disclose the tops of the 
highest hills ; at other times you see the clouds involv- 
ing their summits, resting on their sides, or descending 
to their base, and rolling among the valleys, as in a vast 
furnace. When the winds are high, they roar among 
the cliffs and caverns, like peals of thunder : then, too, 
the clouds are seen in vast bodies, sweeping along the 
hills in gloomy greatness,, while the lake joins the tumult 
and tosses like a sea. But in calm weather, the whole 


icene becomes new ; the lake ia a perfect mirror, and tbe 
landscape in all its beauty ; islands, fields, wuods, rocks 
and mountains, are seen adverted, and floating on its 
surface. I will now carry you to the tup of a cliH*, 
where if you dare approach the ridge, a new scene of 
astonishment presents itself ; wher^ the v£)lley, lake and 
islands, seem lying at your &et ; where this expanse of 
water appears diminished to 4 little pool, • midst the vast 
and unmeasurable objects that surround it ; for here the 
summits of more distant bills appear bt youd those you 
have already seen ; and, rising bcliiiid cc:ch other, in suc- 
cessive ranges, and azure groups of craggy and broken 
steeps, fbrm an immense and awful picture, ivhich can 
•nly be expressed by the image of a tempcbiuous sea ef 
mountains. Let me now conduct you down aguiu to the 
valley, and conclude with one circumstance more ; which 
is, that a walk by a still moon light (at which time the 
distant water falls are heard in all their variuty of sound) 
among these enchanting dales, opens such scents of deli« 
eate beauty, repose and solemnity, as exceed all deacrip* 
tioD. -i ' 

Vltl^^Pi/yjan Jiiegory.'^AiTKiv, 

IN the happy period of the golden age, when all the 
celestial inhabitants descended to the eartli, and con- 
versed familiarly with mortals, among the most cherish- 
ed of the heavenly powers, were twins, the offspring of 
Jupiter, LovB and Jot. Wherever they appeared, the 
flowers sprung up beneath their feet, the sun shone with 
a brighter radiance, and all nature seen^^d embellished 
by their presence. 

They were inseparable companions ; and their 'grow- 
ing attachment was favored by Jupiter, who had de* 
creed, that a lasting union should be solemnized between 
them, so soon as they were anived at maturer years.— 
But, in the mean time, the sons of men deviated from 
their native innocence ; vire and ruin overran the eanh 
with giant strides ; and Astrea, with her train of celcs* 
tial visitants, forsook their polluted abodes. Lore alono 
remained, having been stolen away by Hope, who was 
his nurse, and conveyed by her to the forests of Area- 

ids liESSrONB CPiAT I. 

dia, where be was fought up among tke shepherds 
But Jupiter assigned him a different partner, and com<- 
fnanded him to espouse SoRRew, the daughter of Ate. 
He complied, with reluctance; for her features were 
harsh and disagreeable, her eyes sunk, her forehead con- 
tracted into perpetual wrinkles, and her temples were 
covei'ed with a wreath of cypinis and wormwood. 

From this union sprang a vii'gin, in whom Doight be 
trated a strong resemblance to both her parents; but 
the sullen and unamiable features of her mother, were so 
mixed and blended with the sweetness of her father, 
that her countenance, though mournful, was highly 
pleasing. The maids and shepherds of the neighboring 
plains gathered round, and called her Pity. A red- 
breast was observed to build in the cabin Where she waa 
born ; and while she was yet an infant, a dove, pursued 
by a hawk, iiew into her bosom. The nymph had 
a dejected appearance ; but so soft and gentle a mieB^ 
that she was beloved to a degree of enthusiasm. Her 
voice was low and plaintive, but inexpressibly sweet, an4 
she loved to lie, for hours together, on the banks of 
some wild and melancholy stream, singing to her lute. 
She taught men to weep, for she took a strange delight 
in tears ; and often, when the virgins of the hamlet 
were assembled at their evening sports, she would steal 
in among them and captivate their hearts by her tales, 
full of charming sadness. She wore on her head a 
garland, composed of her father's myrtles, twisted with 
her mother's cyprus. 

One day, us she sat musing^by the waters of Helicoiir, 
her tears by chance fell into the fountain, and ever 
since, the Muse's spring has retained a strong taste of 
. the infusion. Pity was commanded by Jupiter to fol- 
low the steps of her mother through the world, drop- 
ping balm into the v/ounds she made, and binding up 
the hearts she had broken. She follows with her hair 
loose, her bosom bare and throbbing^ her garments torn 
by the briars, and her feet bleeding with the roughness 
of the path. The nymph is mortal, for her mother is* 
so ; and when she has fulfilled her destined i;ourse upoa 
the es^rth, they shall both expire togetheri and Lovs 

f9fiT. III.] P7 ]Uei4]lIN«U . iSS 

be a|^ united to Jot, his inunortal and long betrothed 


IX.'^Jdvantagea (/ Commfrctf.— Spbotator. 

THEllB is BO place in town which I so much love to 
frequent, as the 'Royal Exchange. It gives me a secret 
•sktbfactibn, and in some measure gratifies my waty^ 
J9a I am an £ne^iishman, to see so rich an assembly of my 
<:oaDtiymet> smd-'iforeigiiers, consttlting together vpoo 
the private business ^f mankind, and making thi» mt* 
tropolis A kbd of emporiutti for thevholo euth. I must 
confess I look upon High Change to bo a graml coun^* 
cilyin which all considerable nations Immto their reprc<- 
sentatives. factors in tho trading world, are what am«* 
'bassadors are in the political wortd. Thoy negociate af« 
%irs, conclude treaties, and maliflMna^good ooffrespond- 
•ence betweenthose wealthy societiea of men, Jthal ft«e 
^vided from o'ne another by seas and oceans, or live oo 
«die diiferent extremities of ^ ooiftSi^ntk: I have often 
'lieen pleased to hear disputes adf lifted between an Inhab- 
itant ol Jap to and an alderman of Itondon } or to aee % 
wbjeet of the Great Mogul entering intd a league with 
«ne of the CzatrdT Mus<;oyy. I am infiniiieiy 4«lighted 
in mt^Bg with these several lainister^of commerce^ae 
t^ey are distinguished by their difto^ent .w^alksa and dif- 
ferent languages. Sometimes I am fostled ammiga body 
of Armenians^ sometimes I am lostin acsrowd of Jews; 
and sometimes make one in a group of Dutcbmen. I 
am a Dane, Swede or Frenchmen, at di&rent times, er 
tatherfancy myself like the<eld pbilosopbeis who, upon 
being asked whatcOtintryman he was, lepUed, Thatbo 
was a citizett of the world. 

Nature seems to have te^en a particular care to di^ 
;wminate her blessings amongthe diflforent regions of the 
World with an eye to this mutual intercourse and traffic 
amcmg mankind, that the natives of the several parts 
tf the gldbe might have a kicd of tiependence upon one 
'another, ' and be tmited together by tteir comn^on inter* 
'^ts. Almost every degree produces siimething pecu- 
liar to it. The food often grows- in oae country, and the 
sauce in another. The fruits of Portugal are Corrected 


by the products of Barbadoes ; tlie infusioD of a China 
plant sweetened with the pith of an Indian cane. The 
Phiilippine islands give a fiavoi to our European bowls. 
The single dress of a woman of quality is often the prod- 
uct of an hundred climates. The muff and the fan come 
together from the different ends ef the earth. The scarf 
is sent from the torrid sone, and the tippet from benealji 
the pole* The brocade petticoat rises out of the mines 
ef PerU) and the diamond necklace out of the bowels of 

If we consider our own country in its natuial prospect, 
iirithout any of the benefits and advantages of commercei 
what a barren uncomfortable spot of the earth &lls to 
•ur share 1 Natural historians tell us, that no fruit grows 
originally among us> besides hips and haws, acrons and 
pignuts, with other delicacies ef the like nature ; that our 
climate, of itself, and without the assistance of art, can 
make BO farther advances towards a plumb, than a sloe, 
and carries an apple to no greater perfection, than a crab: 
t)»t our mel<»s, our peaches^ our figs, our apricots and 
our cherries, are strangers among us, imported in differ- 
ent ages, and naturalized in our English gardens; and 
that they would all dejp^enerate and fall 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 pyramidb of China, and adorned 
wkh the workmanship of Japan ; our moming^s draught 
comes to us from the remotest comers of the earth ; wo 
i*epair our bodies by the drugs of America, and repoae 
ourselves under Indian canopies. My friend> Sir Andrew, 
calls the vineyards of France, our gardens ; the spice Isl- 
ands, our hot beds ; the Persians, our sil^ weavers ; and 
theChtnese, our potters. Nature, indeed, fumishea us 
with the bare necessaries of life ; but traffic gives us a 
great variety of what is useful, and, at the same time, sup- 
plies us with every thing that is convenient and ornamen- 
tal. Nof is it the^Ieastpart of this our happiness, that» 

S£CT« ni.] IN BEADINA. ±$B 

whilst fas 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 pal- 
aces 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 man* 
kind together in a mutual intercourse of good oAces, 
distribute the gifts of nature, find work for the poor, add 
wealth to the rich, and magnificence to the great. Our 
BngUsh merchant converts the tin of his own country in- 
to gold, and exchanges his wool for rubies. The Ma- 
hometsms are clothed in our British manufacture, and 
the inhabitants of th^^frozen zone warmed with the fteeces 
of our sheep. y *^: * 

MOST foreign writers who have given any character 
of the English nation, whatever vkfe they ascribe to it, 
allow, in general, that the people are naturally modest. 
It proceeds, perhaps, from this our national virtue, that 
our orators are observed to make use of less gesture 
or action than those of other countries. Our preachers 
stand stock stiU in the pulpit, aiid will net so much as 
move a finger to set off the best sermons in the world. 
We meet with the same speaking statues at our barS) 
and in all public places of debate. Our words flow from 
us in a smooth continued stream, without those stnumngd 
c^ the voice, motions of the body, and majesty of the 
hand which are so much celebrated in the orators of 
Greece and Rome. We can talk oi life and death in 
cold blood, and keep our temper in a discourse which 
turns upon every thing that is dear to us. Though our 
zeal breaks out in the finest tropes and figures, it is not 
able to stir a limb about us. 

It is ceg|m that proper gestures and exertions of the 
vcace canflme too much studied by a public orator.^— 
They are a kind of comment to what he utters ; and en- 
force every thing he says, with weak hearers, better tiban 
the strongest argument he can make use of. They 
keep the audience awake, and fix their attention to what 
is delitered to them ; at the same time that tiiey show 

186 LESSONS [PAMrt. 

the speaker ism eitfne8t,and ailec ted himself with whal^ 
he so passBonately recommends^toothers. 

We ai« told that the great Latin orator yery much im*- 
paired his health* hy the vehemence of action with which, 
he used to deliicer himselL The Greek orator was like-- 
wise so yery famous for this particular in rhetoric,, that 
one of hisantageoists^ whom he had banished from AthenSf. 
reading over the oration which had procured his banish^ 
ment, and seeing his friends admire it, could not forbear 
asking them-*H* they were so much affected by the baro^ 
reading it, how much more they would have been alarm- 
ed, had they heard him actually throwing out such a' 
storm of eloquence. 

How cold and dead aEgure,ih comparison of these two-: 
great men, doesan orator often make at*the British bar^ 
heading up bis head with the most insipid serenity, and 
strewing the sides-of a long wig that reaches down to hb' 
middle ! Nothing can be more ridiculous than the ges- 
tures of mosl^ of our English speakers. You see some^ 
of them rumuBg their hands into their pockets as far a«^ 
ever they can thrust them, and others looking with gi«at 
attention on a piece of paper that has nothing written on» 
it ; you may see many a smart rhetorician turning hi» 
hat is hi* hands, moulding R into several different cocks^ 
examining sometimes the lining of it, and sometimes the 
button, during the whole courae of his harangue. A 
deaf man would think that he was cheapening a beayer ^ 
whenperhapshe was talking of the fate of the British, 
nation* I remember when I was a young man and used 
to frequent Westminatev hall, there was a counsellor who* 
never pleaded without a piece of pack-thread in hishand^ 
which he used to twi«it about a thumb or finger all tW 
while he was speaking ; the wags of those days used to^ 
call it the thrcfid of his discourse) for he was not able to: 
utter a word withovt it. One of his clients who was> 
more merry than wise, stole it from him one^^y, in the 
midst of bis pleading , but he, had better ha^JR it sdone,. 
for he lost his cause by the }est« 

THE advantages found in history seem to be ofthree- 
kinds ; as it amuses the fancy, as it improves the under^- 
standing, and as it strengthens virtue* 


In realitfi what more agreeable entertainment to the 
mind, than to be transtiorted into the remoteit ages of the 
world, and to obsmrye human society, in its iofisMy, m%k» 
ing tlie first faint essays towards the arts and sciences ? 
To see the policy of goTemment and the civility of con- 
vercAtion refining by degreesy and every thing that is or- 
namental to human life, advancing towards its perfection^ 
To mark the rise, progress, declension, and final extinc- 
tim of the most fiourtsbing empires ; the virtues which 
coi^buted to their greatness, and the vices which drew 
on their ruin ? In short, to see all the human race, from 
the beginning of time, pass as it were in review before us, 
appealing in their true colors, without any of those dis* 
guises, which, during their lifetime, so much perplex^ 
the judgment of the beholders ? What spectacle can be 
imagined so magnificent,8o various, so interestbg? What ' 
amusement, either of the senses or imaeinadoo, can be 
compared with it ? 8hall our trifling pastimes, whkh en- 
gross so much of our time, be preferred, as more satis, 
factory, and more fit to engage our attention ? How per* 
verse must that taste be, which is capable of so wrong a 
cbdce of pleasure f 

But history is a most improviag part of knowledge, as 
well as an agreeable amusement ; and, indeed, a great 
part of what ^e commonly call truditUm^ and value so 
highly, is nothing but an acquaintance with historical 
facts. An esteosive knowledge of this kind belongs to 
men of letters ; but I must think it an unpardonable ig- 
norance in persons, of whatever sex or condition, not to 
be acquainted with the histories of their own country, 
ak>ng with the histories of ancient Greece and Rome. 

Imustaddjtbathistpiyisnotonly a valuable part of 
knowledge, but opens the door to many other parts d[ 
knowledge, and affords materials to most of the scien- 
ces. And, indeed, if we consider the^hortness of human 
life, and our limited knowledge, even of what passes in 
our own tij^^we must be sensible that we should be jbr- 
ever chiid^mh understanding, were it hot for this in- 
vention, which exteitds our experience to all past ages, 
and to most distant nations, making them contribute 
as much to our improvement in wisdom, as if they had 

158 IiCSSdNir ^Akd L 

actvailj Iain under our observation* A man^; acquainted 
with history, niay> in some respect,, be said to have lived 
from the beginning oi the world, and to have been paak-- 
ing continual additions in his stock of' knowledge, in ev 
ery country. 

There is also an advantage in that knowledge which 
is acquired by historyyabovewhat is learned by the prac- 
tfce of the world, that it brings us acqjaainted with hu- 
man al^airs^ without diminishing in the leasi from the 
most delicate sentiments of virtue. And, to tell the 
trutt, I scarce know any study or occupation so unex-- 
ceptionable as. history, in this particular. Poets can paint 
virtue in cbe most charming colors ; but, as- they address 
themselves entirely to the passions, they often becomes 
advocates to vice. Even philosophers are apt to bewil* 
der themselves in thesubdlity of dieir speculations ; and 
we kzy'e seen some go so far,, as to deny the reality of all 
moral distinctions. Aut I diink it a remark worthy the 
attention of the speculadve reader, that the historiail(i>^ 
hav^eeQ,.alnu>st without exception, the true friends of 
virtue, and have always represented it in its proper col-- 
ors, however they may have erred io their judgments? 
of jparticular persons; Nor is this combination of histo"*- 
lians, in favor of virtue,^ at all difficult to be accounted 
ibr. ^ When a man of business enters into life, and action,* 
he is more apt? to consider the characters of m^ii 
as they have relation to his interest, tiian as they stand in^ 
themselves, and hab his judgment warped on every occa« 
sioD by the violence of his passion. When a philoso-- 
pher contemplates character and manners^ m his closeL« 
the genera) abstract view of the objects leaves the nuna 
«o cold and unmoved, that the sentiments of nature have 
no room to play, and he scarce feels the difference be*- 
tween vice and vktue. History keeps in a just medium 
l^etwixt these *^xtremes, and places the objeets in their 
true point of vi< w. The writers of histbry,^well as the 
readers, are sufBcuntly interested in the dUP^cters and 
events, to have a lively semiment of blame^ or praise; 
and, at the same time, have no particular interest or coa^ 
$ern to perf «rt their judipoaent. 


JCII.— On the ImmwMUy qf the ^<mi/.— Spsotatoh. 

AMONTG other cxcelleoC at^'ments for the immor-^ 
lality of ihe soul> th^re it one drawn from the perpetual 
progress of the soul to its perfection, without a posaibil-* 
icf of ever arriving at it -y which iB a hint that I do not 
ifemembertohave !leen opened atid improved by oth' 
ers who ha vte written oh this subj^ect, though it seemfr 
to me to Carry a great weight with it. How can it 
enterintothe thoughts of man, that the soul, which ii^ 
capable of such iratneniie perfections, and of receiving; 
new improtements to all eternity, shall fall away into- 
nothing, almost as soon as it is created ? Are such abDi^' 
ties made for no purpose ! A brute arrives at a point of 

terfection that he can never pass } in a few years he 
as all the endowments he is capable of ^ Were he to live 
len thousand more, he would be the same thing he is at 
present Were a human soul thtra at a stand in her 
accomplishments :' were her faculties to be foil blown,> 
and incapable of further enfargbments ^ I could imag<<- 
ine it might fall away insensibly, and drop at once itito i 
state of annihilation. But, can we believe a thinkmg be-* 
ibg, that is fai a perpetual progress of impronrements, and 
travelling aa from perfection to perfection, after hating" 
)ust looked abroad into the works of its Creator, and 
made a few discoveries of his infinite goodness, wisdoni; 
and power, must perisihat her first settiog out, and in the 
very beginning of her enquiries I 

Man, con^Mered m his present state, does not seeni' 
Bom to enjoy life^ but to deliver it down to others.— 
This is not surprisbg to amsider in animals, which are 
formed for our use, and can finish their busmess in i 
lAort life. The silkworm, after having spun her task, 
Saysher eggs and dies. But in this life man can nevet^ 
take in his mil measure of knowledge ^ nor has he time 
to subdue his passions, establish his soul in virtue, and 
come upib the perfection of his natui'e, before he in 
hurried off the stage. Would an infinitely wise Beintf 
^ake such glorious creatures, lor so mean a purpose? 
Can he delight in the production of such abortive intelli-' 
Seiiceti)tuchriK^ lived reaaamible beings 2 WouMht 

140 LESSONS [Fabt L 

give us talents that are not to be exerted? Capacities 
that are never to be gratified! How can we find that 
wisdom which shines through all his works, in thM for- 
mation of man, without looking on this world as only a 
nursery for the next ; and believing that the several gen- 
erations <fi' rational creatures, which rise up and disap- 
peiir in such quick successions, are only to receive their 
first rudiments of all existence here, and afterwards to 
be transplanted into a more friendlj^ climate, where thef 
may spread and flourish to all eternity ? 

There is not, in my opinion, a more plea^mg and tri- 
umphant consideration in religion than this, of the per- 
petual progress which the seul makes towards the p4sr- 
fectien of its nature, without ever arriving at a period 
in it. To look upon the soul as going on from strength 
to strength ; to consider that she is to shine, witli new 
accessions of glory, to all eternity ; that she will be 
still adding virtue to virtue, and knowledge to knowl- 
edge ; carries in it something wonderfully agreeable to 
that ambition which is natural to the mind of man.— 
Nay, it must be a prospect pleasing to God himself, to 
see his creation forever beautifying in his eyes, and 
drawing nearer to him, by greater degrees of i^sem« 

Methinks this single consideration, of the progress of 
a finite spirit to penection, will be sufficient to extin- 
guish all envy in inferior natures, an'i all contempt in su- 
perior. That cherubim which now appears as a God 
to a human soul, knows very well that the period will 
come about in eternity, when the human soul shall be 
as perfect as he himself now is; nay, when she shall look 
down upon that degree of perfection as much as she 
now falls short of it. It is true, the higher nature still 
advances, and by that means preserves h'ls distanr.e and 
superiority in the scale of being ; but he knows, that how 
high soever the station is of which he stands possessed 
at present, the inferior nature will at length mount up ti> 
it, and shine forth in the same degree of glory. 

With what astonishment and veneration may we look 
into our souls, where there are such hidden stores of 
virtue an^ knowledgei such inexhausted sources of per- 

^tT. in.} iff RBAl>lNG.. «Mr 

fection 1 We kBownoC ^et what we fthan'Ur,.nof will it 
ever enter into the heart of man to conceire the glory^ 
^at will be always in reserve for him. The soUl, con* 
Mdered in relation to its Creatori is like one of th68# 
mathematical lines, that may draw nearer to another fof* 
all eternity^ without a possibility of touching it: and call' 
there be a thought bo transporting, as to consider our* 
selves in these perpetual approaches of ifim, who is nvt 
ftbly the standard of perfection, but of happiness I 

XIII.— 2*Ae Combui qf tkt MoratH and the Cwriam^ 

THE combat of the Horatii and Curiatii is painted ifl» 
a very natural and animated manner by Livf.. The 
cause was this. The inhalHtants of Alba and Rome^. 
roui^d by ambition and mutual complaints^ took the field,. 
and were on the eve of a bloody battle. . The Alban gen* 
eralj. to prevent the effusiou of bloody. proposed to Hostil-^ 
ius, then king of RomOy to refer the destiny of both na«» 
tions to three combatants of each aide, and. that empire 
Should be the prize of the'conquenng party. The pro* 
pbsal waa accepted. The Albans named the Curiatii^ 
three brothers, for their champions. The three sons of 
Horatius were ehosen for the Hootons.. 

The treaty being concluded, the three brothers, ow 
each side, arrayed themselves in armour, according to 
agreement. Each side exhorts its respective champions ;: 
representing to them that their gods, their country, 
their paretlts, et*<ry individual in the city and array,. 
Bow fixed their eyes on their arms and valcM*. The gen* 
€rous combatants, intrepid in themselves, and animated 
by such exhortations, marchei/ forth, and stood betweexy 
the two armies. The armies placed themselves before 
the respective camps, and were less solicitoua for any 
present dabger> than for the consequence of this actioik 
They therefore gave their whole attention to a sightf 
which could not but alarm them. The signal is given.. 
The cdmbaCants engage with hostile weapons, and ahom 
themselves inspired with the* intrepidity of two mighty 
aifmies. Both partieis, equally insensible of their owi» 
tanger, had nothing in view but the slavei^ or liberty of 
their country, whose destiny depended upon theiv coa* 



duct. At the first onset, %he dating of their armor^ 
and the terrific gleam of their dwords, fiiled the specta- 
tors with sur.h trepidation, fear and horror»^that the fac- 
ulty of speech and breath seemed totally suspended^ 
even while the hope of success inclined to neither side. 
But when it came to a closer engagement, not only the 
motion of their bodies, and the furious agitation of their 
weapons, arrested the eyes of the spectators, but their 
openmg wounds, and the streaming blood. ,Two of the 
Komans fell, and expired at the feet of the Albans, who 
were all three wounded. Upon their fall the Alban 
army shouted for joy, while the Roman legions re- 
mained without hope, but not without concern, being 
eagerly anxious for the surviving Roman, then sur- 
rounded by his three adversaries. Happily he was not 
wounded ; but not being a match for three, though 
superior to any one of them singly, he had recourse 
to a stratagem for dividing tliem. He betook himself 
to flight ; rightly supposing, that they would follow 
him at unequal distance, as their strength, after so much 
loss of blood, would^ permit. Having fled a consid- 
erable way from the spot where they fought, he look- 
ed i^ack, and saw the Curiatii pursuing, at a considerable 
distance from one another, and one of them very near 
him. He turned with all his fury upon the foremost ; ' 
and, while the Alban army were crying out to his broth- 
er to succor him, Horatius, having presently dispatch- 
ed his first enemy, rushed forward to a second victory. • 
The Romans encourage their champion by such accla- 
mations as generally proceed from unexpected sue* 
cess. He, on the other hand, hastens to put an end 
to the second combat, and slew another, before the third, 
who was not far olF, could come up to his assistance. 
There now remained only one combatant on each side. 
The Roman, who had still received n^ hurt, fired with 
cAning a double victory, advances with great confidence 
is third combat His antagonist, on the other hand, 
; weakened by loss of blood, and spent with runmng 
„i*, could scarce drag his legs after him, and bein^ 
ready dispirited by the death of his brothers, pritflents 
his breast to the victor^ for it could not be called 

8«CT. in.] IN BEABOrO. iM 

a contest. «Two (wfn tte exulting R«- 
snan) two hare I Mcrificed to the sitnes of my broth- 
e ra t he third I will offer up to mj country, that 
henceforth Rome may give lawi to Alba." Upon which 
he^transfixed hkn with hia 8Word» and stripped him of 
liisarmOT. The Romans received Horatius, the victor, 
into their camp, with an exultation, great aa their for- 
aner fear. After this each army buried their respective, 
dead, but with very different sentiments; the one re- 
flecting on the sovereignty they had acquired, and the 
other on the subjection to slavery, to the power of the 

This combat became still more remarkable : Horatius 
returning to Rome, with the arms and spoils of his ene« 
xnjj met his sister, who was to have been married to 
one of theCuriatii. Seeing her brother dressed in her 
lover^s coat of armor, which she herself had wrought, 
she could not contain her grie£-— ^She shed a flood of 
tears, she tore her hair, and in the transports of her sor- 
row, uttered the most violent imprecations against her 
brother. Horatius, warm with m victory, and enraged 
ml the grief which his sister expressed, with such un- 
seasonable passion, in the midst of Uie public joy, in the 
beat of his anger, drove a poniard to her heart*——— 
<< Begone to thy lover,** aaya he, « and carry him that 
degenerate pasaon which makes thee prefer a dead ene- 
my to the glory of thy country.*' Every body detested 
an action so cruel and inhuman. The murderer was im- 
mediately seized, and dragged before the Duomviri, the 
proper judges of such crimes. Horatius was condemn- 
ed to lose his life ; and the very day of his triumph had 
been the day of his punishment, if he had not by the ad- 
vice of TuUus Hosdlius, appealed from that judgment 
to the assembly of the people. He appeared there witl^ 
the same courage and resolution that he had shown in 
the combat with the CuriatU— — The people thought 
so great a service might justly excuse them, if ftt once 
they moderated the rigor of the law ; and, accordingly, 
be was acquitted, rather tKrough admiration of his cour* 
age, than for the justice of hia cause. 

JtIV:— 0« the forever of Custam^f^S^juiTxron. 

TJH£R£ is.Dot a common ssg^itig which has a better 
jturn pf sense in it, tHan Whait' we often hear in the 

f* aouths oftlie vulgar; that custom is a "second nature-^ 
t is^incleed, able to tbrm the man anew, and give him 
inclinations and capadtiesaUogother different from those 
]he was born with. 'A person who is addicted to play ot 

f;aming9 though he took but little delight in it at firs^ 
y degrees contracts so strong an inclination towai^s it^ 
and gives himself up so entirely to it, that it seems the 
;Only end of bis being. The loye of a retired or busy life 
will grow upon a knan inaensibly, asheis ci^nversantin 
^e one or the other, till he is utterly iinquallfied for 
!relii|hing that to which he has been for some' tinie disius- 
ea. Kay, a man may lanoke, or drink, or take snufF, till 
ihe is unable to' pass away his time without it; not' to 
mention how our delight in any particular study, art, or 
science, rises and improves, in proportion to the appli- 
cation which we bestow upon it. Thus, what w^s at 
^£rM an exercise, becomes at length an entertainment—- 
Our en>ployments are <:hanged into diversions. The 
^xnind grows fond <yf those actions it is accustomed tO| 
and is drawn with reluctancy from those paths in which 
it hail been used to walk. 

If we consider, attentively, this property of human na« 
ture, it must instruct us In very fine moralities. In the 
.first placet I would have no man discouraged with that 
kind of life, or series of action, in which the choice ^ 
'ethers,orhis pwh necessities may have engaged him. It 
tn^y,perhapa, bedi^^agreeableto him at first; but use 
and application will certain^ render it not only less pain* 
ful, but pleasing and satisfactory, 

la the second place, I would recommend to evefy" 
one the adnnrable precept which Pithsgoras is said "t^ 
l^ave^pven to Ms disciples, and which that philosopher 
must have drftwn from the observation I have enlarged 
upon ; << Pitch upon that course of life which is the most 
excellent, and custom will render it the most delightful.** 
Men, whose circumstances will pcrriik them to choose 
their own way of lif6| are inexousablei if they do not 

»Mv. m.] nr beading. ±m 

{Mirsae that wfaich their judgment l«ll» them is the tnoit 
laudable. The Toice of reason is more to be regarded 
than the bent of any present inclination} siBcei by the rule 
above mentioned, inclination viil) at length, come ortr (6 
reason, 4hou|;h we can never force reasen to comply with 

In the third place, tbaa ebsenrafien may teach the most 
sensual and irreligious man, to oyerlook those hard- 
ships and difficulties, which are apt to discourage him 
from the prosecution of a virtuous life* <* The Gods," 
says Hesiod, ^ hare placed labor before virtue ; the way 
loheris atfirat rough and difllcuft, but grows more 
smooth and easy the farther you advance in it" The 
man who proceeds in it with steadiness and resolution, 
^ ill in a little time 'find that ^ her ways are ways of 
plea8antness,and that all her paths are peace." 

To enforce this consideration, we may further observe 
that the practice of religion will not only be attended with 
that pleasure, which naturally accompanies those act- 
ions to which we are habituated ; but with those super- 
numerary joys of heart, that rise from th% consciousness 
of such apleasure, from the satisfaction of acting up to 
the dictates of reason, and from Uie prospect of an hap* 
py immortality. 

Inthe fourth place, we may learn from this observa- 
tion, which we have made on the mind of man, to take 
particular care, when we are once settled in. a regular 
course of life, how we too frequently indulge ourselves in 
anythemost innoeent diversions and entertainments; 
since the mind may insensibly fall off from the relish of 
virtuous actions, and, by degrees, exchange that pleasure 
which it takes in the performance of its duty, for delights 
of a much more inferior and unprofitable nature. 

The last use which I shall make of this remarkable 
property in human nature, of being delighted with those 
actions to which it is accustomed, is, to show hew abso- 
lutely necessary it is for us to gain habits of virtue in 
this life, if we would enjoy the pleasures of the next.—- 
The state of bliss we call Heaven, will not be capable of 
Jiffecting those minds which are not thus qualified 
lor it I we mast in this world gain a relish of truth and 

ue LE8SOM& [PaotL 

virtue, if We would be able to taste that knowledge and 
perfectien which are to make us happy in the next.— 
The seeds of these 8i»ritualjoys and raptures which arc 
lo rise up and flourish in the soul to all etermty, must be 
planted in it duruig this its present state of probation.-* 
In short, hearen is not to be looked upon only as the re* 
mffd, but as the natural effect of a religious life. 

PEDANTRY, in the compaon sense of the word, 
means an absurd ostentation ef learning, and stiflfccss qi 
phraseology, proceeding from a misguided knowledge of 
books and a total ignorance of men. 

But I have oftwi thought, that we nught extend iU 
signification a geod deal farther 5 and in general, apply it 
to thatfailing, which disposes a person to obtrude upon 
others, subjects officnversation relating to his own busi- 
ness, studies or amusements. 

In this sense of the phrase, we should find pedants in 
every character and condition of life. Instead of a black 
coat and a plain shirt, we should often see pedanUy ap- 
pear in an embroidered suit and Brussels lace ; instead 
of being bedaubed with snuiT, we should find it breathing 
perfumes; and^n place of a book worm,crawling through 
the gloomy cloisters of an university, we should mark it 
in the state of a gilded butterfiy> buzzing through the 
|;ay region of the drawing room. 

Robert Daisy, Esq. is a pedant of this last kind~ 
When he tells you that his rufles cost twenty guineas a 
pair ; that his buttons were the first of the kind, made by 
one of the most eminent artists in Birmingham ; that 
his buckles were procured by means of a friend at Paris 
find are the exaet pattern of those woxp^ by the Compte 
^* Artois ; that the loop of his hat was of his own contri- 
vance, and has set the fashion to half a dozen of the finest 
fellows in town : When he descants on all these particu- 
lars, with that smile of self complacency which sits forr 
everonhis check, he is as much a pedant as his quon- 
dam tutor, who recites verses from Pindar, tells stories 
out of Herodotus, and talks for an hour on the energy of 
the Gre^k particles. 



But Mr. Daisy is struck dumb by the approtch of hit 
brother, Sir Thomas, whose pedantry goes a pitch high- 
er and pours out all the intelligence of France and Italy^ 
whence the young baronet is just returned, after a tout * 
of fifteen months ever all the kingdoms of the continent. 
Talk of music, he (^uts you short with the history 
of the first singer in Naples ; ofpsdnting, he runs you 
down with the description of the gallery at Florence ; of 
architecture, he overwhelms you with the dimensions, of 
$(. Peter's or the great church at Antwerp, or, if you 
leave the province of art altogether, and introduce th« 
naxne ofa river or hill, he instantly deluges you with the 
Rhine, or makes you dizay with the height of i&tna, or 
Wont Blanc. ^ 

Miss will have no difficulty of owwng her gt*eat aunt 
i|o be fi pedant, wlien she talks all the time of £nner, on 
the composition of the pudding, or the seasoning of the 
mince pies$ or enters into a disquisition on the figure of 
^e damask tablecloth, with a word or two on the thrift 
pfmaking one's own linen; but&e young lady will bo 
surprised when I inform her, that her own history of last 
Thursday's assembly, with the episode of Lady D's 
feather, and the digression to the qualities of Mr. Friz- 
zle, the hairdresser^ was also a piece of downright ped* 

Mrs. Candle is guiity of the same weakness, when sh* 
recounts the numberless witticisms of her daughter Em« 
ma, descibes the droll figure her little Bill made yester- 
day at trying on his first pair of breeches, and informs us, 
that Bebby has got seven teeth, and is just cutting an 
eighth, though he will be but nine months old next Wed- 
nesday, at six o'clock in the erening. Nor is her 
pedantry less disgusting, when she proceeds to enumer- 
ate the virtues and good qualities of her husband :--« 
though this last species is so uncommon, that it may 
perhaps, be admitted into conversation, for the sake of 

There is a pedantry in every disquisition, however 
masterly it may be, that steps the general conversation 
of the company. When Silius delivers that sort of lec- 
ture be is apt to get into, though it i9 supported by the 


most extensive information and the clearest discemmenCr 
it is still pedantry ; and while I admire the talents c^^ 
(Silius, I cannot help being uneasy at his exhihition of] 
them. Last night, after supper^ Siliusbegan upon Prot- 
estantism, proceeded to the Irish massacre, went through 
the Revolution, drew the character of King William, re* 
. peated anecdotes of Scomberg, and ended, at a quarter 
past twelve, by delineating the course of the Boyne, lit 
half a bumper of port, upon my best table ; which rtvc^t 
happening to everflow its banks, did infinite damage to 
my cousin Sophy's white -satin petticoat. 

In sh«rt, every thing, in this sense of the word, is ped» 
antry, which tends to destroy that equality of conversa- 
tion, which is necessary to the ^perfect ease . and good 
humor of the company. Every one would be struck 
with the unpoliteness of that person^s behaviour, who 
should help himself to a whole plateful of peas or straws 
berries, which some friend had sent him for a rarity, la 
the beginDiBg of the season. Now conversation is one of 
those good things, which our friends or companions 
are equally entitled to share, as of any other constituent 
part of the entertainment; and it is as essential a want 
•f politeness to engross the one> as to monopolize the oth- 

XVI.— 3%</o«mq^ of a Day.^^J Picture of Human 


OBID AH, the son of Abeiisina,left the caravensera 
early in the morning, and pursued his journey through 
the plains of Indostaa. He was fi::esh and vigorous with 
rest ; he was animated with hope ; he was incited by 
desire ; he walked swiftly forward over the vallies, and 
saw the hills gradually risbg before him. As he passed 
along, his ears were delighted with the morning song of 
the bird of paradise, he was fanned by the last flutters 
of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew by grovi 
of spices ; he sometimes contemplated the towerin, 
height of the oak, monarch of the hiils ; and sometime 
caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, elde 
daughter of the spriiig ; all Ws senses were g— **«^- 
and all care was bamshed fcom his heart. 

BKra; m.] IN REABOTG. ' 149 

■ Tfaua he went on till the tun appnieehed his meridiaof 
Bsoid the incrciBAing hett preyed upon his strength ; hji 
Kthen fooked round about him for ton^e more cemmodi- 
H ous path. He saw, on his right handy a groTO that seemed 
^ to ware its shades as -a sign of tnvitatioQ ; he entered it, 
and found the ceolness aixi verdure irreustibly pleasant. 
He did not, howerer, forget whither he was travelling, 
^ut found a narrow way, bordered with flowers^ which 
appeared to have the same direction vith the mam road, 
and was pleased, that, by this happy experiment ho 
had found means to unite pleasure with business, and 
to gain the reward of diligence without suffering its 
fatigues. He, therefore, still continued to walk, for a 
time, ^thout the least remission of his ardor, except 
that he was sometimes tempted to stop by the musie of 
the birds whom the heat had assembled in ^e shade, 
and sometimes amused himself with plucking the iowera 
that covered the banks on either side, er the fruits that 
, hung upon the branches. At last, the green path began 
f to decline from its first tendency, and to wind among 
hills and thicketo, cooled wkh fountains, and murmuring 
with water falls. Here Obidah paused for a time, and 
began to consider, whether it were longer safe to for- 
sake the known and<;emmon track ; but remembering 
that the heat was now in its greatest violence, and that 
the plain Was dusty and uneven, he iresotved to pursue 
the new path, which he supposed only to make a few 
meanders, in compliance witii the varieties of the greundi 
and to end at last in the common road* 

Having thus calmed his aolicitude, he renewed his 
pace, though he suspected he was not gaining ground. 
This uneasiness of his mind inclined liim to lay hold on 
every new object, and give way to cnrery sensation that 
might soothe or divert him. He listc;ined to every echo, 
he mounted every hill for a fresh prospect, he turned 
aside to every cascade, and pleased himself with tracing 
the course of a*gehtle river, that rolled among the trees, 
and watered a large region, with innumerable circum^ 
volutions. In these amusements the hours fULSsed away 
unaccounted, his deviations had perplexed his memory, 
^ ho Imow not towards what poiDt to tisvei* tf« 
N8 ' 


■tood penuTe and confasedi a£r«id to go brwardf lest he 
•hould go wroDgyfei coasciousthat the time of loitering^ 
was now past. While he was thus tortured withnincer* 
tminty, the skf was overspread with clouds» the day van- 
ished from before him* and a sudden tempest gathered 
round his head. He was now roused by ins danger, to 
a quick and painful remembrance of his folly ; he noir 
aaw how happiness was lost when ease is consulted ; ho 
lamented the unmanly impatience that prompted him to 
seek shelter in the grove, and despised the petty curiosi* 
ty that led him on from trifle to trifle. While he was 
thus reflecting, the air grew blacker, and a clap of thun- 
der broke his meditation. 

He now resolved to do what remained yet in his 
power, to tread back the ground which he had passed^ 
and try to find some issue, where the wood might opett 
into the plain. He prostrated himself upon the ground, 
and commended his life to the Lord of nature. He rose 
with conSdence and tranquillity, and pressed on with 
his sabre in his hand $ for the beasts of the desert were 
in motion^ and on eyery hand were heard the mingled 
howls of rage and fear, and ravage and expiration ; all 
the horrors of darkness and solitude surrounded him ^-~ 
the winds roared in the woods, and the toirents tumbled 
from the hills. 

Thus forlorn and distressed he wandered through the 
wild, without knowing MPhether he was going, or whether 
he was every moment drawing nearer to safety or to 
destruction. At length, not fear but labor began to 
overcome him ; his breath grew short ; but his knees 
trembled, and he was on the point of lying down, in resign 
nation to his fete, when he beheld, through the brambles, 
the glimmer of a taper. He advanced towards the Ught, 
and finding that it proceeded from a cottage of a hermit, 
he called humbly at the door, and obtained admisuoo. 
The old man set before him such provisions as he had 
collected for himself m which ObiJah fed with eager- 
ness and gratitude. 

When the repast was over, « Tell me, said the her- 
mit, by what chance thou hast been brought hither ; I 
have been now twenty years ao iofctubttant of the w)t*t 


dertiess) in which 1 neter taw « man beiiMrt.*' Obidah 
then related' the occurreocei <^ his journejry without anf 
concealmeut or palliation. 

«< Sod, said the hermit, let the errors and folliesv the 
dangers and escapes of this day, sink deep ioiothy heart 
Remember, my son, tliat human life is the Journey of a 
day. We rise in the morning of youth, lull of vigor, 
and full of expectation} we set forward with spirit and 
hope, with gaiety and with diligence, and travel on a 
waile ill the straight road of piety, towards the manmna 
of rest. In a short time we remit our fervor, and en* 
deavor to find some mitigation of our duty, and some 
more easy means of obtaining the same end. We then 
relax our vigor, and resolve no longer to be terrified 
with crimes at a distance, but rely upon our own con« 
siancy, and venture to approach what we resolve never 
to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and re- 
pose in the shades of security. Here the heart softens^ 
and vigilance subsides ; we are then willing to inquire 
whether another advance cannot be made, and whether 
we may not, at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of 
pleasure. We approach them with scruple and hesita- 
tion ; we enter them, but enter timorous and trembling, 
and always hope to pass through them without losing 
the road of virtue, which we, ror a while, keep in our 
sight, aad to which we propose to return. But temp- 
tation succeeds temptation, and one compliance prepares 
US for another ; we in time lose the happiness of inno- 
cence, and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifications. 
By degrees, we le^ fall the remembrance of our original 
intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational 
desire. We entangle ourselves b business, immerge 
ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of 
inconstancy, till .'the darkness of old age begins to in- 
vade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We 
then look back upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, 
vrith repentance ; and wish, but too often vainly wish, 
that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue. Happy 
are they, my son, who shall learn from thy example not 
to despair, but shall remember, that though the day b 
past^ and their strength is wasted^ there yet remains one 

tSZ LESSONff IVabxs I. 

effort to be made; that'refonnatioo is nerer hopeless, 
nor sincere endeavors ever unassisted; that the wander* 
er may at length return after all his errors ; and that he 
who implores strength and courage from above> shall 
find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go 
no^i my son^ to thy repose, commit thyself to the care of 
Omnipotence ; and when the morning calls again to toil* 
begin anew thy journey and thy life. 


h^De9crifition €/ the jimphUheatte qf TUuw.^^ 


POSTERITY admires, and will long admire, the av* 
fttl remains of the Amphitheatre of Titus, which so 
well deserves the epithet of Colossal. It was a building 
of an elliptic figure, five hundred and sixty four feet in 
length, and four hundred and sixty seven in breadth ;-« 
founded on four score arches f and rising with four sue* 
cessive orders of architecture, to the height of cme hun- 
dred and forty feet The outside of the edifice was en- 
crusted with marble, and decorated with statues* The 
slopes of the vast concave, which formed the inside, were 
filled, and surrounded with sixty or eighty rows of seats 
of marble, covered witli cushions, and capable of receiv- 
ing with ease, above four score thousand spectators. Six- 
ty four vometories (ior by that name the doors were very 
aptly distinguished) poured forth the immense multitude; 
and the entrances, passages, and staircases, were con- 
trived with such exquisite skill, that each person, wheth- 
er of the senatorial, equestrian or theplebean order, ar« 
rived at his destined place, without trouble or wdvL* 

Nothing was omitted which, in any respect, could bo 
subservient to the convenience and pleasure of the spec* 
tators. They were protected from the sun and rain by 
an ample canopy, occasionallv drawn over their::beads. 
The air was (:ontinually refreshed by the playing of 
fountains, and profusely impregnated by the grateful 
scent of aromatics. In the centre of the edifice, tho 
arena, or stage, was strewed with the finest sand, and suc- 
cessively assumed the most different forms. At one mo- 
ment, it seemed to rise out of the earth, like the garden 
of the Hesperides ; at another, it exhibited the rugged 
rocks and caverns of Thrace. The subterraneous pipes 
conveyed an inexhaustible supply of water ; and what 
had justbeCcH'e appeared a leyei plain, might be suddenly 

154 LESSONS [Pabt L 

converted into a vide lake, covered with armed vessels^ 
tnd replenished with the monsters of the deep. 

In the decorations of these scenes the Roman Empe- 
rors displayed their wealth and liberality ; and we read, 
that on various occasions, the whole furniture of the 
amphitheatre coBsisted either of silver, or of gold, or of 
amber. The poet who describes the games of Carinus, 
in the character of a sheperd, attracted to the capital 
by the fame of their magnificence, affirms that the nets, 
designed as a defence against the wild beasts, were of 
gold wire ; that the porticos were gilded ; and that the 
belt or circle, which divided the several ranks of specta- 
tors from each other, was studded with a precious mo- 
saic of beautiful stones. 

l\,-^It€^ection9 tn WeatminBttr ^65(ry.«— SpECTATDift, 

WHEN I am in a serious hutnor^ I very ofteii walk 
by myself in Westminster Abbey ; vdiere the gloominess 
of the plaee, and the use to which it is applied, with the 
solemnity of the building, and the condition of the peo- 
ple who lie in h, are apt to fill the mind with a kind 
of melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, that is not 
disagreeable. I yesterday passed a whole afternoon it 
the church yard, the cloisters and the church ; amusing 
myself with the tomb dtones and inscriptions, which I 
met with in those several i^egions of the dead. Most of 
them recorded nothing else of the buried person, but 
that he was bom upon one day, and died upon another ; 
two circumstances that are common to all mankind. I 
could not but look upon those registers of existence*! 
whether of brass or marble, as a kind of satire upon the 
.departed persons, who had left no other memorial of 
them&elves than tfiat they were bom, and that they died. 

Upon my going into the church, I entertained myself 
with the digging of a grave ; and saw in every shovelful 
of it that was thrown up, the fragnien): of a bone or skull, 
intermixed with a kind of fresh mouldenng earth, that, 
some time or other had a place in the cbmposition of 
an human body. Upon this I began to consider with 
myself, what innumerable multitudes of people lay con- 
fused together, under the pavement of that ancient ca* 

Sbct. IY.] in beading. 155 

thedral ; liow aaen and women, friendt and enemies, 
priests and soldiers, monks and prebendariea, were stum- 
bled amongst one another, and blended together in th« 
same common mass ; how beaut/, strength and youth, 
With old age, weakness and deformity, lay undistinguish- 
ed, in the same promiscuous heap of matter. 

' After having, thus surveyed this great magazine of 
mortality, as it were^ in the lump, I exansined it more 
particularly, by the accounts which I found on several 
of the monuments, which are raised in every quarter 
of that ancient fabric* Some of them are covered with 
auch extravagant epitaphs, that, if it were possible for 
the dead p'erson to be acquainted with them, he would 
blush at the praise which his friends liave bestowed upon 
bim. There are others so excessively modest, that 
they deliver the character of the person departed in 
Greek or Hebrew; and by that means, are not under- 
stood «ice in a twelvemonth. In the poetical quarter, 
1 found there were poets who had no monuments, tod 
monuments which had no poets. I observed, indeed, 
that the present war had filled the ahurch With many of 
these uninhabited monuments, which had been erected to 
the memory of persons, whose bodies were perhaps buried 
in the plains of Blenheim, or la the bosom of the ocean. 
I could not but be very much delighted with several 
modem epitaphs, which are written with great elegance 
of expression and justness of thought, and which, there- 
fi>re> do honor to the living as well as to the dead. At 
e foreigner is very apt to conceive an idea of the igno- 
rance or politeness of a nadon, from the turn of their 
public monuments and inscriptions, they should be sub- 
mitted to the perusal of men of learning and genius be- 
fcre they are put into execution. Sir Cloudsly Shovel's 
monument has very often nven me great offence. In- 
stead of the brave rough English Admiral, which was 
the distinguishing aharacter of that plain gallant man, 
he is represented en his tomb by the figure of a beau, 
dressed m a long periwig, and reposing himself upon vel- 
Tet cushions, under a canopy of state. The inscription is 
answerable to the monument ; for, instead of celebrat- 
ing the 0uuiy remarkable actions he had performed in 

156 LESSONS [Past I. 

the semces of his country, it acquaints us only with the 
manner of his death, in which it was impossible for him 
to reap any honor. The Dutch, whom we are apt to 
despise for want of genius, show an infinitely greater 
taste in their buildings and works of this nature, than 
we meet with in those of our own country. The mon- 
uments of their admirals, which have been erected at 
the public expense, represent them like themselves, and 
are adorned with rostral crowns and naval ornaments, 
with beautiful festoons of seaweed, shells and coral. 

I know that entertainments of this nature are apt to 
rise dark and dismal thoughts in timorous minds and 
gloomy imaginations ; but for my own part, though I 
am always serious, I do not knew what it is to be melan- 
choly ; and can therefore, take a view of nature in her 
deep and solemn scenes, with the same pleasure as in her 
most gay and delightful ones. By this means, I can 
improve myself with objects which others consider with 
terror. When I look upon the tombs of the great, 
every emotion of envy dies in me ; when I read 'the epi- 
taph of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out ; 
when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, 
my heart melts with compassion ; when I see the tomb 
of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of griev- 
ing for those whom we must quickly follow. When I 
see kingn lying by those who deposed them ; when I con- 
sider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy meu that 
divided the world with their contests and disputes ; I re- 
flect with sorrow and astonishment, on the little compe- 
titions, factions and debates of mankind. When I read 
the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yester- 
day, and some six hundred years ago, I consider that 
gieat day, when we shall all of us be cotemporaries, and 
make up our appearance together. 

III.— 7%f Character of Mary^ Queen of Scots. ^^ 


TO all the charms of beauty, and the utmost elegance 
of external form, Mary added those accomplishments 
which render their impression irresistible. Polite, affa- 
ble, insinuiting, sprightly, and capable of speaking and of 
writing with equal case and dignity. Sudden, however* 

Smvnt. nro IN REAIMSfi. 1ST 

and Yioleot in aO JwrmttachmeiitBybiMiaiise her htwA was 
VMiB And ttiisiispici^us. impatieat of contradictiafii be« 
oaute thfo had keoii accuitomad) finam her infancy to be 
treatofl aa a quocn. No atraogcr, on some occaalons, to 
diaaimulalioii) vrUoh^ la that perfidioua QDurty wfa^re she 
is^einled her edecetioDi was Yecfcooed amaAg the iieces* 
sAiy aft$ of govenMAcatt* Not insensijile to flatteiy> npr 
'WiCODSciotts of that pleasure wi^ wjbich almost everjr 
Womao^bebolds the iofiuence of her own ¥eaatr. Form* 
ed with the quiilities ^mt we love, not with the talents 
•4mI we admire, she. waa i(n agreeable woman, mther thaa 
%n illustrious queen* 

The vivaci^ of her ^iiit, not suttcientlf tempered 
with sound judgment, and the warmth of her heart, 
which was not at all times uodsT.the rcatraiot of discre* 
•lion, betrayed her both into eovers and into crimes* -To 
say that a^ was always uitfortunate, will not acc^^>«mt. 
&r that long and almost uninterrupted succea^on ofca^ 
bmitiss whic|i befel iter; .we muit Hkew^ise add, that 
she was often imprudent. Her {uuuuon for Daandf waa 
rash, youthful and excessive. And though the sudden 
transition V)-th.e ojpiposite extr^e, was.thenatttral effeet 
•f her ill requited Jeve, and of his ingratitude, "insolence 
•ad brutality {-r^et netther these, nor BothweU's airt- 
fol address and imfportant services, can jtistify her at* 
tachment to that nobleman. iJ^ven the manners of the 
age, licentbus as they .wene, ar^no apology lor thb en* 
happy, passion i nor .can. they induce us to look on that 
traf^ical andinfamoms scene wldch followed upon it^ 
with less abhorrence. jHumaiuty wiU draw a veH over 
this part of her.chasacter, which it cannot approve, an4 
saiafi perhaps, paorapt some to impute her a^dohsto her 
tft>Mitiop,.mare th&a to her disposition ; and to li^mei^ 
the imhap^i^se <i the ;lbrmer, rather than to accuae the 
perirerseoesufthe;latter. J4ary's8u!lbnngse3qcecd,l)olli 
j(n <tegree.apd in ^^ration, those tragical distresses which 
jGuicy.hasieigned, to excite soroow and comroiaeralioh; 
and while we anrvey them, we are apt altsg«Aer to.fcMv 
fpet her .frailties ; wje think eC heri&Ults vrith less indig^^ 
Batioo, ai|d. approve of our tears, as if they were shed 
£>rt a. pecson^who hadattaiQed much nearer to pore virtue. 

iS8 lil»S0N8 jTAlbrl* 

With regard to the queen's person, a circtiivtstance 
not to be omitted in writing the historf of a female 
reign, ail cotemporary authors agree in ascribing to 
Mary the utmost beauty of countenance, and elegance 
of shape, of which the human form is capable* Her 
hair was black, though according to the leishicm of that 
age, she frequently wore borrowed locks, and of differ* 
' ent colors. Her eyes were a dark gray, her complexion 
exquisitely fine, and her hands and arma remarkably 
delicate, both as to shape and color. Her stature was 
of an height that rose to the majestic. Sfape danced, she 
walked and rode with equal grace. Her taste for 
music was just; and <sbe both sung aqd played upon the 
lute, with uncommon skill. Towards the end of her 
Ufe, she <began to grow fat^ and her long confinement^ 
and the coldness ofthe houses in which she was impris- 
oned, brought on a rheumatism, which deprived her of 
the use of her limbs. No man, says B^ntome, ever 
beheld her person without admiration and love, or wi^ 
read her history without sorrow. 

•- W.'^Chttracter ^ Queen EHzoBeth^'^livuEi 

THERE are few personages in history, who have bett 
more exposed to the cal<rainy of enemies, and the adu» 
iation of friends, than Queen Elizabeth $ and yet there 
scarce is any, whose reputation has been more certainly 
determined, by the unanimous consent of posterity. The 
unusual length of her administration, and the strong 
features of her character, were able to overcome all 
prejudices; and, obliging her detractors to abate muck 
of their inveetives, and her admirers somewhat of tlv^ 
panegyric, have, at laa^ in spike of political, factions, 
and what is more, of reUgiotts animosities, produced an 
uniform judgment with regard to her c<Miduct. Her 
vigor, her constancy, her magnantmily, her penetration, 
vigilance and address, are allowed to merit the highest 
praises ; and appear not to have been sucpassed by any 
[>er90!^ i«4io ever filled a ttoone ; a conduct less rig^r- 
>us, less imperious, moreaincere, more indulgent to her 
leople, maoidhavo beeti requisite to fiorm a perfect 

Sbw. ft.] in reading. 159 

character. By tbc force of her ndnd, she centrolkd all 
her more actiye Mid atrooger qualitiesi and prevented 
^em from running; into excess. Her heroism was ex-' 
empted from all temerity, her frugality from avarice, 
her friendship from partiality, her enterprise from tur* 
bulency, and a vain amhkion ; she guarded not herself, 
with equal care or equal success, from lesser infirmities 
r^the rivalship of heauty, the desire of admiration, the 
jealousy of love, and the sallies of anger. 

Her singular talents lor government were founded 
equally on her temper and on her capacity. Endowed 
with a great command over herself, she soon obtained an 
uncontrolled ascendant over the people $ and, while she 
merited all their esfteem by her real virtues, she also en- 
^ged their affection by her pretended ones. Few sov- 
•reigns of Etngland succeeded to the throne in more dif- 
licuh circumstances, and none ever conducted the gov- 
ernment with such uniform success and felicity. Though 
unacquainted with the practice of toleration, the true 
secret for tnanaging religious fections, she preserved her 
people by her superior prudence, from those confusions 
in which theological controversy had mvolved all^tlp 
neighboring nations ; and though her enemies were the 
most powerful princes of Europe, the most active, the 
most enterprising, the least scrupulous, she was able, by 
her vigor, to make deep impressions on their state ; her 
own greatness meanwh^e, remsuning untouched and un« 

The wise ministers and brave warriors who fiourish- 
«d during her reign, share the praise of her success ; but, 
instead of lessening the applause due to her, they mske 
great addition to it They owed, all ol them, their ad- 
Tancement to her ch<»ce ; they were supported by her 
constancy ; and, with all their ability, they were never 
aiiie to acquire an undue ascendant over her. In her 
fitmtly, in her eottrt, in her kingdom, she remained 
equally mistress. The force of her tender passions was 
great over her, bttt the for^ of the mind was still supe- 
rior ; and the combat which her victory visibly cost her, 
serves only to display the firmness of her resolution^ and 
the lofidnesa of her Mabitious seatoents. 

The fame of tluar priiioeft$) tfaougtl k b»r tumounted 
the prejudkef both of faction and of bigotiy^ yet liei 
still exposed to another prejudice^ which is more dura»- 
ble, because more natural ; and which, according to the 
different vieirs in which we surrey her, is capable eithet 
of exalting beyond measure^ or dimiiushing the loitit 
oi her character. This prejudice it founded oo the ccm^- 
sideration of her sek. When we contemplate her aaa 
woman, we are apt to be struck with the hi^heiti admi* 
•ratba of htf qualities^ and estensiif«e capacity ^ but we 
are also apt to req^uire some more softnees of ^poutian^ 
same greater lemty of temper, some of those amiable 
weaknesses by which her sex is distinguished.' But the 
true method of estimating her merit, is to lay aside aE 
these considerations, and to consider her merely aii a ra^^ 
tional being, placed in authority, and trusted with the 
goyermnent of mankind. We may find it difficult t^ 
reconcile our fancy to her, as a wife or a mistresaf but 
her qualities aa a sovereign, though with some consider » 
able exceptions, are the objects of indisputed applause 
and approbation. 

Vr-^CharUi V's EedgnaHon ^f IHt Dftminion^^'^ 


CHARLES resolved to resign his dominioi^s to his 
son, with a solemnity suitable to Che importance of th^ 
transaction ; and to perform this last act of sovereignty 
with such formal pomp, as might leave an indelible im^ 
pression on tl)e minds, not only of his subjects, but of his 
successor. With this view, he called PhiUp out of £n^ 
gkuid, where the peevish temper of his queeit, which in* 
creased with the despstir of having issuer rendered him 
extremely unhappy, and the jealousy of the EngliBh left 
him no hopes of Qb^inipg thie diret^tien of their aflRsks. 
Having assembled the slates of the Low Countrie^M 
Brussels, on the twenty^-fifth of Octohf r^ one thousand 
five hundred and fifty-ftve> GharkK^ sealed himself, fov 
the last time, in the chair of state, eto oirie side of which 
was placed his son, and on the other, his stater, the Queen 
of Hanii^ary, regent of the Netherlands; with a spktidsd 
retinue, of the ^randeea of ^paio^iwd pvinoea of the 

Bnm. IV.] IN BBABIKO. l<i 

t>ire} standing behind him. The president of the coun* 
eil of FlanderS) by his command, explained, in a few 
wordsi his intention, in calling this extraordinary meet- 
ing of the states. He then read the instrument of re- 
signation, by which Charles surrendered to his son Phil- 
ip aU his territories, jurisdiction and authority in the 
Low Countries, absolving his subjects there, from' their 
oath of allegiance to him, which he required them to 
transfer to Philip, his lawful heir ; and to serve him, 
vf ith the same loyalty and zeal which they had manifest- 
ed, duriiig so long a course of years, in support of his 

Charles then rose from his seat, and leaning on t?ie 
shoulder of the Prince of Orange, because he was una- 
ble to stand without support, he addrsssed the audi- 
ence ; and from a paper which he held in his hand, 
fa) order to assist his memory, he recounted with digni^ 
ty, but without ostentation, all the great things which 
he had undertaken and performed, since the commence- 
ment of his administration. He observed, that from the 
seventeenth year of his age, he had dedicated all his 
thoughts and attention to public objects, reserving no 
portion of his time for the indulgence of his ease, and very 
little for the enjoyment of private pleasure ; that either 
in a pacific or hostile manner, he had visited Germany 
nine times, Spain six times, France four times, Italy se v- 
%n times, the Low Countries ten times, England twice, 
Africa as often, and had made eleven voyages by sea ; 
that while his health permitted him to discharge his 
duty, and the vigor of his constitution was equal, in any 
degree, to the arduous olEce of governing such extensive 
dominions, he had never shunned labor, nor repined un- 
der fatigue ; that now, when his health was broken and 
his vigor exhausted, by the rage of an incurable dis- 
temper, his growing infirmides admonished him to re- 
tite ; nor was he so fond of reigning, as to retain the 
sceptre in an impotent hand, which was no longer able 
to protect his subjects, or to render them happy ; that, 
instead of a sovereign worn out with disease, and scarce- 
ly hair alive, he gave them one in the prime of life, 
accustomed already to gorem} and who added to the 

irigpr of y«i«tb,.«n tb9 altrnitioii and Mgadtj oC mat^r* 
0r years; that ii^ during the course of a loQg adminis? 
tratioDt he bad committed any o»at;erial error in gov« 
emmenti or if under the pressure of so many, and great 
aftirsy and amidst the attention which he had beei> 
iMiged to give them^ he had either neglected or injured 
WDf of his subjects^ he now implored their forgiveness i 
ikzXf for his part, he should ever retain a gra£bful sense of 
their fidelity and attachment^ and would carry the re« 
memhrance of it along with him to the place of his re** 
Iveat, as the sweetest consolation, as well as the best re*' 
ward for all his services; and, in his last prayers to AN 
vJighty Ood| wo!lld pour forth bis ardent wishes for their 

Then, turning towards Philip, who fell upon his kneesi 
and kissed his fother's hand, ^nij*' said he, » I had left 
jout by my death, this rich Inheritance, to which I 
have made suck large additions, some regard would 
have been justly due to my memory on that account | but 
now, when I voluntarily resign to you what I might have 
still retained, I may well expect the warmest expressions 
of thanks on your part With these, however, I dis« 
peiMM i and shall consider your concern for the welfare 
of your subjects, and your love of them, asihe best and 
most acceptable testimony of your gratitude to me. It 
is in your power, by a wise and virtuous administration, 
to ju^y the extraordinary prooi^.which I this day givei 
of my paternal affections, and to demonstrate that yon 
are worthy of the confidence which I repose in you* 
Preserve an inviolable regard for religion; maintain the 
Catholic faith in ita purity ; let the laws of your country 
he sacred to your eyes ; encroach not on the rights and 
privileges of your people ; and, if the time shall ever 
come, when you shall wish to enjoy the tram^uUlity of a 
|0ivate life, nsay you have a son endowed with such 
Viali^es, that you can resign your sceptre to hkny witk 
if much satisfaction as 1 give up mine to you.'^ 

^ As soon as Charles had finished this long address ta 
his subjects, and to their new soverei^, he sunk into 
Ibe chair, exhausted and ready to faint with fatigue 
^ sQ/^h aneftsfrndinary tShiU Piunog, ihia dbfiounei 

l^«i^ It.] IN BEilDIMO. ±6* 

the «bol« audi«ttoe melted iato lean ; tomCf from ad- 
Qiiratian of iiit magnanunity ^ others softened by tbe 
expreasiont of tendernesa towards his sost and of love 
to his people; and all|Vero affected with the deepest 
aorrowi at losing a sovereigny who had disUnguished the 
Netherlands, bis native country, with particular mark» 
of his regard and attachment. 

A few weeks tbereaftery Charles^ in an assembly na 
less splendidi and with a ceremonial equally as pompousr 
resigned to his son the crown of Spain^ wkh all the ter<« 
ritories depending on them, both in the oki| and in the 
new world. Ol all these vast possessions^ he reserved 
nothing for himself but an annual pension oif an hundred 
thousand crowns, to defray the charges of his family^ 
and to afford him a small sum for^aets of beneficence 
and charity* 

The place he bad chosen, for his retreat, was the mon<« 
astery of St. Justus, in the province of Estremadmn. 
It was seated in a vale of no great extent, watered by a 
small brook, and surrounded by rising grounds, covered 
with lofty trees** Fr6m the nature of the soil, as weH a» 
the temperature of the climate, it was esteemed the 
most healthful and delicious situation in Spain. Some 
months befinre his resignation, he had sent an architect 
tbither, to add a new apartment to the monastery, tot 
bis acGommodat^n ; but he gaye strict orders, that tiie 
style of the, building should be such as suited his present 
ntuation, rather than his former dignity. It condsted on^ 
If of six rooms ; four ^ them in the form of friar^s cellsy 
with naked walls ; the other two, each twenty feet squarey 
were hung with bruwn cloth, and famished in the most 
simple mamier. They were all on a lerel with tbe ground^ 
with a door on one side into a garden, of which Charles 
himself had given the plan, and which he had filled with 
various plants, intending to cultivate them with his own 
hands. On the other side, they commnnicated with the 
chapel of the monastery, in which he was to perform hit 
devotioBs. Into this humble retreat, hardly sufficient for 
the eomfortable accommodation of a private gentlemanf 
did Charles f^nter, with tivctve domestics only. He 
buried there, in solitude and^UcDce, his grandeur; and U* 


ambitioB) together with all those vast projectil, wfaicfi^ 
during half a centutyy had alarmed and; agitated £u- 
rope, filling etery kiiigdom in it, by turnS) with the 
terror of his armSi and the dread of being subjected to 
his power. 

Vl^-^Imfiortance of Virtue.^^FiLiCE. 

VIRTlJE is of intrinsic vaiue> and good desert, and 
of indispensible obligation, not the cieature of will, but 
necessary and immutable ; not local or temporary, but 
of equal extent and antiquity with the Divine mind ; 
not a mode of sensation, but everlasting truth } not de- 
pendant on power, biit the guide of all power. Virtue 
is the foundation of honor and esteem, and the source of 
all beauty, order and happiness, in nature. It is what 
confers value on all the other endowments and qualities 
of a reasonable being, to which they ought to be abso- 
lutely subservient ^ and without which, the more eminent 
they are, the morehidisous deformities, and the greater 
curses they become. 

The use of it is not confined to any one, stage of our 
existence, or to any particular situation we can be in, 
but reaches through all the periods and circumstances of 
our betogs. Many o^ the endowments and talents we 
iK)w possess, at)d of which we are too apt to be proudr 
will.ceaseeDcirely with the p.-esent states but this wilf 
be our ornament and dignity, in every future state, to 
which we may be removed. Beauty and wit will die^ 
learning will vanish away, and ^(hearts of life be soon 
ibrgot 5 but virtue will remain forever. This unites us 
to the whole rational creation } and fits us for convers- 
ing with any order of superior natures, and for a place 
in any part of God's works. It procures us the approba- 
tion and love of all wise an^ good beings, and renders 
them our allies and friends. But what is of unspeaka-. 
biy greater reasequencet is, that it makes God our 
friend, assimilates and unites our minds to his, and en- 
gae^eshis Almighty power in our defence. Superior 
Winp:s of all ranks are hound by it, no less than ourselves. 
It hns the same authority in all worlds that it lias in 
this. The further any being is advanced in excellence 


jtod petbctkntf the gitaMr !• bis attachment te it^ alid 
the more he IS under its inifieiiee. Toaaj no in«re» k 
is the law of the whole iiniTerset it stands first in the es» 
^mation ef the Deity ; its orifpoal is his natnyO) and it 
Is the very object that makes mmloTely* 

&iich is the importance of Tirtue.--Of what eoase* 
^mce, therefore, is it that we practice it ? There is no 
argument or mative^in any respect fitted to influence » 
reasenable mind, which does not call us to this. One 
'virtuous dispotttion of softl) is preferable to the greateat 
BStaral accomplishments and abilities, and of more val- 
uethanallthetreasuresoftbe world.— if you are wise,, 
then study yirtue, and cfontemn every thing that can 
^orae in competition with it. Remember that nothing 
else deserves one anxious thought or wish. Remember 
&at this alone is honor, glory, wealth and happinesa 
Secure tiusand you secure every thing. Lose tbis^ and 

- Yll,'"^Jddre$9 I? wifr^— HAitars. 

d ART 1 Thou distinguished attribute and honor of 
human kind 1 Who art not only able to imitate nature 
VI her graces^ but even to adorn her with graces of thine 
dwn ! Possessed of thee, the meanest geniUs grows de* 
seryiog, and has a just demand for a portion of our es- 
teem ; devoid of thee, the brightest of our kind lie lost 
and useless^ and are but poorly distinguished from tho 
most despicable and base, When^ we inhabited forests^ 
in common with brutes, not otherwise known from them 
than by the figitre of our species, thou taughtest us to 
assert the sovereignty of our nature^ and to assume that 
empire for which^rx>Tidence intended us. Thousands of 
utilities owe their birth to thee ; thousands of elegancies, 
pleasures and joys, without which life itself wimld be 
but an insipid possession. 

Wide and extensive is the reach of thy dominioin. N9 . 
element is there, either so violent or so subtile, so, yield*- 
ing or so slut^gish, as by the powers of its nature to be 
superior to thy direction. Thou drcadest not the fierce 
impetuosity of fire, but compellcst its Violence to be both • 
ejbedknt and useful. By it thou softenest the stubborn 

Mtf LBSSONB pPjU» & 

tribe of minerals^ so as to he formed and liiovilded mto 
ahapes innumerable. Hence weapons, armor, coki; 
and, previouB to these and thy other works and energie% 
hence ail tboae various tools and instruments^ which em* 
power thee to proceed to farther ends more . excellenii 
Nor is the subtile air less obedient to thy power, whether 
thou wiliest it to be a minister to our pleasure or utiii>> 
ty. At thy command, it giveth birth to sounds, wfaieli 
charm the soul with all the powers of hu^mony. Undet 
thy instiuction it moves the ship over «eas.; while that 
yielding element, where otherwise we sink, even warter 
itself, is by thee taught to bear us ; the vast ocean, to 
promote the intercourse of nations, which igooranee 
would imagine it was destined to intercept. To say how 
thy influence is seen on earth, would be to teach th« 
meanest what he knows already. Suffice it but to men* 
tion, fields of arable and pasture ;. lawns^ and grove% 
and gardens, aiKl plantations ; cottages, villa^^a^ eas^ 
ties, towns ; palaces, temples, and spacious cities. 

Nor does thy empire end in subjects thus inanimate. 
Its power also extends through the various race of ani- 
mals, who either patiently submit to become thy slaveSf^ 
or are sure to find thee an irresistible foe. The faithful 
dog, the patient ox, the generous horse, and the mighty 
elephant, are content all to receive their instructitms 
from thee, and readily do lend their natural instinct or 
strength to perform those offices which thy occasions 
call for. If there be found any species which are ser^ 
vicable when dead, thou suggestest the means to inves- 
tigate and take them ; if any be to savage as to recuse 
being tamed, or of natures fierce enough to venture an 
attack, thou teachest us to scorn their brutal rage ; to^ 
meet, repel, pursue and conquer. 

• Such, O Art, is thy amazing influence, when thou 
art employed only on thesk5 inferior subjects, on naturea 
inanimate, or at best irrational. But whenever thou 
choosest a subject more noble, and settest to the C\iliiva- 
tlon of mind itself^ then it is thou becomest truly atniable 
and divine — the overflowing source of those subliraer 
beauties, gf which no subject but mind alone is capable. 

SB9S. IT.} IN ffiBADING. Mf 

T hen It 18 thoa «rt enabtod to exhiliit to maakind the ad* 
mired tribes of poets and ontors ; the sacred train of 
fctrioto and heroes ; the godlike list of philosc^liers and 
legisiators ; the forms cs virtuous and equal politics ; 
where private welfare is made the same with public— 
where crowds themselves prove disinterestedi and virtue 
ie made a national and poplar characteristic. 

iiaili sacred source of ail these wonders ! Thyself, in« 
etnict me to praise thee worthily ; through whom, what* 
ever we do, is done with elegance and beauty ; without 
whom, wluawedois ever graceless and deformed.— 
Venerable power! By what name shall 1^ address theel 
Shall 1 call thee omftment of the mind^ or art thou more 
Iruly Mind itself? It is Mind thou art, most perfect 
Mind : Not rude, untaught ; but fair and polished. In 
auch thou dweilest ;— of such tliou art the forjn ; nor is 
it a thing more possible to separate thee from such, than 
it W(ittld be to separate thee from thy own existence. 

VIIL — /^/a/rrry.— THEOPHRASTrs. 

FLATTERY is a manner of cor.versation very shamc- 
Fu) in itself, but beneficial to the flatterer. 

If a flatterer is upon a public walk with you, <' Do but 
mind,** says he, " how cvciy one's eye is upon yoo. 
Sure, there is not a man in Athens that is taken so much 
notice oC You had justice done you»yesterday, in the"^ 
portico. There were above thirty of us together ; and, 
ithe question being started, who was the most considera- 
ble persoif in the commonwealth^— the whole company was 
of the same side. In shovt. Sir, every one made familiar 
with your name." He follows this whisper with a thou- 
sand othenfiatteries of the same nature. 

Whenever the person to whom he would make his 
court, begins to speak, the sycophant begs the company 
to be silent, most impudently praises hkn to his face, is 
in raptures all the while he talks, and as soon as he has 
^nc, cries out, « That n perfectly right I" When his 
patron aims at being witty upon any man* he is ready to 
burst at the smartness of his raillery, and stops his mouth 
with his handkerchief, that he may not laugh out. If he 
palls his chUdreo about him^ ths flitocer has a pocket 

170 l4E$SONS [Pa&t. I. 

truth of it is, bis eyes are open, but he makes no use of 
them, and neither sees you, nor any man, nor any thing 
else. He came once from his country house, and his 
own footmen undertook to rob him aiM succeeded. 
They held a flambeau to his throat, and bid him deliver 
his purse. He did so ; and coming home, told bis friends 
he bad been robbed. They desired to know the partic* 
ulars.— ><< Ask my servants/' said Menacles i << for they 
were with me.*' 

X.— iTAe JlfoxA-.— Sternb. 

A POOR Monk of the order of St. Francis, came In* 
to the room, to beg something for his ccmvent. The mo- 
ment I cast my eyes upon him, I was determined not 
to give him a single sous i and accordingly I put my ]!urse 
into my pocket — buttoned it up— set myself a little more 
upon my centre, and adi^nced up gravely to him; there 
was something, i fear, forbidding in tny look : I have 
his picture this moment before my eyes, and think there 
was that in it, which deserved better. 

The Monk, as I judged from the break of his tonsure, 
a few scattered white hairs upon his temples being all 
^lat remained of it, might be about seventy— but from 
his eyes, and that sorted fire which was in them, which 
seemed more tempered by courtesy than yc^ars, could be 
no more than sixty.— Truth might lie between. He was 
certainly sixty five ; and the general air of his coun* 
tenance> notwithstanding something seemed to have been 
planting wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the 

it was one of those beads which Guido has often 
painted-^mild, pale, penetrating ; free from all common 
place ideas of fat contented ig;norance, looking down- 
ward^ upon the earth. It looked forward ; but leoked 
as if It looked at something beyond this world. How 
one of his order came by it heaven Sfboye, who let it fa^ 
Upon a Monk^s shoulders, bestknovfs ^ but it would have 
suited a Bramin ^ and had I met it upon the plains of 
Indostany I had reverenced it* 

The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes | 
onemightputjtintothe hands of anyone to design; 

Sect. IT.] IN READING. 171 

for it was neither elegant Dor otherwise, but at charac* 
ter and expression made it so. It was a thin, spare 
Ibrtri, something above tht common size, if it lost not 
th^ distinction by a bend forward in the figure-— but 
it was the attitude of entreaty ; and as it now stands pres- 
ent to my imagination, it gained more than it lost by 

When he had entered the room three paces, he stood 
still ; and laying his left hand upon his. breast (a slender 
White staff with which he journeyed being in his right) 
when I had got close up to him, he introduced himself 
with the little story of the wants of his convent, and the 
poverty of bis order— and did it with so simple a grace, 
and such an air of deprecation was there in the whole 
cast of his look and fegur^— I was bewitched not to have 
been struck with it. 

»— ^Abetter reason was, I had predetermined not to 
give him « single sous. 

'Tis very true said I, replying to a east upwards with 
bis eyes, with which he had concluded hia addrest-*>it it 
very true«-*and heaven be their resources, who have no- 
other but the charity of the world ; tke stock of wbichy 
I fear is no way sufficient for the many great ciaimt 
which are hourly made upon it. 

As I pronounced the words ^ear clatmt^ he gave a 
slight glance with his eye downwards upon the sleeve of 
Kit tunic*-I felt the full force of the appeal— I acknowl* 
edge it, said I— a coarse habit, and that bat once in three 
years, with a meagre diet-*>are no great matters ; but 
the true point of pity is, as they can be earned in the 
vrorld with so little industry, that your order should wish 
to procure them by pressing upon a fund, which is the 
property of the lame, the blind, the aged and the in- 
firm ^— the captive, who lies down counting over and 
over again, in the days of his affliction, languishes also 
for his share of it ; and had you been of the order of mer- 
cy, instead of the order of St Francis, poor kt I am, con- 
tinued I, pointing at my poi tmanteao, full cheerfully 
should it have been opened to you, for the ransom of the 
unfortunate. The Monk made me a bow. But, resum- 
ed I) the unfortun of our own country, surely 

172 LESSONS (f ART I, 

have the first rights; and I have left thousands in dis- 
tress upon the English shore. The Monk gave a cor* 
dial wave with his head-^as much as to say, No doubt | 
there is misery enough in every comer of the worl^, as 
well as within our convent. But we distinguish, said I^ 
laying my hand upon the sleeve of his tunic, in return for 
his appeal — we distinguish, my good father, betwixt 
those who wish only to eat the bread of their own labor 
—and those who eat the bread of other people, an(} 
have no other plan in life, but to get through it in slotb 
and ignorance, for the love of God. 

The poor Franciscan made no reply ; a hectie of Sk 
moment passed across his cheek,but he could not tany.— 
Nature seemed to have done with her resentments in 
'him. He showed none — but letting his staff fall within 
his arm, he pressed both his hands with resignation oi^ 
his breast, and retired. 

My heart smote me the moment he shut the door. 
Pshaw ! said I, with an air of carelessness, three sever- 
al times. But it would not do ; every ungracious syU 
lable I had uttered, crowded back in my imagination. ( 
reflected I had no right over the poor Franciscan, but to 
(leny him ; and that the punishment of that was enougl^ 
to the disappointed, without the addition of unkind lanr 
guage— I considered his gray hairs, his courteous fig- 
ure seemed to reenter, and gently ask me what injury he 
had done me, and why I could use him thus ? — I would 
have given twenty livres for an advocate — 1 have behav* 
ed very ill, said I, within myself ; but I have only just set 
put upon my travels, and shall learn better manners as I 
get along. . 

XI— On the Headdress gfthe X.flflft>*.— SpBCTATOtt. 

THERE is not so variable a thing in nature, as a la- 
dy's headdress ; within my own memory, I have 
known it rise and fall above thirty degrees. Abput ten 
years ago, it shot up to a very great height, insomuch 
that the female part of our species were much taller than 
the men. The women were of such an enormous stat- 
ure, that « we appeared as grasshoppers before them." 
At present,the whole sex is in a manner dwarfed,& shrunk 
into a race of beauties, that seem almost another species. 

Bmvt. TV.] IM BEADING. i7$ 

.1 remember seteral ladies wliowere once yery near set- 
en feet hijg^h) that at present want some inches of five i 
How thejr came to be thus curtailed , I cannot learn ; 
whether the whole sex be at present under any penance 
which we know nothing of, or whether they have cast 
t^eir headdresses, in order to surprize us with something 
in that kind which shall be entirely new ; or whether 
some of the talleat of the sex, being too cuaning for the 
rest, have contrived this method to make themselves ap- 
pear sizeable, is still a secret : though I find most are of 
opinion, they are at present like trees new lopped and 
pruned, that will certainly sprout out, and flourish with 
greater heads than before. For my own part, as I do 
not love to be insulted by women whd are taller than 
myself, I admire the sex much more in their present 
humiliation, which has reduced them to their natural 
dimensions, than when they had extended their personsy 
and lengthened themselves out into formidable and ^- 
gantic figures. I am not for adding to the beautiful edi- 
fices of nature, nor for raising any whimsical superstruc- 
ture upon her plans; I must therefore repeat it, that X 
am highly pleased with the coiffure now in fashion, and 
think it shows the good sense which at present very 
much reigns among the valuable partof the sex. One 
may observe that women in all ages have iaken more 
pains than men to adorn the outside of their heads ; and 
indeed I very much admire that those architects who 
ndse such powerful structures out of ribbands, lace and 
wire, hare not been recorded for their respective inven- 
tions. It is certain there have been as many orders in 
these kind of buildings, as in those which hav^ been 
made of marble ; sometimes they rise in the shape of a 
pyramid, sometimes like a tower, and sometimes like a 
steeple. In Juvenars time, the building grew by sev- 
eral orders and stories, as he has very humorously dc* 
scribed it :^>— 

With curls sn curls they build her head before^ 
And mount it with s formidable tower ; 
A giantess the seems i but look behind* . 
Aflo then she dwindles to the pigmy kind» 

174 I.B860KS [PartL 

But I do not remember, in any part of my reading, that 
the headdress aspired to so great an extravagance, as in 
the fourteenth century ; when it was built up in a coupl« 
of cones or spires, which stood so excessively high on 
each side of the head, that a woman who was but >a pig- 
my without her headdress, appeared like a colossus up- 
on putting it on- Monsieur Paradin says, "That these 
oidfashioned fontages rose an ell above the bead, that 
they were pointed like steeples, and had long loose 
pieces of crape fastened to the tops of them, which 
were curiously fringed, and hung down their backs like 

The women might possibly have carried this Gothic 
building much higher, had not a famous monk, Thomas 
Connects by naYxie, attacked it with great zeal and reso- 
lution. This holy man travelled from place to place, 
to preach down tins monstrous .commode ; and succee- 
ded so well in it, that, as the magicians sacrifice their books 
to the flames, upon the preaching of an apostle,1hiany of 
the women threw down their headdress in^the middle 
of his sermon, and made a bonfire of them within sight 
of the pulpit. He was so renowned, as well ior the sanc- 
tity of his life, as his manner of preaching, that he ha4 
often a congregation of twenty thousand people ; the mea 
placing themselves on the one side of his pulpit ; and 
the women on the other— they appeared, to use the sim- 
ilittide of an ingenious writer, like a forest of cedars, 
with their heads reaching to the clouds. He so Warmed 
and animated the people against this m(»f)strous orna- 
ment, that it lay under a kind of persecution ; and 
whenever it appeared in public, was pelted down by 
the rabble, who flung stones at the person who wore it. 
But, notwithstanding this prodigy vanished while thie 
preacher was among them, it began to appear ttgain 
some.months after his departure, or to tell it in Mon- 
neur Paradin's own werds, << The women, that like 
snails in a fright, had drawn in their horns, shot thent 
out again as scon as t.^ie danger was pver." This ex- 
travagance of the womien's headdresses inthat $ige, ia 
taken notice of by Mt^Bsieur d'Argentre, iatiie luitary 


of Bretagne,and by other historians, as well as the per- 
son I have here quoted. 

It is usually observed, that a good reign is the only 
proper time for the making of laws against the exhorb:- 
tance of power ; in the same manner an excessive head- 
dress may be attacked the most effectually when the fash- 
ion is against it. I do therefore recommend tliis paper 
to my female readei's, by way of prevention. 

I would desire the fair sex to consider how impossible 
it IS for them to add any thing that can be ornamental, 
to what is already the masterpiece of nature. The head 
has the most beautiful appearance, as well as the highest 
station in the human figure. Nature has laid out all her 
art in beautifying the face : She has touched it with 
Vermillion ; planted in it a double row of ivory ; made it 
the seat of smiles and blushes ; lighted it up and enliv* 
ened it with the bnghtness of the eyes ; hung it on each 
side with curious organs of sense ; given it airs and gra- 
ces that cannot be described ; and surrounded it with such 
a flowing shade of hair, as sets all its beauties in the most 
agreeable light ; in short, dhe seemed to have designed 
the head as the cupola to the most glorious of her works ; 
and when we load it with such a pile of supernumerary 
ornaments, we destroy the symmetry of the human fig- 
ure, and foolishly contrive to call off the eye from great 
and real beauties, to cliildish gewgaws, ribbands and bone 

.XII.— 0« the ttrenent tLtid a future State. -^Ib^ 

A LEWD young fellow seeing an aged hermit go by 
him bareCsot, ^< Father," sayi^ he, ^ you ar^ in a very 
miserable condition, if there is not another world." 
** True» son," said the hermit ; << but what is tliy condi- 
tioD if there is ?"«-*Man is a creature deugned for two 
different states of being, or rather for two different lives. 
His first life is short and transient ; his second permanent 
and lastbg. The question we are all concerned in, is 
this— In which of these two lives is it t)ui' chief interest 
to make ourselves happy ? Or in other word s— - 
Wh/tther we should endearor to secure to ourselves the 
. pleasured and gratifications of a life which is imcertsdn 

17« LESSONS [Part L 

and precarious, and at Us utmost length, of a very incon- 
sidemble duration ; or to secure to ourselves the pleas- 
ures of a life which is fixed and settled, and will never 
end ? Every man upon the first hearing of this question, 
knows very well which side of it he ought to close with. 
But however right we are in theory, it is plain, that in 
practice V we adhere to. the wrong side of the question. 
Wc make provision for this life as though it were never 
to have an end ; and for the other life, as though it were 
never to have a beginning. 

Should a spirit of superior rank, who is a stranger to 
human nature, accideotally alight upon the earth, and 
take a survey of its inhabitants— *What would his no* 
tions of us be ? Would he not think that we are a spe« 
cies of beings made for quite different ends and purposes 
than what we really are I Must he not imagine that we 
Were placed in this world to get riches and honors ? 
Would he not think that it was our duty to toil alter 
wealth, and station, and title ? Nay, would he not be- 
^. lieve we were forbidden poverty, by threats of eternal 
punishment, and enjoined to pursue our pleasures, under 
pain of damnation ? He would certainly imagine that we 
were influenced by a scheme of duties quite opposite 
to those which arc indeed pi^scribed to,.us. And, truly, 
according to such an imagination, he must conclude that 
we are a species of the most obedient creatures in the 
universe ;— that we are constant to our duty ;— and that 
we keep a steady eye on the end for which we were sent 

But how great would be his astonishment, when be 
learnt that we were beings not designed to exist in this 
world above three score and ten years; and that the 
greatest part of this busy species, fall short even of that 
age ! How would he be lost in horror and admiration, 
when he should know that this set of creatures, who lay 
#ut all their endeavors for this life, which scarce de* 
serves the name of existence, when, I say, he should 
know that this set of creatures are to exist to all etemi^' 
in another life, fpr which they make no preparaticms ? 
Kothing can be a greater disgrace to reason, than that 
nieiii who are persuadt d of these two differt&t states «f 

gBoi. IT.] m BEADING. irr 

being) should be .perpetually employed in providing for 
<a life of three score and ten years, anid neglecting to make 
provision for that, which, after many myriads of years^ 
will be still new and still beginning ; especially when we 
censider, that our endeavors for making ourselves greatf 
or rich, or honorable, or whatever else we place our hap* 
pinessin, may, after all, prove unsuccessful ; whereas, if 
we constantly and sincerely endeavor to make ourselves 
happy in the other life, we are sure that our endeavors 
will succeed, and that we shall not be disappointed of 
our hope. 

The following question is started by one of our school- 
men. Supposing the whole body of the earth were a 
great ball or mass of tiie finest sand, and that a single 
grain or panicle of this sand should be annihilated every 
thousand years ?"— Supposing, then, that you had it in 
yeur choice to be happy all the while this pi'odigious mass 
of sand was consuming, by this slow method, until there 
was not a grain left, on condition that you were to be 
miserable forever after ? Or, supposing that you might 
fce haySpy forever after, on condition you would be mis- 
erable until tlie whole mass of sand were thus annihilat- 
ed, at the rate of one sand in a thousand years ;*-which 
of these t1leo cases would you make yeur choice ? 

It must be confessed, in this case, so many thousands 
ef years are to the Imagination as a kind of eternity^ 
tho^igh, in reality, they do not bear so great a proportion 
to that duratioti which is to follow them, as an unit does 
to the greatest number which you cwn put together in 
iigures, or as one of those sands to the supposed heap. 
Reason therefore tells us, without any manner of hesi- 
tation, which would be the better part in this choice. 
However, as I have before intimated, our reason might, 
in such a case, be so overset by imagination, as to dis- 
pose some persons to sink under the coT^sideration of the 
great length of the first part of this durati^Mi, and of the 
great distance of that second duration which is to ''suc- 
ceed it ; — the mind, I say, might give itself up to that 
happiness which is at hand, considering, that it is so very 
near, and that it would last so very long. But wh«?u 
the choice we ha?e actually before us is this— Whether 

178 LESSONS fPA»r !• 

we will choose to be happy for the space of aaly three 
score and ten, nay, perhaps of only twenty or ten years, 
I might say lor only a day or an hour, and miserable to 
all eternity ; or on the contrary, ini«erable for tius short 
term of years, and happy for a whole eternity-^what 
words are sufficient to express that tolly and want of con* 
sideration which, in such case, makes a wrong choice ! 

I hore put the case even at the worst* by supposing 
what seldom happens, that a course of vn tue makes us 
miserable in this life : But if we suppose, as it generally 
happens, that virtue would make us more happy, even 
lA this life, than a contrary course of vice, how can we 
sufficiently admire the stupidity or madness of those peiv 
sons who are capable of making so absurd a choice ? 

Every wise man, therefore, will consider this life on- 
ly as it may conduce to the happiness of the other, and 
cheerfully sacrifice the pleasures of a few years, to those 
of an eternity. 

XllL'^Uncle Toby*a Benevolence. ^^Stervz, 

MY uncle Toby was a man patient of injuries — ^not 
from want of courage. I have told you, in a former 
chapter, that he was a man of courage ! and I will add 
here, that, where just occasions prefsented, or called it 
forth, I know no man under whose arm I would have 
sooner taken shelter. Nor did this arise from any in« 
sensibility or obtuseness of his intellectual parts, for he 
* felt as feelingly as a man could do. But he was of a 
peaceful placid nature ; no janing element in him ; all 
was mixed up so kindly withib him, my uncle Toby had 
scarceaheart to retaliate upon a fly* 

Go*— says he, one day at dinner, to an overgrown one 
which had buzzed about his nose, and tonnented him 
cruelly all dinner time, and which, after in^nite attempts, 
h% had caught at last as it flew by him— I'll not hurt 
Ihee-— says my uncle Toby, rising from his chair, and 
going across the room with the fly in his hand — I'll not 
)mrt a hair of thy head : Go, says he, lifting up the sash, 
^^.jmd opening his hand as he spoke, to let it escape— go, 
" poor devil j get thee gone ; Why should 1 hurt th^e ? 

Seot. it.] in beading. ±79 

-—This world is surely wide enough to hold both thee 
and me. 

This lesson of universal good willi taught by iny un« 
cleToSy^may serre instead of a whole volume upon tht 

XIV.'— 5<ofy of the Seige of CataU. — FooL of quALiTT. 

EDWAI^D III, after the battle of Cressy,laid seige 
to Calais. He had fortified bis camp in so impregnable 
a manner, that all the efforts of France proved inefiectu<i( 
al to raise the seige, or throw succors into the city.— 
The citizens, under count Vienne, their gallant gover- 
nor, made an admirable defence.^-France had now 
put the sickle into Jier second harvest, since Edward^ 
with his victorious army, sat down before the town* 
The eyes of all Europe were intent on the issue. At 
length famhie did more ibr Edward than arms. — Af- 
ter suffering unhearcl of calamities, they resolved to at- 
tempt the enemy's camp.— They boldly sallied forth ; 
the English joined battle ; and, after a long and despe^ 
rate engagement, count Vienne vas taken prisoner, 
and the citizens who survived the slaughter, retired with- 
in their gates. The command devolving upon Eustace 
St. Pierre, a man of mean birth, but of exalted virtue : 
He offered to capitulate with Edward, provided he per- 
mitted lum to depart with life and liberty. Edward, Xm 
avoid the imputation of cruelty, consented to spare the 
bulk of the Plebians, provided they delivered up to 
him six of their principal citizens, with halters about their 
necks, as victims of due atonement for that spirit of re- 
bellion, with which they had inflamed the vulgar. When 
Ills messenger. Sir Walter Mauny, delivered the terms, 
consternation and pale dismay were impressed on every 
countenance^-— To a long and dead silence, At^^ sighs 
and groans succeeded, till Eustace St. Pierre, getting up 
to a little eminence, thus addressed the assembly :— 4 
<< My friendi, we are brought to great straits this day* 
We must either yield to the terms of our Cruerand en- 
snaring conqueror, or give up our tender infants, out 
wives and daughters to the bloody and brutal lusts of 
Ibo violating soldiers. Is there ,any expedient left. 



whereby we may avcnd the guilt and infemy of dtHyera 
ing up those who have suffered every misery with youy 
on the one hand ; — or the desolation and horror c^ a 

• sacked city, on the other ? There is, my friends j there 
is one expedient left ; a gracious, an e&celicnt, a godlike 
expedient 1 Is there any here to whom virtue is dearer 
than life ? — Let him offer himself an oblation tor the 
safety of his people ! He shall net fail of a blessed ap« 
f»robation from that Power, who offered up his oi>ly Son, 
for the salvation of mankind." He spoke — but ah uni- 
versal silence ensued. Each man looked around for the 
example of that virtue and magnanimity, which all wish- 
ed to approve in themselves, though they wanted the 
resolution. At length St. Pierre resumed," I doubt not 
but there are many here as ready, nay, more zealous of 
this martyrdom, than I can be ; though the station to 
which I am raised, by the captivity of Lord Viennc 
impans a right to be the first in giving my life for your 
•akes. I give it freely ;— 1 give it cheerfully. Who 

, comes next V " Your son,'* exclaimed a youth, not yet 
come to maturity. — "Ah, vny child," cried St. Pierre, 
" I am then twice sacrificed. — But no : -1 have rather 
begotten thee a second time. Thy years are few, but 
full my son. The victim of virtue has reached the ut- 
most purpose and goal of mortality. Who next, my 
friends I This is the hour of heroes." « Your kins- 
man,"! cried John dc Aire. " Your kinsman," cried 
James Wissant " Your kinsman," cried Peter Wissant 
-^< Ah !" exclaimed Sir Walter Mauny, bursting into 
tears, " Why was not I a citizen of Calais !" The sixth 
victim was^ still wanting} but was quickly supplied by 
lotf from numbers who were now emulous of so enno- 
bling an example. The keys ef the city were then de- 
livered to Sir Walter, He took the six prisoners into 
his custody ; then ordered the gates to be opened, and^^ 
gave charge to his attendants to conduct the remainin|^ 
citizens, with their families, through the camp of the 
English. Before they departed, however, they desired 
permission to take their last adieu of their deliverers.- • 
What a parting ! What a scene ! They crowded, wi i 
their wives and children, about St Pierre h • 

4b«s !▼*] IN ABASIN«. IM 

tow prisonem* Thef - embraced— -Uiey elung arouiMt^ 
they fell prostrate before them. They groaned— >they 
wept aloud— and the joint clamor of their mourning 
passed the gates of the city, and was heard throughout ' 
the English camp. The English by this time, were 
apprised of what paased within Calust They heard the 
▼<Mceof lamentadoo,and their souls were touched with 
eompafMioa. Each of the soldiers prepared a portion of 
hif owf) victuals, to welcome and entertain the half fam^ 
lahed inhabitants ; and they loaded them with aa much 
as their present weakness was able to bear, in order to 
supply them with sueteaance by tiie way. At length 
St. <iPierreand his fellow yictims appeared under the 
conduct of Sir Walter and a guard. All the tents of 
the English were instantly emptied. The soldieri pour* 
ed from all parts and arranged themselves on each side, 
to behold, to contemplate, to admire this little band 
of patriots, as they passed. They bowed down to them 
m all sides. They murmured their applause of thaik 
irirtue^ which they could not but reyere« even In ene^ 
mies ; and they regarded those ropes which they had 
voluntarily assumed about their necks, as ensigns of 
greater digaitf jthan that of the British garter. As soen 
as they had reachedthe presence, ^Mauny,**says the mon« 
fo^, ^ are these the principal inhabitants of Caleb V* 
r— ^ They arc,*' says Mauny : «« They are not only the 
|irincipal men of Calais— they are the principal men o£ 
France, my Lord, if virtue has aay share m the act of 
eanobling/* « Were they delivered peaceably ?*' says 
Edward. ^ W^s there no resistance, no commotion 
among the people ?" ^ Not in the least, my Lord ; the 
people would all have perished, rather ^an have deliv^ 
ered the least of these te your majest*. They are self 
4elivered, self devoted ; and come to offer up their in- 

atimable heads, as an ample equivalent for the ransom 
thousands.'* Edward was secretly piqued at this re- 
ply of Sir Walter : But he knew the privilege of a Brit- 
ish subject, and suppressed his resentment <* Experi- 
ence,** says he, ^ has ever shown, that lenity only serves 
to invite people to new crimes. Severity, at times, is 
indispensably necessary to compel subjects tosubmissioSf 


ist LESSONS i ji^AmT r: 

hy pumsbnftent and example. *^ Go,'* he cried to an dK- 
cer, ^ lead these men to execution/* 

At this instant a sound of triumph was heard throughi 
•ut the camp. The queen had just arriyed with a pow- 
erful reinforcement of gallant troops. Sir Walter Mauny 
flew to receire her majesty, and briefly informed her m 
the particulars respecting the six yictims. 

As soon as she had been welcomed by Edward and 
Ids coart, she deured a private audience. *^ My Lord,** 
said she, ^the question I am to enter upon, is net 
touching the lives of a few mechanics— it respects the 
honor of the English nation ; it respects the glory of 
my Edward, my husband, my king. You thit)k yoU 
have sentenced six of your enemies to death. Nt6, Miy 
Lord they have sentenced themselves ; and their exe<» 
Gution would be the execution of their own orders, not 
the orders of Edward. The stage on which theiy would 
suffer, would be to them a stage of honor, but a stage 
of shame to Ed#ard ; a reproach on his conquests ; ati 
indelible disgrace to his name. Let us rather disappoint 
these haughty burghers, who wish to invest themselves 
with glory at oyr expense. We cannot wholly deprive 
them of the merit of a sacrifice so nobly intended, but we 
may cut them short of their desires ^ m the phice of 
that death by which their glory^ would be consummate, 
let us bury them under gms ; let us put them to cjonfii- 
aion with applauses. We shall thereby defeat them of 
that popular opinion, which never fails to attend those 
who suffer in the cause of virtue." « I am convinced ; 
you have prevailed. Be it so," replied Edward : " Pre- 
vent the execution ; have them instantly before us.*'—* 
They came ; when the queen, with an aspect and ac« 
cents diff*usbg sweetness, thus bespoke them ;-^<< Na« 
tives of France, and inhabitants of Calais, you have put 
us to a vast expense of Mood and treasure in the recovery 
of our just and natural inheritance ; but you have acted 
up to the best of an erroneous judgment ; and we ad* 
mire and honor in you that valor and virtue, by .which 
we are so long kept out of our rightful possessions. You 
tioble burghers ! You excellent citizens ! Though you 
were tenfold the enemies of our person and our thrmet 

8b€t. it.] in beading. 188 

"ve can feel nothing on our part save respect and affec* 
tion for you. You have been sufficiently tested. We 
loose your chains ; we snatch you from the scafTeld ; and 
-me thank you for that lesson of ^humiliation which you 
teach us, when >ou show us that excellence is not of 
blood) of title or station ; — that virtue gives a dignity 
superior to that of kings ; and that those whom the Al- 
SDtghty infonnsy with sentiments like yours, are justly 
mnd eminently raised above all human distinctions. Yoa 
ftreaewfceeto depart to your kinsfolk, your co«*itry- 
iBon, to all those whose lives and liberties you have so 
mMf redeemed, provided you refuse not the tokens of 
Qur esteyem. Yet we would rather bind you to our8e)v?ft 
by every endearing obligation ; and for tlus purpose, we 
offer to yo«i your choice of the gifts and honors that Ed- 
ward has to bestow* Rivals for fame, but always friends 
to virtue, we wish that England were entitled to call you 
lier 80Ds«"**-^^ Ah, my country I" exclaimed St. Pierre | 
^itls new that I tremble for you. Edward only wins 
mir citicfef but PhiUippa coiK|iiers hearte." 


L— 0« Gr0€e in IFW/fi>^.— FmsBomiiB's LBrnslk 

I WILL not vmdertake totnark out} with anjr ••rt rf 
precittoD} that ideairhich I would express by ^s 
word Gruce s atkl perhaps it can no morebe clearly de^ 
scribed, than justly denned. To give yon, howeyer, ♦ 
general intimation of whatl mean, when lapply thatterm 
to compositioas of genius, I would resemble it to thaA 
easy air, which so remarkably distingnishes certidn per^ 
sons of a genteel and liberal cast. It cofiiiste not oi^ 
In the particular beauty of single parts, but arises from 
the general symmetry and construction of the whole^— ^ 
An author maybe just in his sentiments, lively in bis 
figures, and clear in his expression ; yet may have no 
claim to be admitted into the rank of finished writers. 
The several members must be so agreeably umted, as 
mutually to refieet beauty upon each other ; their arrange* 
ment roust be so happily disposed, as not to admit of the 
least transposition without manifest prejudice to the en« 
tire piece. The thoughts, the metaphors, the alludons 
^nd the diction, should appear easy and natural, and seem 
to arise like so many spontaneous productions, rather 
than as the effects of art or labor. 

Whatever, tiierefore, is forced or affected in the sen- 
timents ;— -whatever is pompous or pedantic in the ex- 
pression, is the very reverse of Gi*ace. Her mien is nei* 
ther that of a prude nor a coquette ; she is regular with* 
out formality, and sprightly without being fantastical. 
Grace, in short, is to good writing, what a proper light 
is to a fine picture : It not only shows all the figures in 
their several proportions and relations, but shows them 
in the most advantageous manner. 

As gentility (to resume my former illustration) ap* 
pears in the minutest action, and improves the most in- 
i^onsiderable gesture $ so grace is discovered in the plac*> 

Sara. T<] LESSONS Of S&ABIMO. lt» 

iagw^theuBgle wordfortte turn of a mere ezple* 
tare. Neither is this ioexpresaiUe quality ccHifiiied to 
one species of composition ooly* but OKtendsto all the 
various kinds ;-m4o the humble pastoraif as well as to 
the loft J epic i^-from the slightest letter} to the most 
solemn discourse. 

I know not whethm* Sir William Temple may not be 
considered aa the irst of our prose authors^ who intro^ 
duced a graceful manner into our language. At least 
that quality dees not seem to have appeared early, or 
apveadfar anumgst us. But wheresoeyer we may look 
iar iXM origin, it is certainly to be fiuind in its highest 
perfection, in the esssys of a gentleman, whose writings 
will be dii^uiguisbed so long as politeness and good sense 
have any admirers. That becoming air which Tully 
esteemed u&e criterion of fine composition, and which 
every reader, he says, imagines so easy to be imitatedy 
yet will find so difficult to attain, is the preyailing char* 
acteristic of ail that excellent author's most elegant per* 
formanees. In award, one may justly apply to him 
what Plato, in his allegorical language, says of Aristo- 
phanes^ that the Graces, having searched all the world 
round for a temple, wherein they mighA forever dwell, 
"Settled at last in the breast of Mr. Addison. 

II.F— 0;i the Structure %f jinitnaU.^-SFmoTATOR. 

THOSE who were skilful in anatomy among the an- 
cient^ concluded from the outward and inward maKe of 
a human . body, that it was the work of a being trans* 
^eodantly wise and powerful. As the world grew more 
enlightened in this art, their discoveries gave them 
fresh opportqnities of admiring the conduct of Provi- 
den(:e, in the formation of a human body. Galen was 
converted by his dissections and could not but own a 
Supreme Being, upon a survey of his handy work. There 
were indeed, many parts of wbich tlie old anatomists 
did not know the certain use ; but as they saw that most 
of those which they examined were adapted with admir- 
able art, to their several functions, they did not ques- 
tion but tho&e, j/ebose uses they could not determine^ 
were eontriyed with the same wisdom> for respective 

•iidf afid purposes. Sinee the drcaliSSea 0E the tkood 
has been found out) aad many other great (kscoYeiiee 
iMYO been made by out modem amMiDiftifr we ae^ nam 
wondera in tht human framot and diacern aereral im* 
potiant uses for those parts, which uaea^ the aneieate 
knew noting of. In short, the body of amki is auoh aaub* 

r^t, as stands the utmost test of eiuiininadon. Though 
appears formed with the nicest wisdom, upon the 
Biost superficial survey of it, it still roendsuponthe aearchy 
and produces our surprise and amaaeniieot, inproportiSD 
as we pry into it. What I have here said oi a huflsaa 
body, may be appHed to the body of every anhBad which 
bks been the subject of anatomical observations. 

The body of an animal is an object adequate to oer 
aenses. It is a particular system of Providence, that iktm 
in a narrow compass* The ^e is able to conimand it$ 
«m1, l^ successive inquiries, cui searah into all its parts. 
C^uld the body of the whole earth, er indeed the whole . 
universe, be thus submitted to the examination of our 
•enses were it not too big and disproportioned for our 
inquiries, too unwieldy for the manageasent of the ef 
and hand, there b no question but It would appear to- us» 
ns curious and well contrived a frame as that ^ a human 
body. We should see the same concatenation aaHai^^ 
serviency, the same necessity and usefulness, the same 
beauty and harmony, in all and every of its parts, as 
what we discover in the body of every single aninud. 

The more extended our reason is, and the more abljs 
to grapple with immense objects, the greater still me 
those discoveries which it makes, of wisdom and prev 
idence, in the works of crea^on. A Sir Isaac Newton^ ^ 
who stands up as the miracle of the present age, can look 
through a whole planetary system ; consider it in its 
weight, number and measure ; and draw from it as me- 
ny demonstrations of infinite power and wisdom, as a 
more confined undei^anding is able to deduce from the 
system of a human l^dy 

But to return to our speculations on anatomy, I shall 

here consider the fabric and texture of the bodies of an- 

lals in one particular view, which, in my opinion^ 

..^ws Ibebsoiddf a thinking and aUifiaeBeuig in their 

JtaMW. T.] IN BBAmNO. iS7 

btaoMaa^ with Ike evideiiM of a thMsaod demoufttm- 
lk»«., I UuDkwe^nMf Ujr tbk down lui an incooieaud 
pnacipiotthal chance never acu ioa perpetual unifomi* 
iqr and. coAUitenee with iUelC If one should alwaja 
Aini; the same number wkh tenthoutand dice>or see 
ttverjr thiow juat five timea letat or five timea morei in 
immber, than the throw whkh immediately preceded it, 
who would not imagine there waa tome invUible power 
whichdirected the cast? This la the proceeding which 
. we find in the operation of nature. Every kind of an* 
iasal is divorsifiedby difierentmagnitudesyeach of which 
.giveariee to a different apeciea. Let a man trace the 
dog or lion kiod»and he will observe how many of the 
worka of nature are publiahedt if I may use the expres* 
sieny In n yarie4r oC editiona. If we look into the rep* 
Rework!, or into those different kinds of animals tl^it 
.fill the element of water, we meet with the same repe* 
titaona among several species, that differ very little from 
oneanetlrar, but in sine and bulk. You find the same 
ereatnr^ that is drawn at large, copied out in seveial 
yicq^mtsonst and ending in miniature. It would be te- 
dious ta produce instances of this regular conduct in 
Frovideiice,it would be superfluous to those who are 
>vetsed in the natural history of animals. The magnifi- 
cent harmony of the universe^ia such, that we may ob« 
serve kmumerable divisions running upon the same 
ground. I might also extend this speculation to the dead 
partacl'miture,in which we may find matter di^>osed 
into many similar systems, as well in our survey of stars 
aiMlplaiiets,asofstO0e% vegetables, and other subluna* 
ty parts of the creation. In a word. Providence has 
shown the richness of its goodness and wisdom, not onlgr 
in the production of many original species, but in the 
multiplicity of descants which it has nuide on every orig* 
inal spedes in particular. 

But to pursue this thought still fiirther— Every ]iv«' 
ing cresture, considered in itself, has many very compli- 
cated parts, Uiat are exact copies of some other parte 
which it powesses, which are complicated in the same 
manner. One eye would have been sufficient for the 
tubais^nce and preservation of ao animal ; but in order w 

better his condiliony tresee another placedy wkh a naO^ 
ematicalexactnesByio thesame most advantageous situ- 
atiooyand in every fuirticalar>ot the same aize and tex- 
ture. It is impoMible for chance to be thua delicate and 
uniform in her operations. Should a miUion of di(^ 
turn up twice together in the same numhery the wonder 
would be nothing in comparison with this. .But-wiiim 
we see this similitude and resemblance in the. arm^ the 
hand, the fingers ; when we see cme half of the body ea^- 
tirely correspond with the ether, in all those minute 
strokes, without which a man might have very well sub* 
sisted ; nay, when weoften see a single part repeated an 
hundred times in the same body, notwithstanding it cpor 
, sists of the most intricate weaving of numberless fibresp 
and thes6 parts differing still ki magnitude, as the ^con^^ 
venience of their particular situation requires; sure a 
man must have a strange castof understandings irho. does 
not discover the finger of God in so wonderful a work i 
These duplicates, in those parts of the body, without 
which a man -might have very well sub»sted, though not 
so well as with them, are a plain demonstration of aa 
all wise Contriver ; as those more num^dus .oopying^s 
which are found among the vessels of the ,same body 
are evident demonstrations that: they could not b«.- th^ 
work of chande. This argument receives additional 
strength, if we.afpply it to every animal and inseot with* 
in our knowledge, as well as to those, nu'mbedes^ living 
creatures, that are objects too minute for an human eye t 
And ifwe consider how the several species ia this whole 
world of life resemble, one another, in very many particu-* 
lars, so far as is convenient for their respective states 
of existence, it is much more probable that an hundred 
million of dice should be casually thmwn an> hundred 
million.oftimesinthe same number, than that the body 
of any single animal should be produced by the fortuity 
ous concourse of matter. And that the like cbaoce 
should arise in innumerable instances^ requires a degree 
of credulity that is not under the direction. of common 

•m^ v.] in MEAOSHG. im 


IT is of great uae to. consider tlie Pletsnres wliicb 
constitute human happinessi as they are distinguished in* 
to Natural and FantasticaL Natural Pleasures I call 
those which, not depending on the fashion abd caprice 
•f'anf particular age or natimi) are suited to human na* 
ture in general, and were intended, by Proyidence, as re* 
wards fcr using our facutttes agreeably to the ends lor 
which they are giren to us. Fantastical Pleasures are 
those which, haying no natural fitness to delight our 
minds, presuppose some particular whim or taste, acci- 
dentally prevailing in a set of people, to which it is ow« 
ing that they please. 

Now I take it, that the tranquillity and oheerfulneso 
with whkh I haye passed my life, are the effects of hay* 
Ing, ever since I came to years of discretion, continued 
rsij inclinations to the former sort of pleasuvcb. But 
as my experience can be a rule only to my own actions^ 
it may probably be a stronger motiye to induce others to 
the same scheme of life, if they would consider thai we 
are prompted to natural pleasures, by an tnsdnct impress 
acd on our minds by the Author of our nature, who best 
understands our frames, and consequently best knows 
what those pleasures are, which will give us the least 
uneashiess fti the pursuit, and the greatest satisfaction in 
the enjoyment of them. Hence it follows, that the ob« 
|ects of our natural deares are cheap, and easy to be ob- 
tained % it being a maxim that holds throughout the 
whole systetn of created beings, ^that nothing is made 
& vain,** much less the instincts and appetites of animals, 
which the beneyolence, as well as the wisdom of ^ the 
Deity is concerned to proyide for. Nor is the ?ftaiition 
of those objects less pleasing^hanthe acquiutionis easy; 
atjd'tiie pleasure is heightened by the sense of having ^ 
finsweredsome natural end, and the consciousneslr of ' 
ac^g in concert with the Supreme Goyemiu* of the u- 

Under natuM pleasures I comprehend those which 
are uniyersally suited, as well to the rational as the sen* 
aual part of our naturOr • And of the pleasures which af* 

tM liESSQINft / < l^^mrh 

fectoursenses, those oDlyar^tQ. be eateei|ied natural, 
that are contained within the rules of reason, which is 
allowed to be as necessary an ingredient of human nature, 
as sense. And indeed, excesses of any kind arc} 
hardly to be esteemed pleasures, much less natur* 
al pleasures ,-. 

It is evident that a^desire terminated in money is fam: 
lastical ; so is the desire of outward distinctions, which 
bring no'dtiligbt of sense, nor recommend us as useful to 
mankind ; and the desire of things, nierely because they 
are new or foreign. Men who are indisposed to a dus 
exertion of their higher parts,, are driven to such pur- 
suits as these, from the restlessness of the mind, and the 
sensitive appetites being easily satisfied. It is, in some 
tort, owing to the bounty of Providence, that, disdain- 
ing a cheap and vulgar happiness, they franco to them* 
selves imaginary goods, in which there is nothing can 
taiae desire, but the difficulty of obtaining them. Thus 
inea become the contrivers of. their own misery, as a 
punishment to themselves, for departing from the 
measures of nature* Having by an habitual reflection en 
these truths, made them familiar, the effect is, that I, 
among a number of persons who have debauched their 
aatural taste, see things in a peculiar light, which I have 
mrrived at,not by any uncommon force of genius, or acquir* 
ed knowledge, but only by unlearning the false no* 
tions instilled by custom and education^ 

The various objects that compose the world, iwere» by 
nature, formed to delight o\ir senses j apd as it is 
this alone that makes them desirable^to an uncorrupted 
vtate, a man may be said naturally to possess them, wben 
he possesses those enjoyments which they are fitted, by 
nature toyield. Hence it is usual with me to consider 
myself as having a natural property in every object that 
administers pleasure tame. Whe^ I am in the coun* 
try^ all the fine seats near the place of ipy residence^ and 
to which I have access, I regard as miiie. , The same t 
think of the groves and fields where I walk, and >niuse 
en the folly of the civil landlord in London, who has 
the fantastical pleasure of draining dry rent into his 
coffers, but is a stranger to the. freib./lii' and rural enjoy- 

8seT. T.] m BEADING. -iM 

menu. By these principles, I am posietae4 of half a 
.4ozeji of tke finest seato in England, which, in the eye of 
the law belong to certun of my acquaintance, who bo- 
ing men 9f buMnesa, choose to liye near the court. 
^ In some great famines, where I chose to paas my 
time,a stranger would be apt to rank me with the other 
domestics; but, in my own thoughts and natural judg* 
ment, I am master of the house, and he who goes by 
that name is my steward, who eases me of the care of 
providing for myself the convenience and pleasures of 

When I walk the streets, I use the foregcung natural 
ibaxim, viz. That be is the true possessor of a thing, 
who enjoys it, to convince my self that I have a property 
in the gay part of all the gilt chariots tliat I meet, which I 
regard as amusements designed to delight my eyest and 
the imagination of those kind people who sit in them, 
gaily attired, only to please me, I have a real, they only 
an imaginary pleasure, from their exterior embellish" 
taent Upon the same principle, 1 have discovered 
that I am the natural proprietor of all the diamond neck* 
)aces,the crosses,stars, brocades and embroidered clothes 
Which I see at a play or birth night, as giving more nat* 
Ural delight to the spectator, than to those that wear 
them. " And I look on the bcaus and ladies as so many 
paroquets in an aviary, or tulips in a garden, designed 
purely for my diversion. A galleiy.of pictures,a cabinet 
Or library, that I have free access to, T think my own. In 
a word, all that I desire is the use of thii^s, let who will 
have the keeping of them ; by which maxim I am grown 
on«ofthe richest men in Great- firitidn ; with this dif- 
ference-^That I am not a prey to myown cares,or the 
«nvy of others. 

The same principles I find of great use in my private 
Economy. As I cannot go to the price of history paint-* 
in^, I have purchased, at easy rates, several beauttiully 
designed pieces of landskip and perspective,, which are 
iBuch Thove pleasing to a natural taste^ than unknown 
&ces or Dutch gambols, though done by the best mas* 
^^ts i my couches, beds and window curtains are of Irish 


stftt; wfaiclittotet»f that nation work ^erjr fine, and whb 
« delightful muttare of colora. There ia not a piece of 
Tchina in my house $ hut 1 have glasses of all sorts, aad 
some tinged with the finest colors;, which are not the 
less pleasmg because they are doiAe»tiC| and cheaper 
than foreign toys. Every ihing h neat, entire and clea% 
-and fitted to the taste of ooe who would rather be happff 
than ^ thought rieh. , . 

Every day numberless innocent and natural gratifica*- 
tions occur to me, whHe I behold my fellow creatures 
laboring In a toilsome and absurd pursuit of trifles ^ one, 
that he may be called by a particular appellatioli ; an- 
other, that he may wear a particular ornament, which I 
regard as 4 piece of riband, that has an agreeable effect 
on my sight, but is so far from supplying the place of 
merit, where it is not, that it serves only to make the 
want of it more conspicuous. Fair weather is the joy of 
iny soul ; about noon, I behold a blue sky with rapture, 
and receive great consolation from the rosy dashes of 
light which adorn the clouds both morning and. evening. 
When I am lost among the green trees, I do not envy 
a great man, with a great crowd at his kvee. And I 
often lay aside thoughts of going to an opera, that I may 
enjoy the silent pleasure of walking by mponiight, or 
viewing the stars sparkle in their azure ground; which 
1 look upon as a part of my possessions, not without a 
4iecretindignation at' the talelessness <>f mortal men, 
who, in their race through lifie, overlook the real enjoy* 
fiients of it, > 

But the pleasure winch naturally sfiects a human mind 
with the most lively and transpoi!ting touches, I take to 
be the sense that we act in |he eye of infinite .wisdomy 
power and goodness, that, will crown our virtuous en- 
^avors here, wkh a hapfdn^A her^sAer, large as our 
ilesires, and lasting as our immortal $ouls. This b a 
perpetual spring of gladnesa in the nnnd. This lessens 
our calamities, and doubles our joys. Without this, 
the highest state of life is insipid ; and wlthil^ the low** 
eit is a paradise. 

•sot. ¥.] IN BEADING. 195 

iy.^The folly and Madnesa QfJmNii^n iUuMtraudj^ 

World. , 

AMONG the variety of subjects with which you havo 
entertained and instructed tl>e public>I do not remember 
that you have any where touched upon the foUy uid mad« 
nesa of ambition ; which, for the benefit of tliose who aie 
dissatisfied with tlieir present situations^ I beg leav€ to 
illustrate, by giving the history of my own life. 

I am the son of a younger brother, of a goo4 family^ 
who, at his decease, left me a little fortune of a hundred 
pounds a year. I was put early to Eton school, where 
I learnt Latin and Greek ; from which I wept to the 
uiuversity, where I learnt— ^not . totally to forget them« 
I came to my fortune while I was at college ^ and hav- 
ing no inclination to follow any profession, I removed 
myself to town, and lived for some ijime, as nK)s,t young 
gentlemea do, by spending four times my income. But 
it was my happiness, before it was too late, to fall in 
love, and to marry a very amiable young creatures 
whose fortune was just sufficient to repair the breach 
made in my own. With this agreeable companion I re- 
treated to the country, and endeavored, as well at I waa 
^ble, to square <my wishes te my oircurostances. In 
this endeavor I succeeded so well, that except a few 
private hankerings after a little more than I posaes^edt 
and now and then a sigh, when a^co^ch and six happened 
to drive by me in ¥ny itkllfts, I was a very happy 

I can truly assure you, Mr. Fitz A<]|pKn, that though 
our family economy was not much to be boasted o^ and 
inconsequence of it, we were f I equicntly driven to great 
. straits and difficulties, I experienced more real satisfac- 
tion in this humble situation, than I have ever done 
since, in more enviable circumstances. We were sqme* 
times a iUtle in' debt, but when money came in, the^ 
pleasure of discharging what we owed, was mmre than 
^ equivalent for the pain it put us to : and, though the ns^r** 
rownessof our: circumstances subjected us to in^y 
<:ares and anxieties, it served to keep the body in actiw,as 
Well as the mind ; for,as our garden was son>ewhat large, 
and required more hands to keep it in order, than we 


cmM aAnrd to hii^i we Iriwred daUy in it ourselTety 
and drew health from our necessities* 

I had a little boy who was the delight of my heart 
and who probaUy might hate been spoilt by nursing, if 
the attrition ofhis parents had net been otherwise em- 
ployed. His mother was naturally of a sickly constitu- 
tion ; but the affairs of her family, as they engrossed all 
lier thoughts, gaye her no time for complaint The ordi- 
nary troubles of Uie, which, to those who havenothmg 
else to think of, are almost insupportable, were less 
t«rriUe to us, than to persons in easier circumstances; 
for it is a certahi truth, ho'^ever your readers may please 
to receiyeit, that where the mind is divided between 
many eares, the anxiety is lighter than where there is 
«)ly one to contend with. And even in the happiest 
aituat]6n, in tte middle of ease, healtl) and affluence, the 
mind is generally ingenious at tormenting itself; losing 
the immediate enjoyment of those invaluable blessings, 
by the painful suggestion that they are too great for con« 

Theseare the reflections that I have had since; for 
I do not attempt to deny, that I sighed frequently for an 
Edition to my fortune. The death of a distant rela« 
tion, which happened five years after our marriage, gave 
mc thfs addition, and made me for a time the happi« 
est man living. My income was noM^ Increased to six 
hundred a year ; and I hoped, with a tittle, economy, 
to be able so make a figure with it. But the ill health 
^my wife,whMLki less easy circumstances had not 
touched me so nelrly,was now constantly in my thoughts, 
and soui^d ail my enjoyments. The consciousness, too, 
of having such an estate to leave my boy, made me so 
anxious to preserve him, that, instes^d of suffermg him tm 
run at pleasure, where he pleased, and grow hardy bjr 
exercise, I almost destroyed him by confinement 
We now did nothing in our garden,, because we were 
in circumstances to have it kept by others ; but as air 
and exercise wereneces^ry forourhealthsy we resolv* 
ed to abridge ourselves in some uuneeessary articles^ 
and to Set up an equippage. This, in time, brought with 
It a train of expenses, which we had neither prudence to 


foresee^nor courage to preyent. Fori «8 k eiiftUed in 
to e^ctend the circuit of our visits, it greatij increased 
our acquaiBtadce^ and subjected us to the neeessity of 
making eontinuai entertainments at homey in return for 
all those which we were inyited to abroad. The ohar* 
ges that attemled this new manner of Uyingy were much 
too great for the incoknp we possessed ; insomuch that 
we found ourselves, in a very short time^ more necessi- 
tous thah^ever. Pride would no^ suffer us to lay dowo 
our equippage ; and to live in a manner unsuitaUe tot it, 
was what we could not bear to think of. To pay 0^ 
debts we had contracted^ I was soon forced tomortgage^ 
and at last to sell, the best part of my estate ; and as it 
was utterly impossible to keep up the parade any longert 
we thou{i:ht it advisable to remove on a suddeU) to sell 
our coach in town, and to look out for a new situation, at 
a greater distance from our acquaintance. 

But unfortunately for my peace, I carried the habit of 
expense along with me, and was very near being reduce 
ed to absolute want, when, by the unexpected death of 
an uncle and his two sons, who died within a few weeks 
of each other, I succeeded to an estate of seven thousand 
pounds a y^ar. •^ 

And now, Mr. Fitz Adam, both you and your readers 
will undoubtedly call me a very happy man ; and so in** 
deed I was. I set about the regulation of my family 
with the most pleasing sadsf action. The splendor of my 
equippages, the magnificence of my plate, the crowd of 
servants that attended me, the elegancelrfmy house and 
furniture, the grandeur of my park and gardens, the lux^ 
ury of my table, and the court that was every where paid 
me, gave inexpressible delight, so long as they .wer^ 
novelties ; but no sooner were they become habitual to 
me, than I lost all manner of relish for them ; and I dis* 
4:overed, in a little time, that, by having nothing to^ 
vishfor, Ihad nothing to enjoy. My appeUte grew 
palled by satiety, a perpetual crowd of visitors robbed 
me ofall my domestic enjoyment, my servants plagued, 
me, and my steward cheated me. 

But the eurse of greatness did not end here. Daily ex^ 
perience convinced me that I wascompelled toUve more 

196 LESSONS [Fabt. X 

for others than mjself. My uncle had been a great par- 
ty maD> and a zealous opposer of all ministerial meas- 
ures : and as his estate was the largest of any gentle>- 
Bian's in the country, he supported an interest in ity be- 
yond any of his competitors. My father had been 
greatly obliged by the court party, which determined 
me in gractitude to declare myself on that side ; but the 
difficulties I had to encounter, were too many and too 
great for me : insomuch that I have been baffied and 
defeated in almost every thing I have undertaken. To 
desert the cause I have embarked in, would disgrace 
me, and to go greater lengths in it would undo me. I am 
engaged in a perpetual state of warfare with the princi- 
pal gentry of the country, and am cursed by my tenants 
and dependents, for compelling them, at every electiot^ 
to vote (as they are pleased to tell mc) contrary to their 

My wife and I had once pleased ourselves with the 
thought of being useful to the neighborhood, by dealing 
out our charity to the poor and industrious ; but the 
perpetual hurry in which we live, renders us incapable 
of looking out for objects ourselves ; and the agents we 
ihtrust are either pocketing our bounty, or bestowing it 
on the undeserving^ At night, when we retire to rest, 
we are vcntintj our complaints on the miseries of the 
day, and praying heartily for the return of that peace, 
which was only the companiop of our humblest situation. 

This, sir, is my history ; and if you give it a place in 
y^our paper, it '^may serve to inculcate this important 
truth— *that where pain, sickness and absolute want are 
out of the question, no external change of circumstances 
can make a man more lastingly happy than he was be- 
fore. It is to the tgnorat^ce of this truth, that the univer- 
sal dissatisfaction of mankind is principally to be as- 
cribed. Care is the lot of life ; and he that aspires to 
greatness in hopes to get rid of it, is like one who throws 
himself into a fudnace to avoid the shivering of the ague. 
^ The only satisfaction 1 can enjoy in my present situa- 
tion is, that it has not pleased heaven, in its wrath, to 
make me a king. 

Bmov. T.] IN BEADING. Mf 


As the armies approached, the two generals went 
(rpm rank to rank encouraging their troops* Pompef 
represented to his men, that the glorious occasion which 
they had long besought him to grant, was now hefiMre 
them I << and indeed," cried he, << What advanUges 
could you wish oyer an enemy, that you are net now 
possessed of? Yeur numbers, your vigor, a late victory, 
all ensure a speedy and an easy conquest over those har- 
rassed and broken troops, composed of men worn out 
with age, and im|ffessed with the terrors of a recent de- 
feat : But there is a still stronger bulwark for our pvo* 
taction, than the superiority of our strength-^e justieo 

6 of our cause. You are engaged in the defence et liberty, 
and of your country. You are supportedby its laws, aiid 
followed by its magistrates. You have the world spec- 
tators of your conduct,and wisiiing you sMCcess<-M>n the 
contrary, he whom you oppose is a robber and oppressor 
of his country, and almost already sunk with the coo- 
aciousness of his crimes, as well as the \^ success of 
ills arms. Show then, on this occasion, all that ardor 
and detestation of tyranny, that should aniroate Romans, 
and do justice to mankind/' Cesar, on his side, webt a« 
mong his men with that steady serenity, for which he 
was t^ much adikiired in the midst of danger. He in- 
stated on nothing so strongly, to his soldiers, as his fre« 
quent and unsuccessful endeavors for peace. He talked 
with terror on the blood he was gling to shed, and 
pleaded only the necessity that ui^ged him to it. He de^ 
plored the many brave men that were to fall rni both 
udes, and the wounds oi his country, whoever should bo 
victorious. His soldiers answered his speech with looks 
of ardor and impatience } which observing, he |^ve the 
aignal to begin* The word on Pompey's side, was 
Heixuifi* iheinvincibie 4 that on Qt%9X%V€mM9 the vicio* 
riou9. There was only so much space between bothar- 

. mies, as to give room for fighting; wherefore, Pompey 

ordered his men to receive the first shock, without mov- 

ingoutof their places, expecting the enemy's ranks to 

be put into disorder by their motio&f Cesar's aoldifsrs 


iM LE6SON8 [Pabt t 

were nolr rushing on with their tisukl itnpetuositjr, when 
perceiving the enemy motionless) they all stopt shortf 
as if by general consent, and halted in the midst of their 
career. A terrible pauie ensued, in which both armies 
continued to gaze upon each other with mutual terror. 
At length, Cesar's men, having taken breath, ran furi» 
ously upon the enemy, first ^charging tl^ir javelins, 
and then drawing their .swords, '^he same method was 
observed by Pompey's troops, who as vigorously oppos- 
ed the attack. His cavalry, also were ordered to oharge 
on the very onset, which, with the multitude of archers 
and slingers, soon obliged Cesar's men to give ground ; 
whereupon, Cesar immediately ordered the six cohorts, 
that were placed as a reinforcement, to advance, with 
orders to strike at the enemy's faces. This had its de- 
sired effect. The cavalry, that were but just now sure 
of victory, received an immediate check ; the unusual 
method of fighting pursued by the cohorts, their aiming 
entirely at the visages of the assailants, and the horrible 
disfiguringweundsthey made, all contributes to intim- 
idate them so much, that, instead of defendiijlg their per- 
sons, their only endeavor was to save their faces. A 
total rout ensued of their whole body, which fied in great 
disorder to the neighboring mountains, while the 
archers and'slingers, who were thus abaiidoned, were 
eutto pieces. Cesar now commtuided the cohorts to 
pursue their success, and advancing, charged Fompey's 
troops upon the fiank. This charge the enemy with- 
atood f(» some time with greet bravery, till he brought 
up his third line, which had not yet engaged. Pompey's 
infantry, being thus doubly attacked in front by fresh 
troops, and in rear by the victorious ct^orts, could no 
longer resist, but fled to their camp. The right wing, 
however, sull valiantly maintained their ground. But 
Cesar being now convinced that the victory was certaiSf 
with his usual clemency, cried out, to pursue the 
strangers, and to spare the Romans ; upon which they all 
laid down their arms, and received quarter. The 
greatest slaughter was among the auxiliaries, who fled 
on all quarters, but principally went for safety to the 
•amp. The batUe had now li^ed from the break of 6uf 

SfiCT. V.} IN RBA6ING. iM 

lill noon, altbou gh the treather was extremely hot} the 
conquerors, howerer, did not remit theip ardor, beuif^ 
encouraged by the example of their general»who thought 
bis Tictory not complete till he became master of the en- 
emy's camp. Accordingly, marching on foot, at their 
head, he called upon them to follew, and strike the d#» 
cisire blow* The cohorts which were left to dielend the 
camp, for some time made a formidable resistance, par* 
^ularly a great number of the Thracians, and other bar- 
-barians, who were appointed for its defence ; but nothing 
could resist the ardor of Cesar's victenous army i they 
wereatlast driven from their retrenches, and all fied to 
the mountains, not &r off. Cesar seeing the field and 
camp strewed with his fisillen countrymen, was strongly 
alFected at so melancholy a4>rospect, and could not help 
trying out, to one that stood near him, <^They would 
have it so.'* Upon entering the enemy's camp, trtrj 
object presented fresh instances of the blind presumption 
and madness of his adversaries. On ail sides were to be 
aeentents adorned with ivy, and breaches <^ myrtles, 
couches covered with purple, and sideboards loaded 
with plate. Every thing gave proofs of the highest Itix- 
ury, and seemed rather the preparatives for a lm)quet,the 
rejoicings for a victory, than the dispositions for a battle. 
As for Pompey, who had formerly shown such instan- 
ces of courage and conduct, when he saw his caval- 
ry routed, en which he had placed his sole dependence^ 
he absolutely lost his reason. Instead of thinking how to 
remedy this disorder, by rallying such troops as fled, or 
by opposing fresh troops to stop the progress of the con- 
querors, being totally amased by this unexpected blow$ 
he returned to the camp, aad, in his tent, waited the issue 
of an event, which it was his duty to direct, not to 
follow. There he remained for some moments, without 
speaking ; till, bemg told that the camp was attacked, 
•* What," says he," " are we pursued to our very en- 
trenchments ?'* And immediately quitting his armor, 
for a habit more suitable to his circumstances, he fled on 
horseback ; giving way to all the agonizing reflections 
which his deplorable situation must naturally suggest.-— 
In this mehoicholy manner he passed along the vale fd 

M« USmONS . [Past 1 

T«m]^ and punubig the coane o( cbe riTor P^neai) «t 
lait arrifttd at a fisherman's hutf in which he passed tae 
nif ht. Frem thence he went onixmrd a little bark» ani 
kee|Hng alangthe seashorcy he descried a sh^iof some 
bttrdeoy which seemed prepared to sail| in whiafa ho 
embarked) the master of the vessel still paying him the 
homage which was due to his former station. From 
the mouth of the riveV Peneus he sailed to the Amphipo* 
lis ; wherO) finding his afCairs desperatCy he steered to 
Lesbos, to take in his wife Cornelia, whom he had. left 
thereiat a distance from the dangers and hurry of war. 
She, who had long flattered herself with the hopes of vic« 
tory,felt the reverse of her lbrtune,in an agony ot distress. 
She was desiied by the messenger (whose tears, more 
than words, proclaimed the greatness of her ausfortuoes) 
to hasten, ifAe expected to see Pompey, with but one 
ship, and even that net his own. Her grief, which be^ 
foTp was violent, became now insupportable ; she fis^inted 
away^andlay a considerable time without any signs of 
life. At length, recovering herself, and reflecting thst 
it was now no time for vain lamentations, she ran quite 
through the city to the seaside. Pompey embraced her 
without speaking a word, and for some time supported 
her in his arms, in silent despair. 

Having taken in Cornelia, he now continued his 
course, steering to the southeast, and stopping no longer 
than was necessary to take in provisions, at the ports 
that occurred in his passage. He was at last prevailed 
upon to apply to l^tolemy, king of Egypt, to whose fath- 
er Pompey had been a considerable benefactor. Ptolemy, 
who was as yet a minor^ had not the government in hU 
own hands, but he and his kingdom were under the di- 
rection of Photinus, an eunuch, and Theodotus, a master 
of the art of speaking. These advised that Pomp^ 
should be invited on shf^re, and there slain ; and accor- 
dingly, Achilles, the commander of the forces, and Sep- 
timius, by birth a Roman, and %?bo had ffi^rmerly been 
acenturianiu PoiTipvv'sarmy, were appointed to carry 
their opinion into execution. B ing attended by three 
or four more, they went into a liitle bark, and rowed off 
from land towards Pompey's ehip, tiiat lay about a 

9mfT. T.] IN BEADDfO. iMt 

.mile from^lhe riHire. Bompesr, after xMaf; lette of 
CorneUa, who wept at bis departure^ and havkg repeat- 
«d two verses of Sophocles, sigfitfjnngythat he whotrusU 
liSs^Ereedom to a tfrant, from that mome&l heconea 
» slave, gave his hand to AohiUes, and step! ioto the 
tNurk,, with odiy two aUendants of his own* Thtj 
had now rowed from the ship a good way« and ast doring 
-^lat time, they aU kept a prolbuiid silence, Pompey^ 
willing to begin the disGOurse,accosted Septimius, whose 
isee he recollected-— « Methinks, friend,'* cried he, 
^ you and I were once fellow«soldiers together." Sep- 
timius gave only a nod witli his head, without uttering 
a word, or instancing the least civility. Pompey, there- 
fore took out a paper, on which he had minuted a speech 
he intended to make to the king, and began reading 
k. In this mamier they approached the shore ; and 
Cornelia, whose concern had never suffered her to lose 
aight of her husband, began to conceive hope^ when 
she perceived the people on the strand, crowding down 
along the coast^ as if willing to receive him ; but her 
hopes were soon destroyed ; for that instant, as Pompey 
' rose, supporting himself upon his freedman's arm, Sep> 
timins stabbed him in the back, and was instantly sec- 
onded by Achilles. Pompey, perceiving his death in- 
evitable, only disposed himself to meet it with decency 
-—and covering his face with his robe, without speaking 
a word, with a sigh, resigned himself to his fate. At 
this horrid s]glit,Comelia shrieked so lood as to be heard 
to the shore ; but the danger she herself was in, did not 
allow themarinera time to look on ; they immediately 
set sail, and, the wind proving favorable, fortunately, 
•they escaped the pursuit of the Egyptain galleys. In 
the mean time, Pompey's murderers having cut off his 
head, caused it to be embalmed, the better to preserve 
its features, designing it for a present to Cesar. The 
body was thrown naked on the strand, and exposed to 
the view of all those whose curiosity.led them that way. 
Hoiif^ver, his faithful freedman, Philip, still kept near it; 
and when the crowd was dispersed, he washed it in the 
sea ; and looking round for materials to burn it with, he 
perceived the wreck of a fishingboat ^ of which he com- 


yoeed « fxye. While he irm tlras pMinlf employed, te 
was Accoftted bf en old Roman soldier, who |ia4 served 
iioder Poin|>ej in his ]POuth. << WtK> art thou," sud he^ 
«» that art malnng these hiimble preparations for F&m^ 
pey's funeral V* 'Philip having answered ^at he was one 
of i»s freedmen, " Alas T'repficd the soldier, << pertnit 
me to shate in tins honor also; among ail the misertei 
of my eKile^itwillbc^ my last sad comfort, that I havt 
been able to assist at the funeval of my old commander, 
and touch the body of the bravest general that ever 
Rome produced." After this they both joined in giv- 
ing the corpse the last rites ; and collecting his aslves, 
buried them undera little rising earth, scraped together 
with their hands ; over which Was afterwards placed the 
feilowkig inscription : <« He whose merits . deserve s 
temple, can scarce' find a tomb." 

VL— CAorartifr of Kit^ Alfred -^Htf mil. 

THE merit of this prince, both in private and public 
life, may, with advantage, be set in opposidon to that of 
any monarch or citizen, which the annals of any na* 
tion or any age can present to us. He seems, indeed, 
to be a complete model of that perfect character, which, 
under the denomination of a sage or wise man, the phi^- 
losophers have been fond of detineating, rather as a fie* 
tion of their imagination, than in hop^s of ever seeing 
it reduced to practice; so happily were all his viitues 
tempered together, so justly were they blended, and so 
pow^fuUy did each prevent the other from exceeding 
its proper bounds ! He knew how to eonciliate the bold- 
est enterpHze with the coolest moderation ; the most ob- 
stinate perseverance, with the easiest flexibility ; the 
most severe justice with the greatest lenity ; the most 
vigorous con)|nand with the greatest affability of deport- 
ment ; the highest capacity and inclination for sdence, 
with the most shining talents for action. His civil and 
military virtues are almost equally the objects of a§r ad- 
miration ; excepting, only, that the former being more 
rare among princes, as well as more useful, seem chieSy 
to challenge our applause. Nature* alse, as if desirous 
that so bright a production of her skill should be sot in the 


Mreit Sght hsa bestowed en Mm all bodily Aeeomplkh^ 
meott ; idgor of Umbe^diginlf of shape end air^nd a pleae* 
an^ eagagiiig and open countosance. Fortune aloDe) hf 
throwing him into that barbarouB age, deprived him of 
hittoriaiis wordvf to tranamit his &m9 to posterity ; and W0 
wish to see him delineated in more lirely colors, ,and 
with more parUcular strokeS) that we may at least per- 
criTe some of those small specks apd blemishes, from 
which, as a man, it is impossible he^ould be entirely ex- 

yiL'»^wkwardne€a in Co»0any.«— Chbstsrviblo* 

WHEN an awkward fellow first comes into a room» 
he attempts to bow, and his swcNrd, if he wears one, gela 
between his legs and nearly throws him down, (^on* 
foud and ashamed, he stumbles to the upper end of the 
room, and seats himself in the very plaoe where be 
should not. He there begins playing with his hat, which 
In presently drops ; and recovering his hat, he lets fall 
las cane ; and in picking up his cane, down goes his hat 
i^ain. Thus, 'tis a considerable time before he is ad<^ 

Whenhis tea or cotfee is handed to htm, he spreads 
Us handkerchief 9pon hia fcnees,scalds his mouth, drc^ 
either the cup or saucer, and dpills the tea or coffee in 
his lap. Atdinner, he* seats himself upon the edge of 
t^e chair, at Bo great a distance from the table that he 
frequently drops the meat between hk plate and his 
mouth ; he holds his knife, fork and spoon differently 
from other people ; eats with his ktdfe to the manifest 
danger of his mouth ; and picks his teeth with his fork. 
If he is to ca|^v«',he cann6t hit the joint ; but in laboring 
to cut t!ntiu|{t^ the bone, h^ splashes the sauce over ev- 
erjr body's efbthes. He generally daubs himself all 
over ;' his elbows are in the next person's ^late ; and he 
»up to the knuckles in soup a!nd grease. If he drinks, 
'tis witk his moutJi ftift, interrupting the whole compa* 
ny wit!P-<* To your good health, sir," and <♦ My service 
to ypu :" Perhaps coughs in his -glass and besprihkles 
the whole table. 

He addressee the Company by iipproper titles, as, Sirf 

mk JLB880N8 * VPamL 

feriHy L^rd $ tnitU^s one name fpr another \ and tdb 
^u of Mn What d'ye call laim, or You know who; 
Mrs. Thingum, What's her name^or How d'ye caliber* 
He begins a story; .but not being able to finish it| breaks 
oif in tthe: middle, with— ^^ I've forgot the rest." 

VlUr^Virtiu Man's highest i>f/frr«r.*-!-HAREi8. 

I FINDixiy self existing ufK>na little spot, surrounded 
every way by an immense unknown expansion-*— r 
Where am I I What soit of a place do I inhabit ? Is it 
exactly accommodated, in every instanGe, to my convei)r 
ience ? Is there no excess of cold, none of heat, to offend 
i)fie I Am I never annoyed by animals, either of my own 
kind or a different ? I9 eveiy thing subservient to me, 
as though I had ordered all myself? No, nothing like 
it— the farthest from it possible. The world, appears 
not, then, originally made for the priyate cQnveniejnce of 
me alone? It does not But is it not p(xssible so to ao* 
commodate it, by my own particular, indu&try ? If to ac- 
commodate man and beast, heaven and earth, if this be 
beyond me, it is not impossible. What consequenceytheni 
follows? Or can there be any other than this? If I 
aeek an interest of my own, detached from tha^t, of others. 
I seek an interest which ia chimeripak and can nj^ver 
have an existence. ' 

How ihen musti determiae ? Have I iiovi^terest at 
all ? If I h^^ernot, I am a fool for staying here ; 'Tis a 
amoa]^ hoose, and the sooner out of it the better. But, 
why no interest ^ Can I be contented with none but ooei 
separate aa^fdetached? Is a social interest,, joined vitb| 
others sueh an^absurdity as not to be admitted; Tb^i 
bee, the beaver, and the tribes of herding aipimals, arej convince me that the thing is somewhere, at| 
least, possibly Hpw then,am lassured thatjtls not equal^l 
ly true of man i Admit it, and what foUon I If so,, tbeoi 
honor.and justice are my interest ; then the whole uaia 
of moral virtvies are my interest ; without some poff 
taon of which, not even thieves can maintain aoci4|^. 

^ But farther sdll— I atop npt here.— I pursue this so 
cial interest as far as I can trace my several relations* 
{>ass &oip tfyj owi^ s|:ocky my own ^fighboriliood, nij 

ftw. v.] ' INffiBABINO. M$ 

•wn iittion$t» the whole race of mankind) as dispened 
throughout the earth. Am I not related to them all, 
1^ the mutual aids of commerce, by thS general inter- 
eeuree of arts and letters, by that common nature of 
which we all participate ? 

Again-«I must have food and clothing. Without a 
proper genial warmth, I instantly perish. Am I not re- 
ktcd, in this view, to the very earth itself ? To the dis- 
tant sun, from whose beams I derive vigor ? To that stu- 
pendous course and order of the infinite host of heaven, 
by which the times and seasons ever uniformly pass on ? 
Were thie order once confounded,. I could not probably 
survive a moment ; so absolutely do I depend on this 
•common, general welfare. What then have I to do 
I but to enlarge virtue into piety ! Not only honor and 
i justice, and what I owe to man, are my interest : But 
gratitude also, acquiescence, resignation, adoration, and 
^ all I owe to this great polity, and its great Govctnor^ 
^ oar common Parent 

\i IX.«-Oii the PlcoBure ariHng from ObjecU «/ Sight n 
i Speotator. 

THOSE pleasures of the imagination which arise 
«. from the actual view and survey of outward objects, all 
f proceed from the sight of what is grcatf uncamMonnv 
By Crreatne44i I do not only meio) the bulk of any 
. (iogle object, but the largeness of a whole view, consid* 
( ered as one entire piece. Such are the prospects of an 
} open champaign country^ a vast uncultivated desert, of 
: huge heaps of mountains, high rock and precipices, or 
» a wide expanse of waters ; where we ar^tot struck with 
; -the novelty or beauty of the sight but with that rude 
^ kind of magnificence, which appears in many of these 
1^ stupendous works of nature. Our imagination loves to 
j| be filled with an object, er to grasp at any thing that is 
if too big for its capacity. We are flung into a pleasing 
astonishment at such unbounded views, and feel a dt- 
lightf fil stillness and amazement in the soul, at the ap^ 
■"prehensions of them. The mind of man naturally^ hates. 
1 every thing that looks like restraint upon it, and is apt 
to fancy itself under a sort of confinement, when the 


»B LESSONS [Past, t 

ngfat is pent up in a nairofir compass, and sltorteoedy an 
eveiy side, by the neighbourhood of walls and mounlains. 
On the contrary, a spacious hwizon is an image of lib- 
erty, where the eye has room to ra^e abroad, to expa<* 
tiate at Isrge on the immensity of its views, and to lose 
itself amidst the Tariety of objects that offer them- 
selves to its observation. Such wide and undetermined 
prospects are pleasing to the fancy, as the speculations 
of eternity or infinitnde are to the understanding. But 
if there b<^ a beauty or uncommonness joined with this 
grandeur, as in a trouUed ocean, a heaven adorned with 
stars amd meteors, or a spacious landscape cut out into 
rivers, woods, rocks and meadows, the pleasure stiU 
grows upon us, as it rises from more than a single prin- • 

Every thing that is new or unelmmon raises a pleasure 
in the imagination, because it fills the soul with an a- 
greeable surprise, gratifies its curiosity, and gives it an 
idea of which it was not before possessed. We are, in- 
deed, so often conversant with one set of objects, & tired 
om with so many repeated shows of the same things, 
that whatever is new or uncommon contributes a littlo to 
vary human life, and to divert our minds, for a while, 
with the' strangeness of its appearsmce ; it serves ua for a 
kind of refreshment, and takes off from that satiety we 
' are apt to complain of, in our usual and ordinary enter- 
tainments. It is this that bestows charms on a monster, 
and makes even the impeifectbns of nature please us. , 
It is this that recommends variety, where the mind is 
every instant called off to something new, and the at- 
tmition not suffered to dwell too long, and wastte itself 
on any particiflar object : It is this, Ukewise, that im- 
proves what is great or beautiful, and makes it afford 
the mind a double entertainment. Groves^ fields and 
meadows are, at any seaiEon of the year, pleasant to look 
upon ; but never so much as in the opening of the spring, 
when they are all new and fresh, with their first gloss 
upon them, and aet yet too much accustomed and fa- 
miliar to the eye. For this reason, there is nothing that 
more enlivens a prospect, than rivers, jetteaus, or falls of * 
^ater, where the scene is perpetually shifting, and en« 

•sot. v.] in ABADING. S07 

tertaining the ftigiitcverf moment, with eomethbg that 
is new. We are quickly tired with looking upon hills 
and TallieS) where every thing continues fixed and set- 
tied in the same place and posturoi but find our thoughts 
a little agitated and relieved, at the sight of such objects 
as are ever in motion, and sliding away from beneath 
the eye of the beholder. 

But there is nothing that makes its way more directly 
to the soul, than beuuty^ which immediately diffuses a se- 
cret satisfaction and complacency through the imag- 
ination, and gives a finishing to any thing thut is great or 
uncommon. The very first discovery of it strikes the 
mind with an inward joy, and spreada.a cheerfulness and 
lielightthrough all its faculties. There is not perhaps, 
any real beauty or deformity more in one piece oi mat- 
ter than another \ because we might have been made so, 
that whatsoever now appears loathsome to us, might 
have shown itself agreeable ; but we find by experi- 
ence, that there are several modifications of matter, which 
the mind, without any previous consideration, pronounces 
at the first sight, beautiful or deformed. Thus we see 
that every different species of sensible creatures has its 
different notions of beauty, and that each of them is 
most affected with the beauties of its own kind. This is 
no where more remarkable than in birds of the same 
shape and proportion, where we often see the male de- 
termined in his courtship by the single grain or tinctuie 
of a feather, and never discovering any charms but in 
the color of its species. 

Thei*e is a second kind of beauty, that we find m the 
several product^ of art and nature, which does not 
work in the imagination with that warmth and violence, 
as the beauty that appears in our own proper species, 
but is apt however, to r«ise in us a secret deUght, and a 
kindof fondness for the places, or objects, in which we 
discover it This consists either in the gaiety or variety 
of colors, in the symmetry and proportion of parts, in the 
arrangement and disposition of bodies, or in a just mix- 
ture and concurrence of ail together. AmcMig these sev- 
eral kinds of beauty, the eye takes most delight in col- 
ors. We DO where meet with a more glorious or pleas- 

2QS jILiESSONS [Pakt I. 

iof show b oatiire» than what appears in the heaveiis at 
the rismg and setting of the suns which i<^ wholly made 
up ofthose different stains of li^ht^ that show themsehres 
in clouds of a different situation. For this'reascm we 
find the poets, who are always addressing themselres to 
the imagination, borrow mor^ of their epithets from 
colors, than from any other topic. 

As the fancy delights in every thing that is greae^ 
•trange or (^eautifuly and is still more pleased, thci more 
it finds of these perfection^ in the same object; so it is 
capable of receiving a new satisfaction, by the asustance 
of another sense. Thus any continued aoundf as the 
music of birds, or a fall of water, awakens, every moment, 
the mind of the beholder, and makes him more attentive 
to the several beauties of the place that lie before him. 
Thus, if there arise a fragrancy of emelU or /ler^ 
/umc4if they heighten the pleasures of the imagination, 
and make even the colors and verdure of the landscape 
appear more agreeable ; for the ideas of both senses re- 
commend each other, and are pleasanter together, than 
when they enter the mind separately ; as the different 
colors of a picture, when they arc well disposed, set off 
one another, and receive an additional beauty from the 
advantage of their situation. 

X. — Liber If and Slavery.*^^TKRSiR* 

DISGUISE thyself as thou ^yilt, still, slavery I still 
thou art a bitler draught ; and though thousands, In all 
ages, have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less 
bitter on that account. It is thou, liberty I thrice sweet 
and gracious Goddess, whom all, in public or in private. 
Worship ; whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so till 
nature herself shall chaiige. No tint of words can spot 
thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into 
Iron. With thee, to smile upon him as he eats his crust, 
the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose 
court thou art exiled. Gracious heaven ! Grant me but 
health, thou great bestower of it ! And give me but th'' 
Sear goddess as my companion ; and shower down 
mitres, if it seem good unto thy Divine Providence, ^" 
those heads which are aching for them. 

Sect. T.] IN BEADINO. 209 

Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close by my table ; 
and leaning my head upon my hand) I began to figure 
to myself the miseries of confinement I was in a right 
frame for it, and so I gave iull scope to my imagination. 

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow* 
creatures, bom to no inheritance but slavery ; but find* 
Ing, however affecting the picture was, that I could not 
bring it near roe, and that the multitude of sad groups 
in it did but distract mc, I took a single captive ; and 
kaving first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked 
through the twilight of his grated door, to take his pic* 

I beheld his body half wasted away, with long expds^ 
tation and confinement ; and felt what kind of sickness 
of the heart it is which arises from hope deferred. Up« 
on looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish. In 
thirty years the western breeze had not once fanned his 
blood— he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time— 
nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through 
his lattice. His children— but here my heart began to 
bleed— and I was forced to go on with another part of 
the portrait. 

He was sitting upon the ground, upon a little straw, 
in the fiirthest corner of bis dungeon, whish was alter* 
nately his chair and bed. A little calendar of small-sticks 
^as laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal 
days and nights he had passed there. He had one of 
these little sticks in his hand ; and, with a rusty nail he 
was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. 
As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hope- 
less eye towards the door— then cast it down — shook his 
head— and went on with his work of affliction. I heard 
r his chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his 
little stick upon the bundle. He gave a deep sigh— I 
saw the iron enter into his soul. I burst into tears. I 
could not sustain the picture of confinement which my 
fancy had drawn. 

XI.— 7%tf Cant qf CH/fd<m.— Stehhb. 

-—AND how did Oarrick speak the soliloquy last 
lught i'^'Ohy against all rule my Lord } most uogram- 
S 3 

UO LE8SON9 [Pabt h 

matkalljr ! Betwixt the substuitive and adjective (which 
* should agree together, in nurober, case and gender) he 
made a breach thus — stopping as if the point wanted set- 
tling. And after the aominative case (which yeur 
Lordship knows should govern the verb) he suspended 
his voice, in the epilogue, a dozen times, three second^ 
and three fifths, by a stop watch, my Lord, each time, 
Admirable grammarian ! But, in suspending his voice, 
was the sense suspended likewise ? Did no expressicoi 
of attitude or countenance fill up the cha^m^ Was the 
eye silent ? Did you narrowly look ? i l6oked 
oaly at the stop watch, my Lord. Excellent observer ! 
And what of this new book,the whole world makes such 
a rout about ? Oh, 'tis out of all plumb, my Lord—* 
quite an irregular thing I Not one of the angles at the 
four corners was a right angle. 1 had my rule and com* 
passes, my Lord, in my pocket. Excellent critic I 

And for the epic poem, your Lordship bade me look 
at-f upon taking the length, breadth, heiglit and depth of 
it, and trying them, at home, upon an exact scale of 
Bossu'a, 'tis out, my Lord, in (every one of its dimen- 
sions. Admirable connoisseur I 

And did you step in, to take a look at the grand pict* 
ure, in your way back ? 'Tis a melancholy daub, my 
Lord ; not one principle of the pyramid in any one 
group ! And what a price ! For there is nothing of the 
coloring of Titian— the expression of Rubens*~the 
grace of Raphael«-the purity of Dominichino«>the cor- 
regioscity of Corregio — the learning of Poussin— the airs 
of Guido— the taste of the Carrachis— or the grand coa« 
tour of Angelo 1 

Grant me patience \ Of all the cants which are cant** 
ed, in this canting world — though the cant of hypocrisy 
may be the worst—- the cant of criticism is the most tor- 
menting !— — I would go fifty miles on foot, to kisa the 
hand of that man, whose generous heart will ^ve up 
the reins of his imagination mto his author's hands, be 
pleased, he knows not why, and cares net wherefore* 

feOT. v.] IN BEADING. 2ii 

Xn. — Parallel detvfeen Pofie tfrnT ^ryif^.— Jobnsov. 

IN acquired knowledge, the superiority must be al- 
lowed to I>rydeti, whose education was more scholastic, 
ftnd who, before he became an author, had been a|lowed 
more time for study, with better means of infomiation. 
His mind has a larger range, and he collects kis imag- 
es and illustrations from a more extensive circuaifer- 
ence of Science. Dryden knew more of man, in his na- 
ture \ and Pope, in his local manners. The notions of 
Dryden were formed by comprehensive speculation ; 
those of Pope, by minute attention. There is more dig- 
nity in the knowledge of Dryden, and more certainty in 
that of Pope. 

Poetry v^as not the sole prsdse of either ; for both ex- 
celled likwise in prose : But Pope did not borrow his 
prose from^is predecesser. The style of Dryden is ca- 
pricious and varied ; that of Pope is cautious and uni- 
form : Dryden obeys the motions of his own mind ; Pope 
constrains his mind to his own rules of composition.— 
Dryden is sometimes vehement and rapid ; Pope is al- 
ways smooth, uniform and gentle. Dryden's page is a 
natural field, rising into inequalities, and diversified by 
tiie varied exuberance of abundant vegefatipn ; Pope's 
is the velvet lawn, shaven by the scythe, and levelled by 
the roller. 

Of genius-^-that power that constitutes a poet ; that 
quality, without which judgment is cold and knowledge 
Is inert ; that energy which collects, combines, amplifies 
and animaty^the superiority must, with some hesita- 
tion, be allowed to Dryden. It is not to be inferred, that 
•f tUspoetical vigor. Pope had only a littie,because Dry- 
den had more ; for every other writer, since Milton, 
must give place to Pope ; and even of Dryden it must 
be said, that if he has brighter paragraphs,he has not bet« 
ter poema. Dryden's performances were always hasty ; 
either excited by some external occasion, or extorted by 
domestic necessity ; he composed without consideration^ 
and published without correction. What bis mind could 
supply at call, or gather in one excursion, was all 

^ he sought aad all that h^ gave. The dilatory cau- 

Hi ^ LESSONS [PibtL 

tkm of Pope eiiabbd him to condense his s^timentSy ta 
multiply bis images, and to accumulate all that stmdf 
might producei or chance might supply. If tlie flights 
of Dryden therefore are higher. Pope continues longer 
on the wing. Ifofdt'yden^s fire the blaze is brighter; 
of Pope's the heat is more regular and constant. Drydea 
often surpasses expectation^ and Pope never falls below 
it. Bryden is read with frequent astonishmentj and 
Pope with perpetual delight. 

XIII.— 5^ory ofLe /Vver.— Stbrn», 

IT was sometime in the summer of that year in which 
Dendermond was taken by the allies, when my uncle 
Toby was one evening getting his supper, with Trim 
sitting behind him, at a small sideboard — I say sitting— 
forin consideration of the corporal's lame knee (which 
sometimes gave him exquisite pain)*- when my uncle 
Toby dined or supped alone, he would never suffer the 
corporal to stand : And the poor fellow's veneration for 
his master was such, that, with a proper artillery, my 
uncle Toby could have taken Dendermond itself, with 
less trouble than he was able to gain this point ove 
him ; for many a time when my uncle Toby supposed 
the corporals leg was at rest, he would look back, and 
detect him standing behind him, with the most dutiful 
respect ; this bred more little squabbles betwixt tb^mi 
tlian all other causes, for five and twenty years together. 

He was one evening sitting thus at his supper, when 
the landlord of a little inn in the village ciyne into the 
parlor, with an empty phial in his hand, to beg a glass 
or two of sack : 'Tis for a poor gentleman — I think of the 
army, said tbc^ landlord, who has been taken ill at my 
house fo)ir days ago, and has never held up his head 
since, or had a desire to taste any thing till just now, 
that he has a fancy for a glass of sack, and a thin toast. 
—« I think," says he, taking his hand from his forehcai* 
— " It would comfort me/*— 

—If I could neither beg, borrow, nor buy sue** 
thing — added the landlord — I would almost steal I 
the poor gentleman, he is so ill.— I hope he will 
mend^contii^uedhe— weareali of us concerned for hi 

aser* T.] IN REABIN6. US 

Thou art a good Datured aoal, I wilnmswcr for thee, 
cried my uncle Toby ; and thou shalt drink the poor 
gentleman's health in a glaai of eaek th3rtel£-~and 
lake a couple of bottles with my service, and tell him he 
is • heartily weicome to them, and to a dozen more, if 
they will do him good* 

Though I am persuaded, said my uncle Toby, as the 
landlord shut the door, he is a very compaastonate fel- 
low, Trim«»yet I cannot help entertaining a high opin- 
ion, oi his guest too; there must be something more 
than common in him, that, in so short a time, should w'ui 
so much upon the afifections of his host.— And of his 
whole family, added the corporal, for they are all con- 
cerned for him. Step after him, said my uncle Toby—- 
do Trim, and ask if he knows his name. 

I have quite forgot it, truly, said the landlord, com- 
ing back into the parlour with the corporal — but I can 
ask his son again.-— Has he a son with him, then ? said 
my uncle Toby, A boy, replied the landlord, of about 
eleven or twelve years of age ;— but the poor creature 
has tasted almost as little ^s bis father ; he does nothing 
but mourn and lament for him, night and day. He has 
not stirred from the bed side these two days. 

My uncle Toby laid down his knife dnd fork, and 
thrust his plate from before him, as the landlord gave 
him the account : And Trim, without being ordered, 
took them away, without saying one word, and in a few 
minutes alter, brought him his pipe and tobacco. 

Trim ! said my uncle Toby, I have a project in my 
bead, as it is a bad night, of wrapping myself up warm 
in my roquelaure, and paying a visit to this poor gentle- 
man. Your honoris roquelaure, replied the corporal, 
has not once been had on since the night before your 
honor received your wound, when we mounted guard in 
the trenches before the gate of St. Nicholas ;•— and be- 
sidesj^ it is so cold and rainy a night, that, what with the 
roquelaure, and what with the weather, it will be enough 
to give your honor your death. I fear so, replied my un- 
cle Toby ; but I am not at rest in my mind. Trim, since 
the account the landlord has given me— I wish I had 
not known so much of this affair-«-added my uncle To- 

«14 LESSORS t tPAfeTl. 

bjT— or that I had knovn more of it :— How shall we 
manage it? Leate Iti an't please your hoxx>r, to me^ 
quoth the corporal |-- I'll take my hat and stick, and go 
to the house, and reconnoitre, and act accordingly ; and 
I will briog your honor a full account in an hour. Thou 
shalt go, Trim, said my uncle Toby, and here's a shil- 
ling for thee to drink with his servant. I shall get it all 
out 6f, him, said the corporal, shutting the door. 
^" It \va»not till my uncle Toby had knocked the ashes 
out of his tliird pipe, that corporal Trim returned from 
the inn, and gave him the following account : 

I despaired at fii*st, said the corporal, of being able to 
bring back your honor any kind of intelligence con- 
cerning the poor sick lieutenant — Is he of the army, 
then ? said my uncle Toby.— He is, said the corporal-^ 
And in what regiment ? said my uncle Toby—I'il teil 
your honor, replied the corporal, eyecy thing straight 
forward, as I learnt it.-«-*Then, Trim, I'll fill another 
pipe, said my uncle Toby, and not interrupt thee ;— sd 
sit down at thy ease, Trim, in the window seat, and be- 
gin thy story again. The corporal made his old bow, 
which generally spoke as plain as a bow could speak it| 
"Your honor is good ;" and having done that, he sat 
down, as he was ordered—and began the story to my 
uncle Toby over again, in pretty near the same words. 

I despaired at first, said the corporal, of being able to 
bring back any intelligence to your honor, about the 
lieutenant and his son ; for when I asked where the ser- 
vant was, from whom I made myself sure of knowing ev* 
ery thing' that was proper to be asked— ——That's a right 
distinction. Trim, said my uncle Toby — I was answeredi 
an't please your honor, that he had no servant with him. 
—That he had come to the inn with hired horses ;— 
which, upon finding himself unable to proceed (to join, 
I sut>pose, the regiment) he had dismissed the mom* 
ing after he came. If I get better, my dear, said he, as 
he gave his purse to his son to pay the man— we a 
hire horsei^ from hence. But alas ! The poor gsnt 
man will never get from hence, said the landla-'- "^ - , 
fer i hear*-,the deathwatch all night long ;— 

$BOT.y.] INHEADIKG. il5 

be ^e% the ftnitb, hit soiit will ceftaioly die with him ; 
fitf be is broken hearted already. 

I was hearing this account, continiied the corporalf 
when the youth came into the kitchen, to order the thin 
toast the landlord spoke of; but I will do it for my &• 
ther mjself, said the youth. Pray let me save' you the 
trouUe, young gentleman, said I9 taking up a fork for 
the purpose, and offering him my chair to sit down up- 
on by the fire, whilst I did it. I believe, sir, said he, 
very modestly, I can please him best myself.— I am 
sure, said I, his honor will not like the toast the worse 
fiur being toasted by an old soldier. The youth took 
b(dd of my baud, and instantly burst into tears. Poor 
youth I .said my uncle Toby— he has been bred up from 
. an infiuit in the army, and the name of a soldier. Trim, 
sounded in his ears, like the name of a friend. I wish i 
bad him here. 

—I never, in my longest march, said the corporal, 
had so great a mind to my dinner, as 1 had to cry with 
him for company :— What coukl be the matter with me, 
ao't please your honor ? Nothbg in the world, Trim, 
said my uncle Toby, blowing his nose— *but that tliou 
art a good-natured fellow. 

When I gave him the toast, continued the c(M*poral-— 
I thought it was ppoper to tell him I was captain Shan- 
dy's servant, and'hat your honor, (though a stranger) 
was extremely concerned for his father ; and that if there 
was any thing in your house or cellar^— (and thou might* 
eat have added my purse too, said my uncle Toby)-^he 
was heartily welcome to it : He made a very low bow 
(which was meant to your honor) — ^but no answer— for 
his heart was full*-80 he went up stairs with the toast ; 
I wawant you, my dear, said I, as I opened the kitchen 
door« your father will be well again. Mr. Yorick's cu- 
rate was smoking a pipe by the kitchen fire, but said not 
a word, good or bad, to comfort the youth. I thought 
it wrongj added the corporal— I think so too, said my 
uncle To^. 

When'& Lieutenant had taken his glass of sack and 
toast, he %\t himself a little revived, and sent down into 
tiie kitchen, to let me know, that in about ten minutes, 


kissed it too, then kissed his lather, and sat down upon 
the bed and wept. 

I wish, said my uncle Toby with a deep sigh— •! wish. 
Trim, I was asleep. 

Your honor, replied the CorporaU is too much coo- 
ecmed ; shall I pour your honor out a glass of sack to 
your pipe I Do, Trim, said my uncle Toby. 

I remember, said my uncle Toby, sighing again, the 
Btory of the Ensign and his wife and particularly well, 
that he aa well as she, upon some account or other, (I 
forget what) was universally pitied by the whole regi- 
ment; but finish the story. 'Tis finished already, said 
the corporal, for I could stay no longer, so wished his 
honor a good night ; young Le Fever rose from off the 
bed, and saw me to the bottom of the stairs ; and as we 
went down togetheri told me they had come from Ire- 
land, and were on their route to join the regiment in 
Flanders. But tJas I said the Corporal, the Lieuten- 
ant's last 'i^y's march is over. Then what is to become 
of his poor Way ? cried my uncle Toby. 

Thou hast left this matter short, said my uncle Tobf 
to the Corporal, as he was putting him to bed« and I 
will tell thee in ii^hat. Trim. In the first place, when 
thou niad'st an offer of my services to Le Fever, as sick- 
ness and travelling are both expensiveMand thou knew est 
he was but a poor Lieutenant, with a son to subsist ^s 
well as himself out of his pay, that thou didst not Qiake 
an offer to him of my purse ; because had he stood in 
need, thou knowest. Trim, he had been as welcome to it 
as myself. Your honor knows, said the Corporal, I 
had no orders : True, quoth my uncle Toby, thou didst 
very right, Trimi as a •oldier^ but certainly, very jpong 
as a man. ^ 

In the second place, for which, indeed, thou hast the 
same excuse, continued my uncle Toby, when thou of- 
feredst him whatever was in my house, thou shouldst 
have offered him my hoiise too : A sick brother offic 
should have the best quarters, Trim, and if we had * 
with us, we could tend and look to him j thou ar 
excellent nurse thyself. Trim; and what with 
care of him, and the old woman's, and his boy*s- : 

Sect. Y.] IN BEADING. Si9 

mine together, wp aught recruit him agaia at oncei and 
act him upoD bis legs 

lu a fortnight or jhree week8» added my uncle Toby, 
smiliDgi he might 'march. Ue will never march, an't 
plea&e your honor, in tliis world, said the Corporal. He 
will march, said my uncle Toby, rising up from the side 
of the bed with one shoe off. An't please your honor, 
said the Corporal, he will never march but to \A% grave. 
He shall march, cried my. uncle Toby^ marcliingthe 
foot which had a shoe on, ttiough without advancing an 
inch, he shall march to his regiment. He cannot stand 
it, said the Corporal. He shall be supported, said my 
uncle Toby. He'll drop at last, said the Corporal, anU 
what will become of his boy ? He sliall not drop, said 
xny uncle Toby, firmly. A well o'da do what we can 
for him, said Trim, maintaining his point, the poor soul 
will die. He shall not die, by H— ^n, cried my uncle 

—The Accusing Spirit, which flew up to Heaven's 
chancery with the eath, blushed as he gave it in : and 
the Rsco&DiNO Anoel, as he wrote it down, dropped 
a tear upon the word, and blotted it oot forever. 

—My unole Toby went to his bureau, and put his 
purse into his pocket, and having ordered the Corporal 
to go early in the morning for a phyaiciaO) he went to 
bed and fell asleep. 

The sun looked bright the morning after, to every 
^ eye in the village but Le Fever's and his afflicted son's ; 
the hand of death pressed heavy upon his eyelids, and 
bardlf could the wheel at the cistern turn round its cir- 
cle when my uncle Toby, who had got up an hour be- 
fore his wonted time, entered the Lieutenant's room» 
and wpihout preface or apology, sat himself down upon 
the Chair upon the bed side, and independently of all 
modes and customs, opened the curtain, in the manner an 
old friend and brother officer would have done it, and 
asked him how he did— how he had rested in the night 
—what was his complaint— where was his pain— and 
what he could do to help him ? And without giving 
Um time to answer any one of these inquiries^ went on 

t0 " LESSONS5 &e. [Pabt 1. 

and told him of the little plan which he had been con- 
certing with the Corporal the night before for him. 

—You shall go home directly, Le Fever, said my un- 
cle Toby, to my house — and we'll send for a doctor to 
see what's the matter — and we'll have an apothecaryrr- 
and the Corporal shall be your nurse— and I'll be your 
servant, Le Fever. 

There was a frankness in my uncle Toby — not the 
effect of familiarity^ but the cause of it — which let you 
at onec;^ into his soul, and showed you the goodness of 
his nature ; to this there was something in his looks, 
and fbice, and manner, superadded, which eternally 
beckoned to the unfortunate to come and take shelter 
under him ; so that before my uncle Toby had half fin- 
ished the kind offers — he Was making to the father, had 
the son insensibly pressed up close to his knees and had 
taken hold of the breast of his coat, an4 W as pulling it 
towards him. The blood and spirit of Le Fever, which 
were waxing cold and slow within him, and were re- 
treating to their last citadel, the heart rallied baok — the 
film forsook his eyes for a moment, he looked up wish- 
fully in my uncle TOby^s face^-then cast a look upon hia 

Nature instantly ebb'd again — the film returned to ita 
place— the pulse fluttered, stopped — went on— throbbed 
' — stopped again— inaved — stopped— shall I go on?— . 


L^The Shepherd and the PhU090fiher. 

REMOTE from cities, lirM a swain, 
Unyex^4with all the cares of gain. 
His head was silrerM o^er with age, 
And long experience made him sage ; 
In summer^s heat and winter^s cold, 
Re fed his flock and oenn^d the fold ; 
If is houi* in cheerful labor flew, 
Nor ^TY nor ambition knew ; 
His wisdom and his honest fam«, 
Through all the country raisM his name. 

A deep philosopher, (whose mles 
Of moral life were drawn from schaols) 
The shepherd^s homeljr cottage sought ;• 
And thus explorM his reach of thought. 
Whence is thy leamin^r ? Hath thy toll 
O^er books consumM the midnight oil > 
Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey M, 
And the vast sense of Plato weighed i 
Hath Socrates thy s6u] refined ? 
And hast thou fathom'dTuUy's mind? 
Or, like the wise Ulysses thrown, 
By various fates, on realms unknown ; 
Hast thou through many cities strayM, 
Their custorof>, laws and manners weighM ? 

The shepherd modestly reply M, ^ 

I ne''er the path ofleaming tiy'd ; 
Nor have I roamed in foreign parts. 
To read mankind, their laws and arts ; 
For man is practis'd in disguise ; 
He cheats the most discerning eyes ; 
Who by that search shall wiser grow, 
When we ourselves ban neVer know ? 
The little knowledge I have gain'd, 
Was all from simple nature drain'd ; 
Henca my life'^s maxims took their rise, 
Hence grew my settled hate to vice. 

The daily labon of the bee, 
Awake m}' soul toindustiy. 
Who can observe Re careful ant, 
And not provide /or future want ? 
My d<^, (the tiljest of his kin^) 
With gratitude inflames my mindl • 
T mark his true, his faithful way, ' 
And in my service copy 'I'ray. 
In constancy and nuptial love, 
1^ kam mj duty from the dove* 
T a 


LESSONS [Paut 1. 

The hen, who from thecfiiJly *ir 
With pious wing protects her care, 
And every fowl that flies at large, 
Instructs me in a parent's charge. 

From nature, too, I take my rule 
To shun contempt arid ridicule. * 

I never with important airj 
In conversation overbear ; 
Can grave and formal p?tss for wise, 
When men the solemn owl despise ? 
My tongu^ within my lips I rein, 
For who talkf much must talk in vain : -^ 
We from the woody torrent fly : 
Whd listens to the chattering pie ? 
Nw wduld I with felonious flight. 
By stealth invade my neighbor's right : 
Rapacious animals we h*te ; 
Kites, hawks and wolves deserve their fate. 
Do not We just abhorrence find 
Against the toad and serpent kind ? 
But envy, calumny and spite, 
Bear stronger venom in their bitfi ; 
Thus ev^ object of creation 
Can fumiih hints for contemplation. 
And, from the most minute and mean, 
A virtuous mind can morals glean. 

Thy fame is just, the sage replies : 
Thy Tiftue proves thee truly wise. 
Pride rjften guides the author's pen 5 
BoQk» as affected are as men : 
But he who studies nature's laws, 
From certain truth his maxims draws ; 
And those, without our schools, suffice 
To Make men moril, good and wise. 

ll,^Ode to Leven Water. 

On Leven'sbank, while free to rove 
And tune the rural pipe to love, 
'% envied not the happiest swain ^ 
That ever trod 4h' Arcadian plain. 
Pure stream ! in whose transparent wave 
My youthful liml» I wont to lave ; ^ 
llo toirents stain thy limped Bonroe ; 
No rocks impede thy dimpling oonwe^ 
Thatsweetly warbles o^r Its bed, 
With white, round, poiish'd pebbles spread. 
While, lightly poifi'd, the softly brood. 
In myriads cleave thy chrystal flood ; 
The springing trout, in speckled pnde ; 
The salmon, monrfch of the -tide ; 
The ruthless pike, intent on war j 
The silver eel, and mottled par. 


Devolving from thy parent ]fike, 
A charming maze thy waters make, 
By bowers of birch and ^oves of pine, 
And hedges flowerM with eglantine. 
Still on thy banks, so gaily green, 
May numerous herds and flocks be seen : 
And lasses, chanting o'er the pail ; 
And shepherds piping in tlie dale ; 
And ancient faith, that knows so gUile ; 
An«l industry, embrown' d with toil ; 
And hea^ resolv'd and hands prepar'd. 
The blessings they enjoy to guard. 

llL-^Odefrom the 19 ih Paalm. 

THE 5pacion» firmament on high, 
With all the blue etherial sky, 
And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
Their great original proclaim* 
Th' unwearied sun from day to day^ • 
Does his Creator's power display ; 
' And published to every land. 
The work of an Ahnighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail. 
The moon takes up the wond'rous tale. 
And nightly, to the list'ning earth, 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 
Whilst all the stars that round her bum, 
And all the planets in their turn. 
Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ? 
What though no real voice nor sound 
Amid these radiant orbs be found ? 
In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
' And utter forth a glorious voice, 
Forever singing, as they shine, 
*^ The hand that made \u is divine.*^ 

IV.— -Rttra/ Charma. 

SWEET Auburn ! loveliest village of tlil^ plain ! 
Where health and plenty cheer'd thelab'ringBWain ; 
Where smiling spring its earliest visiti paid, 
And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd: 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease ! 
Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could pkase I 
How oft^ have I loiter'd o'er thy.gre^n, . 

lere humye h^pmess endealr'd ea^h sce»« 5 

w oftetj have I paus^d-on every chantt t 

*. shelterM cot, the ci^tivated i^xm^ 


The nerer failing brook, the bosy mill, 

The decent church, that topped the neighboring hfll ; 

The hawthorn busK, with seats beneath the shade^ 

For talldni; age and wMspering lovers made. 

How often have I blessM the coming day, 

Vhen toil, remitting, lent its turn to pla/i 

And all the village train from labor free. 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree J 

While many a pastime circled in the shade. 

The young contending as the old survey'd : 

And many .a gambol frolicked o*er the ground. 

And slights of art and feats of strength went rovndj 

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 

Succeeding sports ue mirthful band inspirM z. . 

The dancing pair, that simply songht renown^ * 

By holding out to tire each other down ; 

The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face. 

While secret laugWer titter'd round the place j 

The bash&U virgiB^s sidelong looks of love, 

The matron^s glance, that would those looks repft^ve^ 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening^s cloee^ 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 
There as I passM with careless steps and slow. 
The mingling^ notes came softenM from below. 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid eune ; 
The sober herd that lowM to meet their young ; 
The noisy geese that gabbled o*er the pool ; 
' The playful children just let loose from school ; 
The watch dog*8 voice, that bay'd the whisp'riag wind ; 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vac&nt mind ; 
These all, in soft confusion, sought the shade. 
And fillM each pause the nightingale had made. 

V. — The Painter who pleaded jVobody and every Body, 

LEST men suspect your tale untrue^ 
Keep probability in view. 
The trav^ller^ leaping o^er £hose bounds, 
The credit of his book confounds, 
Who with his tong»ie hath armies routed, 
• Make e'*en his royal cQurage doubted. 
But flattVy never seems absurd ; 
The flatter'd aJwayl take your word j 
Impossibilities seem just ; 
They take the strongest praise on tnu t 
Hyperboles, though e^er so great ; 
txrni -xjjj coHae short of self conceit* 

ery like a painter drew, 
* ^^.y Fery eye the pictuve knew ; . 
He hit compleition, feature, air, 
Sk> just that life itself was theie ; 


Sx^T. Vt.] IN BBABree. 2SS 

No flattVy with his colors laid, 

The bloom restorM the faded maid ; 

He gave each muscle all it* strength ; 

The mouth, the chin, the nose's length, 

His honest penqp touch'd with truth. 

And mark'd the date of age and youth. x 

He lost his friends ; his practice faiPd, 

Trutli should not always be revealM ; 

In dusty piles his pictures lay, ^ 

For no one sent tlie second pay. 

Two busto's, fraught with every grace, 
A Venus* and Apollo's face. 
He placM in view, resolvM to please, 
Whoever sat, he drew from these ; 
From these corrected every feature, 
And spirited each awkward creature. 

All things were set ; the hour wa3 comc^ 
His palette ready o'er his thumb : 
My Lord appeared, and seated right, 
In proper attitude and light, 
Tl» painter look'd, he sketched the piece ; 
Then dip'd his pencil, talkM of Greepe, 
Of Titiaa's tints, of Guide's air, 
" Those eyes, my Lord, the spirit there, 
flight well a Raphael's hand require, 
To give them all the native fire ; 
The features, fraught ^ith sense and wit, 
You'll grant, are very hard to hit : 
But yet, with patience,* you shall view 
As much as paint or art can do : 
Observe the work." — My Lord reply'd, 
^^ Till now I thought my mouth was wide ; 
Besides, my nose is somewhat long ; 
Dear sir, forme 'tis far too young." 
" O pardon me," ihe artist cry'd, 
'* In this, we painter's must decide. 
The piece e'ea common eyes must strike ; 
I'll warrant it extremely like*'' 

My Lord examin'd it anew, , " 

No looking-glass seem'd half to true. 

A lady came. With borrow'd grace, 
He from his Venus form'd her face. 
Her lover prais'd the painter's art, 
So like the picture in his heart ! >. 
To 0vcry age some charm he. lent ; 
E'en beauties were almost content. 
Through all the town his art they prais'd, 
fi 'is custom grew, his price was rais'd, 
he tlie re\l likeness shown. 
Id any man the picture own ? 
when thus happily he wrought, 
i found the likeness in his thought. 


liESSONS [Pabt 1 

His hopes no more a certain prospect boast^ 

And all the tenor of bis soul is lost. 

So, when a smooth expanse receives, imprest 

C^lm nature's image on its wat'ry breast, 

Down bend the banks ;' the trees, depending, grow ; 

And skies, beneath, with answering colors §;low : 

But if a stone the gentle sea divide. 

Swift ruffling circles curl on ev'ry side ; 

And glimni'ring fragments of a broken sun, 

Banks, trees and skies in thick disorder run. 

To clear this doubt ; to know the world by sight ; 
To find if books or swains report it right ; 
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew, 
Whose.feet came wand' ring o'er the nightly dew.) 
' Re q]jits his cell ; the pilgrim staff he bore, 
And fix'd the sctdlop in his hat before ; 
Then, witii thesnn a rising journey went, 
Sedate to think, and watching each event. 

The mom was wasted in the pathless grass. 
And long and loathsome was the wild to pass : 
But when the southern sun had warm'd the day, 
A youth came boasting o'er the crossing way ; 
His raiment decent, his complexion fair. 
And soft, in gracefulringlets, wav'd his hair. 
Then near approaching, Father, hail 1 he cry'd ; 
And hail ! my son, therev'rend sire reply'd : 
Words tollow'd words ; from questwn answer flowed ; 
Apd talk of various kind deCeiv'd the road ; ^ 

Till, each with^other pleas'd, and loth to part. 
While in, their s^e they diffier, join in heart. 
Thus stands an aged ^m in ivy bound ; 
Thus youthful, ivy clasps an elm around. 

Now sunk the sun ; th^^losiiaghour of day 
Came onward, mantlerfo ' with eober gray ; 
Nature, in silenpe,bid the *''"5rld repose; 
When, near the road, a stlialy palace rose r 
There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they patt. 
Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides of grass. 
It chanc'd the noble mastei*of the dome 
Still made his house the wand'ring stranger's hwose : • • 
Yet still, the kindness, from a thirst of praise, 
ProvM the vain ilourisb of expensive ease. 
The pair arrive ; the liv'ry'd servants wait, 
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate ; 
A table groans with costly piles of food ; 
And all is more than hospitably good. 
Then, led to rest, the days long toil they drown. 
Deep gunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. 

At length 'tis mom ; and at the dsi^vn of day. 
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play ; 

Sam. TI.] IN BEADING. «• 

Fresh o^er the gtj perttrres, the breeses «reep, 

And shake the neighb^riog wood to banish sleep. 
Up rite tb^ gaests obedient to tb« call'; 
An early banquet deckM the splendid ball ; 
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet gracM, 
"Which the kin^ masteK forcM the guests to tatte. 
Then, pleased and thankfill, Irem Uie porch they go ; 
And, but le landlord, none, had cause of woe ; 
His cup was vanishM ; fo», in secret guise, 
The younger guest purloinM the glit^'^ring prize. 

As one who sees a serpent in his way, 
GlisOning and basking in the summer ray, 
DisorderM stops, to shun the danger near, 
Then walks with famtness on, and looks with fear ; 
So seemed the sire, when, far upon the road, 
The shining sp'^il his wily partner ^howM. 
He stopt with silence, walkM with trembling heart, 
And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to part : 
Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard^ 
That generous actions meet a base reward. 

Mobile thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds ; 
T..*e changing skies hang out tiieir sable clouds ; 
A sonnd in air presagM approaching rain. 
And beasts to corert «cud across the plain. 
WarnM by the ngns, the wandering pair retreat, 
To seek for«helter in a ncighb'ring scat. 
'Twas built with tunrets on a rising ground ; 
And strong aUd large, and unimprov'd around: 
Its owner's temper, tim^ous and^evere, 
Unkind and griping, caus'd a desert there. 
As near the miser's heavy doors they drew, ' ' 

Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 
The nimble li^tning,*mixM wi'' showeri, began. 
And o'er their heads loud rol!] , thunder ran. 
Here long they kndck ; but k, k or caH in vain, 
Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the rain. 
At length, some pity warm'd the master's breast : 
('Twaa then his threshhold first receiv'd a guest ;) 
Slow creaking tuilis the door, with jealous care, 
And half he welcomes in the shiv'ring pair. 
One frugal faggot lights the naked walls, * 

And nature's fervor through their limbs recalls ; 
Bread of the coarsest sort, with me^ ere wine, 
(Each hardly granted) serv'd tiiem both to dine ; 
And when th# tempest first appeared to cease, 
A ready naming bid them part in peace. 
Witb still remark, the pond'ring hermit vicw'd, 
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude : -. 
And why shoidji^uch (within himself he cry'd) 
Lock the lost wealth, a thousand want beside ? 

25« LESSONS [Pabt L 

Bat, what new markB «f wonder 8o«n took place, 
lo erery settling feature of his face, 
When, (rem his Test, the young companion bort 
That cup, the generous landlord owned before. 
And paid profusely with the precious bowl. 
The stinted kindness of his churlish soul ! 
But, now the clouds In airy tumult % : 
The sun, •mer|;ing, opes an azure sky ; 
A fresher green the smelling leaves displar, 
An<liglitt^ring as they tremble, cheer the day : 
The weather courts them from the poor retreat; 
And the glad master bolts the wary gate. 

"While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought 
With all the travail of uncertain thought* 
His partner's acts without their cause appear — 
*Twas there a vice, and seem'd a madnee? her^. 
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, 
.Lost and confounded with the various shows. 

Now night's dim shades again involve the eky^-^ 
Again the wanderers want a place to fie— v 

V Again they search, and find a lodging nigh— y 
The soil improved around-^the mansion neat-*- 
And neither poorly low, not idly great : 
It seem'd to speak it; master's turn of mind— 
Content, and not for praise, but virtue^ kind. 
Hither the walkers turn with weary feet ; 
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet ; 
Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest guise. 
The courteous master hears, and thus replies. 

Without a vain, without a grudging heart, 
To him who gives us all, I yield a part : 
From him you come, from him accept it here— 
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer. J 
He speke ; and bade the welcome table spread ; 
Then talk'd of virtue tffl the time of bed ; 
When the grave ^household round his hall repair^ 
Wam'd by the bell, and clvse the house with prayec* 
At length the world, nenew'd by calm repose, 
Was strong for toil ; the dappled mom arose \ 
Before the pilgrims part, the youngster crept 
Near the cios'd cradle, where an infant slept, 
And wi4th'd his neck ; the landlord's Uttle pride— 
O strange return ! — grew black, and gaBp''d and died. 
Horror of horrors! what ! his only son ! 
How looked our hermit when the deed was done ! 
Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part. 
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. 

Confus'd, and struck with silence at the deed^ 
He;fiie8 ; but trembliDg, lails to fiy with speed. -^^ 



His steps the joxsth pumief . The country lay 
PeiylexM with roacU j a senrant showM the way. 
A river crossed the path. The passage o^er 
Was nice to find ; the servant trod before ; 
Long anns of oak an open bridge supply ^d, 
And the deep waves, beneath the bending, glide. 
The youth who seemM to watch a time to sin, 
Approached the careless guide, and thrust him in : 
' Plunging he falls ; and rising, lifts his head ; 
Then ^hing, tums^ and sinks among the dead. 

Wild sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes ; 
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries. 
Detested wretch !— But scarce his speech began 
When the 9tran|^e partner seemM no longer man ; 
His yotfthful face grew more serenely sweet. 
His robe tumM white, and flowM upon his feet ; 
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair. 
Celestial odors breathe tiirough purpled air ; 
And wings, whose colors glittered on the day, 
Wide at his back, their gradual plumes display. 
The form etherial barsts upon his sight, 
And moves in all the majesty of light. 

Though loud, at first, the pilgrim's passien grew, 
Sudden he gai'd, and wist not what to do ; 
Surprise, in secret chains, his word suspends. 
And, hi a calm, his settled temper ends. 
But si^nce here, the beauteous angel broke : 
The voice of music ravished as he spoke. 

Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life, to vice unknowtt. 
In sweet memorial rise before the throne : 
These charms success in our bright region find| 
And force an angel down tcr calm thy mind. 
For this commissioned, I forsook the sky ; 
Nay, cease to kneel, thy fellow servant I. 

Then know the truth of gp remment divine. 
And let these seniles be no longer tiiine. 

The Maker justly claims that world he made ; 
In this the right of Providence is laid ; 
Its sacred majesty, through all depends ^ . 
On using second means to work his ends. ; k 
'Tis thus withdrawn in state from human ey«, 
The Power exerts his attributes on high ; 
Your actions uses, nor controls your will. 
And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 

What strange events c<a strike with more surprise, 
Than those -which lately struck thy. Wond'rinc: eyes ? 
Yet taught by these, confess the Almighty just, 
And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust. 

The great, vain man, who farM on costly food, 
Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; 

a$t U&S80N8 [PakvI. 

IVho made his iiry stand with goblets i^ine, 

And forcM bis guests to morning draughts of win« ; 

Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, ' A 

And stili he welcomes, but with less of cost. 

The mean suspicious wretch^ whose bolted doov 
Fe^er movM in pity to the wandMng poor ; 
'With him I left the cup, to teach his mind, 
That heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. 
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, 
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, 
With heaping coals of fire upon its head : 
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow^ - 
And loose from dross, the silver-i^ns'b^liow; 

Long had o«ir pious friend in ^vktiie trod. 
But now 4he child half wean'd his heart from God p 
(Child of his ctge) for him he liv'din pain. 
And measurM back his steps to earth againl 
To what excesses had his dotage run ? 
But God, to save the father, took the son. 
To all, but thee, in fits, he secm'd to go, 
And ^twas my ministry to deal the blow. 
The poor fond parent humbled in the dust, 
Kow owns, in tears, the punishment was just. 
■ But how had all his fortune felt a wreck, 
Had that false servant sped in safety back ! 
This night his treasured heaps he meant to stea7, • 
And what a fund of charity would fail * 

Thus h^MLven instructs thy mind! This trial o'er,^ 
I>cpart in peace, resign, and sin no more. 

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew- 
The sage stood wond' the seraph flew. 
Thus look'd Elisha, when to mount on high, 
His master took the chariot of the sky : ° 
The fiery pomp, ascending, left the view ; 
The prophet gaz'd, and wish'd to follow to«. 

The bending hermit here a prayer begun : 
* Lord, as in heaven, on earth thy will be done,** 
Then, gladly t urning, sought his ancient place, 
And pass'da hfe t)f piety and peace. 

IX.— i9n the death of Mre. ikfaww.— -Masow. 
TAKE, holy earth ! all that my soul holds dear : 

Take that best gift, whigh heaven so lately gave ; 
To Bristol's fount 1 bore, with^trembKng care, ' 

Her faded form. She bow'd td taste the wave, 
And died. Does youth, does beauty read the line ? 

Does sympathetic fear their breast alarm ? 
JSpeak, dead Maria ! breathe a strain divine ; 

E'en from the grave thou shalt have pow^ t^ oh am. 


Bid them be chatte, b« innocent like thee ; 

Bid them in duty's ^phere^ as meekly more : 
And if as fair, from vanity as free, 

As firm in friendship, and at fond in lore ; 

Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die, 

('Twas e'en to thee) yet the dread path once trod. 

Heaven lifts \U everlasting portals high, 
And bidb the " pure in heart behold their God." 

X."-Excractfrom the Temfile of Fame.^Pov^. 

AROUND these wonders as I cast a look, 
The trumpet sounded and the temple shook ; 
And all the nations summoned at the cal]^ 
From different quarters fill the spacious hall. 
Of various tongues the mingled sounds were heard'^ 
In various garbs promiscuous throngs appear'd : 
Millions of suf^liant crowds the shrine attend. 
And all degrees before the goddess bend ; 
The poor, the rich, the valiant and the sage. 
And boasting youth, and narrative old age. 

first, at the shnne, the learned world appear, 
And to the goddess thus prefer their prayer : 
** Long have we sought t'instruct and please mankind, 
\¥ith studies pale, and midnight vigils bhnd : 
But thank'd by few, rewarded yet by none, 
We here appeal to thy superior fiirone ; 
On wit and learning the just prize bestow. 
For fame is all we must expect below." 
The goddess heard, and bid the muses raise 
' The golden trumpet of eternal praise. 
From pole to pole the winds diffuse the sound, *' 
And fill the circuit of the world around : 
Not all at once, as thunder breaks the cloud. 
The notes at first were rather. »weet than loud : 
By just degrees they every moment ri*e, 
Bpread round the eajrth, and gain upon the skies. 

Next these, the good and just, an awful train. 
Thus on their knees, address the sacred fane : 
** Since living virtue is with envy curs'd, 
And the best men are treated as the worst, 
Do thou, just goddess, call our merits forth, 
And give each deed th' exact intrinsic worth." 
*VNot with bare justice shall your acts be crown'dj 
(Said Fame) but high above desert re nown'd. 
Let fuller notes th' applauding world amaze, 
And the loud clarion labor in your praise." 

A treop came next, who crowns and armor wore^ 
Aiidpr«ud defiance in their looks they boK. 

*^ Ttixfiiee (they ciy^d) amiftst alamt and strife^ 
>Ve Sciil'd in tempests down the sfrpam of life ; 
For ihee, whole nations fill'd with . to a»d blood. 
Am] bwam to empire through the putple flood. 
Those ills we dar'd thy inspiration own, ; 
"What virtue seem'd was done for thee alone*'* 
** Ambitious fool I (the queen repljM and frown'd) 
" Be. all yuur deeds in dark oblivion drown'd i 
There jsleep forgot, with mighty tyrants gone, 
Yq^ji^ statues moulderM, and your names unknown.** 
A suciden cloud straight snatchM them from my sights 
And each majestic phantom sunk in night. 

Then came the smallest tribe I yet had seen ; 
Plain was their dress, and piodest was their mein : 
. *' Great idol of mankind, we never claim 
The praise of n^erit, nor aspire to fame ; 
But, safe in deserts from the applause ofmen^ 
Would die unheard oi, as we livM unseen. 
'Tis all we beg thee, to conceal from sight, 
Those acts of goodaess which themseives requite*. 
O ! let us still the sacred joy partake, 
To follow virtue e'en for virtue's sake." 
^^ And live there men whojslight immortal fame I 
Who, then, with incense shsJl adore our name ? 
Bnt, mortals know, 'tisstill our greatest pride, 
To blaze those virtues which the good^ would hide* 
Rise, muses, rise ! add all yeur tuneful breath. 
These must not sleep in darkness and in death.** 
She said. In air the trembling music floats^ 
And, OB the winds triumphant swell the notes v 
So soft, though high ; so loud, 'toid yet «o cleaTt. 
E'en list'nmg'antwls lean from heaven to 1 

> hear j; 
To farthest shores the ambrosial spirit flies. 
Sweet to the woiWf «ad grateful to the skies* 

"Xl*— Panegyric on Gre^L Britain -^T BOWk^U* 

heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around^ 
Of l|ills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires, 
And glitt'ri^ townsy and gilded streams, tiU all 
T): Vtretchmg landscape into smoke decays! 
Happy Britannia ! where the Queen of Arts, 
I li spiring vigor, Liberty abroad 
Walks, unconfin'd, even to thy farthest cote, 
And sfcattere plenty with unsparing hand. 
Rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime ; 
Thy streams unfailing in the summer's droi- 
Unmatch'd thy guardian oaks ; tiiy vallies floa 
With golden waves ; and on thy mountains floc&« 
Bleat numberless ; while, roving round theiriBid<e(i;^ 
Bellow the bkck'fiing herds in lusty drOTM. 


SteCT. VI.] IN READING. «s« 

Beneath, thy meadows elow, and riie aneqiiBllM 

Against the mower's scythe. On every hand 
^ Th\ vi]la>j shine. Thy country teems with wealth, 
* An(^ property assures it to the swain, 

Pleas'd and unwearied in his guarded toil. 
Full are thy cities with the ^ns of art— 

Anri trade and joy, in every busy itreet, 

Singled are heard ! even druclg'^-ry himself, 

As at the car he sweats, or, dusty, hews 

The paliice stone, looks gay. The crowded porti, 

Where risine: masts, an endless prospect yield, ^ 

With lahor burn, and echo to the shouts 

Of hurried sailor, as he hearty wares 

His Jast adieu, and loosening every sheet, 

Kepigos the spreading vessel to the wind. 

Bold, firm and ^^racefuJ are thy gen'rou* yoH^ 

By hardship sinew'd, and by danger fir'd, 

Scattering the nations where they go ; and first 

Or on the listed plain, or stormy seas. 
, Mild are thy glories too^ as o^er the plains 

Of thriving peace thy thoughtful sires preside j 

In genius and substantial learning, high ; 

For every virtue, every worth renownM ! 

Sincere, plain hearted, hospitable, kind ; 

Yet like the mutt'ring thunder, when provokMf ' 
The dread of Jyrants, and the sole resource 

Of those that under grim oppression groan. 
Thy sons of Glory many ! Alfred thine, 
In whom the splendor of heroic war, * 

And more heroic peace, when governed weD, 
Combine ! whose hallowed name the virtues sainji 
And his own Muses love ; the best of kings ! 
With him thy Edwards and thy Henrys shine, 
Thames dear to fame ; the first who deep impressed 
On haughty Gaul the tferror of thy arras, 
That awes her genius still. In statesmen thou. 
And patriots fertile. Thine a steady More, 
Who, with a gen'rous, though mistaken zeal. 
Withstood •a brutal tyrant's useful rage ; 
Like Cato firm, like Aristides just, 
Like rigid Cincinnatus nobly poor, 
A dauntless soul erect, who smilM on death* 
A Hampden too is ttine, illustrious land ! 
W ise, strenuous, firm, of unsubmitting soul* 
Who stemm'd the torrent of a downward age^ 
To slavery prone, and bade thee rise again, 
In all thv native pomp of freedom bold. 
Thine is^^a- Bacon ; hapless in his choice ; 
Unfit to stand the civil storm of state, 
And through th« smooth bartwuri^ of cottrtij 

S36 LESSONS [Pabx I* 

'SVVh firm but pBant yirlue, fonnrard sfifl 

To urge his cQurse ; him for the studious shad» 

Kind nature formed, deep, comprebensiTe, clears 

Exact aad ele<>:ant ; in one rich »o.ul, *> 

FJato, the Stagjrite, and Tully joinM. 

Let Newton, pure intellige^^ce, whomOod 

To mortals lent to trace his ooundless works 

From laws svblimelj simple, speak tbj fame 

In all Philosophy. For lofty tense. 

Creative fancy and inspection keen, 

Tiin»ugh the deep windings of the human heart 

Is not wild Shakespeare thine and nature^s boastf 

Is not each great, each amiable Musq' 

Of classic ages in thy Milton met ? 

A genius universal as his theme : 

Astonishing as chaos, as the bloom 

Of blowing Eden fair, as heaven sublime. 

May my song soften, as thy Daughters I, 
Britannia hail ! for beauty is their own, 
The feeling heart, simplicity of life. 
And eleganoe, and taste ; the faultless form| 
Shap'd by tlie hand of harmony ; the cheek, > 
Where the live crimson, through the native whHf ^ 
Soft shooting, o'er the face diffuses bloom, ^^ 

And every nameless grace ; the parted lip, 
Liki. the red rose bud moist with morning dew, 
Brt athiug delight ; and, under flowing jet, 
Orfcunny rhiglet*. or of circling brown, 
The neck slight shaded, and the swellingbreast ; 
The look resistless, piercing to the soul, ^ 

And by the soul informed, when drest in love 
She sits high smiling in the conscious eye, 

Is-and of Wiss I amid the subject seas, 
That thunder round thy rocky coasts set up, 
At once the wonder, terror and delight 
Of distant nations, whose remotest shores 
Can soon be shaken by thy naval arm ; 
Kot to be shook thyself, but all assaults* 
Baffling, as thy hoar cHifs, the lond sea wave. 

O Thou i by who«e almighty nod, the scale 
Of empire rises, or alternate falls. 
Send forth thy aaviug virtues round tfae land. 
In bright patrol ; while Peace, and social Love ; 
The tender looking Charity, intent 
On gentle deeds, and shedding tears thro' soHes ; 
Undaunted Trutli and dignity of mind ; 
Courage composM and keen — sound Temperancs, 
Healthful in heart and Jook^-clear Chttftity, 
With blushes and reddening as she moves alon|^, 
Dieorder'd at tbi^deep r«£^ ske d^ftws— 

fcirr. VI;] IN BEADTN©. M? 

Rough^Hostry — ActiTify nntir^df 
With copious lifelnform'd, and all awake- 
While in the radiant front, superior sbinea 
Tha^first paternal virtue, Public Zeal— 
Who throws o'er all an equal wide sBrvej, 
And, ever fnosing on the common weal. 
Still labors glorious with some grea^ design. 

'^ll.'-^Mt/mn to the Deity^ on the Seasons of the Year.-^ 

• THESE, as they change, Almightt Fatbxk, thete 

Are but the varied God. The rolling year 

Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring 

Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. 

Wide flash the fieldsi^—the softening air is balm«^ 

Echo the mountains round — the forest smiles, 

And every sense, and every joy. 

Then c(mes the glory in the summer mojnths, 

With light^and heat refulgent. Then thy sun 

Shoots full*()erfedlion through the swelling-year. 

And oft thy voice n dreadful thunder spe nijiS^ 

And oft at dawn, deep noon or falling eve. 

By brooks and groves, and hollow whispering gtJei, 

Thy bounty shmes in Autumn unconfin'd, 

And spreads a common feast for all titat live. 0f 

In Winter awful thou ! with clouds and storms 

Around thee tlirown — tempest o'er tempest rolled 2 

Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing 

Riding sublime, thou bid'st the world adore, 

And humblest nature with thy northern blast. 

Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine. 
Deep felt in these appear ! a simple train — 
Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, 
Such beauty and beneficence combin'd— 
Shade, unperceiv'd so softening into shade— • 
And all so forming an harmonious whole — 
That, as they still suceed, they ravish still. 
But wandering oft with brute unconscious gaze, 
Man m|irks not thee, marks not the mighty haad| 
That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres- 
Works in the secret deep— -^shoots, streaming, thence 
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring- 
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day : 
Feeds every creature— hurls the tempest forth : 
And as on earth this grateful change revolves, 
With transport touches all the springs of life. 
Kature, attend ! join every living soul, 
j^eiieath the spacious temple of the sky, 
lit adoration join^ — and arde&t, raise 
One general song ! To lum,j9 vocal galee, 

t$B LESSONS [Pabt I. 

Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your frcahnesi bre^thei : 

O talk of him in solitary glooms ! 

Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pme 

nils the brown shade with a religious awe. 

And ye, whose bolder note is heard afa», 

Who shake th' astonished world, Kft high to heave* 

Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 

His praise, ye brooks attune, ye trembling rilk-^ 

And let me catch it as I muse along. 

Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound— 

Y© softer floods, that lead the humid maz% 

Along the vale — and thou majestic main, 

A secret world of wonders in thyself— 

Sound his stupendous praise, whose greater voice 

Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 

Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowery, 

In mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts, 

Whose bre^ith perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. 

Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave to hira — 

Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, 

As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. 

Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleeji 

Unconcious lies, efiiise your mildest beams 

Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 

Amidibe spangltd sky, the silver lyre. 

Great source of day ! blest image here below, 

Of thyCreator, ever pouring wide, 4 

From world to world, the vital ocean round, 

Ou nature write with every beam his praisf • 

Ye thunders roll ; be hush'd the prostrate worl^, 

While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 

Bleat out afresh, ye hills ; ye mossy rocks 

Retain the sound ; the broad responsive-low, 

Ye vallies raise ; for the great Shepherd rsigns, .^ 

And his wuuff&ring kingdom yet will come. 

Ye woodlands all, awake ; a boundless song 

Burst from the groves ; and when tlie restless day. 

Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 

Sweetest of birds, sweet Philomela, char« 

The listening shades, and teach the night his prais«. 

Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles ; 

At once the head, the hearty the tongue of all ; 

Crown the great hynm ! In swarming citie^ vasl. 

Assembled men to the deep organ join 

The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear, ^ 

At solemn pauses, through the swelling base-^* 

And, as each fri'..g'ing flame increases each, 

In one unite 3 arJorrise to heaven — * 

Or if you luther choose the rural shade, 

Aod find a fane in every si^cred groY»«»» 


There let the sbepfaerd^s flute, the Tirgin^s lay, 
The prompting seraph, aod the poet's lyre, 
Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll. 
For me, when 1 forget the darling theme, 
Whether the blossom blows, the summer raj 
Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams, 
Or winter rises in the blackening east — 
Be my tongue mute, mj fancy paint no more. 
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! 

Should fate command me to the farthest verge 
Of the green earth, to distant barb'rous climes, 
Rivers unknown to song ; where first the sun 
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
Flames on the Atlantic isles ; His nought to m»^ 
Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
In the void waste as in the city full — 
And where He vital spreads, there must be joy. , 
When even at last the solemn hour shall come, 
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 
I cheeiful will obey — there with new powers, 
WiU rising wonders sing — ^I cannot go. 
Where Uoriv£RSAL Lovs smiles not around. 
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all tiieir suns--^ 
From 9eeming evil still educing good^ 
And better thence again, and better still. 
In infinite progression — but I lose 
Myself in Him, in Light Insffabls ! 
Come thexi| ezpreifiT* Silence, muse His praUc. 


I.— r^e CflOT<?/ion— Mrrriok. 

OFT ha« it been my lot to mark 
A proud, conceited, talking spark, 
Returning from his finished tour, 
Grown ten times ptrter than before ; 
Whatever word you chance to drop. 
The travelPd fool your mouth will stop— 
" Sir, if mj judgment you'D allow — 
I've seen — and gure 1 ought to, k»ow-"— 
So begs you'd pay a due submission. 
And acquiesce in his decision. 

IVo travellers of such a cast, 
As o'er Arabia's wilds they pass'd ; 
And on their way in friendly chat, 
Wow talk'd of this and then of that— 
Discours'd awhile 'mongst other matter. 
Of the Cameleon's form and nature. 
" A stranger animal," cries one, 
" Sure never liv'd beneath the sun : 
A lizard's body, leah and long, 
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, 
Its tooth with triple claw disjoin'^d--^ 
And what a length of tail behind ! 
How slow its pace ! — and then its hue— 
"Whoever saw so fine a blue ?" — 

" Hold there,'? the other quick replies, 
*' '1 is green — I saw it with these eyes. 
As late with open mouth it lay, 
And warm'd it in the sunny ray : 
Stretch'd at its ease the beast I view'd, 
And saw it eat the air for fo«d." 

^' I've seen it,^ir, as well as you, 
And must again affirm it blue. 
At leisure I the beast survey'd, 
Extended in the cooling shade." 

" 'Tjs green, 't^s green, sir, I assure ye,'? 
*t Green P' cries tiie otlier in a fury — 
*' Why sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes ?" 
'* 'Twere no great loss," the friend replies— 
*^ For if they always serve you thus. 
You'll find them but of little use." 

So high at last the contest rose. 
From Words they &lmogtcimfiJtaJ)lowai— 
When luckily, came byTthird;\ 
1 © hi» the question they referr'd, ^ 

' Sbct. VII.] IN KEADrtlO. »A 

And begg'd he^d fell theto if he knew, 
Whether the thing waa green or bine. 

" Sirs," cries the umpire, '* cease yonr po^MT, 
The creature^s neither one ngr t'other. 
I canght the animal last night, 
And viewM it o'er by candlelight : 
I markM it well— -'twas black as jet^ 
You stare— but sirs, I've got it yet, * 

And can produce it." — " Pray sir, do : 
I'll lay my life the thing is blue." 
" And I'll be sftrom that when you've seem ' 
The reptile, you'll pronounce it green." 
" Well then, at once to end the doubt," 
Replies the man, ^^ I'll turn him out : 
And when before jrour eyes I've set him. 
If you don't find him black, I'll eat him.'^ 
He said — ^then foil before theu- sight 
Produc'd the beast^-and lo, 'twas white. 

II.-->On the Onf^^Akrur^.— PoPB. 

SI3S, throng this air, this ocean and this earth, 
All natter quick, and bursting into birth. 
Above, hoiY high progressive £fe may go, 
Around how wide ! how deep extend below ! 
Vast chain of being, which from God began : 
Kature's etheiial, human ; angel,- man ^ 
Beast, Inrd, fiab, insect, what no eye can see. 
No glass can reach 3 from Infinite to thee. 
From thee to nothing. On superior powers 
Were we to press, infericHr might on oun ; 
Or in the full creation leave a void. 
Where, ene step broken, the great scale's destroy'd : 
From Nature's chain whatever link you strike. 
Tenth or ten thousandth breaks the chain alike. 

What if the fool, ordain'd tlie dust to tread, 
Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head f 
What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd 
To serve ipere engines to the ruling nund ? 
Just as absurd for any part to claim 
To be another, in this gen'ral framt. 
Just as absurd to mourn ihe tasks or paiu« 
The great directing JWijtd of Ai.l ordains. " 

All are but parts of one stap«adous whole. 
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul : 
That, chang'd through all, and yet iu all the same 
Great in the earth, as in th'etheriaJ frame, ' 

Warms in the sun, refrfesbes in the breeze, 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees 
lives through allJife, extends through aQ extenL 
Jipreads undivided^ operate* unspent. 

Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, . 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart: 
As full, aa.perftct, in vile man that mourns, 
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : . i 

To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; • 
He fills, he bounds, connects and equals all. 
• Cease, then, nor Obdek, imperfection name : 

^ Our pr%per bliss depends on what we blame. 

Know thy own point ; this kind, this due degree 

Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee. 

Submit — ^In this, or any other sphere, 

Secure to be as blc^ as thou can'stbear; 

Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, 

Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 

AD Nature is but Art unknown to thee ; 

All Chance, Direction which thou can'st not see ; 

All Discord, Harmony not understood ; 

All partial Evil, universal Good ; > 

And, spite of Pride, in erriaig Reason's spite, 

One truth is clear, " Whatbvbr is, is right.'* 

s'lIL— -Dtf«crf/»/ion f^ a Country Jlehouae.'-^ 
*%&- G01.D8MITH. 

"^^ NEAR yonder thorn that lifts its head on high. 

Where once the signpost caught the passing eye ; , 
JU>w lies that house, where nut brown draughts HwpirM ; f 

Where gray beard mirth, and smiling toil retir'd J 
Where village statesmen talk'd, with looks profound. 
And news, much older tiian the ale went rounrii. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive place ; 
,-^ The whitewish'd wall ; the nicely sanded floor ; 
. ^ The vamishM clock, that clickM behind the door ; 
H The chest, contrivM a double debt to pay, 

P^ A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
\;^f The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
?^ ^The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
'^' ^%^® hearth, except when winter chilPd the day, '• 
"With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay r " 
^.^i While broken teacups, wisely kept for show, 
'■ Rang'd o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 
' Vain transitory splendors ! could not all 

Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall ! 
Obscure it sinks ; nor shall it more impart ' . 

An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair, f 

To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; . ' 
Ko more t^e farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
xlfo more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; ' ^'^" 

^' IM0 more the smith bis dusky brow shall clear, ' 
rLs^y. ?«lax his pond'roua strength, arid lean to hear; - 


Sect. VII.] IN HEADING. a*S 

The host hunself no longer shaU be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round • 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd, 
Shall kiss the cup, to pass it to the rest. 

IV.— CAorffcrer of tf Cttmtry ^AooAniMfer.— 4b. 

B£SIDE joH stra^litigr fence that ekirtji the way, 
"SVith b!o8?omM.f«nEe, unpro&tably gay^ 
There, in his noisy masMion, skiird to rule, 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stera to view ; 
I knew him well, and every truant knew. 
Well had the boding tremblers leam'd to trace 
The day's disastew m his morning face : 
Fun well they laughM, and counterfeited glee. 
At all his jokeff— for many a joke had he : 
Fun wett tilt busy whisper, oircling round, 
ConveyM the. dismal tidings when he fifown'd. 
Yet he was Idnd ; or, if severe in aught. 
The lore he iKNre to learning was in fault. 
The viUage aU deolar'd how much he knew, 
'Twai certain he could write and cypher too v 
Lands he could measure, timea and tides presase * 
And e'en the story ran that he could gu^. 
In argfuing too the parson own'd his akill ; 
^^bf^ *^*^^ vanquiah'd he could annie stiH ; 

* ^ Jiw? 8^^^5 ™*^^' ""^g'** abound ; 

And stdl they ga.M-^d stilf the wondei grew. 

That one small head could cany aU he kne^ 

V.^Story of Palemon and Lavinia. —Thomovi, 

aZ^^^''^^ ?»^ ^^T'***'* °**^^ ^^ friends, 
And fortune sanlM, deceitfiil, m her birth 
For, m her baplesf yeaw, depriv'd of all. 

She with her widow'd mothei| feeble, old 
And poor, livM in a cottage, far retir'd 
Amengthe windings of a^i^^ ^^^ 5 
By Bobtudeand deep suiroundiJ Xd-.. 
But more bv bashful^o^od^TSL^^^^ 
lTT2^^ they .hun'd ihe cruefsc;™, 
Jr««^?"^*""."^**'P^^^'tr, would meet • 

AW on nature's commonbountyfed ; 
Like the gay birds that sung them to renoBe 
Content and carefesa of to^orrow'S ' 
WW /k"^ '^^ ^^^'^^'^ *h*n the moraine rose 

1^ I«E8S0M(|| ^ TPfBT r. 

^Flie modest virtaei mingled in her eyet^ 
Still OB the ground dejected, darting all 
Their humid heams into the hlooming flowers ; 
Or when the mournful tale her luother told. 
Of what her fsuthleas fortune proioais^d once, 
ThiiB'd in to tho«igbt» thiey, Jilw the.d^wy etir . ^ ^ 
• Of OTening, shone in tears. A natv^e grace 
Sat, ftdr pro0ortioBM,onherpoliidi'd£nibfv 
VeilM in a sunple robe, tiieir best attire,' 
Bejond the pomp of dress ; for lov^ness • 
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, - 
But is, when unadomM, adomM the most. 
Thoughtless of beaut j, she was beauty ^s self. 
Recluse, amid the close embow^nng woods. 

As in the hollow breast of Appenme, 
Benea^ tiie shelter of encirelinghina, 
A myrtle rises, far from human eje. 
And breathes its balmy frsmnce oVr liiti iHld^ 
So flonrishM blooming, and unseen by aB, ' •' ' 

The sweet Lamia; till at length oompefl^d " 
By strong Necessity's supreme oommaiitd, - * - ' 

With sroSing patience, in her looks, she wenf ' 

To glean Palemon^s fields. — Tl^ pHdtf of^s^ains 
PalemoB was } the generous and ^e ridi-j 
Who led the rural life, in all its joy' 
And elegance, .as such Arcadian song • ' * ' 
Tramunits firom ancient uncorruptcd tiihesv . 
When tyrant Custom had not shackled maiij ' ; 
But, free to follow nature, was the ihode. - 
He then, las fancy with' antumnal scenes - : . '^ 

Amusing, chauc'd beside bis reaped* train ' ' ' ^ 

To walk, when poor Laviuiadrew hb«^o^ - -t ^ — ..*/ 
Unconscious of her power, and turning quick, ^ 
With unatfected blushes^ from hi» $Bat^ : ' - ' * ' * 
He saw her charming ; biit'he saw not half :■■!■•' 
The charms her downciitt mc^desty <focceUM.' '^' - 
That very ipomexif loiF^and cha*le dfeuire ' ' 
sprung in his faosem, to'biiQielf Unknow^"» 
For still the world prevu»»d, and its dreid laHris ;* 

(Which scarce the &rm philosopher fcan sconjj ^ ' ' [, 
should his heart owB a gleaner m the f|eld \ 
And thus in secret to his sou] he sighM. 

^^ What pity ^at so deHoate a form, 
By beauty kindled, wbere enliTcning scnse^ ' * / 
Andmore than vulgar goodness seems to dwelT, ~ 
Should be devoted to the rode emb^face \ ■■' ) 

Of some indecent lelown r She looks, m^iiti»k»^ / 
Of old Acasto's line ; and to my miipld " ' '. , 

Hecills that patron otimy happy^ life. ' "" 

FroA whom my liberal fortotte took its rise :V ' 

8*CT. VII.] IN REAOme. «*« 

Now to the dust ^odq down, bn houses, . landf ^ 

And once fair spreading family, dissolv'd. 

'Tis said that in some lone, obscufe fetreaf, 

Drg'd by remembrance sad, and decent pride, 

Far from those scenes which laiew their better days, 

His aged widow and bis daughter live, 

"Whom yet my fruitless search couM never find ; 

Romantic wish ! would this the daughter were*." 

When strict inquiring, from hersefi" he fonnd 
She wsa the same,' the daughter 6f his friend, * 

. OfbountifuIAcasto-*-who can speak 
The mingled passions tiiat surprised his heart, 
And through his nerves, in shiv'ring transport ran ! 
Then blaz'd his smother'd flame, avowed, and bold ; 
And as he vjew'd her, ardent, o'er and o'er, 
Love, gratitude and pity wept at once. 
ConfusM aad fr^^ten^d^t his jsudden tears. 
Her rising beauties flush'd a higher bloom : ' 
As thus Palemon, passionate and just, 
Pottr'd out the pio«s rapture of his soul. • 

" And art thou, then, Acasto's dear remains ? 
She whom my restless gratitude has sought 
So long in vahi ? O yeb ! the very Same, 
The softenM image of my noble friend ; 
Alive in every feature, every look, *. 

More elegantly touched. S-^eetcr than'SpriBg ! » 
Thou sole •J5ur;i'iving blossom from the root 
That n<Wirfsh*crup my fortune ! say, ah ! where. 
In what sequester'd desert hast thou drawn 
The kindest aspec^ of delighted heaven ! 
Into such beauty spread and blown so fair. 
Though poverty's cold wind and rushing rain, ' 
Beat keen and heavy on thy tender yearfe. 
O let me now into a richer soil 
Transplant tifce safe, where vernal suns and shower* 
Diffuse their warmest, largest influence ; **^ 

And of my garden be the pride and joy. 
Ill it befits thee, oh ! rt ill btfits 
Acasto's daughter, his whose open stores, 
ITiough vast, were Mttle to his ampler heart, 
The father of a country, thus to prick 
The very refuse of those harvest fields 
Which from his bount<ious friendship l enjoy. * 
Then throw that shaineAiJ pittamje from ihy hand, 
But ill applied to such a rugged task ; 
The fields, the master, all, my'feir are thine ;' 
If to the various blessings which thy house 
Has on n^ lavished thou wilt add that bliss, 
That dearest Wiss,the powej of blessing thee." 

Here ceas'd ihe youth ; yet still the speid^og eye 

tt^ LESSONS [Pabt I. 

ErprewM the secret trinmfh of hi» so«^, , - 

With conscious virtue, patibiae aid lore, . 

Above the th^ joy divinely raw d.. , , 

Nor waited be reply, t^'on h+ tt* chaijn . , .• 

Ofgoodues^iwcsisiibk, andail _^ . . ' „ .^ 

Id Bweet disorder lo8t-«he blusVd coiisent. . , 

TKe ne«8 immediate to her mother brought, , , 

mUe, pierc'd with aniioiM thought, she pm d aw« 

The lonely«Miiente f<»I^aviiua'sfate : .^ 

Amaz'd and w«rce believing whal she he^d, -• 

Joy seii'd her wither'd veins, and <>«« ^"S^* »«*«» 

Of setting life shone on her evenii^ hours . 

NotlesslnrapturM than tht; happy pwr, , • .:..,. 

moflo«ris7d^oj^ntegr^^»j^^«^^^ ...... 

VI.— 'C*/«rfa« <^ ;#lmeli*i*^»« • 

• • # f • TOUNG CeladoB 
And hi8 Amelia Wfe a msdcWeMpatf, 
With equal virtue form'd, and equal grace, 

As,ir4edaimoftime,mfonaMttteW . 

Of innocence and «»^'«^^Pt''^?^!Siitaal wish 
>Twa. friendship, heightened by ^^ °»^^ ^^V- 
Th'enchantii^ hope and .ympa^etic^w . . 

Beam'd from the mutual eye. I>f ^J??S ^ ^ V 

To love, each was; to each a dearer *eu. 

SupremeN happy in th' ^^wakenM po^r 
Of givingW- Alone, amid the shades, 

Stil!^ in hi^monious intercourse ^ey hv^ • . 

Wruralday, and talk>d the flowing h^^ 
Or sigh'd and look'd-unutterahle thi^. 

&, passM their life, a clear united Btream, 
By cie unruffled, tin, in «^i^^^^ , ^^ 
'lie tempest caught them on the tender watt, - 
Headless^ow for a^d where its maws stray d ; 
WhUe^th each otJ^r blessed creaUve love 
StiU bade eternal ikien smUe around. 
Presaeiifg instant fate, her bosom beav^ 
UnwS sighs ; and stealing f \^^f^^ • 
Towards the big gloom, on Celadon her eye 
Fell tearftil, wetting her diBorderMoheeit. , 
In vain assuring love and confidence ^ 
In heaven repressM her fear ; it grew, Mid shoi* 
Her frame near dissolution. . He perceiv d 
TW u&equia conflict y v^yWi w^}» lo^ 

Sbci:. VII.] IN READING. «4r 

On dying saints, his eyes con»prtJ»fiion shed, 
Wifh love tUuttiin'd hig^v. *4^€at ijot,"'he saMh, ' 
--- *'.Sw«et kmocence ! tLou straLg.rf to oticiite 
And inward stoim ! tie who yon skits involvea 
In frowns of darkless, ever smiles on lliie, 
With kind regaid. (>*er thee tho gcret ih ift. 
That wastes ^t midnight, oi tit' uiidrtaded hour 
Of noon, flies harmless ; and thut vcr^v voice 
Which thunders terror through tlie gudt^ h^art. 
With tongues of seraphs whispers peace to thiae. 
'Tis safety to be near the«, sure, and thus' 
To clasp perfection !" From his void embrace, 
(Mysterious Heavens !) that moment t© the ground, 
A blackenM cotse 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 woe. 

Vlt-^DescrifitioH of Maby Queen gfike Fetiries,-^ 


SH£ is the fenoy^s andwife ; and she comes 
In shape no bigger tbaa an agate stone, 
On the fore finger of shu Alderman ; 
Drawn by a team of li^tk atomies. 
Athwart mes^^s noses a* they lie asleep ; 
Her waggon spofoes, mard^of iong «pinner's legs . 
The cover, of the wingr of graashoppers ; 
Tlie traces, of the smidlest spider^s web ; 
The collar, of the moonshiners watVy beams ; 
Her whip, of oricket^ftJMMeie>; the lash, of £lm ; 
Her waggoner, a smaU'gcej coated gnat ; 
Her chariot is ait ^m\^ hii^^ nnt, 
Made by the joiner Squirrel, or old Grub, ,. 
Time out of mind the fafanes^ coachmaker; . 

And in this state she gaUop«, night by nig)it, 
Tlirough lovers' brains, aad then they dream of love; 
O'er lawyew' fingcn, wbo straight dream of fees ; 
O'er ladies' lipd, who sjtraight on kisses dream ;^ , 
And sometimes eomes she with the tithe pig's tail, 
Tickling fhA puaoa ea be lies asleep, 
Then dreams he of anotber benefice. 
Sometimes she 'diiveth o'er a soldier's neck ; 
And thence dreams of catting f(^eign throats, 
Of breaches, ainbKscadoe«, Sp£KQish blades ; ,^ 

Of healths five fathoms deep ; and then, anon, 
Druttidtf Q his ears ; .at'Srhich lie starts &nd wakes ; . * ^ 

And beirtg. tiiusC^Wgtod j swdain 9^ prayer or two, 
Andfleej^s a^^n. r- 

«M LESSONS ^Joer I. 

XllL'^Onthe ExUtenee 9f « /><?l/y.— Youara, 

RETIRE— The world shot out— tby thoaghts call home*- 
Imadnation^s airy wink reprftss. 
Lock up thy senses. Let no passion stir. 
Wake all t5' reason. Let her reign alone. 
Then, in thy. loul^s deep silence, and the depth 
Ofnature^s sflence, midnight, thus inqnire. 
What am I ? and from whence ? I nothing know 
But that I am ; and smce I am, conclude 
Something eten^l. Had there e*er been nought. 
Nought sSll 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 conceivM 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 : 
Pm still quite out at sea, nor see the shore. 
Whence earth and these bright orbs ? Eternal too .' 
Grant matter was eternal ; '^tUl iS^ese vths * 

Would want some other father. Much design 
Is seen in all their motions, all their makes. , 
Design implies intelligence and art, 
That canH be from thems^lves-^-or mati ; that art 
Man scarce can comprehend, could man bestow : 
And nothing greater yet allowM than man. 
Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain. 
Shot through' vast masses of enormous weight ? 
Who bid brute matter^s restite lump assume 
Such various forms, and gave it wings to iy ? 
Has mattet innate motion ^ Then c£oh atom, ^ 
Asserting its indisputable right > '• * 

To dance, would form an univetveof dust. - • 

vHas matter none > — Then whence these glorious foni» 
And Doundlesg flights, from shapeless and repos'd ? 
' Has matter more than motion ? Has it thought, 
Judgment and geirius ? Isit deeply leam'd 
In mathematics ? Has it framM such laws, 
Which, but to guess, a Newton raad^immortd ? 
If ai:t to form, and council to conduct. 
And that with greater far than human skiU, 
Resides not hi each block — a Oodhkad reigni*^ 
And if a Gon there is — that God how great ! * * 

IX. — Evening m Partidue described. Adam «»(/ ^ 
Conversation and Evenings Wor«A^.— -Mil' 

NOW^ came still evening on, and twilight gray* 
Had in her sober livery all things clad. 
Silence accompatded ; ior beast and birc 

a&GT. Til.] m READINO. U9 

They to tfawr grassy couob, t)i68« to their ne«t, 
were 6uiik^«]] bat the. wakeful nightiiigale ; 
8he afi Qiglit ioa^ her amorous descaat sung : 
Silence was pleasM. NowglowM the jdrmameQi 
With living sapphires : Hesperus, that led 
The starry host, rode brightest ; till the moon, 
Rising in clouded majesty at length, 
Apparent queen, nnveilM her peerless light. 
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 repose ; since Grod hath set 
Labor and rest, as day and night, to men. 
Successive j and the timely dew of sleep - 
Now falling, with soft slumberous weight inclines . 
Our ejrelids. Other creatures aD day long 
Kove idle, vsempioyed, and less Aeed rest; 
Man hath his daily work of body or mind 
Appointed, which declares his dignity. 
And the regard of Hesven on all his ways : 
While other ammais inactive range. 
And of their doing €k>d takes no acooont 
Tomorrow, ere fresh morning streak the eaift 
With first approach o£ iighl, we must be riseni 
And at our ^asant labor, to reform 
Ton flowery arbors, jronder allies green. 
Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown, 
That mock our scant manuring, and require 
More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth ; 
Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, 
That lie bestrown, unsightly and unsmooth. 
Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease ; 
Meanwhile, lis nature wills, night bids us rest. ' 

To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adomM : 
My author and disposer'^ what thou bidd^st 
Unargu'd I obey 4 so Ood ordains : 
Crod is thy law, thou mine, to knpw no more 
Is woman^t happiest knowledge, and her praise* 
With thee oonverslng, I forget all time, 
All seasons and their change : all ples^e alike. 
Sweet is the breath of mom^ her rising sweet, 
With charm of earliest Wrds : pleasant the sun. 
When first on this delightful land he spreads " 
His orient beams,* on herb, tree, fruit and flower,^^ 
Glist'ning with dew ; fragrant the fertile^arth 
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on 
Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night. 
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon. 
And these the gems of Heaven, her starry strain ; . 
But neither breath of mora, when she ascends 

860 LESSONS ' [PaotI. 

With charm of eftrliest birds ; nor rising fttin, 
On this delightful land ; nor herb, frait, flower, 
Glistening with dew ; ner fragrance after showers ; 
Nor grateAi] evening mild ; nor silent night, 
With this her solemn bird ; nor walk by noon, 
Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet. 

Thus, at their ^adj lodge arnvM, both stood, 
Both tumM ; and imder open sky adorM 
The God that made both sky, air, earth and Heaven, 
Which they beheld ; the moon^s resplendent globe. 
And starry pole i Thon also mad^st the night, 
Maker omnipotent, and thou the Bay, 
Which we, in onr appointed work employed, 
Have finishM ; happy in oar mutual help. 
And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss. 
Ordained by thee ; and this delioions |)]ace. 
For us too large ; where ihy abundance wanti 
Partakers, and uncropt, falls -to the ground ; 
But thou hast promised from us two, a race 
To fill the earth, who shaU with us extol 
Thy goodness ii:^te, both when we wake^ 
And when we seek, as now, thy gift pf deep. 

X.'^JSle^y written in n Country Churehyard.'^^^hi. 

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; 
The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea ; 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
Kow fades the glim'ring landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds ; 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. 
Save that from yonder ivy mahtled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain "^ 

Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
Beneath these nigged elms, that yewtrees sljade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,, 
Each in his narrow cell forever laid. 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
The breezy call of incense breathing mom. 
The swallow, twittering from the straw built shed« 
The cock's shrill clarion or the eOhoing h<wli. 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
For them no more the blazing hearth shall bum^ 
Orjtosy housewife ply her evening car- 
No children run to lisp their sirens retu 
Or climb his knee*, the envied kiss to t_ 

Sect. TH.] m RBASiINQ. ut 

Oft did the harvest to their tickle jpeld ; 

Their furrovir oft the' stubborn glebe has broke : 

How jocund did they <hriTe their team afield ! 
L How DowM the woods beneath their sturdy stroke I 
' Let not ambitioa mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys and destiny obscure : • 

'^OT grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 

The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. 

Await, alike the inevitable' hour: . > 

The paths of glory lead— but to the graye. " 

Nor you, ye proud, iiupute to these a fault, 

If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where though the long drawn aisle and fretted vault. 

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise*. 

Can stdty'd urn, or animated bust, . 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust. 

Or flatt'ry sooth t(ie 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, 

Orwak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.; 

But knowledge t^ their eyes her ample page, 

Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er enroll ; 

Chill penury repress'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 blush unseen, . 0^ 

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Seme village Hampden, that, with dauntless breasj, 

The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 
Th* applause of list'ning senates to comlnand, 
' The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their hist'fy in a nation's eyes. 
Their lot forbade ; nor circumscrib'd alone, 
Their growing virtues,, but their crimes confm'd ;- 
Forbade to wade through slaughter 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 luxury dnd prid^, . „ .; 
With iacease kindled at the mu9oVti£i«»e. 

iM UBSSOIM [Pabt I. 

Far rrom the madding opowd^s ignoble «tiife^ 

Tbeir sober wishes never JeamM to stray-— 

Along the cool seqwesterM vale of life, 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet e^en these bones from insult to protect, • • 

Some frail memorial stUl erected i^fh, 

W ith uncouth rhjmes and shapeless scidptnre decked. 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. ^ 

Their name, their years, spelt by the iuklettei*d luisa. 

The place of fame and cl^y supply; 

And many a holy text aromid she strews. 

That teach the ru«tic moralnt to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulnesa a prey, 

IhU pleasing, annoos being e^er resigned. 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day ; 

Nor cast one lon^^g, h'ng^ring IooIl behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies f 

Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 

E^en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 

E^en in our ashes live their wonted sires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonorM dead, 

Does in ihtse 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, 

*' Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn. 

Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away. 

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

There at the foot of yonder nodding beach. 

That wreathes its old fantastic roots to high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch ; 

And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, 

Mutt^inghis wayward fancies he would rove ; 

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, 

Or crazM with care or crossM ift hopeless love. 

One mom I missed him on th^ accustomed hil^ 

Alone the heath, and near his favorite tree, 

Anothercame, 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 church way path we saw him borne. 

Approach and read (far thou canst read) the lay, 

^GravM ontiie stone beneath yon aged thom*^^ 


HERE rests his head upon the lap of earl 
\ youth toforiuucf a»d*t&'fiMiie unloiown 

Sect. Vll.] IN BEADINS. 253 

Fair Science frowned not on bis humble birth. 
And Melancholy markM bixn 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 had — a tear ; 

He gainM from heaven (^twas all he wishM) — a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
(There they, alike, in trembling hope repose). 
The bosom of hb',Father and his Ood. 

•XI.— 5ci/rio restoring the Cafitrve Lady to fier Lover,-^ 


WHEN to his glorious first essay in war. 
New Carthage fell ; there all the flower of Spain 
Were kept in hostage ; a full field presenting 
For Scipio's generosity to shine. — A noble virgin] 
Conspicuous far o^er all the captive dames. 
Was markM the general's prize. She wept and blush'd, 
Young, fresh and blooming like the mom. An eye, 
As when the blue sky trembles through a cloud 
Of purest white. A secret charm combinM 
Her features, and infus'd enchantment through them. 
Her shape was harmony. But eloquence 
Beneath her beauty fails ; which seem'd on purpose 
By nature lavished on her, that mankind 
Might see the virtue of a hero tryM, 
Almost beyond the stretch of human force. 
Soft as she passM along, with downcast eyes. 
Where gentle sorrow swcll'd, and now and then, 
Dropp'd o'er her modest cheeks a trickling tear, 
The Rbmaif legions languished, and hard war 
Felt more than pity ; e'en their chief himself. 
As on his high tribunal rais'd he sat, 

Tum'd from the dang'rouft sight ; and, chiding, ask'd ^ 

His officers, if by this gift they meant 
To cloud his glory in its very dawn. 

She, question'd of her birth, Mn trembling accents. 
With tears and blushes, broken told her tale. 
But, when he found her royally descended ; 
Of her old captive parents the sole joy ; 
And that a hapless Celtiberian prince. 
Her lover and belov'd, forgot his chains, 
His lost dominions, and for her alone 
Wept ou*Jhis tender soul : sudden the heart 
Of this young, conquering, loving, godlike Romai, 
Felt all the great divinity of virtue. 
His wishing youth stood check'd, his tempting power. 
HestrainM by kind humanity. — ^At once, 

45« LESSONS [Past I. 

He for her parents and her lover calPd. 
The TarioQs scene imagine. How his troops ' 
LookM dubious on, and wondered what he meant ; 
While, stretchM below, the trembling suppliant lay 
RackM bj a thousand mingling passions — fear, 
Hope, je^ousj, disdain, submission, gnef, 
Anxiety and love, in every shape. 
To these, as dilSerent sentiments succeeded. 
As mixM emotions, when the man divine, 
Thus the dread silence to the lover broke. 
** We both are young — ^both charmed. The right of war 
Has put thy beauteous mistress in my power ; 
With whom I could, in the most sacred ties, 
' Live out a happy life. But, know that Romans, 
Their hearts, as well as enemies, can conquer ; 
Then, take her to thy soul and with her, take 
Thy liberty and kingdom. In return, 
I ask but this — when you behold these eyes. 
These charms, with transport, be a friend to RoBke.^* 
Ecstatic wonder held the lovers mute ; 
While the loud camp, and all the clustering crowd 
That hung around, rang with repeated shouts ; 
Fame took th^ alarm, and through resounding Spain, 
Blew fast the fair report ; which more than arms, 
Adsiring nations to the Romans gainM. 

WL'^Pofie^s humorous Comfilaint to Dr. Arbuthnot qf 
the Impertinence of Scribbler 9. 

SHUT, shut the door, good John ! — ^fatigu^d, I said ; 
Tie up the knocker — say, Pm sick, Pm dead. 
The dogstar rages ! Nay, 'tis past a doubt, 
AH Bedlani, or Pamasnis is let out. 
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 
They rave, recite^ and madden round the land. 
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide ? 
^ They pieroe my tickets ; through my grot they glide : 
By land, by water, they renew the charge : 
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge : 
No place is sacred ; not the church is free ; 
E'en Sunday shines no sabbathday to me. 
Then, from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme— 
'' Happy to catch me jtist at dinnnertime." 
Friend to my life X (which did not you prolong, 
The world had wanted many an idle song) 
What drop 6r nostrum can this plague remove f 
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. 
Seiz'd and ti'd down to judge how wretched i 
Who «an't be silent, and who will not lie. 


To laugh wtve want of goodness and of grace ; 

And to be grave exceeds all power of face. 

I sit, with tad civility ; I read, 

With serious anguish and an aching head : 

Then drop at last, but in unwilling ears. 

This saving counsel — "Keep your piece nine years,'' 

** Nine years !" (cries he, who, high in Drurylane, 

Luird by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, 

Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, 

Oblig'd by hunger and request of friends ;) 

** The piece, you think is incorrect. Why, take it ; 

Pm all submission, what you'd have it, msJce it.'^ 

Three things another's modest wishes bound— 
My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. 
Fitholeon sends to me — " You know his Grace : 
I want a patron — ask him for a place.'' 
" Pitholeonlibell'd me."— ^* But here's a letter 
Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better." 
*^ Bless me ! a packet !— 'Tis a stranger suet 
A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse." 
If I disKke it—'* Furies, death and rage," 
If I approve—*' Commend it to the stage." 
There thank my stars, my whole commission ends ; 
The players and I are luckily, no friends. 
Fir'd that the house reject him—** 'Sdeath, I'll print it, 
And shame the fools — ^Your interest, Sir, with Lintot." 
*Miintot (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 go snacks ;" 
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door — 
•* Sir, let me 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, 
AU that disgrac'd my betters met in me. 
Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed, 
Just so immortal Maro held his head ; 
And when I die, besure you let me know. 
Great Homer died— three thousand years ago. 

XIII. — Mymn tQ Jdvernty.-^GvLAY, 

DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless power, 
Thou tamer of the human breast, 
Whose iron scourge and torturing hour. 
The bad affright, afflict the best ; 
Bound in thy admantine chain. 
The proud are taught to taste of pain ; 

5Ue LESSONS [Faet I. 

A6d paiple tyranteTainlj ^an, 
With4>8ng8 unfelt before, nnpitied and alone. 

When first thy sire to tend on earth 
Virtoe, his darling child, designed, 
To thee he gave the heavenly birth. 
And. bade thee form her infant mind« 
Stem, rugged nurse ! thy rigid lore 
With patience, many a year she bore ; 
What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, 
And from her own she leamM to melt at others^ woe. 

Scared at thy frown, terrific, fly 
Selfpleasing folly's idle brood. 
Wild Langhter, Noise and thoughtless Joy, . 
And leave us leisure to be good. 
Light they disperse, and with them go 
The summer Friend, the flattering Foe, 
By vain Proq^erity receiv'd 
To her thfey vow their truth, and are again belie vM. 

Wisdom, in sable garb array 'd. 

Immersed in rapturous thought profound, 

And Melancholy, silent maid, ' 

With leaden eye, that loves the ground. 

Still on thy solemn steps attend : 

Warm Charity, the general friend ; 

With Justice, to herself severe ; 
And Pity, dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear. 
Oh ! gently on thy suppliant's head. 

Dread Goddess, lay thy chasfning hand ! 

Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, 

Nor circled with the vecgeful band. 

(As by the impious thou art seen) 

With thundering voice and threatening mien, 

With screaming Horror's funeral cty, . 
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty. 

Thy form benign, Oh, Goddess I wear ; 
Thy milder influence impart ; 
Thy philosophic train be there, 
To soften, Dot to wound my heart. 
Thy gen'rous spark, extinct, revive ; 
Teach me to love and to forgive : 
Exact my own defects to scan ; 
W^hat others are, to f^el ; and know myself a man. 

XIV.** 7%^ Passions. •^^N 0/}£.«-^CoLLtMa. 

WHEN Musir, heavenly Maid ! was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung. 
The Passions oft, to hear her sheS, 
ThrongM around her magio cell ; 

Sbot. Tit] IN READINO. tBT 

Exulting, tremblinj^, ngingt faintio§:, 
PossessM beyond the Muse^ paintin|^. 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturb'd, deh'ghted, rais'd, refin'd ; 
Till once, 'tis said, when aH were fir'd, 
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, 
N From the supporting myrtles round, 
They snatchM her instruments of sound 
And, as they oft had heard apart, 
V Sweet lessons of her forceful art. 
Each (for madness ruPd the hour) 
Would prove his own expressive poTrer. 

First, Fear, his ha^d, its skill to try. 

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid ; 
And back recoil'd, he knew not wh j, 

E^en at the sound himself had made. 

Next Anger rushed, his eyes on 6re, 

In lightnmgs ov^M his secret stings, 
In one rude clash he struck the lyre. 

And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With woiul measures, wan Despair 

Low sullen sounds his grief beguiPd ': 
A solemn, strange and mingled air ; 
'Twas sad by fits, by starts ^twas wild. 
But thou, O Hope I with eyes so fair. 
What was. thy delighted measure ! 
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure. 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 
Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 

And from the rocks, the wootls, the vale, 
She calPd on Echo still through all her song : 
And where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A s«ft repsonsive voice was heard at every close ; 
And Hope enchanted, smiPd and wav'd her golden hair: 
And longer had she sung, but with a frown. 

Re veng^ impatien t rose. 
He threw his blood stainM sword in thunder down: 

And with a withering look. 
The war denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
'^ere ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ; 
And ever and anon, he beat 
The doubling drum with furious heat : 
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, 
Dejected Pity at his .side, 
Her soul subduing voice applied. 
Yet still he kept his wild unalterM aaien. 
While each strained ball of sigh^^-seem'd bursting from his best^. 


^Thynumbew, Jealousy, to aou^twere ftx'd ; 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 
Of diti'ering themes the veering song was mix'd : 
And, now it courted Love ; now, raving^ called on H^te. 

With eyes npraisM, as oi^e ini^r^d. 

Pale Melancholy sat retir'd ; " 

And, from her wild sequestered seat, 

In notes, by distance made more sweet, 
Pour'd through the mellow hom her pensive soul, 

And dashing soft from rocks around, 

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ; 
Through glades aiid 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) 
In hollow murmurs died away. 
But, O, how alterM was its sprightfier tone ! 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 

Her bow across her shoulder flung. 

Her buskins gemmM with morning dew, 
Blew Sin inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, 
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known ; 
The oak crown'd Sisters, and their chaste ey'd Queen, 
Satyrs and sylvan Boys were seen, 
Peeping forth their alleys green ; 

Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear ; 
And Sport leap'd up and seiz'd his beechen spear. 

Last came Joy's extatic trial, 
He, with viny crown advancing. 

First to tSe lively pipe his hand address'd-— 

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol ; 

Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. 

Th jy would have thought, who heard the strain^ 
They saw in Tempe's vale, her native maids, 

Amidst the festal sounding shades. 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing : 
While as his flying Angers kiss'd the strings, ^ 

Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round, 

(Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound) 
And he, amidst his frolic play. 

As if he would <be charming air repay, 
Shook thousand odon from his dewy wings» 


I. — Milton* 9 Lamentation fir the Loss of Ma Sight, 

HAIL, holy li^ht! offspring of heaven firstborn ! 
Or, of th' Ktern^, coetemal beam ! 
May I express thee unblamM ? Since God b light, 
And never, but in unapproached light 
Dwelt from eternity — dwelt then in thee, 
Bright e^uence of bright essence increate. 
Or hear'st thou ratiier, pure etberial stream, 
Whose fountain who shall tell ? Before the sun. 
Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voiot 
Of God, as with a mantle did invest 
The rising world of waters dark and deep. 
Won from the void and formless infinite. 
Thee I revisit now with bolder win|f, 
EscapM.the Stygian pool, though longdetainM 
In that obscure sojourn ; while in my flight, 
Through utter, and through middle darloness bonM, 
With other notes, than, to tiie Orphan lyfe, 
I sung of Chaos and eternal Night ; 
Taught by the heavenly muse to venture down 
The dark descent, and up to reascend, 
Thpugh hard and rare. Thee I revisit safe, 
And feel thy sovereign vital lamp— ^>ut ^hou 
Revisitestnot these eyes, that roU in vain 
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ; 
So thick a drop serene hath quenchM their orba, 
Or dim sufiusion veiPd. Yet not the more 
. Cease 1 to wonder where the Muses haunt. 
Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny bill, * 
Smit with the love of sacred song — ^but chief 
Thee, Zion, and the flowery brooks heaeath. 
That wash the hallow'd feet, and warbling flow. 
Nightly I visit — ^nor sometimes forget 
Those other two, equalPd with me in fate, 
So were I equalPd with them in renown, 
Blind Thamyris, and blind Maeonides ; -^ 
And Tiresias, and Phineus, prophets old : 
Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move 
Harmonious numbers— -as the wakeful bird 
Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid, 
Tunes her noctamal note. I'hus with the year, 
Seasons retum-^but not to me returns , 
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 
No sight of vernal bloom, or summer'^s rose, 
Or flocks or herds, or human face divine : 
But cloud XAstead, and cyer diudug dark 

MO LT58SON8 [PAmx 1. 

Surround me, from the cheerful ways of mea 

Cut ofi; and for llie l»ook of knowledge fair, 

Presented with an universal blank 

Of nature^s works, to me expung^ d and raz^ d. 

And wisdom, at one entrance, quiok shut out. 

So much the rather, thou, celestial light, 

Shino inward, and the mind, through all her powers. 

Irradiate ; there plant ejes ; all mist from thence, 

Purge and disperse ; that may se« and teH 

Of things invisible to mortal sight. 

11.^^ V Allegro^ w the Merry M«n.— »Milto9. 

HENCE, loathed Melancholy; 
Of Cerberus and blackest midnight bom, 

In Stygian cave forlorn, 
*MongBt horrid shapes, and shrieks, and tigfats unholy ; 

(Ind out some uncouth cell, ^ 

Where brooding daricness spreads his jealous wings, 

And the night raven sings ; 
There under ebon shades, and low browed rocks, 

As ragged as thy locks. 
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 

But come, tliou goddess fair and free. 

In heaven yclep^d Kuphrosyne ! 

And by men, hearteasing 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 jolity. 

Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles, 

Kods and becks, and wreathed smiles ; 

Such as hang on Rebels 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 ligltt fantastic toe ; 

And in thy right iiand, live with thee, 

The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty—o 

And, if I pve thee honor due, 

Mirtn, adndt me of thy crew. 

To live with her and liVe with Ihee, 

In unreproved pleasures free : 

To hear the lark begin his flight, 

And, singing, startles the dull Night, 

From his watchtower in the skies, 

Till the dappled dawi doth rise ; 

Then to come in spite of sorrow 

And at thy window bid good morrow. 


Through the eweetbriar or the vine, 

Or the twisted eglantine ; 

While the cock, with livelj din, 

Scattep the rear of darkness thin, 

And to the stack, or the bam door 

Stoutly stnitB his dames before ; 

Oft listening how the hounds and honi, 

Cheerlj rouse the slumbering mom. 

From the side of some hoar hiU, 

Through the high wood echoing thrill : 

Sometimes wa&ing, not unseen, 

By hedge row ehns, or hillocks green, « 

Bight against the^eastera gate. 

Where the great sun begins his state, 
RobM in flames and amber light. 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight, 
While the ploughman, near at hand, 
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land. 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe. 
And the mower whets his scythe, 
And every shepherd tells his* tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale- 
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleanure«» 
Whilst the landslnp round it measures ; 
Russet lawns and faDows gray, 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray, 
Mountains on whose barren breast 
The laboring clouds do often rest, 
Meadows trim, with daisies pied, 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. 
Towers and battlements it sees, 
BbsomM high in tufted trees, 
Where, perhaps, some beauty lies, 
The Cynosure of neighboring eyes. 
Hard by a cottage chimney smokes,; 
From betwixt two aged oaks. 
Where Cory don and Thrysis met, • 

Are at their savory dinner set,. 
Of herbs and other country messes, 
Which the neathanded Fbillis dresses ; 
And then in haste, her bower she leaves, 
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 
Or, if the earlier seasoii lead, 
To the tann'd hay/..)ckm the mead. 

Towered citivs . ' .ase us then, 
And the busy f ura of men, 
Where UuPongs of knights and barong bold, 
In weeds of peace high triumph hold ; 
Wuh store of kaies, whose h.-ig';t eyes 
Rain iofluenct, aod ju4ge the ^rize 

t6S LESSONS [Pabt I. 

Of wit or amii, whfle both .contend 
To win her grace, whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear, 
In Mifiron robe, with taper clear, 
And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 
With mask, and antique pageantry ; 
Such sights as youthfnl poets dream. 
On summer eves, by haunted stream. 
Then to Ae well trod stage anon, 
If Jonson's leamediiock be on, 
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, 
Warble his native wood notes wild. 

And ever, against eating cares, 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs, 
Married to immortal verse, 
Such as the meeting sonl may pierce, 
In notes with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out, . 
With wanton heed and giddy cunning. 
The melting voice through mazes running ; 
Untwisting all the chwns that tie 
The hidden soul of Harmony : 
That Orpheus' self may have the head 
From golden slumber, on a bed 
Of heapM Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strams as would have won the ear 
Of Pluto, to have quite set free^ 
His half regained Eurydice. 

Iliesc delights, if thou canst give, 
Klrth with these I mean to live. 

III.— -On the Pursuits of Mankind.-^TotiL, 

HONOR and shame from no condition rise \ 
Act well your part— there all the honor lies. 
Fortune in men has some small difference made ; 
One flaunts in rags— -one flutters in brocade ; 
The coMer aprqpM and the parson gown'd ; 
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. 
You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, 
Or, cobler l&e, the parson will get drunk ; 
Worth 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 are good and great 
Go ! if your ancient, but ignoble blood 
Has «rept through scoundrelf ever since the flaftd*.: 

Sbct. VIII.] IN READING. «« 

Go ! and pretend your family is young, 

Nor own your fathers have been fools so long. 

What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards ? 

Alas ! not all the blood of all tlie Howards. 

Xiook next on greatness — ^say where greatness lief. 

*' Where, but among the heroes and the wise ? 

Heroes are much the same, the point's agreed, ^ . 

From Macedonia's madman to the Swede : •< 

The whole strange purpose of their lives, to find, v 

Or make an enemy of all mankind ! 

Not one looks backward ; onward still he goes : 

Yet ne'er looks fonvard, farther than his nose. 

No less alike the politic and wise ; 

All fly slow things with circumspective eyes. 

Men in their loose, unguarded hours they tal^ 

Not that themselves are wise, but others weaii. 

But grant that those can conquer ; these can cheat; 

'Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great. 

Who wickedly is wise, or niadl^ brave. 

Is but the more a fool, the more a knave, 

Who noble ends by noble means obtains, 

Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains ; 

Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed 

Like Socrates — that man is great indeed. 

What's fame ? a fanci'd life in others' breath, 
A thing beyond 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 hour whole years outweighs 
Of stupid staren, and of loud huzzas : 
And more true ioy, Marcellus exil'd, feels, 
Than Cesar, with a Senate at his heels. 

In parts superior what advantage lies f 
Tell, (for you can) what is it to be wise ? 
*TJ8 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 drudge, « 
Without a second, or without a judge. 
Truths would you teach, to save a sinking land ? 
All fear, none aid you, and few understand. 
Pauiful preeminence I yourself to view 
Above Ufe^s weedcness, and its comforts too. 

Bring then these blessings to a strict account ; 
Make &ir deductions, see to what they 'mount : 
How much, of other, each is sure to cost ; 
How each, for other, oft is wholly lost ;, 
Hew inconsistent greater goods with these ; 
How sometimes life is risk'd, and always ease : 
Think. And if still such things thy envy call. 
Sty, wo^ild'st thou be the man to whom they &U ? 

S66 LESSONS [Vamt I 

For tfure, suck eoumge length of life denies ; 
And thou must fall, thy virtue^s sacrifice. 
Greece in her single heroes strove in vain ; 
Now hosts oppose thee — and thou must be slain. 
Oh, grant me^ gods I ere Hector meets his doom, 
AH I can ask of heaven — an earljr tomb ! 
80 shall mj days in one sad tenor run, 
And end with sorrows, as they first begun* 
Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share ; 
Oh ! (Hrove a nusband^^, and a parentis care. 
That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy, 
Where yon wild figtree joinAthe walls of Troy : 
Thrice our bold foes the^fierce attack have given ; 
Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven. 
Lei 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 ; 
Kor that alone, but all the works of war. 
. How would the sons of Troy, in arms renownM, 
And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the gronn^ 
Attaint the histre of my former name, 
Should Hector basely quit the field of fame 1 
My early youth was bred to warlike pains ; 
My soul impels me to the martial plains. 
StOl foremost let me stand to guard th^ throne. 
To save my father's honors and my own. 
Tet, come it will ! the day decreed by futes I 
(How my heart trembles, while my tongue relates ^ 
The day when thou, imperial Troy, must bead, , 
Must see thy warriors fall, thy glories end, 
And yet, no dire presage so wounds my miad. 
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind. 
Not Priam's hoary hairs, defil'd with gore, 
Not all my brothers gasping- on the shore, 
As thine, Andromache ! Tbygriefs I dreads 
I see tj^ee 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 I'* 
Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, 
Embitters all thy woes by naming mu. . 
•le thoughts of glory past, and present shame, 
A thousand griefs shall waken at the name ! 
May I lie cold before that dreadful day, 
Press'd with a load of monumental clay t 
Thy Hector wrapp'd in everiasting sleep, 
Sh^ nwther hear thee sigh, nor see the weep.« ' 
Q^ifoMJ^iT''? ^E"*^*' ^' illustrious chief of Tro^ 
Sfretch'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy.' ■ ■ ' 
The babe clung, crying, to the nurse's lireist, 


Soared with the daszling helm, and nodding cksL 
Wkfa secret pleasure, each fond parent smilM, 
And Hector hasted to reliere his child : 
The glittering terrors from his brows unbound, 
^And placM the beaming helmet on the ground. 
Then kissM the child ; and, lifting high in air, ' 
Thus to the gods preferrM a parentis prayer. 
<^ Oh thou, whose glory fills th^ etherial throne! 
/ And all ye deathless powers ! protect my son ! 

Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, ^ 

To ruard 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 reekmg spQiU, 
Whole hosts may hail him with deservM acclaim, 
And say, ^^ This chief transcends his father's fame ;* 
While pleasM amidst the general' shouts of Troy, 
His mother's conscious heart overflows with jo/.*' 
He spoke : and fondly gazing on her charms. 
Restored the pleasing bmrden to her arms. 
Seft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, 
HushM to repose, and with a smile surveyM : 
The troubled pleasure, soon chastised, vrith fear, 
She mmgled with a smile, a tender tear. 
The softened chief with kind compassion ▼iew'd. 
And dryM the falling drops ; and thus pnisuM— 
^^ Andromache ! my souPs far better part ! 

Why with untimely sorrow heaves thy heart I 

No hostile hand can antedate, my doom. 

Till fate condemn me to the silent tomb : 

FixM 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 fearf\:d and &e 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 ibr 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 

Hit towery helmet, black with shading plumes. 

His princess parts with a prophetic si^, 

Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye. 

That streamed at every look ; then moving slow 

Sought her own palace, and indulged her woe. ' 

There, while her tears depler'd the godlike man. 

Through all het train the soft infection ran : 

The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed, 

Aad mouia'd the living Hector aa the dead. 


JOHN GILPIN was a cHizea 

Of GBeditand renown ; 
A train band captun eke was he. 

Of £unoui London town. 
John Gilpin's spotue said to her dea|w- 

•* Though wedded we have been 
These twice ten tedions yeafs, yet we 

No holiday have seen. 
Tomorrow is our wedding day, 

And we shall then repair 
Vnio the Bell at Eduonton, 

AU in a chaise and pair. 
My sister and my lister's child. 

Myself and children three, 
IVill fill the chaise, so yon ouistridi* 

On horseback after we." 
He soon repfied^-^^ I do admire 

Of woman kind but one ; 
And you are she, my dearbst dear. 

Therefore it shall be done. ' , - 

I am a liaen draper bold, 

As all the world doth know ; 
And my good friend, Torn CaBender, 

Will lend his horse to go." 
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin—^ That's well said ; 

And, for that wine is dear, 
We willbefumish'd with our own. 

Which is both blight and clear." 
John GiJpin kissM his loving wife : 

O'erjoy'd was he to find, 
^ That, though on pleasure she was bent. 

She had a frug^J mind. 
The morning came, the chaise was brought^ 

But yet was not allowed 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 
So three.doors off the chai«e was stayed 

Where they did all get in ; 
Six precious souls ; and all agog. 

To dash through thick and thin ! 
Smack went the wVP) round went the wheels, 

Were never folk so glad ; 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 
John Gilpin at his horse's'side, 

SeizM fast the flowing laane. 


And up he got in haste to ride, 
Beit soon c|UBfe dowi^ again : 
For saddletree acarce raacliM had he, 

Hia journey to begin, 
When turning round his head he saiw, 

Three customers come in. 
So down he oame, for loss of time, 

Although it grieved hime sore, 
Yet loss of pencej full well he knew, 

Would trouble him much more. 
^Twas long before the cuftomen 

Were suited to their mind, 
When Bettj screamM into his eara— 

/^ The wine is left behmd.*' 
^^ Good lack $*^qnotii he, "yet bring it me, 

My leathern belt likewise, 
In which I wear my tnuty sword. 

When I do exeicise.^^- 
Now Mrs. Gilpin, careMsoul, * 

^ Had two stone bottles fovnd. 

To hold the liquor that she IotM, 
^ And keep it safe and sound. 

Each bottle had a curling ear, 

Through which the belt he drew ; 
He hung a bottle on each side. 

To nuke his balance true. 
Then over all, that he night be 

EquippM from top to toe, 
His long red cloak, weM brushM and neat. 

He manfully did throw. 
Kow see him mounted once again, 
Upon his nimble steed ; 
' Full slowly pacing o'^ theistones, 
With caution and good heed. 
But finding soon a imootber road ' 

Beneath his well shod feet. 
The snortine beast began to trot. 

Which galPd him ih^his seat. 
So, " fair and softly," John he cried ; 

But John he cried in vain ; 
The trot became a gaBop soon ; 

In spite of curb and rem. 
fio stooping down, as needs he must, 
• Who cannot sit upright ; 
He graspM. the raape with both his hands, 
And eke with all his might. 
^ Away'' went Gilpin, neck or nought ; 
Away went bat and wig ; 
Y2 . 


LB8S0NS CPiL»« I. 

He little dri&ait, when he set out, 

Of nmiung «ach a n|;. 
Hii bofBe, who never had b^ore 

Been handled in this kind, 
Afl^ighted fled ; and as he flew. 

Left all the world behind. 
The wind did blow, the cloak did flj, 

Like streamer long and gay ; 
Till loop and button failing both. 

At last it flew away. 
Then might all people well ditcera 

The bottles he bad slung : 
A bottle swinging at each side, 

As hath been said or sung. 
The dogs did baik, the children soreamM,. 

Up flew the windows all $ 
And ereiysoul criM out, " Wclldc»# !*» 

As loud as they could.bawl. 
Away went Gilpin— who but^e ! 

His fama soon spread around«— 
•* He carries weight ; he rides a race ! 

'Tis for a thousand pound V^ 
And still, as fast as he drew near, 

»Twas wonderful to view, 
Bow 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^ at a blow. 
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 seemed to carry weight, 

With leathern girdle bracM ; 
For all might see the bottle netka 

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, .^ 
yr a wild godse at play. 
'Edmonton, his' loving wifd, 
ron the balcony | wpM 

SxcT. Yin.] IN READING. 271 

Her tender htis!nii<i^ wond'riog in»cli - 

To see how he did ride. 

«« Stop, Stop, J6tm Gilpin ! li«ie*8 the hMve I 

The J all at once did cry ; 
The dinner waits, and w are tirM !^> 

Said Gilpin— ^^ So am I !^^ 
But, yet his horse was not a whit 

InclinM to tarry there ; 
For why ? — His owner had a house 

Fall ten miles oft; at Ware. 
8<x like an arr«w swift he Bcw, . 

Shot by an archer strong ; 
So did he fly — ^whieh 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 Calendcr'% 

His horse at last atood still. 
Tern Calender, surprised to see 

His friend in stteh a trim, 
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 

And thus accosted him : — 

" yt ¥* °®^' ' ^^^ ^^^^ ' Y<^ tid>ng« ten ; 

Make haste and tell me all ! 
Say, Why bareheaded are you come ? 

Or, Why you ceme at aU ?'» 
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 

And lov'd a timely joke ; 
And thus unto Tom Calender, 

In merry strains he spoke :— 
** I came because your horse would come : 

And if I well forebode, • 

My hat and wig will soon be here ; 

They are upon the road." 
Tom Calender, right glad to find ' 

^is friend in merry pin, 
Returned him not a single word,' 
• But to the house went in : 
Whence strait he came with hat and wir, 
. A wig that flowM behind, ' 

■ ^ A hat not much the wotse for wear ; 

Each comely in its kind. 
He held them up ; and, in his turn. 

Thus showM his ready wit—. 
•* Mv head is twice as big as yours, 

They therefore needs must fiti 

But let me «crape the dirt away 
• That hangs upon your f^ce ; 

V% LESSONS [Pabt I. 

And stop and eai— for weH jon may « 

Be in a hungry case.'^ 

Said John*^^^ It is my wedding day t 

And folks would gape and storei 
If wife should dine at Edmonton, 

And I should dine at Wan V* 

So turning to his hotse, he said, 

^^ I am in haste to dine ; 
Twas for your pleasore you came here. 

You shall go back for mine/^ 
Ah ! luckless speech, and bootlesi boast, 

For which he paid full dear ; - 
For, while he spake a braying ass, 

Did sing most loud and clear : 
Whereat bis horse did snort, as if 

He heard a lion roar ; 
And gallopM off with all his mighty 

As he had done before. 
Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went Gilpin^s hat and wir ; * 
He lost them sooner than at nrst ; 
For why ? They were too big. 
Now Gilpin^s wife w^ien she had sees 
Her husband posting down 
. Into the country, far away. 

She pulled out half a crown ; 
And thus unto the youth she said 

That droTe them to the Bell, 
^^ This shall be yours when you bring Isack - i.rk 

My husband safe and weU.^* . mI 

The youth did ride, and soon they met ; 

He tried to stop John^s horse 
By seizing fast the Bowing rein 
But only made things worse : 
But not performing what he meant. 

And gladlr would have done, ^ 

He thereby frighted Gilpin's horse^ 

And made him faster run. 
Away went Gilpin — and away 
Went postboy at his heels ;' 
The postboy's hdbe right glad to mist 

The lumb'ring of the wheels. 
Six gentlemen upon the road, 

Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 
■wuk -jostboy scampering in the fear, 
y ran'd the hue and cry. 
3rop thief! stop thief ! a highwayman V^ 
f9ot one of tiiem was nmte ; 


So the J, and all that paraM that waj, 

SoohjoinMin the pimmt. 
And now the turnpike gates agaia 

Flew open in short space ; 
The tollman thinking, as before. 

That Gilpin rode a race* 
And ^o he did and won it too ; 

For he got first to town : 
Kor stoppM ^liU where he had got n^ 

He did again get down. 
Kow let us sing — ^^ Long live the king ( 

And Grilpin, long live he : 
And when he next doth ride abroad, 

Maj I be there to see l^^ 

VII.— 7%^ Creation qf the fforl<f..^MtLTOl0. 

• • • • • MEANWHILE the Son 

#n his great expedition now i^pearM, 
Girt with omnipotenco, with radiance orowa'^d) 
Of Majesty divine ; sapience and Ioyo 
Immense, and all his iather in him shone* 
About his chariot numberless were poured 
Cherub and seraph, potentates and thrones. 
And virtues ; wingM spirits and chariots wingM 
From the armory of God ; where stand of old 
Myriads, between two brazen mountains lodgM 
Against a solemn day, hamessM at hand. 
Celestial equipage ! and now came forth 
Spontaneous, for within them spirit liv'^d, 
Attendant on their Lord ;Jieaven opened wide 
Her everduring gates, harmonious sound I 
On golden hinges moving, to let forth 
The Kin^'of Glory, in his powerful Wort 
And Spint, coming to create new worlds. 
On heavenly ground they stood, and from the shovt 
They TJew'd the vast immeasurable abyss, 
Outrageous as a sea ; dark, wasteful, wild ; 
Up from the bottom tumM by furious winds. 
And surging waves, as mountains to assault 
Heaven^s height, and with the centre mix the pole. 

Silence, ye troubled waves ! and thou deep, peace 2 
Said then the omnific Word, your discord end : 
Nor stayed ; but on the wings of cherubim 
Uplifted, in paternal glory rode 
Far into Chaos, smd £»^orld unborn : 
For Chaos heard his voice ; him all his train 
FoUowM in bright procession to behold 
Creation, and the wonders of his might. 
Then stayM the fervid wheels, and in his hand 
He took the golden compasses, preparM 
la God's eternal stort to cirenmscribe^ 

JOA, LESSONS (Pabt 1. 

Thu vnirenei and all created thii^. 
One foot he center^, and the other tura^ 
Round through the yast profimdity ebscnre. 
And laid, thus far extend, thus far thy bounds, 
Thifbe thy just circumlerence, O werld ! 

Thus God the heaven created, thus the eartii, 
Matter unformM and void * Darknfess profound 
Cover'd th' abyss ; l)Uton the watery calm 
His brooding wings the spirit of God outspread, 
And vital virtue infus'd, and vital warmth , ^ 

Throughout the fluid mass ; but downward purgM 
The b&ck, tartareous, cold, infernal dregs, 
Adverse to life ; then founded, then conglobM 
Like things to Uke, the rest to several place 
Disparted ; and between, spun out the anr ; 
And earth, self-balanced, on her centre hung. 

VIIL— OveriArow of the R§bel jin^eU.'^lm* 

8p spake the Son, and into terror changed 
His ceuntenance, 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 roIlM, as with the sound 
Of torrent floods, or of a numerous host. 
' He bn hb impious foes, right onward drove. 
Gloomy as night. Under his burning wheels 
Thestedfast empirean shook throughout. 
All but the throne itself of God. Full soon 
Amon^ them he arrivM ; in his right hand 
Graspmg ten thousand thundev, which be sent 
Before him, such as in their souls infixM 
Plagues. They, jMstonishM, all resistance lost. 
All-courage ; down theu* idle weapons dropp'd : 
O^er shields, and helms, and helmed heads he rode^ 
Of thrones and mighty seraphim prostrate. 
That wishM the mountains, now, might be again 
Thrown on them as a shelter from his ire. 
If or less on either side, tempestuous fell ' 

His arrows from the fourfold visagM four 
Distinct with eyes, and from the living wheeb 
Distinct alike with multitude of eyes : 
One spirit in them rulM ; and every eye 
GlarM lightning, and shot forth pernicious Are 
Among th^ accursed, that witherM all their strei^;th^ 
And, of their wonted vigor, left them drained. 
Exhausted, spiritless, afflicted, fallen. 
Yet half his strength be put not forth ; but checkM 
His thunder in mid volley ; for he meant 
Not to destroy but to root them out of hcaveik 
7he overthrown N raised ; and as a kerd ^ 

Sect. Vin.] IN READING. 275 

Of goats ortimoront flock together throngM 
Drore tbem before him tbuDderbtrack, pursued 
With terron and with furies, to the bounds 
And chijstal wall of heaven ; which opening wide 
RoDM inward, and a spacious gap disclosM 
Into the wasteful deep. The monstrous sight 
Struck them with horror backward i but far worse 
UrgM them behind. Headlong themselves they threw 
Bown from the verge of heaven ; eternal wratii 
Burnt after tbepi to the bottomless pit. 

IX.— ^/^xancf^r** Feast ; or^ the Power of Mu9k»^^^n 
Ode for St. Cicilia'a Day.-^DRrDmn. 

'TWAS 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 placM around. 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound ; 

So should desert in anus be crowned. 
The lovely Thais by his side, 
Sat like a blooming eastern bride. 
In flower of youth and beauty's pride. — 
Happy, happy, happy pair I 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave. 
None but the brave, deserve the fair. 
Timotheus plac'd on high, 

, Amid Uie tuneful choir, « 

* With flying fingers touch'd the lyre : 
The trembling notes ascend the sky. 

And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove, 
Who left his blissful seats above ; 
(Such is the power of mighty love !) 
A dragon's fiery form be^ly'd 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 wMld. 

The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound ; 
A present deify, they shout around ; 
A present deity ; the vaulted roofs rebound. . 
With ravish'd ears the monarch hears. 
Assumes the god, aflTects to nod, 
And seems to shake the spheres. 

The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician smf; ; 
Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young. 
The jolly god' ip triumph comes ! 
Sound the trumpet ; beat the drums ; 


FhisVd with a purple grace, 

He shows his honest face : ' ' j 

Vow give the hautboys breath—he camtn ! he comes ! ] 

Bacchus, ever fair and yoting, 
Drinking jays did first ordain: 
£acchu8^ blessings are a treasure ; 
Drinking is the toldier^'s pleasure : 
Rich §ie treasure ; 

8weet the pleasure ; , . j 

Sweet is pleasure, after pain. I 

SoothM with the sound, the king grew Tain : ] 

Fought all his battles o'er again ; ' 

And thrice he routed all hiu fces,and thrice he slew the slain. 
The master saw the madness rise ; 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes-,; 
And, while he heaven and earth defjM, 
ChangM his hand and checkM 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, 
FalPn, 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-expos'd he lies, 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 

With downcast look the joyless victor sat, 
Revolving^ in his alter'd soul, 

The vanbus ttfras of fate below ; 
And now and then, a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 
The mighty master smiPd to see 
That love was in the next degree ; 
'Twas but a kindred sound to move ; 
For pity melts the mind to love. 

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 
Boon he soothM his soul to pleasures , 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 
Honor but an empty bubble ! 

Never ending, still beginning, 
Fighting still, and still destroying. 

If the world be worth thy winnmgi 
Think, O think it worth enjoying ; 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee ; 
Take the good the gods pro\ide 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 psun. 

Samt. Tin.] IN BEADING. 877 

Gsz'd on the &ir. 
Who eaus'4 b is cafe ; 
And ti^^h'd. and look'd« aigh'd and look'di 
Sigh'd and look'd» and sighM again : 
At length, with love and wine at once opprett'd. 
The vanquish'd victor—sunk upon her breast. 

Now. stHke'lhe golden lyre again • 
A louder >et, and yet a louder strain : 
Break his bands of sleep asunder. 
And rouse kiip like a rattling peal of thunder. 
Hark ! hark ! the horrid sound 
Has rais'd up his head. 
As awak'd from the dead 
And amaz'd, he ttanss around. 
Bevenge ? revenge ! Tirobtbeus cries-«^ 
See the furies arise 
See the snakes that they retr» 
How they hiss in their hair. 
And the sparkles thast flash from, their ^ts ! 
Behold a ghastly band. 
Each a torch in his hand ! 
These arc Grecian ghosts, that in battl© were.slaiiir 
And, bur)rd, remain 
inglorious on the plain. 
Ctive the- vengeance due to the valiant erew. * 
Behold ! how they toss their torches on high* 
How they point to the Persian abodes. 
And glittering temples of their hostile gods ! 
The princes appUud, with a furious joy ! 
And the king Beit*d a flambeau, with aeal todetlfoy : 
This led Ihe way. 
To light him to his prey i 
And, Jike anqther Helen— ar*d another Troy. 

Thus long age. 

Ere heaving bellows leamM to 'blow» 
^^f hile organs vet were mute ; 
Timotheus to his breathing lute 
And saunding lyine 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle softdesifC. 
At last divine Cecilia came, 
Intrentress of the vocal frames 
The sweet euthusiast, from her saored storey 
. Eilarg'd the former narrow hounds. 
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 t 
iTe riiis'd a mortal to the skies t 
She drew an angel down. 




l^i^Qm Vnuk ami Jutfr^rHijr— TxuoiAoir. 

1 RUTH and integritir h^y^ ^ tbe advantages of 
appearance, and many ii|pxQ« tC tim^ ahow of any 
thing be good £»r aay thing, I am sure the reaiity is 
better ; for why does any man dissemble, or seem to be 
that whi^ch < he is not, bpt becaujie he thinks it good to 
have the qualiUes he pretapds to? F^r^ to coonterfeit 
and d i^ lfiipM ^i is tQ p^t ^ the app^caq^e.oC same real 
excellency. Now, the best yray £ot a. man to seem to be 
anything, is really to be what he would seei)ft to be. 
Besides, it isoften as troublesome to support the pre* 
tence of a good quality, as to,hax^ it ; itfid if a maa 
baveitnot,iiis most Ukely he. will be discovered to 
want it ; and" t)ien all his labor to seem to have it, is lost. 
There is something unnatural in paindnigf which a skil- 
ful eye will easily di^ernfrempative beauty, apd^ com- 

ItishardtopersqiMeiandactapart.iMig,; for where 
truth is net at the bottom, nature will always be en* 
deavoring to return, and will betray heci^elfst one time or 
other Therefore, if any map ihihk it convenient t^ seem 
good, let him be i^o indeed ^ and then h^^ goodrieaa 
will appear to every one's sati^&iction } for truth is con- 
vinciogi and carriea its own light and, ovideoce along 

^iST, 14 IN SPfiAftlNG. *rt 

#hh i^ and win not onlf commtsnd us f^tvety ixnh'i couk 
veicnce ; but^ which is much more, to God, who Manrcit* 
«(h oar Mearts: so thai, Upon all account i, sinceritf 
is true Wisdom. Pftrti)fi\ilan4^ as to tfvs alTiiirs of thi» 
¥rorld^ integrity hath manf advanta^ over all th« 
artiBci't&l modes of dissimulation and deceit. It is tnaoh 
the plainer and easier, much the safer and more secure 
Way of dealing in the World ; it hath l^ss of trodblto tm^ 
dimcuKy, of entanglement smd p^rpfexitfy of danger a»i4 
hazard in it ; it is the shortlist and ne^eat way to 4>ltv. 
end, carrying us thither in a straight line ; and will hold 
out and last longest. The at*M of deceit atid cunning 
continually grow weaker, and less efT^ctuat atid Service* 
able to those that practise them $ wher^av integrtty |;«bif 
ftrCiigth by use ; and the ttiore atid kfn^^er aoiy man 
practiseth it^e greater service it does him, ^ ootlfirtitH 
kig hi^ reputation, and encouraging those with whotn h<f 
hath to do to repose the greatest confidence in Him | 
which is «n unspeakable advantage it> business aTnd tke 
affairs of life. 

A dissernbler mtisf be always wptm his i^tilifd, knti 
watch himself carefn rty, that he do not contradict his oWrt 
(nretonsions : for he actsiKn unnatural part^ anc^ therelai^ 
must put a continual foree and restr^iint trpon' himlilelf;' 
whereas, he that acts sincerely, hath the easiest' tUsk ^ 
the world ; because he follows nature^ and so i*^^l tft 
no trouble and care about his words and actions ; he 
needs not invent any pretence beforehand, nor itiake ex- 
cuses afterwards, for any thing he hath said or done. 

But msincerity is very troublesome to manage. A 
hypocrite hath so niany things to attend to, as make 
his life a v^ry perplexed and intricate thing. A liar liatK 
need of a good memory, lest he contradict at one 
time, what he said at another. But truth is always consi!i- 
tent with itself, and needs nothing to help it out ; it is* 
dlways near at hand, and sits upon oiir lips, and is read/ 
to dropout before we are aware ; whereas a lie is trou- 
blesome, and one trick needs a great inany moiie to 
make it good. 

Add to all this, that sincerity is the most compendious 
Inrisdom, and an excellei^ instrument for the speedy; 


dispatch of buwess. It creates confidence in thosie we 
Imye to deal witlif saves the labor of many inquiries^ 
and brings things to an issue in a few words. It is like 
travelling in a plain beaten roady which commonly brings 
a man sooner to hb journey's end^ than by ways in which 
mei; often lose themselves. In a word whatever con* 
▼enience may be thought to be in falsehood and dissim- 
ulation, it is soon over ; but the inconvenience c^ it is 
perpetual, because it brings a man under an everlasting 
jealousy and suspicion, so that he is not beleived when 
he speaks the truth, nor trusted when perhaps he meaxis 
honestly. When a man hath once forfeited the reputa- 
tion of his integrity, nothing will then serve his turoy 
neither truth nor falsehood. 

Indeed,if aman were only todeal in the world for % 
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 re- 
spects the affairs of this world) if he spent his reputa- 
tion 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 sincerity in all his words and actions ; for nothing but 
this will holdout to the end. AH other arts will fail; 
but truth and integrity will carry a man through and 
bear him out to the last. 

II.— On doinfr as W€ would be Done unto-^ 

HUMAN laws are often so numerous as to escape 
our memories ; so darkly, sometimes, and inconsistent- 
ly worded, as to'puzzle our understandings; and they 
are not unfreqaently rendered still more obscure by the 
nice distinctions and subtile reasonings of those who 
profess to clear them : so that under these several disad- 
vantages, they lose much of their force and influence ; 
and in some cases raise more disputes than, perhaps, 
tbey determine. But here is a 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 wel 

Mot. I.| IN SPKAXDfG* fM 

•fk. Whatisaaklofail thm goipei precepu hy tM 
•▼SDgdicai prspbeti i» m«re emiMiitix true of this* 

feol» 9kM not err therein.*' 

It is net enough thst a rule» Which is to be of genmi 
vsoyb suited to all capacities^ so that wherever it is rep* 
resented to the nuudyii ispreseiitl|F agreed to ^ ii must 
^so be apt to offer itself to our thoughtSy and lie ready 
for the present ose^ upott aUexigencieo and occasiooa* 
And siseh) rematrkably sock) is that which our Lord here 
fecomniends to us. We can scarce be so far surprised 
\j any immediate necessity of actiof^, as not to have tim^ 
fer a short recourse to it, room for a sudden glance as i% 
were i^n it, in our mihda | Vhere it rests and sparklee 
idwaysylike the UrimandThamminy on the breast of 
Aaron. There is no occasion for us to go in aeavch of 
it to the oracles of lawi dead or living; to the eode of 
pandects ; to the vohiities of divines ot moiaiisfs. We 
need leofc no fsHther thani ourselves for it : for (to use 
the apposite eatpreitaaon of Moses) <^ This cotnmandmenC 
winch I command thee this day is not hidden from theev> 
neither is it iAi^ off. It is not in heaveoy that thou 
shonldst say^ Who ^hall go up fo^ us to heaven^ and 
bring it umo Ub^ that vrfi nsay hear it, ind do it ? Neither 
fs It beyond the jiea,that thou anouhlst say. Who shall 
go over the stea feip us^ and' bvirtff it unto us^ thatt we may 
hear h and do it ? But t^ v^ord is very tiigh imti» theei 
in thy moutfti, and in thy heart, that tiion tmtftit do it'* 

It is, moreover, a precept particularly fitted for prac- 
tice, aaitlkflroWe!* in th^i^yrit^ton bf Uft InotivB stir« 
ringusuptodo what it enjoins. Other moral maxims 
^bpa^h tt*fc*t!'tritth4 to the Understandings, i^hith d^r- 
ift8 dftc;!^ bfkt faimly «nd slowly, oitthe will and pidiif&iotTflf^ 
(heV#bat!tiV^pHhtit)leSoftHe MM of vM^'; btft it ik 
dre ^ctrthkr character of f\ntj ihvii it address^lTli itself 
equally tb aH thesfe[k)Wehj ; impart* both light aftd heat 
t6 us ; arid at tile iadie trnne that it nfif:(rms t^s cMainl^ 
indcl^riy ithat We ar« t6 do, excites us al^o, in thk 
itToit tender and'ntoirlng manrter, to the performance 
l^iti We isan^fteti i^ tmt neighbot^n^ttfisftefune^ Wlth^ 


0ttt a MilMible decree of colors ; which we taanot 
forbear exprassiog, when w« have once made hia condi* 
tiMk our own, and determined the mea&iire of our ohJiga^ 
Hon towards him) by what we ourselves should, in 
such a case, expect from him ; our duty grows imme* 
diately^our interest and pleasure, bf means c^ this pow- 
erful principle ; the seat o£ which is, in truth, not moie 
in the bi*ain than in the heart oi man ; it appeals to our 
Tery senses; and exerts its secret force in so prevailing 
a way, that it is CTen felt, as well as understood by us. 

The last recommendation of this rule I shall menticm 
is its vast and comprehensive influence; for it extends 
to ail ranks and conditions of men, and to all kinds of 
action and intercourse between them ; to matters of char* 
ity, generosity and civility, as well as justice ; to nega* 
tive no less than positive duties. The ruler and the rul* 
ed are alike subject to it: public communities can no 
xnerp exempt themselves from its obligation than pri- 
vate persons : *^ All persons must fall down before ity 
all nations must do it service/' And, with respect to 
this extent of it, it is that our blessed Lord prtKiounces it 
in the text,to be/^ the law and the prophets.^ His mean- 
ing is, that whatever rules of the second table are delly- 
ered in the law of Moses, or in the larger comments 
and explanations of that law made by the other vn*iters of 
the Old Testament (here and elsewhere styled the 
Prophets) they are all virtually comprised in this one 
short significant saying, << Whatsoever ye would thai 
men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them*'* : 

UI— On Benevoienet end CAart<ry«-~SxsiH 

FORM as amiable sentiments as you can, of nations^ 
communities of men^ and individuals. If they are truey 
you do them only justice, if false^ though your opinion 
does hot alter their nature and make them lovely, 
you yourself are more lovely for eiitertaining such sen« 
timents. When you feel the bright warmth of ^a tem- 
per thoroughly good in your own breast, you will see 
ariniething good in every one about you. It is a mark 
eflittlenessof spirit to confine yourself to some minute 


part of. a,iium'9 cbaracter f a man of generous, open» ex« 

teuded view^y 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 changea* 
bie creature, and will not cease to be so, till he is unit* 
ed to that Being, who is '< the same yesterday, to-day and 
forever." He strives to outdo his friends m good oiH- 
ceS| and overcomes .Ids enemies by them. He thinks he 
then receives the greatest injury, when he returns and 
revenges one ; for then he is" overcome of evil.** Is 
the person young who has injured him ? He will reflect^ 
thatinei^perienceofthe worldyanda warmth of consti« 
tutioui may betray his unpractised years into several in- 
advertencies, which a more advanced age, his own good 
sense, and the advice of a judicious friend, will correct 
and rectify. Is he old I The infiirnaties of age and want 
of health may have set an edge upon his spirits, and 
made him <*. speak unadvisedly with his lips." Is he 
weak and ignorant ? He considers that it is a duty in- 
cumbent upon the wise to bear with those that are 
pot so : ♦' You suffer fools gtadly," says St. Paul, " see- 
ing you yourbeives are wise." In short, he judges of 
himself, as far as he can, with the strict rigor of justice ; 
but of others with the softenings of humai^ty. 
^ From charitable and benevolent thoughts, the transi* 
tion IS unavoidable to charitable actions. For wherever 
there is an inexhaustible fund of goodness at the heart, it 
^illi under all the disadvantages of circumstances, exert 
itself in acts of substantial kindness. He that is subsun- 
tially good, will be doing good. The man that has a 
hearty determinate will to be charitable will seldom put 
nien off with the mere will for the deed. For a sincere 
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 wiU ever escape the uncon- 
cerned, the indifferent, and the unfeeling. 

The most proper objectaoi your bounty are the neces« 
aitous. Give the same sum of money, which you bestovp 
^ a persim in tolerable eircumttances^ to one in extreme 

poverty ; ami observli wfiat i, wide di^^^rtidii of Mp^ 
pitiesft is produced. In the latter case, it is like ^Tititf 
t cordiid to a filinting person ; in the formieri it is likd 
giving tHne to hitn Who hats dreadf quenched kis tbirst< 
<* Mercf is seasonable iti time of af&ictiony like clouds of 
rain in time of drought." 

And amoiig the variety of neeesiitous bbjecti^ noiUS 
Ikave a better title to our compassion^ than those, Irhdi 
after having tasted the sweets of plt^nty, are by somd 
undeiervtbd calamity, obliged, without sdiHe charitabl<S 
Mief, to drag out the rumainder of- life in misery and 
woe ; who little thought they Should ask their dsalf 
Dread of any but of God ; Who, after a life led hi affltf-* 
ence, ^ cannot dig, and are ashamed to beg/' And the^ 
^h*e to be relieved in such an Endearing manaer, widi 
^ilch a beauty of holiness, that at the same time that th^ii^ 
Wants art aupplied, their confusion of &c^ may be pt6t 

Th^reisnot an instat^ce oftfiis kiHd in Msidry so aft 
Ibcting As that beautiful one ^Boaa to Ruth. He knef# 
Berfimily,andhotr she was reduced to the loNv^t ebb^' 
tirh^ii, therefore, she begged leavti to ^\t^ ih 6is fleldd,^ 
he cn-dered hi# reapers to let lall several handful^ Witk 
a seetning carelessness, but really idth a set design,* tha^ 
she might gather thetii up if^thout beitig ashamed >'^ 
Thus did he^ form an attful scheme, that he cbightgiVe, 
Without the Vanity and ostentation of giving; ahd ^h€ 
receive. Without the-sHaitre and cdnfusidn of m^hig sc-^ 
tndwledgements. Take the? history in the i^ot^t^' erf 
dcriptiire, as it is recorded ih thd book df RuHt. ^ Anitf 
When she was risen up to ^ean^ Bdaz comhtatided hli^ 
yt>tingmen, sayihg,let her glean even among thii sheave^ 
and rebuke her not ; aod let fall also sbme of th6 faahd- 
fulsoh purpose,and leavt th^m that she niay glean ^^m^ 
ttii reproach her not'* This was not only doing a* g6odf 
Action ; it was doing it likewise with a good g^ce. 

It is not enough \Ve do hc^ Harm^ that »^ bfe tfegatfve-- 
ly good I we mtr%t do c^od, nositive godd, if we woulrf 
« enter into lifc*^ When it iTniild* have b^^ed as ^^od 
ftr thfe Wfirid if such a man had nevf'V lived j it Whul^ 
yerhaps have bceh better fbr Mmj if •* hv had nef cr be^ir 

Sb^t. to IN SPEAKING. Ut 

boTu.** A scftnty fortune may limit yomr beneficence^ 
and confine it chiefly to the circles of year domestics, 
relations and neighbors ; but let your benerolence ex- 
tend as &r as thought can travel, to the utmost bounds of 
the world; just as it may be only in your power to beau« 
tify 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, eveiy thing 
disagreeable were removed, and every thing beautifiS 
made more so. 

IV.— Qts ^a/i/rxuf^tf.—STBBME. 

THE great pursuit of man is after happiness ; It Ss 
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 difiei^nt shapes ; and, though 
perpetually disappointed — still persists— runs after and 
inquires for it afresh — asks every passcinger who comes 
in his way, " Who will show him any good ;-r- who will 
assist him in the attainment of it, or direct him to the 
discoveiy of this great end of all his wishes ? 

He is lold by one, to search for it among the more 
gay and youthful pleasures of life ; in scenes of mirth 
and sprightUness, where happiness ever presides, and is 
ever to be known by the joy and laughter which he will 
see 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 out by the coat c$ 
many colors she has on, and the great luxury and ex- 
pense ot 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 inhab^Uid 
under the same i oof; — that, if he would not be dis-^d- 
poioted in his aearch;| he must look into the J|laiii^ and 

CM LBSS0N9 [Paw Rw 

thrifty dweflin^ of the prudent man, whto kno#s ahd ihi«- - 
dentandft the worth of money, and cautiousiy layt it up 
against an evil hour. That it is not the prosiitation of 
wealth upon the passions, or the parting with k at all, 
that constitutes ^happiness— but that it is the keepittgtt 
together, and the having <2^vsA holding it fast td him and 
lus heirs forever, which arc ' the chief attributes that 
ferm this great idol of human worfihq),*to which so muck 
incense is offered up every day. 

The epicure, though he' easily rectifies so groaa a 
mistake, yet, at the same time, he plunges him, if pos- 
sible, into a greater ; for, hearing the object of his pur- 
suit 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 else- 
where for its tiiam where nature herself has placed it-^ 
in the indulgence and gratification of the appetites, 
which artf given us for that end : and in a word— if he 
will not take liis opinion in the matter— he may trust the 
Wdrd of a much wiser man, who has assured us — that 
there is nothing better in this world, than that a man 
ahouid eat and drink, and rejoice in his works, and 
Make his soul enjoy good in his labor— for that is his 

To rescue him from this brutal experiment— ambi- 
tion takes him by the hand and carries him into the 
world — shows him all the kingdoms of the earth, and 
tfie glory of them — points out the many ways of advanc* ■ 
ing his fortune, and raising himself to honor — lays be- 
fore his eyes all the charms and bewitching temptations 
of power, and asks if there be any happiness in thi^ 
world like that of being caressed, courted,, flattered and 

To close all, the philosopher meets him bustling in 
the full career of this 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,anA 
Was fled into solitude, far fmlm all conimerce of the 
world; and, in a word, if he would find her, he must 
teave this busy and intriguiitg scette^ and go back to that 

mo^. hi IN SPEAKINO* U¥ 

peaceful aofiif ^f mtiwneftt and books, fran irhich he 
filtlaels wt 

Id Uaa circiey too often dees a man run, tries all ex- 
perUncHtSy aad generally sits down weaned and dissatis- 
Ikd with tham aU at iastp-in utter despair of ever ac- 
(H)mpUahing what be wants-^not knowing what to trust 
Ip ^ter so mvxy dtsappeintments—^or where to lay the 
MJ^ whether io the incapacity of his own nature, or 
the inanftcieney oi the enjoyments themselves. 

In thi^ i«Qioerlaio and perplexed state-— without knowl- 
Ii4ge wbieb. way lo turoY ^^ where to betake ourselves 
fn refug e ^ so often abused and deceived by the many 
yfh9 pnetend thus to show us any good^^-Lord ! says the 
Psalmisti lift up the light of thy countenance upon us. 
Sand Its some rays of thy grace and heavenly wisdomi 
in this benighted search after happiness, to direct us 
Sateiy to it. O God 1 let us not wander forever without 
a guide, in this dark region, in endless pursuit of oup 
Hislehen good ; but enl^hlen our eyes that we sleep 
Oot io deaih^^open to thorn the comforts of thy holy word 
lad r^Ugieii'^lift up the light of thy countenance upon ua 
i^-afi4: naajie us know the joy and satisfaction of living 
io the true £sith and fear of Thee, which only can carry 
m U» this kaven of re/it, where we would be-^that sure 
haven where true joys are to be found, which will at 
Viaglhnotonly answer allow expectations— >but satisfjc 
the moat miboiuided of our wishes, forever and ever. 

Thene « liardiy any subject more exhausted, or which 
at one tsiue or^ethev, has afforded more matter for argu- 
MmA Jkud. declaniation, than this one, of the insuificiencjt 
qC our enjfiymentB. Scarce a reformed sensualist, froiii 
Sokiraon down to our own days, who has not, in sqme 
fits of repentance or disappointment^ uttered some sharp 
aefieotion upon the emptineas of human pleasure, ana 
of the vanity o£ vanities which (fiscovers itself in alt 
Ike {Micsttiils of n|ortal man. But the mischief has beei)t 
tliat, though so many good tlungs have been said, they^ 
have generally had the fote 4o be considered,, either aii 
Ihv ^ver&rwingsof disgust from saled appetites, which 
could no longoMTOlish^the nieasurea of ItfOy or as the de- 

«•• LESSONS [^ABT n. 

cltaiaterf onions of recluse mnd splenttie men, who bad 
never tasted them at all, and consequently were thought 
so judges of the matter. So that it is no great wonoksr, 
if the greatest part of such reflections, however just in 
themselves, and founded on truth and knowledge of 
the world, are found to have little impression where the 
imagination was already heated with great expectations 
•f future happiness ; and that the best lectures that have 
been read upon the vanit/ of the world, so seldom stop 
a man in the pursuit of the objects of his desire^ or give 
him half the conviction that the possessiont)fit will, and 
what the experience of his own life, or a careful obser- 
vation upon the life of others, does at length generally 
confirm 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 r« ality of pain ; yet I must 
•bservc, that there is a plain distinction to be made be* 
twixt pleasure and happiness. For though there can be 
DO 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 impressions of a thousand ohjects, we snatch the one 
like a transient gleam, without being suffered to taste 
the other, and enjoy the perpetual sunshine and feir 
weather, which constantly atti^nd Jt This, I contend, 
is only to be found in religion-^in the consciousness of 
virtue-^and the sure and certain hopes of a better life, 
which brig;htenB all our prospects, and leaves no room 
to dread disappointments-r^because the exprdation 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 rnay be so fortunate as to meet with some 
clear fountains by the way, that may cool for a few mo- 
ments the heSit of this great thirst of happiness — yet tsvtf 
Saviour, who knew the worid, though he enjoyed but 
little of it, tells us, that whosoever drinketh of wa* 
ter will thirst again ; and wcall find bv experieuco il ia 
90| and by reason, that it always must be so. 

Sbot. I.] IN SPEAKIKO. stt 

I conclude with a short observation upon Solomoa'a 
evidence in this case. - 

Never did the busy brain of a lean and hectic chjmitt 
search for the pdiiiosopher's stene, vith more pains and 
airdor, than this great man did after happiness. He warn 
•oe of Uie wiseat inquirers into nature — had |i^d all 
her powera and capacities 4 and after a thousi^nd Yaia 
speculations and idle experiments, he a£Brmed at length 
it lay hid in no one thing he had tried; like the chym- 
ist's projections, all had ended in smoke, or, what wa» 
^orse, in vanity and vexation of spirit. The conclu- 
sion of the whole matter was this — that he advises eve- 
ry man who would be happy, to fear God and keep hia , 

y,— 0» the Death of Christ. ^BhKiK. 

THE redemption of man is one of the most glorious 
works of the ^mighty. If the hour of the creaden of 
the world was great and illustrious; that hour^ whei)» 
from the dark and formless mass, this fair system of na« 
tore arose at the Divine command ; when ^< the mom« 
ing stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted 
for joy 4**— 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 external majesty it was attended, but is, on that ac- 
count, the more Wonderful, that, under an appearance 
so simple, such great events were covered. 

Iii the hour of Christ's death, the long series of pro- 
phecies, visions, types and figures, was accompished. 
Thi« was the centre io which they all met ; this, the 
point towards which they had tended anB verged^ 
throughout ths course of so many generations. You be- 
hold the Law and the Prophets standing, if we may ^o 
s^eak, at the foot of the cross, and doing homage. Yo« 
behold Moses and Aaron bearing the ark of the cove- 
nant : David and Elijah presenting the oracle of testimo- 
ny. You behold all the priests and sacrifices, all the rites 
aind ordinances, all the types and symbols, assembled to- 
gether to receive tlieir consummation.' Without the 
death of Chrbt, ttie worihip aiM 'iereincfnlcB of the law 
Aa • 


Would have remiined a pompous but unmeaning insd- 
ttttion* In the hour, when be was crucified, << the book 
with the seyen seals" was opened. Everj rite assumed 
fts sig^ficancy ; every prediction met its eyent ; ey<»7 
Symbol displayed its correspondence. 
This was the hour of the abolition of the Law, and 
' the introduction of the Gospel ; the hour of terminathig 
Ihe old, and of beginniii{^ the new dispensation of re* 
Hg:ious knowledge and worship throughout the earth. 
Viewed in this light, it forms the most august era which 
is to be found in the history of mankind. When Christ 
was suffering on the cross, we are informed by one of 
the Eyangelists, that he said, << I thirst ;*' arid that thejr 
filled a sponge with yinegar» and put it to his mouth. 
^ After ht bad tasted Uie vinegar, knowing that all 
things were now accomplished, and the scripture iulfil* 
led, ho sak^ c<It is finished," that is. This offered draught 
•f vinegar was the last circumstance^ predicted by aa 
ancient prophet, that remained to be fulfilled. The vis- 
ion and the prophecy are now sealed ; the Mosaic dispen- 
sation is closed. ^' And he bowed his head and gave up 
tixe rhost.*'— Significantly was the veil bf the temple 
rent m this hour ; for the glory then departed from be- 
tween the cherubims. The legal high priest delivered 
up his Urim and Thumminiy his breastplate, his robes, 
and his incense ; and Christ stood forth as the great 
High Priest of all succeeding generations* By that fme 
sacrifice which he now offered, ho abolished sacrifices 
foiever. Altars on which the fire had blazed far ages^ 
irere now to smoke no more. Victims were no more 
to bleed. ^ Not with the blood of bulls and goats, but 
with his own blood, he noW entered Into the holy place« 
there to appear in the presence of God for us.** 

This was the hour of association and union to all the 
Worshippers of Ood. When Christ said, ^^t is finish- 
ed,*' he threw down the wall or partition, which had %m 
lonK divided the Gentile irom the Jew. He gathered 
into one, all the faithfiiH out of every kindred and peo- 
ple. He proclaimed the hour to be come, when the 
knowledge of the true God should be no longer con* 
fined to one Aatio% aor his worship to one temple ; 

Sbct. I.] IN SPEAKING/ 89t 

but over all the earth, the worahippera ef the Father 
should *< terre hkn in spirit and in truth/' From that 
^ur, they who dwelt, in the ^ uttermost ends of th0 
earth, stran^rs to the covenant of promise/' began to 
be «< brought nigh." In that hour^ the light of the gei« 
pel dawned from afar on the British Islands* 

This was the hour of Christ's triumph orer all th0 
powers of darkness ; the hour in which he overthrew 
dominions and thrones, ^ led captivity captiyei and 
gave gifts unto men." The contest which the kii^dom 
of darkness had long maintained against the kingdom of 
light, was now brought to its crisis. The period was 
come, when ^ the seed of the woman should bruise the 
head of the serpent." For many ages, the most KfoaiB 
superstition had filled the earth. *^ The glory of the 
incorruptible God was," every vrhere, except in the land 
ef Judea, '* changed into images made like to oorrupti« 
ble man, and to birds, and beasts, and creeping things.^ 
The world, which the Almighty created for himself, 
seemed io have become a temple of idols. Even to 
Yiccs and passions, altars were raised ; and what was en« 
titled religion, was, in effect, a discipluie of impurity. 
In the midst of this universal darkness, Satan had erected 
his throne ; and the learned and polished, as well as 
the savage nations, bowed down before him. But at the 
hour when Christ appeared on the cross, the signal 
of his defeat was given. His kingdom suddenly de- 
parted from him ; the reign of idolatiy passed away ; 
.he was ^* beheld to fall like lightning from heaven." In 
that hour, the foundation of every Pagan temple shook ; 
the statue of every false god tottered on its base ; the 
priest' fled from his falling shrine ; and the heathen ora* 
cles became dumb forever. 

Death also, the last foe to man, was the victim of this 
hour. The formidable appearance of the spectre re- 
mained, but his dart was taken away; for, in the hour 
when Christ expiated guilt, he disarmed death, by se- 
euvingthe resurrection of the just. When he said to his 
penitent fellow-sufferer, <«To*day thou shalt be with me 
in Paradise," he announced to all his followers, the 
eertainty ef henrenly bliss. He declared ^ the cheru- 


bims^to be dismisaed, mnd the <4aiiiiD|^ swcrd** to be 
sheathed, which had been appointed, at the fsi\^ ^' to 
keep from man the way of the tree of life/' Faiat, 
before this period, bad been the hope, indistinct the 
prospect, which eyen good men enjoyed of the Heavenly 
kinp^om. ^ Life and immortality were now brought 
to bght.*' From the hill of Calvary, the irst clear and 
certain view was given to the world, of the everlasting 
mansions. Sbce that hour, they have been the perpet* 
Hal consolation of believers in Christ. Under troobley 
Ihey sooth their minds ; amidst temptations, they sup- 
port their virtue ; and, in their dying moments, enable 
them to say, «< O death ! Where ia thy stiM i Q grave t 
Where is thy victory ?- 



l.-^Sfiee$h of the Mari of Chehterjteldf in tke Home rf 
L,wd9^ Fibrttary 33» 1740, on iht Fen§ion MUL 

IT is now 10 fate, and so much |ias been said in finror 
of the motion for the second readings of the Pension 
B1JI9 by Lords much abler than 1 am, that 1 shall detain 
you but a very short while with what I have to say up* 
on the subject. It has been said) by a noble Duke, tlMit 
this bill can be looked on only as a bill for preventing « 
grievance that is foreseen, and not as a bill for remedy- 
tng a grievance that is already felt % because it is not as- 
serted, nor so much as insinuated, in the preamble of the 
bill, that any corrupt practices are now nuide use of, 
for gaining an undue iiifluence over the other House. 
My Lords, this was the very reason for bringing in the 
bill. They could not assert, that any such practices are 
DOW made use of, without a proof ; and the means for 
coming at this proof is what they want, and what they 
pi opose to get by this bill. They suspect there are such 
practices, but they cannot prove it. The crime is of 
such a secret nature, that it can very seldom be proved 
by whnesses ; and therefore they want to put it to the 
trial, at least, of being praved by the oath of one of tliO 
pai-ties ; which is a method often taken, in cases that eatt 
admit of no, other proof This is, therefore, no argu^ 
ment of the grievance not being felt; for a man may^ 
T^ry sensibly, feel a grievaneei and yet may no^^ be able 
to prove it. 

\ That there is a suspicion of some such practices be* 
ing now made use of, or that they will soon be made 
tto ofj the m^ny remonatraacea fiorn aU parts of XM 


united kbgdomg are a sufficient preof. That this sua« 
nicion has crept into the other Houi^e, their having so 
frequently sent up this bil]> is a tnanifest demonstratioo) 
and a strong argument for its being necessary to have 
some such bill passed into a law. The other House must 
be allowed to be better judges of what pj^ssesy or must 
passy within their own walls, than we can pretend to be. 
It is evident) they suspect that corrupt practices have 
been, or soon may bej made use of, for gaining an undue 
influence over some of theis measures ; and they have 
calculated this bill for curing the evil, if it is felt, for 
preventing it, if it is only foreseen. That any such 
practices have been actually made use of, or are now 
snade use o^ is what I shall not pretend to affirm ; but 
I am sure I shall not affirm the contrary. If any such 
are made use of, I. will with confidence vindicate his 
•Majesty « I ani sure he knows nothing of them. I am 
sure he will disdain to suffer them ; but I cannot pass 
jtuch a compliment upon his jministers, nor upon any set 
of ministers that ever was, or ever will be, in this na« 
tion I and therefore, I think I cannot more faithfully, 
snore effectually, serve his present Majesty, as well as his 
tuccessorsv than by putting it out of the power of min- 
isters to gain any corrupt influence over either House of 
Parliament, duch an attempt may be necessary for the 
«eeurity of the minister ; but never can he necessary foi^ 
snust always be inconsistent with, the security of his mas^ 
ter; and the more, necessary it is for tlie minister's se- 
curity, the more inconsistent U will always be with the 
lung's, and the more dangerous to the Uberdes of the 

To pretend, my Lords, that this bill diminishes, <^ 
any way encroaches upon the prerogative, is something 
^ery strange. Whal prerogative, my Lords? Has the 
crown a prerogative to bribe, to infringe the law, by 
•ending its pensioners into the other House ? To say sqi» 
is destroying the credit, the authority of the crown^ 
under the pretence of supporting its prerogative. If 
liis Majesty knew that any man received a pension from 
lum, or any thing like a pension^ and yet kept his seat 
In the other House^ be iroiMd tomaelf declare j^ ^ 

Sect. It} IN SPEASINa t9S 

withdraw his pension, because he knows it is against 
law. This bill, therefore, no way diminishes or en« 
croaches, upon the prerogative of the crown, which can 
never be exercised but for the public good. It dimin- 
ishes only the prerogative usurped by ministers, which 
is never exercised but for its destruction. The crown 
may still reward merit in the proper way, that is, openly. 
The bill is intended^ and can operate only against clai>> 
destine rewards, or gratuities given by ministers. These 
are scandalous, and never were, nor will be, given but 
for scandalous services. 

It is very remarkable, my Lords, it is even divcrtingi 
to see such a squeamishness about perjury upon this oc- 
casion, amongst those, who, upon other occasions, have 
invented and enacted multitudes of oaths, to be taken 
by men, who are under great temputions, from their 
private interests, to be guilty of perjury. Is not this the 
case of almost every oath that relates to the collection 
•f the public revenue, or to the exercise of any office ? 
Is not this perjury one of the chief objections m«de by 
the Dissenters against the Tc;st and Corporation Act ? 
And shall we show a less concern for the preservation 
of our constitution^ than for the preservation of our 
church f The reverend bench should be cbutious of 
making use of this argument ; for, if they will not allow 
us an oath for the preservation of the former, it will io- 
dace many people to think, they ought not to be allowed 
* 4in eath for the preservation of the latter. 

By this time, | hope, my Lords, all the inconvenien- 
ses pretended to arise from this bill, have vanished ; and 
therefore, I shall consider some of the arguments brought 
to show that it is not necessary. Here I must observe^ 
that most of the arguments made use of for this pur- 
posey are equally strong for a repeal of the laws we 
have already in beinuj against admitting pensioners ta 
sit and vote in the other House. If it be impossible to 
suppose, that a gentleman of great estste and ancient 
fcmily, can, by a pension, be influenced to do what he 
eught not to do; and it we ntust suppiis^, that none 
but such gentlemen can ev^^r cret into the other Housej 
lam sure the laws for preventing pensionere bom hay<* 


ing sctti in that House are quite umiecetBary, and ought 
to oe repealed* Tt^erefore, if these arguraeata prevail 
with your lordships to put a negative upon the present 
questioDy I shall expect to see that negative foll^vred bj 
a motion for the repeal of those laws ; nay, in a few 
sessions, I shall expect to see a bill brought in totr pre« 
venting any man's being a member of the other House, 
buc such as have some place or pension undet the crown. 
As an argument for such a bill, it might be said th;^ 
bis Majesty's most faithful subjects ought to be chosea 
Members of Parliament, and that those gentlemen will 
always be most faithful to the King, that receive the 
King's money. I shall grant, my Lords, that such gen»> 
tlemen will be always tlia most faithful, and the most 
obedient to the minister | but 'for this very reason I 
should be for excluding them from Parjtameat The 
King's real interests, however much he may be made by 
his ministers to mistake it, must always be the same 
with the people's; but the minister's interest is g^ieiv 
ally distinct from, and often coutrary to b«tb : therefore, 
I shall always be for excluding, as much as possible, from 
Parliament^ every man who is under tiie least induce* 
ment to prefer the interest of the minister, to that of 
both king and people ; and this I take to be the case of 
•very gentleman, let his estate and family be what they 
will, that holds a pension at tlie will of the minister. 

Those who say, they depend so much upon the honor« 
integrity and impartiality of mea of family and fortune, 
teem to think our constitution can never be dissolved, as 
long as we have a shadow of a Parliament My ophiioo, 
my Lords, is so very different, that, if ever our con^ 
stitution be dissolved, if ever an absolute monarchy be 
established in this kingdom, I am Gonvmced it witi 
be under that shadow. Our constitution consists m 
the Houses of Pariiament being a check upon the crown, 
as well as upon one another. If that check should ever 
be removed, if the crown should, by corrupt means, 
by places, pensions and bribes, ^et the absolute directioa 
•f our two Hou8<is of Parliament, our constlttitkNi 
wilffrom th^^t moment, he destroy<*d. Then- wouli be 
no occaaioa for the crown to proceed any farther. M 

S«CT. II.] m spBAKfifa .«? 

would be ridiculous to lay aside the forms •£ Parliament; 
for, under that shadow, our king would be more abso- 
lute, and might govern more absdntely, than he could 
do without it. A gentleman of family and fortune^ 
would not, perhaps, for the sake of a pension agree Us 
lay aside the forms of government ; because, by hie re* 
sal service there, he earns his mfamous pension, and 
could not expect the continuance of it, if tnose forms 
Were laid aside ; but a gentleman of family and fortune 
may for the sake of a pension, whilst he is in Parliar 
ment, approve of the most blundering measures, con- 
sent to the most excessive and useless grants, enact the 
most, oppressive laws, pass the mos t viilanous accounts^ 
acquit the most heinous criminals, and condemn the 
most innocent persons, at the desire of that minister who 
pays him his pension. And if a majority of such House 
ef Parliament consisted of such men, would it not be ri- 
diculous in us to talk of our constitution, or to say we 
had any liberty left. — This misfortune, this terrible 
condition, we may be reduced to by corruption ; as brave^ 
as free a people as we, the Romans, were reduced to 
it by the same means ; and to prevent such a horrid ca- 
tastrophe, is the design of this bill. 

If people would at all think, if they would consider 
the consequences of corruption, there would be no occa- 
sion, my Lords, for making laws against it It would 
appear so horrible, that no man would allow it to ap- 
proach him. The corrupted ought to consider, that they 
do not sell their vote, or their country only ; these, per^- 
haps, they may disregard ; but they sell likewise them- 
selves ; they become the bond slaves of the corrupter, 
who corrupts them, not for their sakes, but for his owa 
Ko man ever corrupted another, lor the sake of douig 
him a service. And therefore, if people Would but cod^ 
sider, they would always reject the offer with disdain. 
But this is not to be expecteH. The histories of atf 
countries, the history evenu>f our own country, shows k 
is not to be depended on. The proffered bribe, people 
think will satisfy the immediate craving: ol some mht 
mousappi.titis and this makes them sw a IU)W the allur- 
ing bait, though the liberties of their ceunlry^ the hapn 

£91 ijnsoNS [pAitTii. 

piness of their poBteritjy and even their <wn liberty, ev- 
idently depend upon their refusing it. Th^s makes it 
necessary in every free 8tate> to contrive, if possible, ef- 
fectual laws against corruption ; and as the laws we now 
have for excluding pensioners from the other House, are 
allowed to be inefiectual, we ought to make a trial, at 
least; of the remedy i.ow proposed ; for, though it should 
prove ineffectual, it will be attended with this advan- 
tage, that it will put us upon tontriving some othef 
remedy that may be cfTcctual ; and the sooner such a 
remedy is contrived and applied, the less danger we shall 
be exposed to of falling into that fatal distemper, from 
which no free state, where it has once become general, 
has ever yet recovered. 

IL— £or(f Man*Jield*9 Sfieech in the House o^ Lords^ 
1770, on the Billfqr the further fir eventing the DeiaifM 
af JuBtice^ by reason •/ Prrviiege ^f /Parliament. 

Mv Ix>RD8, 

WHEN I consider the Importance of this bill to your 
Lordships,! am not surprised it has taken up so muck 
of your consideration. It is a bill, indeed, of no com* 
mon magnitude ; it is no less than to take away from 
two thirds of the legislative body of this great kingdom, 
certain privileges and immunities, of which i they have 
long been possessed. Perhaps there is no situation the 
human mind can be placed in, that is so difficult and so 
trying, as when it is made a judge in its own cause. 
There is something implanted in the bx'cast of man, so 
attached to sel( so tenacious of privileges once obtain* 
cd, that in such a situation, either to discuss with im« 
partiality or decide with justice, has ever been held as 
the sunirTiitof all human virtue. The bill now in ques- 
tion, puts yf)ur Lordships in this very predicament ; and 
lioubt not but the wisdom of your decision will con- 
vince the world, that where self-interest and justice areia 
opposite scales, the latter will ever preponderate with 
|oui LordsMps. 

Privileges have been granted to legislatcrs, in all ages 
«adia aU couaUies. The praetice is founded ia wia* 

Sjsct. II.] IN SPBAKINO. M» 

dom; an^ indeed, it ig pecaliarlj esssentlal t5 the con* 
stitution of this country, that the members of both Hou*' 
aes should ise free in their ^ersoo8, in cases of civil suits ; 
&r there may come a time, when the safety and wel&re 
•f this whole empire, may depend upon their attendance 
in Parliament. God forbid that I shottld advise any 
measure that would in future endanger the stat&--»but the 
kill before your Lorships, has« I am confident, no such 
tendency ; for it expressly secures the persons of mem« 
bers of either House, in all civil suits. This being the 
case, I confess, wheni see many noble Lords, for whose 
judgment I have a very great respect, standing up to 
oppose a bill, which is calculated merely to facilitate the 
recovery of just tand legal debts, I am astonished and 
amazed. They, I doubt not, oppose the bill upon pub* 
fie principles. 1 would not wish to insinuate, that pri« 
vate interest had the least weight in their determination. 

This bill has been frequently proposed, and as fre- 
quently miscarried ; but it was aiwsys lost in the Lower 
Mouse. Little did I think, when it had passed the Com* 
mons, that it possibly could have met with such opposi- 
tion here. Shall it be said that you, my Lords, the 
^rand council of the nation, the highest judicial and leg- 
islative body of the realm, endeavor to evade, by privi- 
lege, those very laws which you enforce on your fellow- 
subjects 1 Forbid it, justice ! — I am sure were the noble 
Lords as well acquainted as I am, with but hall the dif- 
ficulties and delays occasioned in the courts of justice^ 
«nder pretence of privilege, they would not, nay they 
«ould not oppose this bill. ,-- 

I ha\« waited with patience, to hear what argumenti 
might be urged against the biil, but I have waited^ in 
Tain ; the truth is, there is no argument that can weigh 
against it. The justice and expediency of the bill are 
such as render it self-evident, ft is a proposition of that 
nature^ that can neither be weakened by argumettt, 
nor entangled with sophistry. Much, indeed, has been 
•add by some noble Lords, on the wisdom of «^ur ances- 
tors, and how differently they fhoue:ht frtm us. They 
not only decreed, that pnvllcgp should prevent all civil 
^ults from proceeding, duhag dio sitting; of Ptf liameii^ 


but Hkewise granted protection to the very senrants of 
members. I shail say nothing on the urisdom of our an* 
•estors ; it mighty p rhaps, appear invidious \ that is not 
necessaiy in the present case. I shall only say, that the 
noble Lords who fi4tter themselves with the weight of 
that reitsction, should remember, that as circumstances 
alter, things themselves should alter. Formerly, it was 
not to fashionable either for masters or servants to run 
in debt, as it is at present. Formerly, we were not that 
great commercial nation we are at present ; nor,, former* . 
iy, were merchants and manufacturers members of Par* 
liament, as at present. The case now i^ very d liferent ; 
both merchants and manufacturers are, with great pro* 
priety, elected members of the Lower House. Com- 
merce hairing thus got iato the legislative body of the 
kingdom, privilege m'ust be done away. We all know 
that the very soul and essence of trade, are regular pay* 
fluents; and sad experience teaches us that there are 
men, who will not make their regular payments, with» 
•ut the compulsive power of the laws. The law, then, 
ought to be equally open to all; any exemption of par* 
ticular men, or particular ranks of men, is, in a free and 
commercial country, a solecism of the grossest nature. 
B«t I will not trouble your LoQ^ahlps with arguments 
for that which is sufficiently evidei>t withoat any. I 
shall only say a few words to some noble Lords, whs 
ibresee much inconveniency from the persons of their 
Aervanrs being liable to be arrested. One nobia Lord 
obaerves,that the coachman of a Peor may be arrested 
while he is driving his master to the house, and conse* 
iquently, he ik4U not be able to attend his duty in Parlia* 
ment. If this were a( tuUy to happen, there are so ma- 
ny methods by which the member might still get to the 
House;, that I can hardly think Che noble Lord is seri- 
ous in his objection. Another noble Peer said. That by 
this bill one might lose their most valuable said honest 
servants. ' This I hold to be a contradiction in terras ; 
for he cani tlf ither be a valuable servant, nor an honest 
man, who gets into debt, which he is neither able nor 
willing to pay, till compelled by law.. If my servant, 
^. .uiifoM^ 4^cicfaBot% ,b4s got In 4^bU and I stiSi 

8ner« H.) IN SPfi^KlllO. M^ 

wish )to re^ hw» I ccxum^j would pay tha ilebt Bql 
iiponnp pripcip^pf libecal Ic^isUtioD w^fttcvery can iny 
servant JMkve a titlp tp aiet his cricditqrs «! defiancei whilis 
C^r {pjHY shillings /o^yi the honest trsdescoan naaj he torn 
&opi h/^ &jiii^> p^d ^cked up ip ^ gaoL It is moor 
strau^ 4DJiis^i(^ ! 1 ^j^ttsr inysel^ howeyer, the d^ter^ 
ifainatipn pf this 49;y will entirely pyt fUQ end to all such 
yf^tifil proceedings fpr the future^ by passiDji; into a laifi 
t^ehiilQ«w.imder|rourlor4ships' oonsideratioD. 

I come opw to spea^ up.9P wh^jt^ iB|lipisd| I wo^ld haT9 
gladly avoidedi had I Qot beoo psrtlcularljr pointed ati 
^r t)^ part I have ti;i^en in this bilL It b^s been 9aid» 
iff a n^Dhie I^ord w my left .l^ndii thfit I lij^eirife 'pm 
canning the r^ce pf popularity. If theooble Lord meaqs 
by populavitya that applause best^^wed by after agisst on 
p;pQ4 ^Wt vii^tuQUS actions^ I have loi^ bees struj{gliq|; 
in thatrf^qe ; jto what purppse, all-trying time cap alone 
^etH*ij9iBe} b|it if t^e noble Lprd means that m^ahfoom 
popularityy that is raised without merit) and lost without 
a.cijfnfB|,i)a.uch mistal^ep in his opinion. I defytto 
noble IjQvA to p^int put a ^ing^e action of my life« whey^ 
^ PR|^lai?ty of the times ever had the smallest iniBlu- 
^ac« «a Hiy 4ieterminatiQna» I thank Qod^ I have ji 
more permanent ai^ii steady rule £ar my copd.ucty tl^ 
^ic^ias 9f ipy <M¥P breast Those that have t>regQne 
t>^ pl^W^g tadnriser, a^ gmn up the q^ind jU^ bja tl^i 
fiave jof .every popular impulse, I smoerely pity i I pitgr 
them still vmct it their vanity leads them to miatalte tli|r 
shou^ of A i9a#b, for the trumpet of fapne. Experienqs 
i^ght ip^m.t^m, that mftny who have been saltttc4 
Wit^thf hjLi^x^s pf ^ crawd one day^ have received the^ 
execradons the next; and many, who^ by the i>opulari|ly 
of their times, have been held up as spotless patriotSf 
have nevertheless appeared upon the historian's pai^e, 
when truth has triumphed over delusion, the assassms 
of liberty. Why, then, the. noble l.ord can think I am 
ambitious of present popularity, that echo of folly, and 
shadow of renown, I am at a loss to determine. Be-^ 
sides„ I do not know Chat Che bill now before your Lord- 
ships will be popular; it depends upon the caprice 
of the day. It may not be popular to compel ^ec^le 
B s ^ 

90% LESSONS (PAB^n:' 

to pay their debts; and, in that case, the present roust 
be a very unpopular bill. It may not be popular, neither, 
to take away any of the privileges of Parliament : for 
I veiy well reraember, and many of your Lordships may 
remember, that, not long ago, the popular cry was for 
the extension of privilege ; and so &r did they carry it 
at that time, that it was said that the privilege protected 
members even in criminal actions ; nay, such was the 
power of popular prejudices over weak minds, that 
the very decisions of some of the courts were 
tinctured with that doctmie. It was, undoubtedly, ah 
abominable doctrioe ; I thought so then, and think so 
still : but nevertheless, it was a popular doctrine, and 
came immediately from those who were called the 
friends of liberty ; how deservedly time will show. True 
liberty, in my opinion, can only exist, when justice is e* 
qually administered to all ; to the king, and to the begr 
gar. Where is the justice, then, or where is the law, 
that protects a member of Parliament, more than any 
other man, from the punishment due to his crimes ? The 
laws of his country allow of no place, nor arty employ- 
ment, to be a sanctuary for crimes ; and where I bmve the 
honor to sit ^s judge, neither royal favor, nor popular 
applause, shall ever protect the guilty. 

I have now only to beg pardon for having employed 
so much of your Lordships* time ; and I am sorry a bill, 
fraught with so many good consequences, has not met 
with an abler advocate ; but I doubt not your Lordships* 
determination will convince the world, that a bill calcu- 
lated to contribute so much to the equal distribution of 
justice as the present, requiresi with your Lordships^kut 
very little support. ' 



I.— Cifwo aic^mt Verrc§, 

THE time ia coTnef Fathers, when that vhich hat 
long been wished for, towards allaying^ the envy 
four order has be^n subject tOy and removing the impu* 
tationa against, trials, is effectually put in your power. 
Ad opinion has long prevailed, not only here at home, 
hut likewise in, foreign countries^ both dangerous to you, 
and pernicious to the state, that in prosecutions, men of 
wealth are always safe^ however clearly, convicted. 
There is now to bo brought upon this trial before you, 
IQ the confusion, I hope, of tl^e propagators of this slan« 
derous imputation, one, whose life ^tnd actions condemn 
him, in the opinion of all impartial persons ; but who, 
according to ^s own reckoning and declared dependence 
upon his riches, is already acquitted : I mean Caius Ver« 
res. I demand justice of you, Fathers, upon the robber 
of the public treasury, the oppressor of Asia Minor and 
Pampl)ylia, the invader of the rights and privileges of 
Homana, the scourge and curse of Sicily. If that sen* 
tence is passed upon him which his crimes deserve, your 
authority. Fathers will be venerable and sacred in the 
eyes of the public; but if his great riches should bias 
you in his favor, I shall still gain one point— to make it 
apparent to all the world, that what was wanting iii this 
case, was not a criminal, nor a prosecutor, but justice 
and adequate punishment. 

To pass over the shameful irregularities of his youth, 
What does his quxstorship, the first public employment 
he held, what ''does it' exhibit, but one continued scene 
of villanies ? Cneius Carbo plundered of the public 
money, by his own treasurer, a consul stripped and be- 
trayed, an army deserted and reduced to waa^ a province 

robbed) Ibe eiTiI tiid religions ri^bts of a people violated. 
Tbe employment be bold in Asia Minor and PamphyUa, 
Wbat did it produce but Ibe rain o^ tbose countries ? — 
in whicb bouses, oides and temples were robbed bj lum. 
.Wbat was hia conduct in bis pr«torsbip bere at borne ? 
Let tbe pluadered tenplas, and public wor4bft> neglec- 
ted (that be might embetsre tbd fnoiiejr iatended for 
carrying them on^ bear witness. How did be discharge 
tbe ofltee of a judge ? Let Ibo^e who si^ffered' by his in- 
justice answer. But bis praetorship in Sicily crowns aU 
Bis works of wickedness, and &iisbes a Tasting tncttmment 
'io bis infiuny. The mischief' done by him in that un- 
ftappy country, during the three yeats of his iniquitous 
idmimstrkticnyar esttch, that many year^i under the wisest 
gnd best of prators, will not be sufficient to restoit 
tfdnga to the condition in which be found them ; foir it 14 
Hotorioiis, that during the time of his tyranny, tbe SicH^ 
ians neither enjoyed the protection of their own origimf 
laws, of the regulations maife fdr their bene&t by tbe 
Soman debate, upoti their combug under the prbtectioA 
4f thii cdiBiisonweaith, nor of the Natural and unaltetia- 
t(le rights of men. His nod hasr decided all catises hi 
Sicily for tht^ three years s and hi^ decisions have 
brek« idt law, dt preced«mt, all ri^ti. The sutns ht 
lias, by arbitrary taxes and unheard of impositions, ex- 
iorted from the industrious poor, are not to be eompul^ 
Cd: The moM faithful allies of the cOtnthbnWealdi have 
•eeh tr'eated aa enemies. Roman citiiens have, like 
iiavfes, been put to death with tortured. The most atro^ 
aibuS cHminalt, for motiey, have beeri exeitipted from 
ihe deserved punishments; and men of the most unex- 
Iteptlttfiable characteim, condemn^d^ and banished ui»- 
ireard. The harbors, though suffidetitly fottilied, and the 
gates of ittTOng towns c^p^n^d to piritei ahd raVagers. 
The soldiery and sailors, belonging t^ a proVhtbe under 
the protectibh of the cortimbhwfeatth, starved ta death. 
Whole fleets, to the great •detriittem of the province, 
buffered" to perish. The ahcietjt ilhdntinients of either 
Sicilian Or Rotiiati greaithess, the stfttikes of hertftt and 
jrinces carried otfj and the temples stripped of th^ 
mages. Havittg, by hfs ioit^uttous sehteace)^, filed th}b 

9f 69^ ,lfh] IN, SmAKINO. m 

fsaaaQf^j^^ji\kfi^mp$:^i^ and.deserringof the 

people, h« thea pfopeecle^ to order numbers of Romaa 
citizens to be strangled in the gaols ; ^o that the excla- 
laationy ^'I am. a. citizen of Rome I" which has often) 
in the most distant regions^ and amoiig the roost barba- 
rou3 pepple> been a protection) was of uo service to them; 
-but) qi> the contrary, brought a speedier and more se- 
vere punisliment upon them. 

. I, asknoW).VerreS).what you have to advance againat 
tlus chacge I Will you pretend to deny it ? Will yott 
pretend that any thing false, that even any tldng aggrava- 
ted, is aUedged againat you ? Had any prince, or any 
state, committed the same outrage against the privilege 
of Roman citizens, should we not think we bad suflicient 
ground for declaring immediate war against them ? What 
punishment ought, then, to be inflicted upon a tyranni- 
cal and wicked pr^tor, who dared at no greater distance 
.than Sicily, within sight of the Italian coast, to put to 
the infamous death of crucifixion, that unfortunate and 
innocent citizen, Publius Gavious Cosanus, only for his 
na.ving asserted his privilege of citizenship, and declared 
his intention of appealing to the justice of his country, 
againat a cruel oppressor, who had unjustly, con fined him 
in prison, at Syracusa, whence he had just made his es- 
cape ? The unhappy man, arres.ted as he was going to 
.embark for hia native couiitry, t$ brq^ght before the 
wicked praetor. With eyes darting fury, and a coun- 
^tenance distorted with ci'ucKy, he orders the helpless 
victim of his rage to be stripped, and rods to be brdught 
•-accusing him,but without the least shadow of evidence, 
,©r even of suspicion, of having cgltie to Sicily as a spy. 
it was in vain that the unhappy man cried out, " I am a 
iloman citizen : L have served under. Lucius Prctius, 
who is now at Panormus, and will attest my innocence.'* 
The blood thirsty praetor, deaf toalf he could urge in his 
©wn defence, ordered the infamous punishment to be in- 
'flicted. Ifhus, Fathers, was an innbctent Soman citi- 
zen publicly mangled with scourging: whiHttW' only 
words he uttered, amidst his cruel sufferings were, ** I 
am a Roman citizen !'* With these he hopfed to deferid 
Minself from violeiice and iiifaxhyV Biii of so- little 

•cnrice wks tliis pHtll^ge tb blm; thltidiiteiie' wftv ihtM 
asserting his cifizehship, the tvdtt wa^g^ett fbr hii exi 
ecution— for his eubcution upon tht cross 1 

liberty !— <) s^und once dislightfnf to evtry^ R^slvMs^ 
car l^O sacred privilege *f RcrmM dtis^sbip S-»^onc^ 
sacred !-*n0W trampFed apon !^^b\iit wtlalr ttten !^-^Isii 
come to this ? Shal! ad ihferioi' lAagifctratfe, a gOVisnion 
who holds his whole power of the Roman people in i 
jSLotnan prorince, within sight of Italfy Windy scotH^ 
torture with fire, and red hot plates of iron, uid at lasi 
put to the infamous death of the cross, a Roman citizen ? 
Shall neither the cries of innocehce, expiring in agonf, 
Aor the tears of pitying spectators, noi' the majesty of 
j&e Roman commonwealth, nor the fear of the justke of 
his country, restrain the licentious and wanton cruelty of 
a monster, who, in confidence oi his riches, strikes at the 
root of liberty, and sets mankind at defiance f 

1 conclude with expressing my hopefs, thsft 3roiir Wisi^ 
dora and justicp. Fathers, wiU not, by suffering tJieatrb* 
clous and unexampled insolence of Caius Verresto e% 
cape the due punishment, leave room 16 apprehend the 
danger ef a total subversion of authority, and idtr^tie'* 
tion of general anarchy and confusion. 

li.^Cicer0 for Mh. 
t/lr Loanlt 
THAT you may be able the more easily to dteterinU^ 
upoa this point before you, I shall beg the favor of ah 
attentive hearing, while, in a few words, I lay open the 
whole affair.<-^Clodlus being determined, wheh created 
lirastoi^ te harrass his country with every species of op- 
pveosicn, and finding tbo comitia had been deiftye'd sd 
kmg the year before^ that he could not hold his office 
auiny Bon^,, ail on a sudden threw up hisoWti yeai*, 
and resevvod himself to the next ; not jftom any relig^ 
iaus scruple, but that he mig)it have, as tie said hinis'eli» 
1^ full) entiTe year for exereisin^ his prs^tbrship ; thailHf 
for overturnmg the commonwealth, ^eing sensible lite 
sauftt bo ccmtroled and cramped in the exercise of his 
BrsBtorian authority under Mile, who, lie plainly saW» 
would bo chosen consul,bythe unanimpus ootisbiit #f the^ 

d*c». 111.] Ilr SMBASINO. MT 

Hom^ people ; he ji^hed ^^ eAUdlMei HMt tn^std 
Kii^ but in stxch a ihaimet' that ho overruled them ui 
every thin^, had the soke maiiagefaent of the elecUo% 
ithd*, as he often Used to boasty bore all th^eomitia upon 
ifis own shonMera. He asaemWed the trdJi^ $ he thruit 
ftiniMlf into thi^ conncila ; and fiMrtned a new tribe of 
the most abandoned of the citizens. The mere confil» 
inon and dkturbence he made> the more Milo prerailedi 
When thiv wretch, who was bent upon all manner of 
^ckedhessy saw that so bi*ave a auti, and his most in»* 
Yeterate enemy would certainly be consul; when he 
i^erceiVed tkis, not only by the discourses, hut by the 
Votes of the Roman people, he beg^ to throw olF all di»- 

Siise, and to declare openly that Mile must be Iufle4 
e dften intimated this in the Senate, and declared 
it expressly before d^e people ; insomuch, that when ?»• 
Todias, that brave man, asked him what prospect he 
eould havetDf carrying on bis furious deugns, while Milo 
was alive— -he replied, that in three or four days at moil 
he shonld be taken out of the wAy ; whieh rqply Favo- 
hiua imniediately (x^mmunicated to Cato. 

In the mean time, as soon as Clodius knew (ner in^ 
deed was there any dificulty to come to the intelligence) 
that Mile was obliged by the 18th of January to be <t 
Lanuvium, where he was dictiitor, in erder to nonunate 
a priest, a duty which the laws ^ndered necessary t6 h^ 

Ssrformed every year ; he went suddenly from Rome 
e day before, in order as appears by the events^ tb 
Waylhy Milo, on his own grounds ; and this at a time 
^iien he^wasobliged to leave a tumultuous assembly which 
he h^d summened that very day, where his presence wak 
necessary to carry on bis mad designs; a thing he never 
Irould have dome, if he had not been desirous to^ take the 
advantage of that particubr time and place, for perpe- 
trating his vUldny. But MilO) f^er having staid in th^ 
Senate that day till the 5ou«e Was broke up) went hoitl!, 
ehanged his clothess waited a while, aa usual, till hib 
wif^ had got re^df to attend him, and then set forward, 
iboQtthe time that Clodius, if he had proposed t6 come 
haek to' Rome that day, mighthavc r^tume^. He meeftt 
Clodbiii heur hir oWn^ eMtej ir HtH^ befiM' wmiMt, ami 

is Inottedittely attacked bjr a bodf oC meth whojthrow 
their darts at hiin from an emiDencet and kill his coach* 
man. Upon which he threw off his cloaks leaped froip 
. his chariot, aod defended himself with great bravery. Ip 
the niean time Clodius' at^^ndants drawing their swords^ 
some of them ran back to th^ chariot, in order to attack 
Miio in the rear ; whilst others, tkiuking that be was 
already killed, fell upon his servants who W49re behind^ 
these being resolute and failliful to their master, were 
•ome of them slain; w^uUt the rest, seeing a Warm en- 
gagement near the chariot, being prevented from going 
to their master's assistance, hearing besides from Clo« 
dius himself that Milo was killed, and beli^vipg^ it to be 
a fact, acted upon this occasion (I mention it not witli a 
view to elude the accusation, but because it was the true 
atateof the case)without the orders, without the knovW- 
edge, without the presence of their master, as every 
man would wiah his own servants should act in the like 

This, my Lords, is a faithful account of the ihatter 
of fact ; the person who lay in wait was himself ovcr- 
come, and force subdued by force, or rather audacious- 
ness chastized by true valor. I say nothing of the ad« 
Tantage which accrues to the state in general, to your- 
selves in particular, aitd to all good n^en; I am content 
to wave the argument I i^ight draw from hence in fa- 
vor of my client, whose destiny was so peculiar, . that 
he could not secure his own safety, without securing 
yours, and that of the republic at the same time. If hp 
could not do it lawfully, {^jere is no room for attempt- 
ing his defence. But if reason teaches the learned^ ne- 
cessity the barbarian, common custom all nations in gen- 
eral, and even nature itself instructs the brutes to. d^^fend 
their bodies, lin^bs and lives when attacked,, by all possi-* 
We methods, yew cannot pronounce this action criminal, 
without determining, at tiie same time, that whosoever 
ialls into the hands of a highwayman, mu^t of necessity 
perish either of the sword or your decisions. Had 
•Milo been of this opinion, he would certainly have 
chosen to have fallen by the hands of CIqcIius,^ vyho bad 
more than once before this jKnade aa atfempVupMi his 

fife, ratKer tbafi Be Mecuted bf sfHior drd^r, beeiUM M 
had not tamely yielded himaelf a victim to Yah rt^. Bttt 
ifnoneof you are of this dpinioa, the propef ^neitioo 
is, not Whether Ckxtius was killed ; for that we g;rant z 
lut whether justly or unjustly. If it appears thatMilb 
was the aggresiar, we ask n« favor ; but if Clodius, fUtk 
will then acquit him of the crime that has been Idd fc 
his tharge. 

What method, then, can we take to prove that CloA* 
us lay in wait for Milo ? It is suiicient, consideiing what 
an audacious abandoiled wretch he was, to ahow that ho 
lay under a strong temptation to it, that he formed gretft 
hopes, and proposed to himself great advantages, from 
Milo's death. By MiIo*s death, Clodius would not onlf 
have gained his point of being prdfetor, without that re- 
straint which his adversary's power as consul, would 
hare laid upon his wicked designs, but likewise that of 
being praetor under those connuls, by whose coanitance^ 
atleast) if not assistance, he hoped he should be i(bletb 
betray the state into the mad schemes he had been lerm- 
mg ; persuading himself, that, as they thought thentf* 
selves under so great an obligation to him, they would 
have no inclirafion to oppose any of his attem|>ts, even 
if they should have it in their poller j and that if they 
were inclined to do it, they would, perhaps, be iCiCrce 
able to cbntrel the most proftigate of all men, who had 
t>een confirmed and hardened in his audaeiouaness, t^ a 
long series of villanies. 

Mllo is so far from receiving afiy benefit fb«i Cfo^* 
us' death, that he is really a sufferer by it. B\it it ma^ 
be said, that hatred prevailed, that anger and resentment 
urged him on, that he avenged his own wrongs and^re- 
dressed his own grievances. NoW, if all these particu- 
lars may be applied, not merely with greater propriety 
to Clodius than to Milo, but with the utmost ptoprie^ 
to the one, and not the least to the other ; what mort 
can you desire ? For why should Milo beat any other ha- 
tred to Clodius, who furnished him with such a rich haf- 
vest of glory, but that which every patiiot must bear tb 
all bad men ? As to Clodins, he had motives enough f6r 
bearing in will to Milo ; first, as my protector attd guaff- 

fti« LESSONS . (FiHT IL 

dian : tbeO) aa tlie opposer of bis road.ftQhemes, and the 
•cntroller of his armed force. : and, la&tly, as his accuser. 
Every circumstance, my Lords, concurs to prove, that 
it was tor Miio's interest, Clodius should live; that, on 
the contiary, Milo's de^cth was a most desirable event 
for answering the purposes of CLdius y that on the one 
,tide, Uiere was a most implacable hatred ; on the othe|', 
not the least ; that the one had been continually employ- 
ing; himself in acts of violence, the other only in oppos- 
ing them ; that the life of Milo was threatened, and his 
death publicly foretold by Clodius ; whereas nothing qf 
that kind was ever heard from Milo ; that the day fixed 
for Milo's journey, was well known hy his adversaiy ; 
labile Milo knew not when Clodius was to return ; that 
Milo*8 Journey was necessary, but that of Clodius rath- 
er the contrary ; that the one openly declared his inten* 
tion of leavuifj Rome that day, while the other concealed 
bis intention cf returning ; that Miletnade no alteration 
in his measures, but that CIckUus feigned an excuse for 
altenng his ; that if Milo had designed to waylay Clodi- 
«s, he would have waited for. him near the city, till it was 
dark ; but that Clodius, even if he had been under no 
apprehensions from Milo, ought to have been afraid of 
coming to town so late at night. 

L»et us now consider, whether the place where they 
encountered, was most favoi^able to Milo, or to Clodius. 
But can there, my Lords, be any room for doubt, or de- 
liberation upon that ? It was near the estate of Clodius, 
where at least a thousand able bodied men were employ- 
ed in his mad scheme»of building. Did Milo think he 
sbould have an advantage by attacking him from an em- 
inence, and did he, for this reason, pitch upon that spot 
for the engagement ; or was he not rather expected in 
that place by his adversary, who hoped the situation 
would fa vop his assault ? The thing, my Lords, speaks 
for itself, which must be allowed to be of the greatest 
importance in determining the question. Were the ?Lf- 
fair to be represented only by painting*, instead pf being" 
expressed by wor«ls, it would even thent dearly appear 
which was the traitor, and which was free fi*om all mis* 
~ evous designs ; when the one was sitting in his ohariot^ 

Sect, ill.] IN SPEAKING. Sli 

muffled up in his cloak, and his wife along with him; 
Which of these circumstances was not a very great in- 
cujnbrance ?— the dress, the chariot, or the cooipanion ? 
How could he be worse equipped for an engagemtnty 
when he was wrapped up in a cloak, embarrassed with a 
chariot,and almost fettered by his wife ? Observe the oth- 
er, n«w, in the first place, sallying out on a sudden front 
his seat : for what reason ? In the evening) what urged 
him ? Late, to what purpose, especially at that season ? 
He calls at Pompey*s seat ; With what view ? To see 
i^ompey ? He knew he was at Alsium : To see his house? 
He had been at it a thousand times. What, then, could 
be the reason of his loitering and shifting about ? He 
wamted to be on the spot when Milo came up. 

But if, my Lords, you are not yet convinced, though 
the thing shines out with snch strong and full evidence, 
that Milo returned to Rome with an innocent mind, un- 
stained with guilt, undisturbed with fear, and free frona 
the accusations of conscience ; call to mind, I beseech 
you, by. the imniortal gods, the expedition with which he 
came back, his entrance into the forum while the senate 
house wad in flames, the greatness of soul fae discovered, 
the look he assumed, the speech he made on the occa- 
sion. He delivered himself up, not only te the people^ 
but even te the senate : nor to the senate alone, but even 
to guards appointed for the public security ; nor merely 
to them, but even to the authority of him whom the 
senate had entrusted with the care of the whole re- 
public ; to whem he never would have delivered him- 
•elf, if he had not been confident of the goodness of his 

What now remains, but to beseech and adjure you, 
niy Lords, to extend that compassion to a brave man, 
which he disdains to implore, but which I, even against 
his consent, implore and earnestly intreat. Though you 
have net seen himahed a single tear, while all are weep- 
' .; around him, though he has preserved the same^ stea- 
dy countenance, the same firmness of voice and lan- 
guage, do not on this account withhold it from him. 

On you, on you I call, ye heroes, who have lost so^ 
>^Qah blood in the seryice of your country! To you, ye * 


please to establish. As I think myself not unworthy 
to ^mmand)So neither am I unwilling to obey., Your 
having chosen me to be the leader of this colony, and 
your calling the city ^Iter my name, are honors suli- 
cient to content me ; honors of which, living or dead, I 
can neyerbe depriyed. 

tlj-^Hannibal to Scifiio Jfricanus, at their Interview' 
preceding the battle of Zama, 

SINGE &te has so ordained it, that I, who began the 
war, and who have been so often on the point of ending 
it by a complete conquest, should now come of my own 
nouon, to ask a peace— I atn glad that it i» of you, 
Scipio, that I have the fortune to ask it. ;Kor will this 
be among the least of your glories, that Hannibal, victo- 
rious over SB many Roman generals, submitted at l^st to 
you. 9 ^ 

I could wish tiratour fathers and we had confined out* 
ambition within the limits whi^h nature seems to have 
prescribed to it ; the shores of Africa and the shores of 
Italy. The god<idid not give us that mind. On both 
aides we have been so eag^r after foreign possession^, as 
to put our own to the hax&rd of war. Rome and Car- 
thage have had^ each in her turn, the enemy at her 
gates. But since errors past may be more easily learn- 
ed than corrected, let itnow be Uic work of you and me, 
to put an end, if ^ssible, to the obstinate contentton.— 
For my cfwn part, my years, and the experience I have 
had of the instability of fortune, incline me to leave 
nothing to hor determination which reason can decide. 
But iiu<^, I fear, Scipio, that your youth, your want 
oftbe like expeiience, your uninterrupted success, may, 
vender you averse from the thoughts of peace. Hey 
whom fortune has never failed, rarely reflects upon her 
iBcoostancy. Yet without recuninrg; to former exam- 
ples, my ownmay ^eriiaps suffice to ^ch you modera^ 
tion. I am the same Hannibal, who mer my victory ai 
Cannay became master of the greatest part of your coun-^ 
try, and delibersrted with myself what fate I should de4 
cree to Italy and Rome. And now— see the change 1 
^Here, in Africa, I am come to treat with a Reman, M 

ftscT. IV.] IN SPEAKING. . 815 

my own presefvatien and my country '$. Such arc the 
aports of fortune. Is she then to be trusted because she 
smiles ? An adyantageous peace is preferable to the 
hope of victory. The one is in your own power, the 
other at the pleasure of the gods. Should you prove 
victorious, it would add little to your own glory, or 
the giory of your t:ountry; if vanquished, you Jose in 
one hour, all the honor and reputation you have been so 
many years acquiring. But what is my aim in all this f 
Thatyou should contact yourself with our cession of 
Spain, Sicily, Sardinia, and all Islands between Italy ami 
Africa. A p^ace on these conditions, i*ili, in my opin- 
ion, not only secure the future tnmquillity of Carthage, 
but he sufficiently glorious fot* you, and for the Roman 
name. Atid do not tell me, that some of our citizens 
dealt fraudulently with you in the late treaty,— It it I^ 
Hannibal, that now ask a peace ':— I ask it, because I 
think it expedient for my coutttry : and thiuking it ex- 
pedient, I will inviolably maintain it. 

llV-^ScifHo^a Rcfily. 

I KNEW xery well, Hannibal, that it was the hope of 
your return, which .emboldened the Carthaginians to 
break the truce with us, and lay aside . all thoughts of 
peace, when it was just upon the point of being conclud- 
ed ; and your present proposal is a proof of it. You re« 
trench from their concessions every thing but what we 
are and have been, long possessed of. But as it is your 
care, that your fellow-citizens should have the obliga-^ 
tiontoyou, of being eased from a great part of their 
burden, so it ought to be mine, that they draw no ad* 
^vantage from their periidiousneas. Nobody is more sen* 
sible than I am of the weakness of man, and the power 
offort^ne, and that whatever we enterprize, is subject 
to a thousand cl^yices. If before the Romans passed 
into Africa, you had, df your own Accord, quitted Italy, 
and made the oflTers you now make, I helieve they would 
not have been rejected. But^ as you have been forced 
out of Italy, and we are makers here of the open 
country, the situation of things^ much altered. And 
ivhat is chiefly to be considered, the Carthagijuans, by 

$f I4ES8OK8 [Part U.- 

the late trettf which we entered into at their request, 
were, over and above what you ofifer, to have restored-to 
us our prisoners without ransoni) delivered up their 
ships of war, paid us five thousand talents, and to have 
given hostages for the performance of all. The senate 
accepted these conditions, but Carthage failed cm her 
part : Carthage deceived us. What then is to be done ! 
Are the Carthaginians to be released from the mostim* 
portant articles of the treaty, as a reward for their breach 
of faith? No, , certainly. If to the conditions before 
agreed upon, you had added some new articles, to our ad- 
vantage, there would have been matter of reference to 
the Roman people^ ; but when, instead of adding, you 
retrench, there is no room for deliberation. The Car- 
thaginians, therefore, must submit to us at discretion, or 
must vanquish us in battle. 

lY. ^^CaHathenet'Refiroof of Cleon* 8 Flattery to Alexan- 
devy on whomhc hadfirofioscdto confer Divinity^ by vote* 

IF the king were present, Cleon, there would be no 
need of my answering to what you have just proposed. 
He would himself reprove you, for endeavoring to draw 
him into an imitation of foreign absurdities, and for bring- 
ing envy upon him by such unmanly flattery. As he is 
absent, I take upon me to tell you, in his name, that 
no praise is lasting^ but what is rational ;^and, that you 
do what you can to lessen his glory, instead of adding to 
it. Heroes have never, among us, been deified, till af- 
ter their death ; and, whatever may be your way of 
thinking, Cleon, for my part, I wish the king may not, 
for many years to come, obtain that honor. 

You have mentioned, as precedents of what you pro- 
pose, Hercules and Bacchus. Do you imagine, Cleon, 
that they were deified over a cup of wine ? And are you . 
and I qualified to make gods ? Is the king, our sover- 
eign, to receive his divinity from you and me, who are 
his subjects ? First try jrour power, whether you can 
make a king. It is surely easier to make a king than a^ 
god ; to give an earthly dominion than a throne in fecav- 
ven. I only wish that the gods may have heard, without 
offence, the arrogant proposal you have made> of adding 


oae to tlieirnttmber9.and that they naj still be so pro-. 
pitious to U89 as to graut ^e continuance of that success 
toouraffairsywitb which they hare hitherto favored us. 
For my part, I amjiot ashamed of my country, nor do I 
approve of our adoptiuig the rites of foreign nations, or 
learning from them how we ought to reverence our 
kings. To receive l4ws or rules d; conduct from them, 
What is it.but to confess ourselves inferior to them ? 

y.'^Caius Marina to the Roman$ ; shewing the fl3«wr- 

dity of their hesitating to confer on him the Rank of w 
Genera/ J merely on account of his Extraction. '" 

IT is but tod common, my countrymen, to observe a 
material differehce between the behavior of those who 
stand candidates for places of power and trust, before 
and after their obtaining them* They solicit them in 
one manner, and execute them in another. They, set 
out with a great appearance of activity, humility and 
moderation, and they publicly fall into sloth, pride and 
avarice.— It is, undoubtedly, no easy matter to discharge^, 
to the general satisfaction, the duty of a supreme com* 
inander, in troublesome times. To carry on with effect, 
an expensive war, and yet be frugal of public money \ 
t« oblige those to serve, whom it may be delicate to of- 
fend ; to conduct, at the same time^ a complicated vari- 
ety of operations ; to concert measures at home^ answer- 
able to the state of things ' abroad ; and to gainv every 
valuable end, in spite of opposition from the envious^ the 
factious and the disaifected— to do all this, my country- 
men, is more, difficult than is generally thought 

But, besides the disadvantages which are common to 
me, with all others in eminent stations, my case is^ in this 
respect peculiarly hard — ^that whereas a commander oi. 
Patrician rank, if he is guilty of neglect or breach of, du- 
ty, has his great connections, the antiquitjr of his family, 
the important services'of his ancestors, and the nmlti* 
tudes he has, by power, engaged in his interest, to screen 
him from condign pimishment, my whole safety depends 
upon myself; which renders it the more indispensably 
C o 3 

diS IiESS0N8 [FAUTlh 

necetiaiy forme to take car^^that my coiKkictbe dear • 
and unexceptionable. Besides,- 1 am well aware, my 
Gountrymeni that the eye of the pttbiic is Hpon me ; and 
that though the impartial who prefer the real advantage 
of the commoBwealth to all other coosideratioos, favor 
my pretentions^ the Patricians want nothing. «o much, 
as an ocoastoo against me. It is, therefoi^ey my fixed 
resolution, to use my best endehvorsy that you be not dis* 
appointed in me, and that their indirect designs against 
me may be defeated. 

I have from my youth, been familiar with toils and 
with danger. I was faitliful to your interest, my coun- 
trymen> when I served you for no reward but Hhat of 
honor. It is not my design to betray you, now that you 
have conferred upon me a place of profit You have 
committed to my conduct the war against Jugurtha. — 
'fhe Patricians are offended at this^ But, where would 
be the wisdom of giving such a command to one of their 
honorable body ? A person of illutftrious birth, of an- 
cient family, of innumerable statues-^but of no experi- 
ence I What service would this long line of dead ances- 
lor8,t>r his multitude of motionless statues, do his coun- 
try in the day of battle? What could such a general do 
but in his trepidation and inexperience, have recourse 
to some inferior commander for direction, in difficul- 
ties to which he was not himself equal I Thus, your Pa- 
trician general would in fact, have a general over him ; 
80 that the acting commander would still be a Plebeian. 
So truels this, my countrymen, that I have, my^^lf, 
known those that have been chosen consuls, begin then 
to read the history of their own country, of which, till 
that time, they were totally ignorant ; that is, they first 
obtained the employment, and then bethought them- 
selves of .the qualifications necessary for the proper 
dischafgeofit. ... 

I submit to yottr judgment, Romans, on which side 
the advantage lies, when a comparison is made between 
Patrician haughtiness, and Plebeian experience. The 
very Actions which they have only read, I have partly 
seen, and partly myself achieved. What they know by- 
reading, I know by action. They are pleased to slight 

BzeT^ I¥.} IN SPEAKING. »ai 

my mean birth : I despite their metn chartcten. Want 
of birth and fortune is the objection against me ; want 
of personal worth against them« But are not all men 
of the same species? What can make a difference be* 
twe^n one man and another 9 but the endowments of the 
mind? For my part^ I shall always look upon the brav- 
est man, as the nobtest man. Suppose it were required 
<^theiaihersof such Patricians as Albinos and Bestia, 
whether if they had their choice, they would desire sons . 
of their character, or of mine : What would they answer* 
but that they would wish the worthiest to be their sons ? 
If the Patricians have reason to despise me, let them 
likewise despise their aucestors, whose nobility was tho 
fruit of their virtue. Do they envy the honors bestow- 
ed upon me ? I^t them envy, likewise, my | labors, my 
abstinence, and the dangers I have undergone for my 
country, by which I have acquired them. But those 
^ worthless men lead such a life of inactivity^ as if they 
despised any honors you can bestow ; whilst they aspire 
to honors as if they had deserved them by ^he most in* 
dustrious virtue. They lay claim to the rewards of ac- 
tivity, for their having enjoyed the {Measures of luxury. 
Yet none can be more lavish than they are, in praise of 
their ancestors. And they imagine they honor them- 
selves by celebrating their forefathers; whereas they 
do the very contrary ; for, aa much as their ancestors 
were distinguished for their virtues, so much are they 
disgraced by their vices. The glory -of ancestors casts a 
light indeed, upon their posterity ; but it only serves to 
shew what the descendants are. It alike exhibits to 
public view, their degeneracy and their worth. I own I 
cannot boast of the deeds^of my forefathers ; but I hope 
I may answer the cavils of the Patricians, by standing up 
in defence of what I have myself done. 

Observe now, my countrylneU) the injustice of the* 
Patricians. They arrogate to themselves honors, on 
account of the exploits done by their fo^'cfathers, whilst 
they win not allow mc the due praise, for performing 
the very same sort of actions in my own person. He has 
no statues, they cry, of his family. He can trace no 
venerable line of ancestors. What then ? Is it matter 


of more praise to disgrace one's illustrious ancestora^ 
UiMi to become illustrious by one's own goud behaviour I 
What if I can show no statues of my family 1 1 can shovr 
the standards, the armor and the trappings, which I 
have myself taken from the vanquished : I ean show the 
scars of those wounds which i have received by facing 
the enemies of my couiUry. * These are ray statues— 
These are the honors ^ .ixiast o£ Not left n^e: by inlier* 
itance, as theirs ; but earned by toil, by abstinence, by 
valor; amidst clouds of ^lust and seas of blood ^ scenes 
of action, where those eJBfeminate Patriciansi who endea- 
vor, by indirect means to depreciate me in your esteem^ 
have never dared to show tiieir faces. 

VL^^^eech of Fudlius Sci/iio to the JRoman Army^ hf 
for€ the Battle ofTicin, 

WERE you, soldiers, the same army which I had 
with me in Gaul, I might well forbear saying any thing 
to you at this. time ; for what occasion could there be 
to use exhortations to a cavalry, that Iiad so iiignally van- 
quished the squadrons of the enemy upon the , Rhone, or 
to legions, by whom that same enemy, flying before 
. them, to avoid a battle, did, in effect, confess themselves- 
conquered ? But as these troops, having been enrolled 
for Spain, are there with my brother Cneius, mak ing 
war under my auspices (as was the will of the senate 
and people ef Rome) I, that you might, haye a consul for 
your captain against Hannibal and the Carthagi^iians, 
have freely offered myself for this W;ar. You, then, have 
a new general, and'I a new arj^ny. On this account a 
few words from me to you, will 'he neither improper 
nor unseasonable. 

That you may not be unapprised of what sort of ene- 
mies you are going to encounter, or what is to be fear- 
ed from thetp, they are the very ^ same, whom in a for- 
mer war, you vanquished both by land and sea ; the same 
from whom you took Sicily and Sardinia^ and who 
have been tlicse twenty years your tributaries. You 
will not, I presume, march against these men witli only 
that courage with which you are wont to face other ene- 
mies J but with a certain anger and indignation^ such 


as you would feel if ybn saw your slarea oo » sudden 
rise up in arms against you. Conquered and enslaved, it 
ki not boldness, but necessity that urges them to battle ; 
unless you could believe, that those who avmded fight- 
ing when their army was entire, have acquired better 
hope by the loss of two thirds of their horse and foot in 
the passage of the Alps. 

But you have heard, perhaps, that though they are few 
in number, they are men of stout hearts and robust bod- 
ies ; heroes of such strength and vigor, as nothing is ablo 
to resist.— —Merc effigies ! ^fay, shadows of men i— 
wretches emaciated with hunger, and benuaabed with 
cold ! bruised »nd battered to pieces among the rocks 
and craggy cliffs ! their weapons broken, aiKl their hors- 
es weak and foundered ! Such are the cavalry, and such 
the infantry, with which you are going to contend ; not 
enemies, but the fragments of enemies. There is nothing 
which I more apprehend, than that it will be thought 
Hannibal was vanquished by the Alps, before we had 
any conflict with him. But perhaps, it was fitting it 
shout d be so ; and that, with a people and a leader who 
had violated leagues and covenants, the gods themselves^ 
without roan*s help, should beg^n the war, and bring it 
to a near conclusion : and that we, who, next to the gods, 
have been injured and offehded, should happily finish 
what they have begun. 

Tneed not be in any fear, that you should suspect mo 
of saying these things merely to encourage you, while 
inwardly I have a different sentiment. What hindered 
me Irom going into Spain ? That was my province, where 
I should have had the less dreaded Asdrubal, not Han- 
nibal, to deal with. But hearing, as I passed along the 
coast of Gaul, of this enemy's march, I landed my troops, 
sent my horse forward, ond pitched my camp upon the 
Rhone. A part of my cavalry encountered and defeat- 
ed that of the enemy. My infantry not being able to 
overtake theirs, which fled before us, I returned to my 
ileet ; and with all the expedition I could use, in so 
long a voyage by sea and land, am come to meet them 
at the foot of the Alps. 'Was it then my inclination to 
avoid a contest with this tremendous Hannibal I And 

isft LESSONS [Vamt IL 

hftve I met with bim only by accident a^d xmamnr^ ? 
Or am I comeoapovpoae to challenge him to . the com* 
bat ? I would gUdly try^ whether the earth, within 
these twenty years» baa brouj^ht forth a new kind of 
Carthaginians ; or whether they be the same iiprtof men 
who fought at the Agates, and wbomt at £ryx^ you suf- 
fered to redeem themaelves at eighteen denarii per 
bead ; whether this Hannibal) for labero and journies, 
be^aa he would be thought, the rival of Hercules; oi& 
whether he be, what his father left Intn, a. tributary, a. 
▼assal, a slave to the Ronaafi people. Did not the coor 
acioiisoeasof hia wicked deedat Sagtu^um, tordnient bim 
and make him deaperate, he. would have some regard, if 
not to iiJs conquered couniry, yet surety to his own fam- 
ily, to his fetber's memory; to the treaty written witU 
Amilcar's own handi We might have starved him in 
Eryx } we might have passed into Africa with our victo- 
rious fleet, anid in a few days have destro|red Car- 
thage. At their bumble supplication, we {lartloned 
them I we released them when they were closely shut up 
without a possibility of escaping; we made peace wid 
them when they were conquere4. When they were 
distressed by the African war, we coniadered them, we 
treated them as a people under our protection.^ And 
what is the return they make for all these favors ? 
Under the conduct of a hairbrahied youngs man, th^ 
come hither to overturn our state, an4 lay waste our 
country. I conld wish indeed, that it were not so ; and 
that the war we are now engaged in, concerned only our 
own gl<Mry« and not our preservation. Bat the contest, 
at present is not for the possession of Sicily ai)d Sardiciay 
but of Italy itaelf ; nor is Uiere behind us another army, 
which, if we shduld not prove the conquerors, may make 
head against our victorious enemies. There are no more 
Alt>8 for them to pass, which might give us leisure to ' 
raise new forces. IT^ soldiers; here you must make 
your stand, as if you were just now before the walls of 
Rome. Let every one reflect, that he has now to defend, 
not only his own person, but hia wife, his children, hia 
helpless infants. Yet let not private eonsideraticms a- 
lone possess our minds ; let us remember that th« eyea 

8j5c?t. IV.] >JN 8WEAKINO. S2S 

of the lunate and people of Rome are upon us ; and 
that as our force and courage shall now prove, such 
will be the fortune of that city, and of the Rem^ em- 

Vll^^^Sfieech of Hannibal fp the Car/haginian army^ an 
$he tame occaiion, 

I KNOW not, soWiera, whether you or your prison- 
era be encompaaaed by fortune, with the atricter bonds 
and neceaaitiea. Two aeaa incloae you on the right and 
left ; not a ahip to fly to for escaping. Before you is the 
Po, a river broader «nd more rapid than the Rhone ; be- 
Und you are the Alps, over which, even when your nom* 
bera were tmdiminiabed, you were hat dly at)le to force 
a passage. Here, then, solcUers, you must either con* 
quer or die, the very first hour you meet the enemy. 

But the same fortune, which has thus laid you under 
the necessity of fighUog, has set before your eyes tho 
most glorious reward of ^ctory. Should we by our 
valor, recover only Sicily and Sardinia, which were 
raviahed from our fathers, those would be no inconsider' 
able prizea. Yet what are those I The wealth of Rome^ 
whatever richei she has heaped together in the apoiis of 
nationa ; all these, with the masters of them, will be 
yours. The time is now come to reap the full recom- 
i;>ense of your toilsome marches over soivany mountains 
and rivers, and through so many nations^ ail of tJpm in 
arms. This the place which fortune hafi appointed to 
be the limits of your labor ; it is here that you will finish 
your glorious warfare, and receive an ampte recoropensti 
of your coibpleted service. For I would not have you 
imagine, that victory will be as difficult as the name of 
a Roman war ia great and sounding. It has often hap-* 
pened,that a despised enemy has given a bloody battle ; 
mod the most renowned kings and nationa have by a 
small force been overthrown. And if you but take a- 
way the glitter of the Roman name, what is there 
wherein they ^ay stand in competition with you? For 
(to say nothing of your service in war, for twenty years 
together, with so much valor and success) from the 
y^ry pillars of, Hercules, from the ocean, from the ut« 

«M LESSONS : [Pabt n* 

most bounds of the earth, through so many warlike na- 
tions of Spain and Gaul, are you not come hither ricto' 
mus ? and with whom are you now to fight ? With 
raw soldiers, an undisciplined army, beaten, vanquished, 
besieged by the Gauls, the very last sufnrber : an army 
unknown to their leader, and unacquainted with him. 

Or shall I who was born, I might almtf^ say, but cer- 
tainly brought up, in the tent of my father; that most 
excellent general : shall I, the conqueror of Spun and 
Gaul, and not only of the Alpine nations, but which is 
■till greater, of the Alps themselves^- shall 1 compare 
myself with this halfyear's captain? A captain, i>efore 
whom should one place the two armies without their 
ensigns, I am persuaded he would not know to which 
of them he is consul. I esteem it no small advantage, 
soldiers, that there is not one among you who has not of- 
ten been an eye witness of my exploits in war; net one 
of whose valor I myself have not been a spectator, so 
as to be* able to name the times and places of his noble 
achievements ; that with soldiers, whom I have a thou- 
sand times praised and rewarded, and whose pupil I was 
before 1 became their general, I shall march against an 
army of men, strangers to one another. 

On what side soever I turn my eyes, I biehold all full 
of courage and strength. A veteran infantry ; a most 
gallant cavalry ; you, my allies, most faithful and val- 
iant; you, Carthaginians, whom not only your coun- 
try's cause, but the justest anger impels tor battle. The 
hope, the courage of assailants, is always greater than of 
those who} act upon the defensive. With hostile ban- 
ners displayed you are come down upon Italy : You 
bring the war. (Irtef, injuries, indignities, fire your 
minds, and spur you forward to revenge. First they de- 
mand me, that I, your general, should be delivered up 
to them ; next, all of you who had fought at tho 
siege of Saguntum ; and we were to be put to death by 
the extremest tortures. Proud and cruel nation ! Every 
thing most be yours, and at your disposal ! You are t« 
nrescribeto us with whom we shall make war,with whom 
'e shdll make peace i You are to set us bounds ; to shut 

Sect- IT.] IN SPEAKING. 825 

us up within hills and rivers ; but youy you are not to 
obserye the limits which jrdurstlves have fixed ! ^' Pass 
Bot the Iberus." What next ? « Touth not the Sagun- 
tines : Saguntum is upon the Iberus ; move not a step 
towards tluit city.*' Is it a small matter, then, that you 
Jhave deprived us of our ancient possessions, Sicily and 
Sardinia ? you would have Spain too. Well, we shall 
yield Spain, and then«^you wiJl pass into Africa. Will 
pasi, did I say ?— This very year they ordered one of 
their consuls into Africa— -the other into Spain. . No, 
soldiers, there is nothings left for us^ but what we can 
vindicate with our awoixis. Come on, then. Be men. 
The Romabs may, with more safety, be cowa rds ; they • 
have their own country behind them,ihave places of ref- 
U{j^e to fly to, and are secure from danger in the roads 
thither; but for you there is no middle fortune between 
death and victory. Let this be but well fixed in your 
minds ; and once again, I say you are conquerors. 

Vlll.'^Sfieech cf Jdherbal to the Roman Senate.^ imfihr' 
ing their uaaiatance against Mgurtha. 

Fathers I 

IT is known to you, that king Micipsa, my father, on 
his death bed, left io charge to Jvigurtba, his adopted son, 
conjutictly with my unfortunate brother Hiempsel and 
myself, the children of his own body, the administration 
of the kingdom of Kumidia, directing us to consider the 
senate and people of Rome, as proprietors of it. He 
charged us to use our best endeavors to be serviceable 
to the Roman commonwealth, in peace and war ; assur- 
ing us, that your protection would prove to us a defence 
against all enemies, and would be instead cf armies, 
fortifications and treasures. 

While my brother and I were thinking of nothing but 
how to regulate ourselves according to the directions of 
our deceased father— Jugurtha— the most infamous of 
' mankind !— breaking through all ties pf gratitude, and 
of common humanity, and trampling on the authority of 
the Roman commonwealth, procured the murder of* my 
unfortunate brother, and has'^drivep me from my throne 
and native country, though he knows I inherit from my 

D D 

526 LESSONS [Part II. 

{grandfather Masainissai and my father Micipfta, the 
&end8hip and alliance of the Romans. 

For a prince to be reduced, bj yillany, to my dia^ 
tressful circumstance a, is calamity enough ; but my mis- 
fortunes are heightened by the consideration-i-that I find 
myself obliged to solicit your assistance. Fathers, for the 
services done you by my ancestors, not for any I have 
been able to render you in my own person. Jugurtha 
has put it out of my power to deserve any thing at your 
hands ; and has forced me to be burthensome, before I 
could be useful te you. And yet, if I had no plea but 
my undeserved misery-— a once powerful prince, the de- 
scendant of a race of illustiious monarchs, now, without 
any fault of my own, destitute of every support, and re- 
duced to the necessity of begging foreign assistance a- 
gainst to enemy who has seized my throne and my 
kingdom— if my unequalled distresses were all I had to 
plead — it would become the greatness of the Romaa 
commonwealth, the arbitress^f the world, to protect the 
uijuredand to check the triumph of daring wickedness 
over helpless iuhocence.—- But to provoke your ven- 
geance to the utmost, Jugufthahas driven me from the 
Tei7 dominions, which the senate and the people of 
Rome gave to my ancestors; and froo^ which, my grand- 
fether, and my father, under your umbrage, expelled Sy« 
phax and the Carthaginians. Thus, Fathers, your kind- 
ness to our family 4S defeated ; and Jugurtha, in injuring 
me, throws contempt on you. 

O wretched prlace ! O cruel reverse of fortune ! O ^ 
father Micipsa ! Is this the consequence of your gene- 
rosity ; that he whom your goodness! raised to an equali- 
ty with your own children, should be the murderer of 
your children I Must then, the royal house of Numidia 
always be a scene of havoc and blood ? While Carthage 
remained, we suffered, as was to be expected, all sorts 
of hardships from their hostile attacks; our enemy 
near ; our only powerful ally, the Roman commonwealth, 
at a distance. While we were so circumstanced, we 
were always in arms and in action. When that scourge 
of Africa was no mofe, we congratulated ourselves on 
the prospect of established peace. But instead of peace 

S»CT. IV.] IN 8PEAKIMO. 337 

behold the kingdom of Numidia drenched with royal 
blood I and the only surviving son of its late kingi fly- 
ing from an adopted murderer, and seeking tliat safety 
in foreign parts, which he cannot command in his own 
kingdom. ^ 

. Whither— Oh ! Whither shalj I fly ! If I return to 
the royal palace of my ancestors, my father's throne is 
seized by the murderer of my brother. What can I 
there expect, but that Jugurtha should hasten to imbrue 
in my blood, those hands which are now reeking with 
my brother's ! If I were to fly for refuge or assistance 
to any other court — from v at prince can I hope for 
protection, if the Roman commonwealth give me up I 
From my own family or friends, I have no expectations. 
My royal father is no more. He is beyond the reach 
of violence, and oat of hearing of the complaints of his 
unhappy son. Were my brother alive, our mutual 
sympathy would be some alleviation. But he is hurried 
out of liife, in his eaiiy youth, by the very hand, which 
should have been the last to injure any of the royal fam- 
ily of Numidia. The bloody Jugurtha has butchered 
all whom he suspected to be in my interest. Some 
have been destroyed by the lingering torment of the 
cross. Others have been given a prey to wild beasts, 
and their anguish made the sport of men, tnore cruel 
than wild beasts. If there beany yet alive, they are 
shut up in. dungeons, there to drag out a life, more intol- 
erable than death itself 

Look down, illustrious senators of Rome I from that 
height of pq^er to which you are raised, on the unexam- 
pled distresses of a prince, who is, by the cruelty of a 
wicked intruder, become an outcast from all mankind. 
Let not the crafty insinuations of him who returns mur- 
der for adoption prejudice your judgment. Do not 
listen to the wretch who has butchered the son and rela- 
tions of a king, who gave him power to sit on the same 
throne with his own sons. I have been informed that 
he labors, by his emissaries, to prevent your determin- 
ing any thing against him in bis absence : pretending 
that I magnify my distress, and might for him have staid 
in peace in my own kingdom. But if ever the time 

Its LESSONS [Part tl. 

comes when the due Tcngcancc from above shall over- 
take hiixiy he will then dissemble as I do. Then be who 
now, hardened in wickedness, triumphs over those whom 
his violence has laid low, will, in his turn, feel distress, 
and suffer fo«- his impious ingratitude to my father, ^d 
his blood thirsty cruelty to my brother. 

Oh mnrtiered, butchered brother ! Oh, dearest to my 
heart-^now ^nc forever from my sight! but why should 
I lament his death ? He is, indeed, deprived of the blessed 
ligl^t of heaven, of life and kingdom, at once, by the ve- 
ry person^ ^ ho ought to have been the first to haaard his 
own life in defence of any one of Micipsa's femily i But 
as things are, my brother is not so much deprived of 
these comforts, as delivered from terror, from flight, 
from exile, and the endless train of miseries, which ren- 
der life to me a burden. He lies full low« gored with 
wounds, and festering in his own blood* But he lies in 
peace. He feels none of the miseries which i*end my 
soul with agony and distraction, while I nm set up a 
spectacle to all mankind, of the uncertainty of human 
affairs. So far from having it in my power to revenge 
his death, I am not master of the means of securing my 
own lite. So far from being in a condition to defend my ^^ 
kingdom from the violence of the usurper, I am' obliged 
to apply for foreign protection for my owrt person. ' 

Fathers 1 Senators of Rome ! — The arbiters of the 
world ! To you I fly for refuge from the murderous fu- 
ry of Jugurtha. By your affectian for your children^ 
by your love for youi^ country, by your own virtues, by 
the majesty of the Roman commonwealth, by all thatis 
sacred, and all that is dear to you, jdeliver a Wretched 
prince from undeserved, unprovoked injury ; and save 
the kingdom of Numidia, which is your own property,* 
from being the prey of violence, usurpation and cruelty. 


IX. — Speech qf Canuieiua to the Cqn^uU $ in tohirn he 
demanda tfat the Flebeiana may be admitted into the 
Consulahifij and that the Laws prohibicing Pa^riciana 
and PlebeUanajTom intermarry ingy may be refieaied, 

^ WHAT an insult upon us is this ? if we are not lo 
rich as the Patricians, are we not citizens of Uome as 
well as they? Inhabitants of the same country ?— Mem- 
bers of the same community ? The nations borderinig up- 
on Rome, and even strangers more remote, 9 re admittedi 
not only to marriage with us, but to what is of much 
greater importance — the freedom of the\:ity. Are we, 
because we are commoners, to be worse treated thaa 
strangers ? And when we demand that the people may 
be free to bestow their offices and dignities on whom they 
please. Do we ask any thing unreasonable or new ? Do 
we claim more than their original inherent right ? What 
occasion then for all this uproar, as if the universe were 
falling to ruin ? They were just going to lay violent 
hands upon me in the senate house. 

What I Must this empire, then, be unavoidably over- 
turned ! Must Rome of necessity sink at once, if a Ple- 
beian, worthy of the office, should be raised to the con- 
aulship ? The Patricians, I am persuaded, if they could, 
would deprive you of the common li8:ht. It certainly 
oSends the'm that you breathe, that you speak, that you 
have the shapes of men. Nay, but to make a commoner 
a consul, would be, say they, a most enormous thing.— 
Numa Pompilius, however, without being so much as a 
Roman citizen, was made king of Rome. The elder 
Tarquin, by birth not even an Italian, was nevertheless 
placed upon the throne. Sevius TulUus, the son of a 
captive wonian, (nobody knows who his father was) ob- 
tained the kingdom, as the reward of his wisdom a«id 
virtue. In those days, no man in whom virtue slione 
conspicuous, was rejected or despised on account of his 
race and descent. And did the state prosper the less for 
that ? Were not these strangers the very best of all our 
kings? And supposing, now, that a Plebeian should 
have their talents and merit, Would he be suffered to 
goyern us ? 

D D 2 


But, **we find, that, upor> the abolition of the regal 
power, no commoner was chosen to the consulate." — 
And, what of that ? Before Numia's time, there were no 
pontiffs in Rome. Before Sevius Tullius's days, there 
Was no census, no division of the people into classes and 
centuries. Whoever heard of consuls before the ex- 
pulsion of Tarquin the proud ? Dictators, we all know, 
are of modem invention ; and so are the officers of tri- 
bunes, aedillcs, quaestors. Within ftiese ten years we 
have made decemvirs, and we have unmade them. Is 
nothing to be done but what has been done before ? That 
yery law, forbidding marriages of Patricians with Plebe- 
ians, Is not that a new thing ? Was there my such law 
before the decemvirs enacted it ? And a most shameful 
one it is in a free state. Such marriages, it seems, will 
taint the pure blood of the nobility ! Why if they think 
so, let them take care to match their sisters and daugh- 
ters with men of their own sort. No Plebeian will do 
violence to the daughter of a Patrician. Tliose are ex- 
ploits for our prime nobles. There is no need to fear 
that we shall force any body into a contract of marriage^ 
But, to make an express law to prohibit marriages of 
Patricians with Plebeians, What is this but to show the 
utmost contempt of us and to declare one part of the 
community to be impure and unclean ? 

They talk to us of the confusion there would be in 
families, if this statute should be repealed. I wonder 
they doH't.4nake a law against a commoner's living near 
a nobleman, going the same road that be is going, or'be- 
itig present at the same feast, or appearing in the same 
market place. They might as well pretend that these 
things make confusion in families^ as that intermarriages 
will do it. Does not every one know that the children 
will be ranked according to the quality of their father, 
let him be a Patrician or a Plebeian ? In short, it is man- 
ifest enough that we have' nothing in view, but to be 
treated as men and citfzens ; nor can they who oppose 
our demand have any motive to it, but the love of domi- 
neering. I would fain know of you, consuls and Patri- 
cians, Is the sovereign power in the people of Rome, or 
in you ? I hope you will allow, that the people can, at 

Sect, it.] IN SPEAKIN©. »S* 

their pleasure, either make a law oi^ repeal one. And 
will yoU) then, as soon as any law is proposed to them) 
pretend to list them immediately for the war, and hin- 
der them from giving their suffrages, by leading them 
into the field ? 

Hear me consuls. Whtthcr the news of tlie war you 
talk of be true, or whether it be only a false rumor^ 
spread abroad for nothing but a color to send the peo- 
ple out of tlje city : I declare, as a tribune, that this peo- 
ple, who have already so often spilt their blood in our 
country's cause, are again ready to arm for its defence 
and Its gloryj it they may be restored to their natural- 
rights, and you will no longer treat us like strangers in 
our own country ; but if you account us unworthy of 
your alliance, by intermarriages; if you will riot suffer 
the entrance to the chief officers in the state to be open 
to all persons of merit, indifferently, but will confinb 
your choice of magistrates to the Senate al0ne-**talk of 
' Wars as much as ever you please — paint in your ordina- 
ry discourses, the league and power of pur enemies, ten 
times more dreadful than you do now — I declare, that 
this people, whom you do so much despise, and to whom, 
you are nevertheless indebted for your victories, shall 
never more enlist themselves — not a man of them shall 
take arms — not a man of them shall expose his life for 
imperious lords, with whom he can neither share the 
dignities of the state, nor in private life, have any alliance 
by marriage. 

X.'^Sfieech ^ Junius Brutusj over the dead Body of 

YES, noble lady, I swear by this blood, which was 
once so pure, and which nothing but royal villany could 
have polluted, that I will pursue Lueius Tarquinius the 
proud, his wicked wife and their children, with fire and 
«word ; nor will I ever suffer any of that family, or of 
any other whatsoever, to be king in Rome ; Ye gods, I 
call you to witness thi» my oath !— There Romans, turn 
your eyes to that sad spectacle — ^the daughter of Lucre- 
tia, Collatinus' wife— «she died by her own hand. See 
there a noble lady^ whom the lust of a Tarquin reduced 


to the necessity of being her own executioner) to attest 
her Innocence. Hospitably entertained by her» as a 
kinsman of her husband's,, Sextus, the perfidious guest, 
became her brutal ravisher. The chaste, the generous 
Lucretia, could not survive the insult. Glorious wom- 
an ! But once only treated as a slaye, she thought life no 
longer be be endured. LucK^etia, as a woman, disdained 
a lite that depended on a tyrant's will ; and shall we— 
shall men, with such an example before our eyes, and 
after five and twenty years of ignominious servitudci 
shall we, through a fear ,pf dying, defer one single in« 
stant to assert our liberty ? No, Romans, now is the 
time i — the favorable moment we have so long waited 
for, is come. Tarquin is not at Rome. The Patricians 
are at the head of the enterprize. The city is abundant- 
ly provided with men, arms, and all things necessary.-— 
There is nothing wanting to secure the success, if our 
own courage does not fail us. And shall those warriors 
who have ever been so brave when foreign enemies were 
to be subdued, ox, when conquest were to be made to 
gratify the ambition and avarice of a Tarquin, be then 
only cowards, when they are to deliver themselves from 
slavery ? — Some of you are perhaps intimidated by the 
army which Tarquin now commands. The soldiers, you 
imagine, will tal^the part^of their general. Banish so 
groundless a fear. The love of libertx is natural to all 
men. Your fellow t:tUzens in the camp feel the weight 
of oppression, with as quick a stnse as you that are hi 
Rome ; they will as eagerly seize the occasion of throw- 
ing off the yoke. But let us grant that there are Some 
among them, who, through baseness of spirit, or a bad 
educatiot), will be disposed to favor the tyrant. The 
number of these can be but small, and we have means 
sufficient in our hands to reduce them to reason. They 
have left us hostages more dear to them than life.— 
Their wives, their children, their fathers, their mothers 
are here in the city. Courage, Romans, the gods are for 
us ; — those gods, whose temples and altars the impious 
Tarquin has profaned, by sacrifices and libations, made 
with pollute(^ hands, polluted with blood, and with num- 
berless unexpiated crimes committed against his 'subjects. 


—Ye godsy who protected oor fbrefiith6ri--i»7e genii^ 
whe watch for this preservfttion and glory of Rotnei do 
you inspire us with cotirage and unanimity in the glori* 
eus cause, and we will> to our last breath, defend your 
worship from all pro^stnation ! 

KL'^Detnotthenea f the AthentatiB^ exciting them f 
prosecute the war against Philifi. 

WHEN I compare, Athenians, the speeches of some 
amongst us, with their actions, I am at a loss to recon* 
cile what I see with what I hear. Their protestations 
are full of zeal against the public enemy ; but their 
measures are so inconsistent, that all their professions 
becofhe suspected. By confounding you with a variety 
of projects, they perplex your resolutions ; and lead you 
from executing what is in your power, by engaging you 
in schemes not reducible to practice. 

*Tis true, there was a time, when we were powerful 
enough, not only to defend our own borders, and protect 
our allies, but'even to invade Philip in his own domin* 
ions. Yes, Athenians, there was such a juncture : I 
remember it well. But, by neglect of proper opportuni^ 
ties, we are no longer in a situation to be invaders ; it 
will be well for us, if we can provide for our own de^ 
fence, and our allies. Never did any. conjuncture re- 
quire so much prudence as this. However, I should not 
despair of seasonable remedies, had I the arl to prevail 
with you to be unanimous. in light, measures. The op* 
portunities which have so often escaped us, have not been 
lost through ignorance or want i^f judgment, but through 
negli^nce or treachery. If I ass uroe, at this time, 
more than ordinary liberty of speech, I conjure you to 
suffer patiently those truths, which, havp no other end 
birt your own good. You have too many reasons to be 
sensible how .much you have- suffered by hearkening to 
sycophants. I shall, therefore, be plain, in laying be^ 
fore yoii the grounds of past miscarriages, in order to 
correct you in your ffiture conduct. 

You may remember it is not above three or four years 
Mnce we had. the oews of Philip's liayiiHip siege^ fqrr 
tress of Juno, in Thrace. It was, as I think, in Octo- 

3M LESSONS ' [Paet H. 

b«r we receW^ this intelligence. We voted an insme- 
diate supply of tlireescore talents ; forty men of war 
were ordered to sea ; and so zealous were we, that, pre- 
ferring tlie necessities of the state to our very laws, our 
citizens above the age of five and forty years were 
commanded to serve. What followed ? A whole year 
was spent idly, without any thing done ; and it it was but 
in the third month of the following year, a little after the 
celebration of the feast of Ceres, that Charademus set 
tail, furnished with no more than five talents, and ten 
gsllcys, not half manned. 

A rumor was spread that Philip was sick. That ru- 
mor was followed by another — that Philip was dead. 
And then, as if all danger died with him, you dropped 
your preparations ; whereas then, then was your time 
to push and be active ; then was your time to secure 
youi^selves, and confound him at once. Had your res- 
olutions, taken with so much heat, been as warmly sec- 
onded by action, you had then been as terrible to Philip, 
as Pfiilip, recovered, is now to you. **To what 
purpose, at this time, these reflections I What is do»e 
cannot be undone." But by your le^ve, Athenians, 
though past moments are not to be recalled, past errors 
may be repeated. Have we not, now a fresh provoca- 
tion t#war ? Let the memory of oversightsj Jby which 
you have sufTered so much, instruct you to be more 
vigilant in the present danger. If the Olynthians are 
not instantly succored, and with your upmost efferts, 
you become assistants to Philip, and serve him more ef- 
fectually than he can help himself. 

It is not surely, necessary to warn you, that votes 
alone can be of no consequence. Had your resolutions, 
of themselves, the virtue to compass what you intend, 
we should not see tiiem multiply every day, as they do, 
and upon every occasion, with so little effect ; nor would 
Philip be in a condition to brave and affront us in this 
manner. Proceed, then, Athenians, to support your 
deliberations with . vigor. You have heads capable of 
advising what is best ; you have judgment and expe- 
rience to discern what is right ; and you have power and 
opportunity to CKeeute what you determine. What 

Sbct. it.] in SPSARIN O. 335 

time so proper for action ? What occasion so happy ? 
And when can you hope for such another, if this be neg- 
lected ? Has not Philip, contrary to ail treaties, insul- 
ted you in f hrace ? Does he not, at this instant, straiten 
and invade your confederates, whom you have solemnly 
sworn to |)rotect ? Is he not- an implacable enemy ? A 
faithless ally ? The usurper of provinces to which he has 
no title nor pretence ? A stranger, a barbarian, a tyrant f 
And, indeed, what is he not ? 

Observe, I beseech you, men of Athens, how different 
your conduct appears, from the practices of your an- 
cestors. They were friends to truth and plain deaUng, 
anddetestedflattery and servile compliance. By unani- 
motis consent, they continued arbiters of all Greece, for 
the space of forty-five years without interruption ; a pub- 
lic fund ofno less than ten thousand talents, was ready for 
any emergency : they exercised over the kings of Ma ce- 
don, that authority which is due to barbarians ; obtained 
both by sea and land, in their own persons, frequent and 
signal victories ; and by their noble exploits, transmit- 
ted to posterity an immortal memory^ of their virtue, su- 
perior to the reach of malice and detraction. It is to 
tham we owe that 'great number of public edifices, by 
which the city of Athens exceeds all the rest of tho 
world in beauty and magnificence. It is to them wo 
owe so many stately temples, so richly eml^ellished, but 
above all, adorned with the spoHs of vanquished ene- 
mies. But visit their own private habitations : visit the 
houses of Aristides, MiltiaJes, or any other of those pat- 
riots of antiquity x you will find nothing, not the least 
tmark or ornament, to distinguish them from their neigh- 
i>ors^ They took, part in the government, not to enridi 
themselves but the public ; they had no scheme or am- 
bition but for the public ; nor knew any interest, but 
for the public. It washy a close and steady application 
to the generaLgood of their country, by an exeroplaTy pi- 
ety towards the immortal gods, by a strict faith and 
religious honesty betwixt man and man, and a modera- 
tion always uniform; and of a piece^ they established that 
reputation which remains to this day,' and will last to 
.utmost posterity. 

536 LESSONS [Pabt U. 

Such, O men of Atheni, were your ancestors : so glo- 
rious in the eye of the world ; 90 bouutiful and muuifi- 
ceiit to their country ; so sparing) so modest, so self-de- 
nying to themselves. What resemblance can we %xid 
in the present generation of these great men i At a 
time when your ancient competitors have left you a clear 
stage i when the Lacedemonians are disabled ; the The- 
bans employed in troubles of their own ; when no other 
state whatever is in a condition to rival or molest you » 
ii) short, when you are ai full liberty ; when you have 
the oppoitunity and the power to become once more the 
sole arbiters of Greece ! you permit, patiently, whole 
provinces to be wrested from you.; you lavish the public 
money in scandalous and obscure uses ; you suffer your 
allies to perish in time of peace, whom you* preserved 
in time of war ; and to sum up all, you yourselves, by your 
mercenary court, and servile resignation to the , will and 
pleasure of designing insidious leaders, abet, encourage 
and strengthen the most dangerous and fornHdable of 
your enemies. Yes, Athenians, I repeat it, you your- ^ 
selves are the wontrivers of your own ruin. lives there a 
man who has confidence enough to deny it ?— Let him 
arise and assign, if he can, any other cause of the success 
and prosperity of Philip. "But," you reply, *«what Athens 
may have lost io reputation abroad, she has gained in 
splendor at home. Was there ever a greater appearance 
.of prosperity ? A greater face of plenty ? Is not the city 
enlarged ? Are not the streets better paved, houses re- 
paired and beautified ?"— Away with such trifles. Shall I 
be paid with counters ? An old square new vamped up ! 
.A fountain ! An aqueduct ! Are these acquisitions to 
brag of ? Cast your eye upon the ihagistrate, under wliosc 
ministry you boast these precious improv^nents. Behold 
the despicable creature raised, all at once, from dirt to 
opulence ; from the lowest obscju'ity to the highest hon- 
ors. Have not some of these upstarts built private hous- 
es and seats, vieing with the most sumptuous of our pub- 
lic palaces I And how have their fortunes and their pow- 
er iiicreased, but as the commonwealth has been ruined 
and impoverished ? 

Sbct. it.] in speaking. #37 

To what are wo to impute these disorders ? And to 
what cause assign the decay of a stat^ so powerful and 
fiottribhing in past tunes I The reason is plain. — The 
servant is now become the master. The magistrate was 
then sut»servient ta the people j punishments and re- 
wards were properties <rf the people ; all honors, dig- 
nities and preferments, were diiiposed by the voice and 
&v6r of the people ; but the magistrate now has usur- 
ped the fight of the people, and exercises an arbitrary 
authority over his ancient and natural lord. You misef • 
able people ! (the mean while without money, without 
friends) from being the ruler, are become the servant ; 
JTom being the master, the dependant; happy that 
these governors, into whose hands you have thus resign- 
ed your own power, are so good a»d so gracious jas t^ 
continue your poor allowance to see plays. ^ 

Believe me, Athenians, if- recovering from tWs Icth- 
*Jgy> you would assume the ancient freedom and spirit 
of your fathers; if you would be ypur own soldiers 
and your own commanders^ confiding no longer your 
affairs in foreign or mercenary hands ; if you would 
charge yourselvc» with your own defence, employing 
abroad, tor the publk, what you waste in unprofitable 
pleasures at home ; the world might, once more, behold 
you, making a figure worthy of Athenians. « You 
would have us then (you say) do service in our armies, 
tnqur own. persons; and for so doing, you would have 
the pensions we reciiive, in time of peace, accepted as pay, 
in time of war. Is it thus we are to understand you V* 
7- Yes, Athenians, 'tis my plain meaning, I would make 
It a standing rule, that no person, great or little, should 
he the better fi>r the public money, who should grudge 
to employ it for the public service. Are we in peace ? 
The public is charged with your subsistence. Are we in 
War, or under a necessity at this time, to enter into m 
War ? Let ydur gratitude oblige you to accept, as pay, 
m defence of your benefactors, what you receive, in 
peace, as mere bounty. -Thus, without any innova- 
tion ; without altering or abolishing any thing, but per- 
nicious novelties, introduced, for the encouragement of 
sloth and idleness ; by converting only for the future, 
the same funds, for the use of the serviceable, which are 
E B 

^5S LESSONS [PabtH. 

•pent, at present, upon the unprofitable ; jroii may be 
well aeryed in your armies ; your troops regularly paid ; 
justice duly administered ; the public rerenues reformed 
and increased ; and every member of the commonwealth 
rendered useful to hia country, according to hia age'and 
abilityi without any further burthen to the state. 

This, O men of Athens, is what my duty prompted 
me to represent to you upon this occasion. May the 
Gods inspire you, to determine upon such measures, as 
may be iqpat expedient for the pardculav and general 
goed of our country ! 

XlL^-'JufrUer to the inferior Deitiei^ forbidding them f 
take any Part in the Contention between thf Greeks 
and 7Vo;an«.— Homer. 

AURORA, now, fair daughter of the dawn, 
%Mte)Ejed with rofj light 4he dewy lawn ; 
"U h«h Jore conyenM tha senate of the sldes^ 
Where high OljinpuB* cloudy tops arise. 
The sire of gtxis his awfUl silence brdk^ ; 
The heaTens,' attentire, trembled as he Hpolee >— — 
** Celestial states ! Immortal gods ! give^ar ; 
Hear our decree ; and ijev'rence what ye hear: 
The fixM decree. Which not aJl heaven can more ; 
Thou fate fulfil it : and ye powers approve. 
What god shall enter yon forbidden field, 
Who yields assistance or but wills to yield • 
Back to the skies, with shame he shall be driven ; * 

Oash'd with dishonest wounds, the scorn of l^ven : j 

Or, from our sacred hill, with fury thrown, 
Deep in the dark Tartarean gulf shall groan ; 
With burning cliains fix'd to the brazen floors. 
And locked by hell's inexorable doors : 
As far beneam th» infernal centre hurPd 
As from that cenfre to th» etherial world. 
Let each submissive, dread those dire abodes. 
Nor tempt the vengeance of the god of gods. 
League all youf forces, then, ye powers above ; 
Your strength unite against the might of Jove. 
Let dotrn our golden everlasting (3iain, 
Whose strong embrace holds heaven, and c»th and mak. 
Strive all of mortal and immortal birth, 
To drag, bj this, the thund'rer down to earth 
»e stnve in vain. If I but stretch this hand 
I heave tke |;ods, the ^eaa aad the land. 

Skct. it.] in SPEAXING. «S» 

I fix the chain to mat Oljmpas^ hei^t, 

And the rwi woild hangs trembling m mj sight. 

For such I reign unbounded and above ; 

And such are men and gods, comparM to Joye.^lfl 

XllL'^JEneaB to Queen DidOygMngan Ace^untqfthe 
• Sacko^ T'roy .—VxROiL. 

ALL were attentive to the godlike man, 
When from hi« loft/ couch, he thus began : — 
Great Queen ! What you command me to relate 
Renews the sad remembrance of our fate ; 
An empire from its old foundations rent. 
And e?erj woe the Trojans underwent ; 
A popUous citjf made a desert place ; 
All that I saw and part of which I was. 
Not e'en the hardest of our foes could hear, 
Nor stern Ulysses tell without a tear. 

^Twasnow Ihe dead of night, when sleep repain 
Our bodies worn with toils, our minds with cares, 
When Hector^s ghost before my sight appears : 
Shrouded in blood he stood, and bathM in tears ; 
Such as when, by the fierce Pelides slain, 
Thessalian coursers dragged him o'er the plain. 
Swoln were his feet, as when the thongs were thrust 
Through the piero'd limbs ; his body black with dust. 
Unlike that Hector, who, returned irom toils 
Of war, triumphant, in .£acian spoils ; 
Or him who made the fainting Greeks retire, 
Hurting amidst their fleets the Phrygian fire. 
^ His hair and beard were clotted stiff with gore : 
The ghastly wounds he for his country bore, 
Now streamed afresh. . 
I wept to see the visionary man ; 
And, whilst my trance continued, thus began : 

*' O light of Trojans, smd support of Troy, 
Thy father's champion, and thy country's joy ! ^ 

O long expected by thy friends \ From whence 
Art thou so late returnM to our defence ? 
Alas! what wounds are these f What new disgrace 
Deforms the manly honors of thvjftce ?" 

The spectre groaning from his mftiost breast. 
This warning in these mournful words expressed. 

" Haste, goddess bom I Escape by timely flight. 
The flames and horrors of thu fatal night ; 
Thy foes already have possess'd our wall \ 
Troy nods from.high^ and totters to her fall. 
Knough is paid to Pnam's royal name, 
Enough to conntiy, and to deathless fame. 

S40 ' LESSONS [Pabt II. 

If by a mortal am mr fatiier^ throne 

Could bftTc been saT'o — ^tlus arm that feat had done. 

Troy now commends to thee her future state, 

And ^e» her gods companions of her fate ; 

Under their umbrage hope for happier walls, 

And follow where thy various fortune calk .^^ - 

He said, and bcought from forth the sacred choir, 

The gods and relics of th' immortal fire. * 

Mow peals of shouts came thundering from afar. 
Cries, threats, and loud lament, and mingled war. 
The noise approaches, though our palace stood 
Aloof from streets, embosomM close with wood ; 
Louder and louder still I hear th^ alarms 
Of human cries distinct, and clashing anmr 
Fear broke my sliuiiberB. 
I mount the terrace ; thence the town surrey, 
And Usten what the swelhi^ 8ound| convey. ^ 

Then Hector^s faith was manifestly clears ; 
And Grecian fraud in open light appearM* 
The palace of Deipholus ascends 
In smoky iSames, and catches on his friends. 
Ucalegon bums next ; the seas are bright 
With splendors not their own, and slane with spark&ng light. 

New clamoiB and new clangors now arise, 
The trumpet^s voice, with agonizing cries. 
Withphrenzy seiz'd, I run to meetth' alarms, 
Resolved on death, resolved to die in arms. 
But first to gather friends, with whom V oppose 
If fortune liavorM, and repel the foes, ' 

By courage rous'd, by love of country fii'd 
With sense of honor and revenge inspired* * 

Pantheus, Apollo's priest,/i sacred naine 
Had 'scap'd the Grecian swords and pass'i the flame* * 
With relics loaded, to my docwrs he fled 
And by the hand his tender grandson led 

" What hope, O Pantheus ? Whither can we run ? 
Where make a stand ? Or, What cfan yet be done !" 
Scuce had I spoke, when Pantheus, with a groan, 
*^Troy IS no more ! Her glories now are gone. 
The fatal day, th' appointed hour is come 
When wratiifiil Jove's iirevocable dobm ' 
Transfers the Trajan state to Grecian hands • 
Our city's wrapt in flames ; the foe command^ • 
To several posts their parties they divide • 

Th'^l^l^'f^f^J'rT,'*^^*^' some scour the wide. 

The ^Id they kUI ; th' unwary they surprise ; 

Who fights meets death, and death finds him wh<> fiies '^ 

Sbct. it.} in SPBAKIN0« SM 

XIY. ^Maloehf thcfaUen Angela to the infernal fiower^t 
inciting them to renemtho FFan-— Miltoh. 

MY sentence is for open war. Of wflei 
More unexpert, I boast Dot ; then let those 
. Contriye wno need : or when tiiey need^ not now. 
For while thej sit contriring, shau the testy 
Millions that stand in arms, <uid longing watt 
The signal to ascend, sit Mng^ring here, 
Heaven's fugitives, and for theb dwelling place 
Accept this dark opprobrions den of shame^ 
The prison of his tyranny, who reigns 
By our delay ? No ; let us rather choose, 
ArmM with hell flames and fury, aU at once, 
O'er heavhi's high towers to force resistless way^ 
Taming our tortores into horrid arms, 
Against the tort'rer ; when, to meet the noise 
Of his almighty engine, he shall hear 
Infernal thunder ; and, for lightning, see 
Black fire and h<Nrror shot w^ equad rage 
Among his angels — ^and his throne itself, 
MixM with Tartarian sulphur and strange fire^ 
His own inyented torments. But perhaps, 
The way seems difficult and steep to scale, 
With upright wing, against a higher foe. 
Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench 
Of that foi^etful lake benumb not still. 
That in our proper motion we ascend 
Up to our native seat ; descent and fall 
To us is adverse. Who but felt of late. 
When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear 
Insulting, and pursued us through the deep, r 

With what compulsion and laborrous flight. 
We sunk thus low ? Th^ ascent is easy then. 
Th^ event is fear'd. Should we again provoke 
Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may fead^ 
To our destruction ; if there be in hell. 
Fear to be worse destroy'd : What can be worse 
Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condcBBa'd 
In this abUjrred deep to utter woe ; 
Where pain of unextinguishable fire* 
Must exercise us without hope of end. 
The vassals of his anger, when the scourge- 
Inexorable, and the torturing hour 
Calls us to penance ? More destroyed than thu» 
We should be quite abdishM and empire. ' 

^^^^^^^e^'^^i^eni What doubt we to incense 
♦ utmost ire? Which to. the height enraged. 
Will either quite consuuie us, and ledoce 
E E 2 

iHi LB9S0KS [PaotIL 

To ftothmg thii ewentfa!, (bappi^pr fef 
ThaB Bttsenble, to have etsenaal. being) 
Or if our substance be indeed drvine, 
And cannot cease to be, we are at worst 
On this side nothing ; uhI by proof we feel 
Our power sufficient to disturb this iieaven, 
And with perpetual inroads to alarm^ 
Though inaooessible, his fatal throne ; 
Which, if not Tictorj, is yet revenge. 

XV.^S/ieech of BeOaly advising Peaec^lE. 

I SHOULD be much for open war, O peers, 
As not behind in bate, if what was urg^d 
^ Main reason to persuade immediate war. 
Did not dissuade the most, and sj^em to cast 
Ominous conjecture on the whole success } 
When he who most excels in feats of arms, 
In what he counsels, and in what excels, - 
Mistrustful, grounds his eonrage on despair 
And utter dissolution, as the scope 
Of all his aim, after some dite revenge. 
First, what revenge ? The towers of heaven are fUT^ 
With armed watch, ikat render all access , 
Impregnable ; oft on the bordering deep 
Incaidp their legicma ; or, with obscure wing, 
8cout far and wide, into the reito of night, 
Stoming surprise. Or ooold we break our w&j 
By force, and at our heels all hell should rise 
With blackest insurrection^ to confound 
Heaven^s purest hg^t— vet our great enemy, 
All incoiTuptible, wo«ld on his %one, 
8it unpolluted ; and tli' etherial mould. 
Incapable of stain, would soon eiepel 
tier mischief, and purge off the baser ire^ 
VictoriouR, Thus repulsed, our final hope 
Is fkX despair. We must exasperate 
Th' almig^y idctor to spend all his rage, 
And tb^t must e& ; &at must be our cure, . 
To be no more. Sad fate ! For who would lose. 
Though fuH of pain, this intellecttial being. 
Those thoughts that wander through eternity, 
To perish rather, swaJlowM up and lost 
In tiie wide womb of uncreated nigb^ 
Devoid of sense and motion? And who knowv, 
Let this be good, w^^ther our angiy foe 
Can give it, or wilj ever? How he can, 
U doubtful ; that he never will, is sure, 
^^ri.^i.'*' ^*^» letlooafe at enoe his ire, 
»9Ws» ibrough impoteace, or unaware,. 

SsoT. lY.] IN SPEAKING. ^i 

To give bis Enemies their wish, and end 
Them in his anger, whom his angur «aveft 
To punish endless ? Wherefore cease wc then ? 
Say thejr who counsel waf, we are decreed, 
Reserv'd and destinM to eternal woe ; . 
"V^Tiatever doing, what can suffer more, 
What can we suffer worse ? Is this then worst, 
Thus sitting, thus consulting , thus m arms ? 
What when we fled amain, pursued and struck 
With heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought 
The deep to shelter us ? This hell tht-n sccmM 
A refuge from those wounds 5 or when we lay 
ChainM on the bnrninglake ? That sure wag worse. 
What if the breath that kindled tiiose ^m fires, 
Awalc'd should blow them into sevenfold rage, 
And plunge us in the flames ? or from above 
Should intermitted yengeanee^«rm again 
His red right hand to plague as ? Wfaaf if all ^ 
Her stores were opened and this firmament 
Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire. 
Impendent horrors, threatening hideous fall • 

One day upon our heads ; while we, perhaps, 
Designing or exhorting glorious war. 
Caught in a fiery tenpest, shall be huilM 
Each on his rock transfix'd, the sport and prey 
Of wrecking whirlwinds, or forever sunk 
Under yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains; 
There to converse with everlasting groans, 
Unrespited, nnpitied, unreprievM, 
Ages of hopeless end ! This would be worse* 
War, therefore, open or conccalM, alik* 
My voice diasaades. 



I.— iBWcour and 5ro rJttPif//.— Wkst IirBXAir. 
jft p \M^' BELCOUR, I am rejoiced lo see yott 
etocir.ji^JI^ yon are welcome to Eogland. 

Bek 1 thaok you heartily, |^d Mr. Stockwell. Tott 
ar^ I have long convened at a distance ', nov we are 
met ; and the pleasinre this meeting gives met atnplf 
compensates for the perils I have ran through in accom- 
plishing it. 

Stock, What perilsy Mf« Belcour ? I could net have 
thought you would have met with a had passage at this 
time o'year. 

BeU Nor did we. Courier like, we catne posting ta 
your shores, upon the pinions of the swiftest gales that 
ever blew. It is upon English ground all my difficultiea 
have arisen ; it i» the passage fronct the river side I 
complain of. 

Stock. Indeed ! What obstructions can you have met 
between ttut«nd the river side I 

BeU Innumerable ! Your town's as full of defiles a» 
the bland of Corsica ; and I believe they are as obsti- 
nately defended. So much hurry, bustle and confusion 
en your quays > so many sugar casks, porter butts and 
common council men in your streets ^ that unless a man 
inarched with artillery in bis front, it is more than the 
labor of an Hercules c&n effect, to make any tolerable^ 
way through your town. 

Stock, I am sorry you have been so incommoded/ 

Bel, Why, truly it was all my own fault. Accubtomedl 
lo a land of slaves, and oiit of patience with the whole 
tribe of customhouse es^tortioners^ boatmen^ tidewaiter» 

Sbct. T.] lessons in SPEAKING. ZU 

and water bailiffs, that beset me on all sides, worse than 
, a swarm of moschettoes, I proceeded a little too roughly 
to brush them away with my ratan. The sturdy rogues 
took this in dudgeon ; and beginning to rebel, the mob 
chose different sides, and a furious scuffle ensued ; in the 
course of which, my person and apparel suffered so 
much, that I was obliged to st€*p into the first tavern to 
rent, before I could make my approaches in any decent 

Stock. WeU, Mr. Belcodr, itjs a rough sample yon 
haye bad of my countrymen's spirit j but I trust you will 
aot think the worse of them for it. 

-^f/. Not at all, not at all; I like them the better.— 
Were I only a visitor, I might perhaps wish them a little 
more tracuble ; but, as a fellow subject, and a sharer 
in their freedom, I applaud their spirit— though 1 feel 
the effects of it in every bone in my skin.— —-Well, ^T. 
Stock well, for the first time in my 'life, here am I in 
England ; at the fountain head of pleasure ; in the land 
of beauty, of arts and elegancies. My happy stars have 
^iven me a good estate, and the conspiring winds have 
blown me hither to spend it. 

Stock, To use it, not to waste it, 1 should hope ; to 
treat it, Mr. Belcour,not as a vassal over whom you 
have a wanton despotic power, but as a subject whom 
you are bound to govern with a temperate and restrained 

Bel. True, Sir, most truly said ; mine's a commission, 
not a right; I a qi the offspring of distress, and every 
child of sorrow, is my brother. While I have hands to 
hold, therefore, I will hold them open to*mankind. But, 
Sir, my passions are my masters ; they take tfie where 
they will ; and oftentimes they leave to reason and vir- 
tue, nothini^ but my wishes and my sighs. 

Stock, C ume, come, the man who can accuse, corrects 

Bel. Ah ! Thatisanoflfice I am weary of. I wish a 
friend Would take it up ; I would to heaven you had 
leisure for the employ. But did you drive a trade to 
the four corners of th6 world, you would not find the 
task so toilsome as to keep mc from faults. 

$i» LESSONS [PaktII. 


Stock. Welly I ftm iK>t discoaraged. Tlus candor 
tells me I should not have the fault of »eif<*conceit t« 
combat i that* at leait» ii^ not amongst the number. 

Bel. No ; if I knew thai man on eaith wbo thought 
more humbly of me than I do. of mytelfy 1 would take 
bis opinion, and forego my own. 

Stock. And were I to choose a l^upil, it should be one 
of your complexion : so if you will come along vitb 
me, we will agree upon your admission^ and enter apen 
a course of lectures directly, 

Scl. With all my heart. 

ll.'^Lady Townly and Lady (rrate* 


Lady T. OH, my dear Lady Grace 1 How could yos 
leave me so unmercifully alone all this while ? 

Lady G. 1 thought my I^rd bad been, with you. 

Lady T. Why yea— and therefore ) wanted your re- 
fief : for he has been in such a fiuster here- 

Lady G. Bless me ! For what ? 

Lady T. Only our usual breakfast \ we have each of 
us had eur dish of matrimonial comfort this mornings— 
we have been charming company. 

Lady G. I am mighty glad of it ; sure it must be « 
Tast happiness^ when man and wife can give themselvea 
the same torn of conversation ! 

Lady T, Oh, the prettiest tbin^ in the world I 

Lady G. Now I should be afraid, that where two peo- 
ple are every day together so, they , must be often in 
ivant of something to talk upon* 

Lady T. Oh, my dear^ you are the most mistaken in 
the world \ Married people have things to talk off 
child, that never enter into the imagination of others. 
—Why, here's my lord and I, now \ we have not 
been married above two short years, you know, and we 
have already eight or ten things constantly in bank, 
that whenever we want company i we can take up any 
one of them for two hours together, and the subject nev- 
er the flatter ; nay, if we have occasion for it, it will be 
as fresh next day too, as it was the first hour it entOF- 
tained us. 

Lady Q, Certainly, that must be vastly pretty. 

SwT.V.)^ IN SPEAKING. <47 

Lady T. Oh, there is no life like it ! Why, t'other 
dtj, for example, when you dined Abroad, my Lord and 
I, after a jiretty cheerful tttc a tcte meal, sat us down by 
the fireside, in an easy, indolent, picktooth way, for 
^^ttta'quarterof hour, as if we had not thought of 
one another's being in the room.— At last, stretching 
Wflaaelf and yawning— My dear, says he— aw— —you 
came home very late last night— —'Twas but just turn- 
ed of two, says I— —I was in bed— — «w— — by eleven, 

sa> s h e - So you are every night, says I Well, 

lays he, I am amazed you can sit up so late.— —-How 
(an you be amaaed, says I, at a thing that happens so 
often ?«— 'Upon which we entered into a conversation 
"""ttod though this is a point that has entertained us above 
fifty times already, we always find so many pretty* new 
things to say about it, that I believe in my soul it will 
laat as long as I live. 

Ladif G. But pray, in such sort of family dialogues 
(though extreoMly well for passing the time) does n't 
there now and then enter some little witty sort of bit- 
Uraess I 

Lady T. Oh yes ! Which does not do amiss at all. 
A smart repartee, with a seat of recrimination at the 
hejid of it, makes the prettiest sherbert. Aye, aye, if 
We did not mix a little of the acid with it, a matrimoni- 
al society would be so litsciou$, that nothing t^ut an old 
liquorish prude would be abiii to bear it. 

Lmdy Q. Wdlf certainly you have the most elegant 

Lady T. Though to tell you th^ truth, my dear, I 
rather think we squeesed a little too much lemon into 
it this bout ; for it grew so sour at last, that I think 

*-— "I almost told him he was a fool —and he again 

^—--.talked something oddly— —of turning me out of 

Lady O. Oh I H^ve a careofthat. 

Lady T, Nay, if he should, I may thank my own wSse 
father for it. 

Laihh Gr. How so ? 

Lndy T, Why, when my good Lord first opened his 
tenorable Irenches before me, my uuaccountabl4» 


papa, in whose hands I then was, gave me up at dis- 

Lady G. How do you mean ? 

Lady T. He said the wives of this ag^ were come to 
that passy that lie would not desire even his own daughter 
should be ti usted with pinnioney ; so that my whole 
truin of separate inclinations are lett entirely at the mer- 
cy of a busbanirs odd humor. 

Lady G, W by « that indeed is enough to make a wo* 
man of spirit look about her. 

Lady T. Nay, but to be serious, my dear — What 
would you really have a woman to do in my case ? 

Lady G. Why, if I had a sober hust)and as you have, 
I would make myself the happiest wife in the world, by 
being as sober as he. ' 

Lady T. Oh, you wicked thing ! How can you tcaze 
one at this rate, when you know he is so very sober that 
(except giving me money) there is not one thing in the 
world he can do to please me* And I, at the same time, 
partly by nature, and partly, perhaps, by keeping the 
best company, do with my soul love almost every thing 
be hates. I dote upon assemblies ; my heart bounds at 
at a ball, and at an opera*— I expire. Then I love play 
to distraction ; cards enchant me— and dice— put me 
out of my little wits. Dear, dear hazard ! O what a flow 
of spirits it gives one ! Do you never play at hazard, 
child ? 

Lady G. Oh, never ! I don't think it sits well upon 
women ; there's something so masculine, so^ much of 
the air of rake in it. You see how it makes the men 
swear and curse ; and when a woman is thrown into the 
same passion— why— - 

Lady T. That's very ,truc ; one is a little put to it, 
sometimes, not to make use of the same words to ex- 
press it. ~ 

Lady G. Well, and upon ill luck, pray what words are 
you really forced to make use. of ? 

Lady T Why, upon a very hard case indeed, when a 
sad wrong word is rising just to one's tongue's end, I 
give a great gulph and*— swahh)W it. 

Lady G. Well — and is it not enough to make yoa 
forswear play as long as you live ? 

Sbct. v.] in speaking. Mf 

Lady T, Oh, f es t I have foresworn it. 

Lady G. Serioaslf F 

Lady T. Solemnly) a thousand times ; but then one 
is constantly foresworn. 

Lady G, And how can you answer that X 

Lady T, My dear, what we say when we are losers, 
we look upon to be more binding than a lover's oathy 
or a great man's promise. But I beg pardon, child: I 
should not lead you so far into the world ; you are a 
prude, and design to live soberly. 

Lady G. Why, I confess my nature and my educa- 
tion do in a gfood degree confine me that way. 

Lady T. Welly how a woman of spirit (for you don't 
want thaty child) can dream of living soberly, is to me 
inconceivable ; for you vrill marry, I suppose. 

Lady G. I can*t tell but I may. 

Lady T. And won't you live in town ? 

Lady G, Half the year I should like it very well. 

Lady T» My stars! And you would really live in 
London half the year, to be sober in it ! 

Lady G. Why not ? 

Lady T. Why can't you as well go and be sober in 
the country ? 

Lady G. So, I would— t'other half vcar. 

Lady T. And pray. What comforiable scheme of life 
would you form now for your summer and winter sober 

Lady G. A scheme that I think might very well con- 
tent us. 

Lady T. Oh, of all things, let*s hear it. 

Lady G. Why, in summer I could p^ass my leisuro 
hours in riding, in reading, walking by a canal, or sit-, 
ting at the end of it under a great tree ; in dressing, 
dining, chatting with an agreeable friend ; perhaps 
hearing a little music, taking a dish of tea, or a game at 
cards^soberly managing my family, looking into its ac- 
counts, playing with my children, if I had any; or 
in a thousand other innocent amusements-— soberly ; 
and possibly, by these means, I might induce my hus- 
band to be as sober as myself. 

Lady T, Welli my dear, thou art an astonishing crea- 
F F 

i5Q LESSONS [Part II. 

ture ! For sure such primitive antedeluvian noticms of . 
life have not been in any head these thousand years.— 
Under a great tree ! ha ! ha ! ha j-— — But I beg we 
nay have the sober town scheme too— 'fer I am charm- 
ed with the country one. 

Lady G. You shalii and I'll try te stick to my sobrie- 
ty there loo. 

JLmdy T. Welly though I am sure it will give me the 
TaporS) I must hear it. 

Ludy O. "Why, theO} for fear of your fainting) mad- 
am, I will first so far come into the fashion, that I would 
never be dressed out of it— -but stiU it should be sober- 
ly ; for I can't think it any disgrace to a woman of my 
private fortune not to wear her lace as fine as the wed- 
ding suit of a first dutchess ; though there is one extrav- 
agance I would venture to come up to. 

JLady T. Ay, now for it— 
. X,ady G. 1 would every day be as clean as a bride. 

Lady T. Why, the men say that's a great st p to be 
madeooe.—— Well, now you are dre&t, pray let's see to 
what purpose. 

Lady G, I would visit— that is, my real Incnds;-^- 
but as little for form, as possible.— I would go to court ; 
sometimes to an assembly, nay, play at quadrille — so- 
berly^ I would see all the good plays ; and because 'tis 
the fashion, now and then go to an opera ; but I would 
ftot expire there— for fear I should never go again. And . 
lastly, I can't say, but for curiosity, if I liked my com- 
pany, I might be drawn in once to a masquerade ; — and 
this, I think, is as far as any woman can go— soberly. 

Lady T. Well, if it had not been for that last piece of 
sobriety, 1 was just agoing to call for some' surfeit wa- 

Lady G. Why, don't you think, with the farther aid • 
of breakfasting,dining, taking the air, supping, sleeping} 
(not to say a word of devotion) the four and twenty hours 
might roll over in a tolerable manner I ^ 

Lady T. Tolerable \ Deplorable ! Why, child, all 

you propose is but to endure life | no^i I want— -to en- 
joy it. 

Sect. V.] IN SPEAKING* 851 

III.— PW«/< and Jaffter'^JVRvicE Preserved. 

Pri. NO more I'll hear no more; fiegooe, and 
ieave me. , 

Jaff. Net hear me ? By my sufferings, but you shall ! 
My lord, my lord ! Tm not that abject wretch 
You think me. Patience ! Where's the distance throws 
Me back so far, but I may boldly speak 
In right, though proud oppression will not hear me ?* 

Pri. Have you not wronged me ? 

Ja/f, Could my nature e'er 
Have brook'd injustice, or the doing wrong, 
I need not now tnus low have bent myself. 
To gain a hearing from a cruel father. 
Wrong'd you ? 

Pri, Yes, wrong'd me. In the nicest point, 
The honor of my house, yov've done me wrong. 
When you first came^ome from travel, 
With such hopes as made you look'd on 
By all men's eyes a youth of expectation, 
Pleas*d with your seeming virtue, I received you ; 
Courted and sought to raise you to your merits I 
My house, my table, nay, my fortune too. 
My very self was yours ; you might have used me 
To your best service ; like an open friend 
I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine : 
When, in requitsd of my best endeavors, 
You treacherously practised, to undo me-; 
Seduc'd the weakness of my age's darling. 
My only child, and stole her from my bosom. 

^ajr* 'Tis to me you owe her ; 
Childless you had been else, and in the grave 
Your name extinct ; no more Priuli heard of. 
You ibay remember, scarce five years are past, 
Since, in your brigantine, you sail'd to see 
The Adriatic wedded by our duke ; 
And I was with yon. Your unskilful pilot 
Dash'd us upon a rock ; when to your boat 
You made for safety l| ; entered first yourself ; 
Th' affrightedBelvidera, following next. 
As she stood trembling on the vesf^el's side, 

$6% LESSONS [Part Ih 

Wat by a wtre wash'd off into the deep ; 
IVheny instantly, I plunged into the sea, 
And) buffeting the billows to her rescue, 
Redeemed her life with half the loss of mine ; 
Like a rich conquest, in one hand I bore her. 
And with the other dashed the saucy waveSf 
That throng'd and press'd to rob me of my prize. 
I brought her ; gare her to your despairing arms ; 
Indeed, you thank'd me ; but a nobler gratitude 
Hose in her soul ; for, from that hour she lov'd mcy 
*Till, for her life, she paid me with herself. 

JPri. You stole her from me ; like a thief, you stole her 
At the dead of night ; that cursed hour you chose 
To rifle me of all my heart held dear. 
May all your joys in her prove false as mine ; 
A sterile fortune and a barren bed 
Attend you both ; continual discord make 
Tour days and nights bitter and grievous still : 
May the hard hand of a vexatious need 
Oppress and grind you ; till, at last, you find 
The curse of disobedience all your portion. 

Joff. Half of your curse you have bestowed in vain^ 
Heaven has already crown'd our faithful loves 
With a young boy, sweet as his mother's beauty. 
May he live to prove more gentle than his grand sire, 
And Jbappier than his father. 

JPri No more.. 

Jaff. Yes, all j and then — adieu forever. 
There's not a wretch that lives on common charity 
But's happier than I : for I have known 
The lusoious sweets of plenty ; every night 
Have slept with soft content about my head. 
And never wak'd but to a joyful morning j ^ - 

Yet now must fall; like a ^illear t)f corn, 
Whose blossom 'scap'd, yet's witherM in the ripening, 

Pri. Home and be humble, study to retrench ; 
Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hall. 
Those pageants of thy folly ; 
Reduce the glittering trappings of thy Wife, 
To humble weeds, tot for thy little state x 
Thenao some suburb cottage both retire j 

Sect. Y.] IN SPEAKING. «53 

Drudge to feed loathsome life. 

Home, home, I say.— lExie^ 

Jaff, Yes, if mjr heart would let me— 
This proud, this swelling heart, home would I go, 
But that my doors are hateful to my eyes, 
Fiird and damm'd up with gaping creators. 
I've now not fifty ducats in the world ; 
Yet still I am in love, ^d pleased with ruin. 
Oh, Bclvidera I Oh I she is my wife — 
And we will bear our wayward fate together— 
But ne'er know comfort more. 

IV. — Boniface and ./fjmwe//.— Beaux Startaobm. 

Bon. THIS way, this way, Sir. 

Mm, You're my landlord, I suppose. 

Bon. Yes, Sir, I'm old Will Boniface; pretty well 
known upon this road, as the saying is. 

Aim. O, Mr. Boniface, your servant. ^ 

Bon, O, Sir— What will your honor please to drink> 
as the saying is ? 

, Ainir I have heard your town of Litchfield much fam- 
e^ for ale ; I think I'll taste that. 

Bon, Sir, I have now in my cellar ten tun of the best 
ale in Staffordshire ; 'tis smooth as oil, sweet as milk) 
clear as amber, and strong as brandy ; and will be just 
four^teen years old the fifth day of next March old style. 

Aim, You're very exact, I find, in the age of your ale. 

Bon, As punctual, Sir, as I am in the age of my chil- 
dren : — I'll show you such ale !— Here, tapster, broach 
nun^ber 1706, as the saying is. — Sir, you shall taste my 
anncx/ommj.— I have lived in Litchfield, man and boy^ 
above ^ight and fifty years, and I believe, have not con- 
sumed eight and fifty ounces of meat * 

Aim, At a meal, you mean, if one may guess by your 

-Son.. Not in my life, Sir : I have fed purely upon 
ale : I have eat my ale, drank my ale, and I always sleep 
upon ale. [Enter tafiBtcr^ with a tankard.J 

Now, Sir, you shall see. Your worship's health : 

[dtinks^ — Ha ! — delicious, delicious I Fancy it Burgun* 
djy only fancy it — and *tis worth ten shillings a quart. 
F » 2 

«H I.BS80XS [PAarll. 

jiim, ^drinks] *Tis confoanded strofig. 
JBon. Strong I It must be so, or how should we ba 
strong that drink it i 

jiim And ba?« you lived so long upon this ale, land-- 
lord ? ; 

Bon. Eight and fifty years, upon my credit, Sir ; but 
* it killed my wife, poor woman, as the saying is. 
^im. .How came that to pass ! 

Bon, I don't know how, Sir.^^-She would not let the 
ale tak^ its natural course, Sir ; she was for qualifying it 
every now and then with a dram, as the saying is ; and an 
honest gentleman, that came this way from Ireland, made 
her a present of a dozen bottles of usquebaugh — but 
the poor woman was never well after— but, however, 
I was obliged to the gentleman, you know, 
wfim. Why, was it the usquebaugh that killed her ? 
Bon. My lady Bountiful said so— she, good lady, did 
what could be done : she cured her of three tympanies 
— ^but the fourth ^rried her off. But she's happy, and 
I'm contented, as the saying is. 
.4im. Who is that lady Bountiful you mentioned ? 
Bon. Odd's my life. Sir, w^'U drink her health :— 
idrinkal — My lady Bountiful is one of the best of wom- 
en. Her last husband, Sir Charles Bountiful, left her 
worth a thousand pounds a year ; and I believe she lays 
out one half on't in charitable uses, for the good of her 

j^im. Has the lady been any other way useful in her 
generation ? 

B^n. Yes, Sir, she has had a daughter by Sir Charles 
-—the finest woman in all our country, and the greatest 
fortune. She has a Son, too, by her first husband ; 'squire 
Mullen, who married a fine lady from London t'other 
day ; if you please, Sir, we'll drink his health. Idrinks,^ 
Mm. What sort of a man is he ? 
Bon> Why, Sir, the man is well enough ; says little 
thinks less, and does — ^nothing at all, failSi; but he's a 
man of great estate, and values nobody. 
Mm* A sportsman, I suppose. 
Bon^ Ymi he's a man of pleasure \ he plays zX whist, 

Sect, v.] - IN SPBAKIMO. S55 

and smokes his pipe ei[)^t and forty hours togetlier 

Aim. A fine sportsman truly I— and married, you say ? 

Boru Aye ; and to a curious woman> Sir. --But he's 

ray landlord ; and so a man, you know, would not ' 

Sir, my humble service to you. \drink8,'\ — Though I 
"Value not a farthing what he can do to me ; I pay him 
his rent at quarter day : I have a good running trade— 
I have but one daughter, and I c«m^ give her— ^but no 
matter for that. 

Aim. You're very happy, Mr* Boniface ; pray what 
other company have you in town ? 

Bon. A power of fine ladies ; and then we have the 
French officers. : 

Aim. O, that's right, you have a good many of those 
gentlemen : Pray how do you like their company ? 

Bon. So well as the saying is, that I could wish we 
had as many more of them. They're full of money, and 
pey double for every thing they have. They know, Sir, 
that we paid good round taxes for the taking of *em ;— 
and. so they are willing to reimburseus a little : one of 
*em lodges in my house. [Bell riw^^*.]— I beg your wor- 
ship's pardon— —r 11 wait on you again in half a minute. 

V.-^LQvegold and Lapfief ^^Mis^K. 

Love, all's well hitherto ; my dear money is safe. 
—Is it you. Lappet ? 

JLo/r. I should rather ask if it be you, Sir: why you 
look so young and vigorous—— 

JLqvc. Do I? Do I ? 

JLa/i. Why, you grow younger and younger every 
day, Sir; you never looked half so young in your life, 
Sir, as you do now. Why, Sir, I know lifty young fel- 
lows of five and twenty, that are older than you are. 

Love. That may be, that may be. Lappet, considering 
the lives they lead ! and yet I am a good ten years above 

La/i. Well, and what's ten years above fifty ? *tis the 
very flower of a man's age. Why, Sir^ you are now in 
the veiy prime of your iife,. 

8M LESSONS [Past 11. 

Love. Very true^ that's vtry true, as to understand* 
ing ; but I am afraid, could I take off twenty years, it 
would do me no harm with the ladies, Lappet. — How 
goes on our afTair with Marianna ? Have yoa mention- 
ed any thing about what her mother can gi\re her ? For 
nowadays nobody marries a woman, unless she being 
something with her besides a petticoat. 

JLafi. Sir, why, Sir, this yonng lady will be worth to 
you as good a thousand pounds a year, as ever was told. 

Loxfe. How ! A thousand pounds a year ? 

Lafiy Yes, Sir. There's in the first place the article 
of a table ; she has a very little stomach :— she does not 
eat above an ounce in a fortnight ; and, then, as to the 
quality of what she eats, you'll have no need of a French 
cook upon her account As for sweetmeats, she mortally 
hates them ; so there is the article of desserts wiped off 
all at once. YouMl have no need of a confectioner, who 
would be eternally bringing in bills for preserves, con- 
serves, biscuits, com hts, and jellies, of which half a doz- 
en ladies would swallow you ten pounds woitb at a meal. 
This, I think, we may very moderately reckon at two 
hundred pounds a year at least. For clothes she has 
been bred up at such plainness in them, that should 
we allow but for three birthnight suits in a year, saved, 
which are the least a town lady would expect, there go a 
good two hundred pounds a year more. — For jewels (of 
which sh^ hates the very sight) the yearly interest of 
what you must lay out in them would amount to one hun- 
dred pounds — Lastly, she has an utters detestation 
for play, at which I have known several moderate ladies 
lose a good two thousand pounds a year. Now, let us 
take only a fourth part of that, which amounted to five 
hundred, to which if we add two hundred pounds on the 
table account, two hundred pounds in clothes, and one 
hundred pounds in jewels— there is. Sir, your two thous- 
and pounds a year, in hard money. 

Love, Aye, aye, these are pretty things, it must be con- 
fessed, very pretty things ; but there is nothing real in 

Lafi. How, Sir ! Is it not something real to bring you 
a vast store of sobriety, the Inheritance of a love iov sim- 

Sect. IV.] IN SPEAKING. $Uf 

plicitv of dresfty and a Ta»t acquired fund of hatred for 
play r 

Love. Thia is downright rulleryy Lappet, to make me 
op a fortune out of the expenses she won't put me to.-* 
But there i& another thing that disturbs me. You know 
this girl is young, and young people generally love one 
another's company ; it would ill agree with a person of 
my temper to keep an assembly for all the young rakes, 
and flaunting girls in town. 

Lafi. Ah, Sir, how little do you know of her ! This is. 
another peculiarity that I had to tell you of;— she has 
a most terrible aversion to young people, and loves none 
but persons of your years. I would advise you, above 
all things, to take care not to appear too young. She in- 
sists on sixty, at least. She says that fifty-six years are 
not able to content her. 

Ij9vc. This humor is a little strange, methinks. 

lAi/i. She carries it further, Sir, than can be imagin* 
•d. She has in her chamber several pictures ; but, what 
do you think they are ? None of your smoothfaced young 
fellows, your Adonises, your Pariscs and your ApoUos : 
No, Sir, you see nothing there, but your handsome iig* 
ures of ^turn, king Priam, old Nestor, and good father 
Ancbises upon his son's shoulders. 

£.ove. Admii*able 1 This is more than I could have 
hoped ; to say the truth, had X been a woman, I should 
never have loved young fellows. 

La/i. I believe you : pretty sort of stuff, indeed, to 
be in love vith your young fellows ! Pretty masters, 
indeed, with their fine complexioos, and their fine feath- 
ers ! 

Love. And do you really think me pretty . tolerable ? 

La/i. Tolerable ! you are ravishing : If your picture 
was drawn by a good hand, Sir, it would be invaluable ! 
Ttim about a little, if you please — there, what can be 
more charming ! Let me see you walk — there's a per- 
jBon for you ; tall, straight, free and degagee : Why, Sir, 
you have no fault about you. 

Love. Not many— hem — hem— not many, I thank 
heaven ; only a few rheumatic pains now and then, and 
a small catarrh that seizes me sometimes. 

85S LESSONS [Past Ih 

Laft, Ah, Sir, that's nothmg ; your catarrh tits yeiy 
well upon yoa, and you cough with a very good grace. 

Lov€, But tell me, What does Marianaa say of my 

Lttfi. She has a particular pleasure in talking of it ; 
and I assure you, Sir, I have not been backward, on all 
such occasions, to blazon foith your merit, and to make 
her sensible how advantageous a match you will be to 

Love, You did very well, and | am obliged to you. 

Lafi, But, Sir, I have a small favor to ask of you ;— 
I have a law-suit depending, whiph I am on the very 
brink of losing, for want of a little money j [He I00A9 
gravely"] and you can easily procure my success, if you 
had the least friendship for me. — You can't imagine. Sir, 
the pleasure she takes in talking of you : [ATe looks fileas» 
eth'] Ah ! how you will delight her, how your venerable 
mien will charm her ! She will never be able to with- 
stand you.— But indeed, Sir, this lawsuit will be a ter« 
riblc consequence to me ; [He looks grave again.y I am 
ruined if I lose it ; which a very small matter might 
prevent — Ah J Sir, had you but seen the raptures with 
which she heard me talk of you. [He resumes his gmw- 
/y.] How pleasure sparkled in her eyes at the recital of 
your good qualities ! In short, to discover a secret to 
you, which I promised to conceal, I have worked up her . 
imagination till she is downrigl))^ impatient of having the 
match concluded. 

Love, Lappet, you have acted a very friendly part 
and I own that I have all the obligations in the world tm 

Lafi, I beg you would give me this little assistanre^ 
Sir y [^e looks serious.'] It will set me 00 my feet, and I 
shall be eternally obliged to you. 

Love, Farewell ; I'll go and finish my dispatches. 

Liifi. I assure you, Sir, you could never assist me in 
greater necessity. 

Love, I must give some orders about a particular af- 

Laft. I would not im]^ortune you, Sir, if I was net 
forced by the last extremity. 

SiCT. y.j IN SPEAKING^ t59 

Xove. 1 expect thc^ailor, about turning my coat ;— 
•on t you think this coat will look well enough turned, 
•nd with new buttons, for a wedding suit ? 

-t-iiA For pity's sake, Sir, don't refuse me this small 
»vor: I shall be undone, indeed. Sir. If it were but 
«o small a matter as ten pounds, Sir 

•^9ve. I think I hear the tailor'^ voice. — 

^«A. If it were but five pounds, Sir; but three pounds, 
Sir ; nay, Sir, a single guinea would be of service 'for a 
day or two. [.i« he of en to go out on cither side^ ahc 
intercefita Aim.'i 

-Lovtf. 1 must go, I can't stay hark there ! Somer 

body calls me-— I am very much obliged to you, indeed j 
I am very much obliged to you. 

, ^afi- Go to the devil, like a covetous good for noth- 
ing villain as you arc. Ramile is in the right ; howisver, 
I shall not quit the aifair ; for though I get nothing out 
of him, 1 am sure of my reward from the other side. 

y I ^-^^ Cardinal Wolsey and Cromwr//.— Henry viit. 
fVol. Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness 
f his is the state of man ; to day he puts forth • ' 

* he tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, '' * 
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him j 
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, 
An<i when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
H»s greatness is a ripening, nips his shoot — 
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd. 
Like little wanton boys, that swim on bladders, 
Thet?e many summers in a sea of glory ; 
But far beyond my depth ; my high blown pride 
At length broke under me ; and now has' left rac, 
Weary and old with service, to the mercy 
Of a rude stream that must forever hide me. 
Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye ! 
I fttel my heart new open'd. ,Oh, how wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors ! 
There is, betwixt that smile he would aapire to, 
That sweet regard of princes and his ruin, 
More pangs and fears than war or women have ; 
And wfaea he falls, he falls like Lucifcr» 


Never to hope agab. " iMnter Cromwell^l 

Why, how now Cromwell ? 

CVom. I have no power to speaks Sir. 

Wol. What, amaz'd 
At my misfurtuneB ? Can tliy spiHt wonder 
A great man ahould decline ? Nay, if ypu weep, 
I*m fallen indeed. 

CVom. How docs your grace ? 

IVoi. Why, well; 
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. 
I know myself now, and I feel withip me ' 
A peace above all earthly dignities ; 
A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur*d m^ 
I humbly thank his 'Grace ; and from these shoulderS} 
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity taken 
A load' would sink a navy, too much honor. 
Oh, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, *tis a bui-den 
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven ! 

Crom. I'm glad your Grace has made that right us* 
of it. 

TVoL I hope I have : I'm able, now, methinks, 
Out of a fortitude of soul I feel, 
T' endure more miseries, and greater far, 
Than my weak hearted enemies dai'e offer. 
What news abroad ? 

Crom, The heaviest and the worst 
Is youc displeasure with the king. 

fVoL God bless him I 

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas Moore is cho* 
sen Lord Chancellor in your place. 

Wol, That's somewhat sudden—— 
But he's a learned man. May he continue 
Long in his highness' favor, and do justice, 
For truth^s sake and his conscience ; that his bones, 
When he has run. his course, and sleeps in blessingSf 
May hav^ a tomb of orphan's tears wept on him ! 
What more ? 

Crom. That Cranmer is retum'd with welcome 
Installed Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. 

fVol. That's news indeed I 

Cr9m. Last,thattlieLidy Anne, 

Sect. Vl] IN gPEAKINS. 561 

Whom the king hath in secrecy long nntrried, 
This day was viewed in open as bis queen. 
Going to chapel ; and the voice is now 
Only about her coronation. 

^oL There was the weight that puU'd me down : O 
The king has gon^ beyond me ; all my glories 
In that one woman I have lost forever. 
No sun shall ever usher forth my honors^ 
Or gild again the nOble troops that waited 
^pon my smiles^ Go, get thee from m<^, Cromwell ; 
I am a poor fairn mani unworthy now 
To be thy- lord and master^ seek the king— 
(That sun, I pray^ may never set I) Tve told him 
What and how true thou art ; he will advance thee ; 
Some little memory of me will stir him, 
(I know his noble nature) not to let 
Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell ; 
Neglect him not ; make ttse now and provide 
For thine own future safety. 

Crom. Ob, my lord ! 
Must I then leave you ? Must I needs forego 
So good, so noble, and so true a master ? 
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, 
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord ! 
The king sliall have my service ; but my prayers, 
Forever and forever shall be yours. 

^qL Cromwell«-I did not think to shed a tear 
I^ all my miseries — but thou hast forc'd me, 
Out oi|^y honest truth to play the woman- 
Let's flry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell j 
And when I am forgotten as I shall be, 
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention ' 

Of aie must more be heard— say then, I taugbt thee : 
Say, Wolsey, that once rode the waves of glory. 
And sounded all the depths ^nd shoals of honor, 
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 
A sure and safe one, though thy master missM iu 
Mark but my fall, and that wliich ruined me. 
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling Iway ambition : 
% tbat sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, 


(Though tiie imtge of his maker) hope to win by 't ? 

Lore thyself last ; cherish those hearU that wait thee ; 

Comiplieii wins ootmore than honesty. 

Still ID thy right hand carry gentle peaces 

To sU^sce envious tongues. Be just and fear not. 

Let all che ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, 

Thy God*s and truth's; then if thou (pil'st, O Cromwi^; 

Thou fiU'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king , ■ 

And pri'thee lead mh i 

There take an inventory of all I have ; 

To the last penny» 'tis the king's. Myrobef 

And mine integrity to heaven, is all 

I dare now call my own. Oh, Cromwell, Cromwell I 

Had I but serv'd my God with hafrOie seal 

I serv'd my king— he would not in mine age 

Have left me naked to mine enemies. 

Cr9m. Good Sir, have patience* 

Woi. So I have. Farewell 
The hopes of court I My hopes in heaven do dweU. 

VII.-^tr Charles and Lady Rackct^-^ 

Tnasis Wjbxks aftxr ALotniAos. 

lady M. O LA ! I'm quite fatigued- -I can hardly 
mov e - "Why don't you help me, you barbarous man? 

Sir C. There— take my arm— 

Lady R. But I won't be laughed at-^— I don't love 

Sir C. X>on't you ? 

Lady R. No. Dear me! This glove! Why don't yon 
help me off with my glove? Pshaw! You nrkwaid 
thing ; let it alone ; you an't fit to be about m#lReach 

tne a chair— you have no compassion for me 1 am 

ao glad to sit down— Why do you dxiag me to routs ?— 
Tou know I hae *em. 

Sir C. Ok ! There's no existing, no breathing, unless 
one does as other people of fashion do, 

Lady R* B|it I'm out of humor— I lest all iaay money. 

Sir C. How much ? 

Lady R, Three hundred* 

Sir C. Never fret fi# that-«I don't value thl^e huft 
dred pounds to contribute to your happiness^ 


Lady R. Dontfoa ? Not ralue three hundftd polfmb 

SirC. You kn©w I dOD»t. 

Lttd^ R. All r You fond fool I^Biit I hate genilng^ 
It almost metamorphoses a WMnmn into a fuiy.— Do yoa 
know that I was frighted at myself several timea to^ 
night ?— .1 had a huge oath at the tery tip of my tongue. 

SirC. Ha«l you? 

Lady R. I caught myself at it— and so I bit my lips. 
And then I was crammed up in a comer of the room^ 
with such ft strange party, at a whist table, looking at 
black and red spots— Did you ntiod 'em ? 

Sir C, You know I wis busy elsewhere. 

Lady R. There wt^that strange unaccountable wom- 
tn, Mrs. Nightshade. She behaved so strangely to her 
* husband !— a poor, inoffensive, goodnatured, go6d sort of 
a good for nothing kind. of a man.— But she so teaxed 
him— <^ How Auld you play that card ? Ah, you've a 
head, and so has a pin.— -You're a numskull* you know 
• you are— »Ma'am he's the poorest head in the world ; — ho 
does not know what he is about ; you know you doi'tr- 
Ah, lie I Trtt asham'd of you !'* .* 

Sir C. She has scrv'd to divert you, I see. 

Lady R. And then to crown all— — there was my 
ladyClackit, who runs on with an eternal volubility of 

noth'Hfg,y3ut of all season, time and place, In the 

very midst of the game, she begins — <• Lard, Ma'am, 
I was apprehensive I should not be able to wait on your 
ladyship— —my poor little dog, Pohipcy — the sweetest 
thing in the world !— A spade led ! There's the knave.— 
I Was jgtching a walk, Me'em, the other morning in the 
Park — A Sne frosty morning it was. I love frosty weath- 
er of all things— let me look at the last trick-atsf— and so 
Me'em, little Pompey— and4f your ladyship wUs to see 
the dear creature pinche4 w^h the frost; and mincing his 
Steps along the Mall— with Ks' pretty lidie innocent face 
-^f vow I don't know what to play.— And so Me'em, 
while I was talkiig to Capta^ FJim^ey — your ladyship 
knows Captahi Fiimsey.— I^othing but rubbish in my 
hand ! I can't help it. And^ so, Md'em, %ye odious 
frights of dogs beset my poor little Pompey— the^dear 


ereiftiire bw the haait of a lifm; but wlio can resist five 
at once ?— And to Porapey barked fi>r asdatance— the 
hurt he received was upon his diesl^-the doctor would 
Bot advise him to Tcntuce out till the wound is healed, 
fi>r fear of an inflammatioii* Pray what's tminps ?*' 

Sir C. My dear, you would make an exoellcnt actress. 
. LadyR. Well) now, lefs go to rest-»bttt, Sir Charles, 
how shockingly you play'd that last rubber^ when I. stood 
looking over you 1 

. Bit C. My love, I played the truth of the gainr. 
. Lady M. No, indeed my dear you played it wrong. 

Sir C. Po ! Nonsense i You don't understand it. 

Lady JR. I beg your pardon, I'm allow'd to play better 
Ifamyou* A 

. ^ft* C. All conceit, my dear I I was perfectly right. 

Ludy R. No such thing. Sir Charles; the diamond 
was the play. 

^Ir e. Po ! Po ! Ridiculous ! The diA^was the caid, 
against the world. 

Latly R* Oh ! No) no, no'^^I say it was the diamond. 

Sir C, Madam, I say it was the club. 

Lady R. What do you By into such a pasaloD for ? 

Sir C, Death and ftiry i Do you think I don't know 
what I'm about ? I tell you once more, the club was the 
judgment of it. 

Lady R, May f)e so— hnve it your own way. . ) 

Sir. C. Vexation I You're the btrangest woman that 
ever lived ; there's no cbaverslpg with you.-^Lx>ok 'ye 

here, my LadylRacket -'tiptbc clearest ca^ in the 

world— I'll make it plain in annoment. 

Lady R. Well, Sir ; ha, ha, ha ! ,^ 

Sir C, I had four cards left— a trump bad led— 
they were 8ix.**^no, no, no-— they weje seven, and we 
mne-».H-then, you know-; the beauty of the play was 

Lady it. Well, now, 'Ui^r, amazing to me, that you 
Can't see it. Give me leave, Sir Charles-^your left hand 
adversary had led his last trumpr— and he had beiate 
finesied the club, and roughed the diamond— na 
had put on your diamond— 

Sir C. But, Madam, we played for the odd tri\,«. 

Sect. T.] IN SPEAKING. 968 

I^ady R. And sore tke play for the odd uick«-'2-i*- 

Sir C. Death and fury ! Can't you hear me f 

I'ady R. Go on. Sir. 

^^ C. Hear me, I eay. Will you hear me ? 

Latiy R, I ne?er heard the like in my life. 

^ir C. Why then you are enough te provoke the pa* 
tieoee of a Stwc. Very well, madam ! You know no 
more of the game than your father's leaden Hercules on 
the top of the house. You know no more of whist than 
he does of gardening. 

I^dy R, Ha, ha, ha I 

^ ^ir c\ You're a vile woman, and I'll not sleep another 
night under one roof with you. 

JLuidy R, As you Mease, Sir. 

Sir C. Madam, it^iall b^ as I please — I'll order my 
chariot this moment. ^Going.} 1 know how the cards 
should be played as well as any man in Englaixl, that let 
me ^11 you-^[Gotii^.] And when your family weie 
standing behind counters, measuring out tape, and bar- 
tering for Whitechapel needles, my ancestors, my an- 
cestors, Madam, were squandering away whole estates 
at cards; wliole estates my lady Racket— -[SAe huma a 
tune\ Why,' then, by all that's dear to me, I'll never 
exchange another word with you, good, bad, or indiflTer- 
cnt. Look ye, my lady Racket-^thus it stood-^— -the 
trump being led, it was then iriy business — ^— 

Lady R. To play the diamond, to be sure. 

Sir C, I have done with you forever ; and so you may 
tell your father. 

Lady R. What a passion the gentleman is in ! Ha ^ 
ha 1 i'il promise him I'll not give up my judgment. 

Re-enter Sir Charles. 

Str C. My lady Racket— «iIoek 'ye Ma'am, once more, 
out of pure good nature 

Lady R. Sir, I am convinced of your good nature. 

Sit C That and that only, prevails with me to tell you 
the club was the play. 

%ady R\ Well, be it so— -I have no objection. 

Sir t, 'Tis the clearest point in the world-«-*-«-we were 
nine, and-*-*-» 



Lady Jf . And for that Tery reascHb jou know U»c club 
was the best m the house. 

Sir C. There's no such thing as talking to you* 

You're a base woman— I'M part with you forever, you 
may live here with your {ather, and admire bis fantastic- 
al evergreensy till you grow as fantastical yourself— -I'll 
set out for London this instant«-<— [^^o/k« at the dQii^r] 
The club was not the best in the house. 

Lady R. Mow calm you are ! Welli I'll go to bed. 

Will you come? You had better Poor Sir Charles. 

lLo9ks and laugh%y then txU,^ 

Sir C. That case is provoking— [Cro#«M ro tkc ofifio* 
•Ue d9ar where ^hewent out.^ I tell jrou the diamond was 
DoC the play ; and here I take ngr final leave of you-— 
[ 'Hralk9 back as fast as he can] I am resolved upon it ; 
and I know the club was not the best in the house. 

VIIL— J'rU/OS «lllf Ca««tot.~-SHAKXSFEAR». 

Cos* THAT you have wrong'd me doth appear in this; 
You have condemn'd and noted Lucius Peila 
For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; 
Wherein my letter (praying on his side^ 
Because I knew the man) was slighted of. 

Bru. You wrong'd yourself to write in such a case; 

Cos, At such a time as this, is it not meet 
That every nice offence should bear its comment ? 

Bru. Yet let me tell youj Cassius, you yourself 
Are much condemn'd tahave an itching palm> 
To sell and mart your offices for gold| 
To undeservers. 

Cas. I SB itching palm f 
You know that you are Brutus that speak tbisi 
Cry by the gods^ this speech were else your last* 

Bru, The name of Cassius honors this corruption^ 
And chastisement doth therefore hide its head. 

Cm. Chastisement ? 

Bru. Remember March, the Ides of March remember. 
Did nat great Julius bleed for justice sake f 
What ! shall one of us, 

That struck the foremost man of idl this wodd^ 
Btttforsupportmg robbers j Shall we now 

Sect. T.] IN SPBAKmO. W7 

Contaminate our fingers with base bribes ? 

And sell t!ie mighty space of our large honors, 

For so much trash as may be grasped thus ? 

I had rather be a dog and l^ay the moon, ^ 

Than such a Roman. 

Ca9, Brutus, bay not me : 
1*11 not endure it. You forget yourself 
To hedge me in : I am a soldier^ 
Older in practice, abler than yourself 
To make conditions. 

Bru. Oo to I You afe not, Cassias. 

Celt. I am. 

Bru* I say you are not, 

Ca9, UrgemenotAore: I shall forget ipyself : 
Have mind upon your health i tempt me no farther; 

Bru. Away, slight man 1 

Ca9. Wt possible ! 

Bru, Hear me, for I wHl speak. 
Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? 
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? 

Cat. Must I endore all this ! 

Bru. All this 1 Ay, more. Fret till your proud heart 
break : 
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are. 
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ? 
Must I observe you ? Must I btaod and crouch 
Under your testy humor ! 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen. 
Though it do split you ; for, from this day forth, 
IMl use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, 
When you are waspish. 

Caa. Is it come to this? « , i 

Bru, You say you are a better soldier; 
Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true. 
And it shall please me welL For my own part 
I shall be glad to learn of noblemen. 

Cat. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus ; 
I said an elder soldier, not a better. 
Did I say better? 

Bru. If you did I care not 

Cat* WhenCesar lir'd he durstnotthus bare mot'd me. 

MS LESSORS [Pabt H. < 

Bru. Peace,peace; you durst ix>t so have tempted kim. 

Ca9, 1 durst not ! 

Bru. No. 

9^9. What! durst not tempt him ? 

Brut For your life you durst not. 

Cat, Do not presume too much upon my love. 
I may do that I shall be sorry fior. 

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. 
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats; 
For I am arm'd so strong in honesty. 
That they pass by me as the idle wind, 
Which I respect not. I did send to you 
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ; 
I had rather coin my heart, 
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring 
From the hard hands of peasants, their vile trash> 
By any indirection. I did send 
To you for gold to pay my legions ; 
Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius I 
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so I 
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous. 
To lock such rascal counters from his friendSf 
Be ready, Gods, with all your thunderbolts, 
Dash him in pieces. 

Cas. I denied you not. 

Bru. You did. 

Ca9, I did not ; he was but a fool 
That brought my answer back. Brutus hath riv'd my 

A friend should bear a friend's infirmities ; 
But Brutus makes mine greater than they arc. 

Bru. I do not. Stitt«you practice them on me* 

Caa. You love rac not. 

Bru, I do not like your faults. 

Cas, A friendly eye could never see such faults. 

Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they did appear 
As huge as high Olympus. 

Cas. Come Anthony i And young Octavius^ come ! 
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius : 
For Cassius is a weary of the world«i^*«- 

Sso^ TO IN SBUAKmQ. ^89 

H«led by one he loves ; brav'd by his brother ; 

Check'd like a bofidxnan $ all his faults observed, 

Set in a note book^ learn'd and conned by rote*——* 

To oast into my teeth. There is my dagger* 

And here my naked breast-— witldn, a heart 

Dearer than Plulus' mine^ richer than gold ; 

If that thoa seed'st a Roman'si take it forth : 

I thai denied, thee gold will give my heart 

Strike as thou didst at Cesar ; for I know» 

When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov'st him better 

Than ever thou lov'st Cassius. 

Bru. Sheath your dagger) 
Be angty when you will, it shall have scopey 
Do wlmt you will, dishonor shall be humor. 
O Cassius 1 you are yoked with a lamb. 
That carriesaoger as the flint bears fire ^ 
Who much enforc'd, shows a hasty spark. 
And straight is cold again. 

Ca9. Hath Cassius lived 
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
When grief and blood ill-temper'd vexeth him I 

Bru, When I spoke that, I was ill temper'd too. 

Caa. Do you confess so much h Give me your hand. 
• Bru» And my heart t©o.-~^[iSm^racOT5'. 

Cas. O Brutus! 

Bru. What's the matter ? 

Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with rae, 
When the rash humor which my mother gave me, lj 

Makes me forgetful ? 

Bru, Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth, 
When you are over earnest with your Brutus, 
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. 


l.'-^Hamlet^B advice t6 the Players,"^ 

Tragedy of Hamlet* 
SPEAK the speech, I pray you, as I pronouneed it 
to you ; trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, 
as many of our players do, I had as lief the town cri- 
er had spoken my lines* And do not saw the air toe 

tr* LESSONS OPaey h. 

much with your hands ; but use til gently : For in the 
TCiy torrent} tempest, and^ as I may say^ whirlwind of 
your passion^ you must acquire and beget a temperance 
that may give it smoothness. Oh! it offends me to 
the soul, to hear a robusteous, perriwig pated fellow tear 
a passion to tatters, to Tcry rags, to split the ears- of the 
groundlings ; who (for the most part) are •capable of 
nothing but inexplicable dumb shoit's and noise. Pray 
, you aT<nd it. 

Be not too tame, neither ; but let your own discretion 
be your tutor. Suit the action to the wordy the word to 
the action ; with tliis special obsei-yance, that y ou o'^r- 
«/f/i not the modesty of nature ; for any thing so OTcrdone 
is from the purpose of playing ; whose end is-*:to boldf 
as 'twere, the mirror up to nature ; to show virtue, her 
ewn feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and 
body of the time, his form and pressure. Now, this 
overdone, or come tardy o(!; though it make the unskil- 
ful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve ; the 
censure of one of which must, in your allowance, o'er- 
weigh a whole theatre of others. Oh ! There be play- 
ers that I have seen play, and beard otliers praise, and 
that highly, that, neither having the accent of Christian, 
nor the gait of Christian, pagan nor man, have so strut- 
ted and bellowed, that I have thought some of Nature's 
journeynacn had made men, and not made them well, they 
imitated ihumanity so abominably. 

11.'^ Douglass* account of himself. ^-^ 

Tragj&pt op Dovgi^ass. 

MY name is Norval. On the Grampian hilb 
My father feeds his flocks ; a frugal sivain, 
Whose constant oares'were to increase hb store. 
And keep his only son, myself at hoifiit. 
For I had heard of battles, and I long'd 
To follow to the field some warlike lord; 
And heaven soon g;ranted what my sire denied. 
This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield, 
Had not yet fiBed her ho^s, when, by her light, 
A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills, 
RHsh'd like a torrent, down, upon the vale^ 
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherd* fled 
For safety and for succor. I alone, 
Witk bended bow and quiver fuU of arro wa, 


HoverM about the eaemj, and niark*4 

The road he took ; then hasted to my fiiendsi 

Whom, with a troop of fiftjr ohosen men, 

I met advancing. The pursuit I led, 

TiH wo overtook the spoil encumber'd foe. 

We fonght— «nd conqner'd. Ere a iwordwaidraw«, 

An arrow from my bow had pierc'd their chief, 

That our good king had summon'd his bold peers, 
To kad tiieir wwmors to the Carron side, 
I left mjfathw's honae and took with me 
A chosen senrant to conduct mj isteps-- 
Yon trembling coward who forsook his master. 
Journeying with this intent, I passM these toweri. 
AiaA heaven directed, came this day to do 
The happy deed, that gilds my humble name, 

UL'^Douglaa^* account of the Ifermit.'^lM, 

BENEATH a mount^n^s brow, the most remotj» 
And inaccessible, by shepherds trod. 
In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand, 
A hermit liv*d ; a melancholy man. 
Who wa» the wonder of our wandering swains. 
Austere and lonely, cruel to himself. 
Did they report him ; the cdld earth his bed. 
Water Ms dnnk, his food the shepherds' alms. 
I went to see him ; and my heart was touched 
Witii reverence and with pity. Mild he spake • 
And, entenng on discourse, such stories told,; 
As made me oft revisit his sad cell. 
For he had been a soldier in his youth ; 
And fought in famous battles, when the peers 
Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led, ^ 
Apinst th» usurping infidel disp%M 
The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land. 
FleasM with my admiration, and the* fire 

22 r»^o J^^'^'JS^'".'??' ^^ °'^ "^^ ^^'Jd shake 
'rtr^^^^l'^.^^ ^' y^'^'^'S encounters: 
Then, having show'd his wounds, he'd sit him down. 
And aU the live long day discourse of war. ^ - 
To help nay fency,^m the smooth green turf 
He cut the figurea of the marshUl'd hosts ; 
»«8«nb'd the motions, and explained the use 
0[ the d$q> columft and the lengthened line* 
The square, tiie crescent^ and the phalanx flrmi 
For, all that Sa|?aceii or Christian ibiew 
•f im'» TMt «rt^ WW to thi« hewlt knowsr 

P7« LESSOUS [Fa»t 1L 

^V.'^Sentfironhi^ Sfieech/or IFari-.T»A». o» C^T*. 

MY voice is still for war. 
QodM ! Cm a Roman senate long debate, 
Which of the two to choose, slavery or deafli I 
Ko— let us rise at once, gird on our swords, 
And at the head of onr remaining troops, 
.Attack the foe, break through the thick array 
' : his throng'd legions,'and charge home npon him. 
I> rhaps some arm more lucky than the rest. 
May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage. 
Rise, Fatliers, n; ^ ; Hi. Rome demands your help : 
Rise and revenge her slaughterM citizens. 
Or share their fate. The corps of half her senate 
Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we 
Sit here deliberating in cold debates, 
If we should sacrifice our lives to honor. 
Or wear them ou^in servitude and chains. 
Rouse up, for shame 1 Our brotliers of Pharsalm 
Point at their wounds, and cry aloud. To battle > 
Great Pompey^s shade comf^ins that we are slow, 
And Scipio's ghost walks unreveng'd amongst us. 

V.^Luciua* Sfieech/or Peace.-^lB. 
MY thoughts, I must confess, are tum'd on peace ; 
Already have our quarrels fill'd the world 
With widows and wkh orphans : Scytbia mourns 
Our guilty wars, and earth's remotest regions 
Lie half unpeopled by the feuds of Rome : 
'Tis time to sheatii the sword, and spare mankind* 
'Tis not Cesar, but the gods, my fathers ! 
The gods declare against us, and repel 
Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle 
(Prompted by blind revenge and wild despair) 
Were to refute th' awards of Providence, 
And not to rest in heaven's determination. 
Already have we shewn oup love to Rome ; 
Now let us show submission to the gods. 
We took up aims, not to revenge ourselves, • 
But free the commonwealtbr When this end fafl^. 
Arms have no ftirther use. Our country's cause, 
That drew our swords, now wrests them from^oof hftii<IS| 
And bids us not delight in Roman blood 
Unprofitably shed. What men could do. 
Is done already. Heaven and earth will wttoest, 
If Rome must fall that we are inaocent 

VI. — HotafiuT*a AccoufU o/* the F0f^^^H»Km% IV. 

'MY liege, I did deny no prisonen. 
But I remember, nrhen the fight wis dmic, 
Wken I was drjr H^CII^ aod^xtreaie toil| 

IMT. T.] IN SPBAKiNO. 379 

ilicatblen and ftunt, leaning upon my nvroxA^ 

Came there a certain lord ; neat ; trimly dress'd ; 

Fresh as a bridegroom ;, and his chin new reapM, 

SfaowM like a stubble land, at harvest home. 

He was perfumM like a milliner ; 
' And ^twixt his finger and hi5.thiMnb9 he held 
- AipouBcet box, which, eve^ aa4 a^on, . . 

He gave his nose. 

And still he amilM and talk'd : / 

And Rjs the soldiers bare dead bodies by, 

He callM 4Kem untaught knaves, unmann*ly, 
' 7o bring a slovenly nnhandsome. corse 
' Betwixt the wiod and hia nobility. « 

Witb many holiday, .and. lady terms 

He qpieationM ,Bie ^ , a^png^st the rest,. d9mande4 
~ ,J^y prisQBers,. in your majesty's behalf ; 

I then, all smarting with my wounds, being galfd 

To be so pester'd with a pompinjay, 

Out of my gfief and my impatience, 

AnflWer»d--»negfigon€y— I know, not what— 

Vier shoidd^cr sbpuld not ; for he made me jnad. 

To see him jshine so brisk, and smell so sweet, 

^nd talk so like a waiting gentlewoman, 

Of guns, and drums, and wounds, (heaven save •the mark j) 

And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth 

Wad sperma&eti £or an Inward bruise ; 

And that it was great pity^ (so it. was) j 

This villanous saltpetre should be digged 

Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, 

"Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed 

So cowardly ; and but for these vile guns. 

He would himself have been a soldier. * 

This bald, m^ohated chat of his, my loid, 

{ answef^d: indirectly, as I s^iid ; 

And I beseech y^u, ietnot thki!e|»^ 

Come current for an a^^cusation, 

Betwixt flfbyioye, and. your high JVfa^esty. 

VlL^Hot9fiur*9 S^Hlo^y on4he4>9nunt^ofajjett^,,^ 

<* BUT, for mine own part, my lord, I could be well 
contented to be there, in respect of the Ipve I. bear your 
house/*— —He could, bq contented to be therein Why 
is he not then ?— Jtt >4re]4iect of the lore he b«ars oar 
house? Healiowii-ia tkis^ he i©ve» his ow&4»m better 
than lieio'res our h<HHMJi ' Let ipesee some more. **Thd 
purpose you tihdertake is' dan^croui.** W |>y^;t|baty cer- 
tain ?/jtU:,fl«agerottstp^ a ^iyU^^ii^^j^j.Xxf^^l^\i; 
H « ' 


but I tell jrou^ my lord Fool, out of this nettle danger, 
we pluck thib flower safely. *^ The purpose you uoder* 
take is dangerous; the fi lends you have named uncer- 
tain ; the time itself unsorted ^ and your whole plot too 
light fur the couiuerpoise of so great an opposition."— 
Say you so, say you so? I say unto you agam, ydu are 
a shailoW) cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lackbraia 
is this ! Our plot is as good a plot as ever was laid ; our 
friends time and consunt ; a good plot ; 4;ood friends 
and full of expectation ; an excellent plot, very good 
friends. What a frosty spirited rogue is this I Why» my 
lord of York commands the plot, and the general course 
of the action. By this band, if I were now^ by this ras- 
cal, I could bndn him with his lady's fan Is there not 
my father, my imcle and myself ? Lord Edward Mor- 
timer, my lord of York, and Owen Gkndower ? Is there 
not, besides, the Douglas ? Have I not all their letters 
to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month J 
And arc there not some of them set forward already I 
What a pagan rascal is this! An infidel!— Ha! You 
ahsU see now, in the very sincerity of fear and cold heart, 
will he to the king, and lay open all our proceedings. 

! I could divide, myself, and go to bufifets, for moving 
such a dish of skimmed milk with so honorable an action. 
Hang him ! Let him tell the king. We arc prepared. 

1 will set forward to night. 

VIII.— 0/AW/o'« Jfiology for his Marriage.'^ 

Traqkdt of 0thbi4:«. 
MOST potent, gfave aad reverend seigniors; 
My very noble and approved good masterg : 
That I have ta^eo away this old inan^s daughter. 
It is most true ; true, I have married her : 
The very head and front V>f mj olfendiiig 
Hath (his extent ; no more. Rude am I in speeck« 
' And little ble^sM with the set phraie of peace.: 
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, ' 
Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have Us'd 
Tbeirdearest action in the tented field 5 
And little ^f Uus ^reat w^oHd ca« I sjf>eak, 
' JVjQre thtfn.pertainB to £bats«ll hrwtoaodJiattles 
' And ther/^fkMB littJe shaJUi I gci^qe inj A^n^e, ... 
, «Ef *^9S ofrmyttelf. Vet by ypnr patience* 
1 win a i<ouhd unvajnish'd tale d^hver, ' ' " '• 
- Of W»jr whole coilrse of lore j iHjAt dtxigs, what fchwtov -* 

Skct. v.) in speaking. »J| 

What conjuratioii, and what mighty aagic« 

(For eoch proceedings I amchargM wititoU) 

I won his dauKhter with. 
Her father £vM me ; oft invited me ; 

Still question'd me the story of my life 

From year to year i the battles, sieges, fortnnct) 

lliat I had past. 

I ran it through,, e'en from* my boyish day* 

To the very moment that he bade me tell it. 

Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances : 

Of moving accidents by flood and field ; 

Of hairbreadth 'scapes in th* imminent deadly breach ; 

Or being take© by the insolent foe, 

And sold to slavery ; of my redemptioa thencef 

And with it all my travel's history. 

.> — All these to hear. 

Would Desdemona serioudy incline ; 

But still the house afiairs would draw her thence f 

W^hich ever as she could with haste dispatch^ 

SheM come agite, toid with a greedy ear 
. Devour up my ditotmrse. Which I obierviBg J 

Took once a pliant hour, and found good means 

To draw firom her a prayer <rf earnest Jieart, 

That i would all my pilgrimage dilate ; 

Whereof by parcels she had something heard^ , 

But not distinctly. I did consent ; 

And often did beguile her of her tears, 

When 1 did speak of some distressful stroke 

That my youth snfferM. My story being done. 

She gave me for my pains a worid of si^s. 
^ She swore in faith, 'twas st^wige, 'twas passing strange ; 

'Twas pitiful ; 'twas wondrous pitiful ; 

She wish'd she had not heard it ; yet she wish'd 
«. That heaven had made her such a man. She thanked me; -^^ 

And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her, 

I should but t^ach him how to teO my story. 

And that would ijroo her. On this hmt I spake ; 

She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd ; 

And I lov'd her that she did pity them. 

This only is the witchcraft which I've usM. 

IX^^^ffenry lV*t Soliloquy on Sleefi.^-SnKKiLnfZkVLm 

HOW many thensuids of my poorest subjects 
Are at this hour asleep ! O gentle sleep ! 
Nature's soft nurse J how have I frighted thee, 
Thatihoa no more wilt weigh my eyelids down» 
And steep my senses in foi^tfuk&ess ? 
Why Katber, sleep, Host thou in smoaky cribi^ , 
Vpon uneasy paUeti stretching tfaee^ 

«|d ZJE880NB ' [Pabt U. 

And hwh'd withbwmig mj^t dies te thy slombw, 

Than In the pvftu&M chamben of th« gieat. 

Under the caM^Kei of costly state, 

And lullM with s^imda of sweetest rtfelody ? 

O tliou dun god ! Why liest thou with the vile, , 

In loathsome beds, and leav^tthe kmgly couch, 

A watcbcase to a common larum bell ? 

Wilt tiKm upon the hi^ and giddy mast, 

Seal up the shipboy^ eyes and rock his brains 

In cradle of the rude imperious surge, 

And in the visitation of the winds, 

Who take the ruffian billows by the tops, 

Curhsg tfaeirmonstrons heads, and banging them 

With deafening clamors in ^» dipp'ry shrouds,^ 

That with the hurly, death itself awakes ; 

Can^st thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose 

To the wet sea boy in an hour so rude, 

And in the calmest and the stillest night, ' 

With all oppliiaices ttnd means to booC^ 

Deny it to a king? Then h^>py, lowly cfewBl 

Uneasy lies Urn head thaK wetn aevowa; 

X^^^Cafit. £obadU*s Method ^ dtfen^ng an Armt^j^ 

EvEftT M uriH Hit HoiroB. 
I WILL tell you, Sit, oy tne way of private and an- 
der seal) I am a gentle nmn ; and liyo here obscure, and 
to myself; but were I known to his Majesty and the 
Lords, observe mc, I would undertake, upon thia fKx>f 
head and live, ior the public benefit of the iti^ not on- 
ly to tfpftt^ the entire lives of his subjects in general, 
but to save the one half, nay three-founbs of his yearly 
charge in holding war, and against what enemy soever. 
And how would I do !tt think you \ Why thus, Sir.— 
I would select nineteen more to myaelfi throughout the 
land; gentlemeir they should be; of good spirit, strong 
and able constitution. I would choose them by an in« 
atinct that I have. And I would teach these nineteen 
the special rules; as your Panto, your Reverse* your 
Stoccata^ your Imhroccata, y#ur Pasaadai your Monton- 
to ; till they could all play very near, or altogether, as 
well as myseflf. This dbne ; say the enemy were forty 
thousand strong. We twenty would come into the field, 
the tenth of March, or thereabouts, and we would chal- 
lenge twenty of the enemy; they could Bot| in their hon- 
or, refuse us. WeU— we wouid kill them; challenge 

SMT^ T.} im WEAKINO. $77 

twenty moie>— ^1 them ; twenty inore~kUl them ; 
twcuty more~kiU them loo. And thus, would we 
kill every mao, his ten a day— that's ten score : Ten 
score-.that's two hundred; two hundred a day— five 
days, a thousand: Forty thousand— forty times five— five 
times forty— two hun^^d days kill them all up by com- 
putation. And this I will venture my poor gentleman- 
like carcase to perform (provided there be no treason 
prac tised upon us) by fair and discreet manhood j that is, 
civilly — by the sword. 

XL — SolUoqMy ^f Hamlet* a t^lfU k^n^ t ht Murdtr o^ hit 
,/^rorAer.— iTRAOEmv eJ|M|bcL£T. 

OH ! my* offence is rank ; it sullHls fft^vea ; 

It hath the primal, 'eldest curse Upon if 5 

A brother's murder ! >Pray I cannot, 

Though inclination be as sharp as 'twill— 

My stronger* gtiilt defeats my sfrdng intent '. 

And like a-niaa to double business bound, 

I sCiind jn p&?e where \ shall first begin — 

And both n«gl^ct. What if this cursed han<f 

Were thicker than itgetf with brother's blood— ■ 

Is there not rain enough in the sweet heaTens 

To wash it white a^ snow ? Whereto serves mercy^ 

But to confront the visage of offence ? 

And what's in prayer, but this two fold force ; 

To be forestalled ere ire come to ftdl— . 

Or partJttaMVing dium ? Then I'H look up* 

Myfaultispafit.Bu!^h! What form of prayer 

Can serve my turn ? For^ve ro^ my foul murder, 

That cannot be, since I am still possess'd 
^ Of those effects for which I did the murder — 

My crown, liay own ambition, and my queen. ^ 

May one be pardoned, and retain th' offence ? 

In the corrupted -currents of this world, • 

Offence's gilded hand may shove by justtce? 

And oft 'tis spen, the wicked prize itself ' . 

Buys out i\ii laws. But 'tis not so above. 

Thece is no shuffling— there the action lies 

In Its true nature, and we ourselves compell'd 

E'en'to the teeth and forehead of our faults, 

To give in evidence. What then ? What tests ? 
• Try what repentance <ian. What can itnot? 
• . Yet whatoaA it, when one cannot repent ? • ' / 

Oh, wretched state; ! Oh, bosom black as d^ath ! ^ '^ 

Oh, limed soul^ that struggling to be free, 
, 'Art more eiigag'd! Help, angels » make jasaay ! 
H H3 * ' 

»i /:: u»/ 

•rt LRStOKA CPawII. 

B« soft^ as linewt of the a»w bom b«bft ( 

Ull^^Soliloquy ofHamlei on Death.'^^lB, 

fObe^-KMr not to ba ■ tint m tfa9i|«Mtioii'; 
Whether *tii nobler ia the wind t» fufier 
The dinn ead uttqws of outrageouf ibrtaoe— » 
Or to take Mrms against a sea of trooble ; 
And, by opposing end them I Td die«-totiee{l-« 
No more ? And, bj a sleep^ to saj we end 
The heartache, and the thousand natuial shock* 
That flesh is heir toi-^^J^Tfi^ ik csmswrnmation 
Devontljrtobe'ii^Md* 12» die-4o sleep- — 
To sleep, perclSMfifte «» dbaam— 4t, there^s the mb — 
For, in that sl^ggp^of dMih, what dreams maj come , 
When we hare, dhuffled off this mortal coil, 
llust give US panse.— ^There>B the respec^ 
That makes calamity of so long life i 
For, who woidd bear the whips and scorns of time^ 
Th' oppressors^ wrong, the proud man^s contiunelj ^ 
The psngs of despised love — the law^s de]ajr-^>iei 
The msolence ^f office, and the spurns 
That patient merit of the unworthy takes— 
When he himself mif^t his quietus make 
With a bare bodkin ? Who would fardels bear. 
To groan and sweat under a weary life 
But that the dread of something after death^ 
(That undiscoverM country, m>m whose boom 
STo traveller returns) puzzles the will, 
And makes nt rather bear those ills W'e havv. 
Than' fly to others that we know not of I 
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ; 
And thus the native hue of lesolutioQ 
Is sickled o^er with the pale cast of thought ; 
And enterpiizes of ^eat pith and moment. 
With this regard, their currents turn away^ 
And lose the name of action. 

Xllh-^JPaUtajf** Mficomiumen ^SocA-.^Hkhat IV. 

A GOOD sherris sack hath a twofold operatidti in it. 
It ascends me into the brain ; dries tne there, all the 
fooUsb, dull and crudy vapors which environ it : makes 
it apprehensive) qaick, inventive r full of ninible> fierjr 
and delectable shapes ; whieh delivered ove^ to the 
voice, the tongue^ which is the birth, becomi^fr excellent 
wit. The second property of jrour excellent sberritf, is 
the warming of the blood % which, before, cold and set- 

««JT. v.] IN SPE AKIHG. sr9 

tied, left the liter white and pale, which ii the bad|^e of 
pusiUaniniity and cowardice. But the ahenis warms it, 
and makes it course from the inwards to the parta ex- 
treme. It illuminateth the face ; which, as a beacon' 
g^ives warning to all the rest of this iittie king^c/ta, man^ 
to arm ; and then, the vital commoners, aod iolahd pet« 
ty spirits, muster me all to their captain, the heart i who 
great and pufifed up with this retinue, doth ilny deed of 
courage— and this valor comes of sherris. So that skill 
in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it a« 
work ; and learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a 
devil till sack commences it, and sets tt in act and use. 
Hereof comes it that Frince Haary is valiant ; for the 
cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he hathf 
like lean, sterile and bare land, manured, husbanded and 
tilled, with drinking good, and good store of fertile sher- 
ris. If I had a thousand sons, the first human principle 
I would teach them, should be— to forswear tliin pota- 
tions, and to addict themselves to sack. 

XlV.'^Prologue to the Tragedy o^Ca/o.-— Pop*. 

TO wake the «oul bv tender strokes of art. 
To raise the genias and to mend the heart. 
To make mankind in conscious Tirtne bold, 
Live o'er each scene, and be what Aey behold } 
For this the tragic muse first trod the stage, 
Commanding tears to stream throng^ every age ; 
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept. 
And foes to virtue wondered how they wept. 
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move ^ 

The hero's glory or the virpn's love : 
In pitying love we b<it our weakness show, 
And wild ambition well deserves its woe. 
Here tears shall flow from a more genVous cause ; 
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws : 
He bids your breast with ancient surdors rise. 
And c&Bs forth Roman drops from British eyes ; 
Virtue coniessM in human shape he draws, 
What Plato thought, and godhke Cato was : 
Ko common 6bject to your sight dii plays, 
But what, with pleasure, heaven itself surveys ; 
A'brave man shrugging in the storms of fate, ■ 
And greatly falling with a falling state t 
While Cato gives his little senate laws, 
What bosom beats not lii hii cottiitry's eaaae? 

S99 . I^SSONS [Past II. 

Who «« him act, but eiiTies every deed ? 
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed t 
E'en whcu proud Cesar, 'midst triumphal cars, 
The spoils of nations and tiie pomp of wars, 

Ignoblr vain, and impotentlj great, 

ShtfwM Rome her Cato's tigure drawn ia state ; * 

Am ber dead father's rev'rettd image paia'^t 

The pomp was darken'd and the day o'ereast, 

TLe.tniin«i.h ctafcM — tears gusLM frcm ev'ry eje 
The world*8 great victor pass'd unheeded by j 
Her last good man, dejected Rome adorM, 
And lionor'd Cesar's less than Cato's sword. 

Britons attend. Be worth Bke this approved'; 
And show you hare the virtue- %» be movM. 
With honest «corn the first fam'dCato view'd 
Rome Tearnlug arts from Greece, whom she svbdu'd. . 
Our P^cne precariously subsists too long 
On French tramslation and Italian song*. 
Dare to have sense yourselves ; assert the stage ; 
Be justly warm'd with youi own native rage. . 
Such plays aloue should please a British eaf, ' • 

As Cato^s self had not disdaloM to hear. 

XV.— C«/o'# SolHoqny onihc lmmortaHty"fJ[ t^e S^ui^ 


IT must he so— Plato tho» reasouest well ! - 
Else, Whence this pleading hope, this fond desh-e^ " 
This longing after immortality ? ' 
Or, Whence this secret dread, and inward horror. 
Of falling hito nought t Why shrinks the soiil 
Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us : • 
'Tis heaven itself that points out an Hereafter 
And intimates Eternity to man. * 

Ktemity '—.thou pleasing, dreadful though* J 
Through what variety of untried bcingT^ , ^ 

TJrough what new scenes and chaages must we pass I 
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me V 
But shadows, clouds aad darknees rest upon it. 
Here wiU I hokU If there's a Power a^ve us» 
(And that there is, all nature cries aloud 
Throujgh all her works) he must delight in virtue ; 
And that which he delights ia must be happy. 
But when ? Ot where ? This world was made t&t Ctmt 
I'm weaiy of cobjectures- this mujst end them. 

Thus 1 am doubly arm'd. My death and life4 
Kjr bane and antidote are both before n>e. • 

This in a moment brings me to an end • ' 

But this informs me I Akdl uever ui«. 

B9CT. y,} IN «PBAKIN6. ati 

The too], Bticnr'^d m her exiftence, imilet 
At the drawn dagver, and defies its point. 
The Btarft shall &<k away, the snn himself 
Grow dhn with age, and natdre sink in years : 
But thou shalt fionridli in immortal youth ; 
Unhurt amidst the war <^ dements, 
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds* 

XVll^Sfieteh qf Henry V, to his Soldiera at the Siege 

of HarJieur.'^^HAKRUTZARIL*^ HSMRT V. 

ONCE more unto this breach, dear friends once more^ 
Or close the wall up with ihe English dead* 
In peace there^s nothing so becomes a man 
As modest stillness and humility ; 
But when the blast of war blows in our ear^ 
Then imitate the action of the tyger ; 
Stiffen the smews, summon up the blood. 
Disguise fair nature with hard favorM rage : 
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect : 
Let it pry o*er the portage-of the head 
Like the brass cannon \ let the brow overwhelm it^ 
And fearlessly as aoth a galled rock 

O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, ^ 

Swill'd with the wild and wasteful <ooean. 
Now set the tee<h, and stretch the nostril widfr ; 
Hold hard tlie breathy and bend-up erefy spirit ^ 
To its fiiU height Now on, you noblest English^ • 
Whose blood is fetcli^d from fathers of war proof;. 
Fathers, that, like so mumj Alexandre, 
Have in these parts from morn tiU even foi^xt, 
And she&thM their swords for. lack of argument.. 
Dishonor not your mother ; now attest 
That those whom you callM fatho* did beget you* 
Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 
And teach them how to wa». Aaad you good yeomti^ 
Whose limbs were made in .England,* show us here 
The metal of your pasture ; l^us swear 
That you are worth your breeding ; which I doubt no*^ • 
For there is none of you so mean and baset 
Thiat hath not noble lustre ui yo^ur eyes. 
I see ^ou stand like greyhounds in4he slqpsi, 
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot : 
FoUow yoiir spirit ; and, upon tlus char^ 
Qejy God for Harry, England and St. George I 

Stt LESSONS [Pabt It 

XVIII.— 5^tf#f/r of Henry F, htfore the battle of jigiU'- 
eoutf, on the Earl tf We8tmorelan<^9 wuhing far 
more men from Enj^land,'-^lB» 

WHAT'S he that mshcs more men from England i 
My coiLsin Westaaorcland ? No, my fcvir.cousiik j. 
If we are mru-kM to Jie, we are eiiow 
To do our country loss ; and, if to live, 
The fewer men, the greater share of honor. 
No, no, my Lord 5 with not a man from Kngiand. 
Uathcr prdclkiiu it, Westmoreland, throughout my hos^ 
Tliat he who hath no etoiaach to tliis fi^ht, 
May straight depart ; his passport shall he mhde ; 
Anil crowns, for convoy, put into his purse. 
We would not die in such a man's company. 
This day is caJled the feast of Crispian. 
He thatoutilves this day, and comes safe hoine« 
Will stand a tiptoe, when this day is nam'd, 
And rouse liim a^ the name of Crispian. 
Ho that outlives this day, and sees old age, 
- W^Ul yearly, on the vigil feast his neighbors, 
And sajr, To-morrow is St. Crispian ; 
Then ^will he strip hifl sleeve, and tbow his tears. 
But men forget, yet shall not all forget, 
But they^U remember, with advantages, 
What feats they did that day* Then shall our namoi. 
Familiar in their mouths as hougehold words, 
Harry the king, Bedford and. Exeter, 
Warwick and Talbot, 6alisi>ary and Cloister, 
Be tn their flowing cups, fireshly remesibered* 
This story shall the good man teach hia son : 
\ And Crispian's day shall ne'er go by, 

From this time to the ending of the worid, 

But we and it shall be remembered ; 

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers ; 

For he today that sheds his blood with m%^ 

Shall be my brother be he e'er so vile, 

This day shall gentle his conditiom '* 

And gentlemen m England, now abed, 

Shall think themselves accusM they were not hem 

And hold their manhoods cheap, while any spealu 

That fought with as npon St. Czispiia's day. 

Xm.'^SoHloquy of Dick the Apprentice. 


THUS far ure run before the wind.- An apothe- 
cary I— -Make an apothecary of me !— What, cramp 
my genius over a peatle and mortar \ or mew me up io 

ftlGT* v.] llf SPEAKINS. Bn 

a shop, with tn tUigator stulfed, and a beggarly account 
oi empty boxes ! To be culling simplesi and constantly 
adding to the bills of mortality !— -Nol Nel It wiU 
be much better to be pasted up in capitals, Th£ fart ov 
Romeo by a youmq oemtj^iiman, who kever ap- 
peared ON AMY STAGE BEFORE i My ambltioD fiiCS 

at the thougiit.-*-*^But bold ; mayn't I tun some 
chance of faiiUig in my attempt ? Hissed — pelted««> 
laughed at— not admitted into the green room ;— -that- 
will never do^-down, busy devil, down, down; try it 
again — loved by the women — envied by the men— apr 
plauded by the pit, ctappedby the gallery, admired by 
the boxes. '^ Bear colonel, is'nt he a charming creature I 
My lord, donH you like him of all things ? — Makes love 

like an angel 1 What an eye he has ! Fine legs ! 

1 shall certainly go to his benefit."— -^Ce I e>tial 
sounds !— — And then I'll get in with all the painters, 
and have myself put up in every print shop— in the char- 
acter of Macbeth! "This is a sorry sight" (Standi 
an attitudcj In the character of Richard, <'Give me 
, another horse ! Bind up my wounds 1" This will do rare- 
ly .^ And then I have a ^chance of getting well marri- 
ed— -—O glorious thought! I will enjoy it, though but 
infancy. But what's o'clock? It must be almost niiic. 
I'll away at once ; this is club night — the spouters arc 
all met — little think they I'm in town— they'll be sur- 
prised to see me— —off I go ; and tlien for my assigna- 
tion with my master Gargle's daughter. 

XX^-^Cassiua instigating Bruf us to Join the Conspiracy^ 
tLgtiinH Cffiar.— -Tr AG. of Jui^ius Cesar. 

HONOil.ia the subject of. my story. 
I cannot tell what you and other men . , . > ... : 

Think of th^ life ; but for my siogle sei^ ,. • ' . ^ 

I had as lief Q9jtbQ, as live to be ^ 

In awe to such a thing as myself. 
I wasbwrn free as Cesar; so were jou : , . . 
We both have fed as well ; and w.e can boA . 
Ensure the winter's cold as Well ad he, , . . 

For once upon a raw and gusty day, 
The troubled Tiber chafing with his shores, 
Cesar says to me, " Dar'st thou, Cassias, now 
Le»p ia with ne i&to this argrj ^ood, 

tM LE880N9 {Vaws II, 

AmA ffwim to joider point ?^ Upon Ibe wori^ 

^^coutred as I was, I plunged in, 
Aii<\ b«.ii*- hint follow: so indeed he did. 
1 hf icrrent rodr'^'. and we did buffet it 
V iih h-pty sinews ; tbrowini^ it aside, 
>.:• .vteijmiTig itv^tb 'heartB-^fcoBtroven^r. 
lu (,rc we cGuld arrive .the point proposM, 
Cts«i tr •' '. ^^Heipme, Cas£ius,.orIJuiik.'^ 
I, as /Lnc ij., oui- great ancestor, 
"* Bid from the flames of Iroy, upon his shoulder 

The old Archises bear ; so, from the wares of Tibet, 
Did I the tired Ccsur ; and this man 
Is now become a goci ; and Cassias is 
' A wretched creature^ and nafist bend, his bod/. 
If Cesar carelessly but nod'on him. 
He had a fev«T when he was in Spain, . 
'And when the fit ^vas on him I did mark 
How he did $>hake ; "His true ; this god did shake; 
His coward lips did from their color fly ; 
And that same eye, whose bend doth awe ^ewoiid. 
Did lose its lustre ; I did bear him groan : 
Ay, and tliat tongue of his that bade the 'Romaiu 
Mark him and write his speeches in their books, 
♦' Alas !" it cry'd : " Give me some dripk, Titiiiin« ;** 
As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, 
A man of soch a feeble temper, shouM 
^o get tlie start of the majestic world, 
And bear tlie palm alone.— — 
Brutus and Cesrj* I What should be in that Cesar ? 
"Why should that name be sounded more than yours ? 
"Write them toother ; yomts is as fair a ncunfe ;* y 
Sound them ; it doth become the month as weP i • 

Weigh them ; it is as heavy : conjure with 'em ; 
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cesar. 
^pw in the name of all the gods at once^ 
Upon what meats dotli this our Cesar feed, ' 
That he has growa s» great f Age, thoil art atihstm^dl ; 
Home thou hastiest the breed of noble bloods. 
When went there by an age, since the great flood, 
But it was faiuM .with more than with one man ? 
When could they -say^ ?tiH now, ^cy talk'd of Romj, ' 
That her wide walls -encprnpassM but one ito^ii ?' ' 
Oh I You and I have heard oui^'fhthers Say, ' * . 
There was a Brutus once, thatwould have bfooli'i 
Th' infernal ^vil, to kefep liis state in room. 
As easily «i.A kmg. 

flfiCT. v.] IN SPEAKING. MS 

JtXL— -Brtt/ttt* Harangue on the Death ^ Ce«ir.—lB. 

ROMANS, CouDtrytnen «kl Loverol— Hearme for 
my cause ; and be silent that you may hear. Believe 
me for mine honor ; and have respect to mine honor, 
that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom ; 
and awake your senses^ that you may the belter judge.— 
If there be any in this assembly^ any dear friend of Ce« 
sar's, to hiaiy I say, that Brutus* love to Ceuir was no 
Jess than his. If, then, thatf riend demand why Brutus 
rose against Cesar, this is my answer : Not that I loved 
Cesar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rath- 
er Cesar were living, and die all slaves; than that Cesar 
were dead to live all freemen ? As Cesar loved me, I 
weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it ; as 
he was valiant, I honor him ; but, as he was ambitious, 
I slew him. There are tears for his love, joy for his 
fortune, honor for his valor, and death for his ambition. 
—Who's here so base, that would be a bondman ? If 
any, speak ; for him I have oifended. Who*s here so 
rude that would not be a Roman ? If any, speak ; for 
him I have offended. Who's here so vile, that will not 
love his country ? If any, speak j for him I have offend- 
cd. I pause for a reply— ^ 

None ! Then none have I offended. I have done no 
more to Cesar than you shall do to Brutus. The ques- 
tion of his death is enrolled in the Capitol ; his glory not 
extenuated, wherein he was worthy.; nor his offences 
enforced, for which h&.«uffered death. 

Here comes his body, mournM i^ Mark Antony ; 
^ who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive 
the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth ; 
as which of you shall not ? With this I depart— that as 
1 slew my best lover forthe good of Rome, I have the 
«ame dagger for myseli^ when itshail .please my country 
etoneed my death. 

X^Xlh^^Jintony*s Oration over Ceaar't Body.'^lm, 

FRIENDS, Romans, Countrjrmen ! Lead me your cats, 
I come to bury Cesar, not to praise himi 
The evil that men do, lives after them ; 
The good Is oft interred mih their bones : 

ne LESSONS [Pabt 1L 

Bo let it be with Ccaar ! NoWe Brute 
Hath told you, Cesar was ambitious. 
If it were so, it waa a grevioua fault ; 
And greviously hath Cesar auBwer'd It 
Hen under leave of Brutus, and the rest, 
(For Bratui is an honorable man, 
So are they all, all honorable men') 
Come I to speak in Cesar>s fiinerd. 

He was my friend, feithful and just to me : 
But Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And Brutus is an honorable man. 
He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : 
THd this in Cesar seem ambitious ? 
When that the poor hare cried, Cesar hath wept t 
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. 
Yet Brutus says he was ambiUous ; 
And Brutus b an honorable man. 
You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, 
thrice presen te d him a kingly crown ; 
Which he did thrice refuse : Was this ambition ! 
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And sure, he is an honorable man. 
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke ; 
But here I am to speak what I do know. 
You all did love him once ; not without cause ; 
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him ! 
O judgment S Thou art fled^o brutish beasts, 
And men have lost their reason. Bear with m« : 
My heart is in the coffin there with Cesar ; , 
And I must pause till it come back to me. 

But yesterday the word of Cesar might 
Have stood /against the world ! now lies he ther^ 
And none so poor to do him reverence. 

Masters I If I were disposM to stir 
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 

1 should do Brutus wiOAf , and Cassius wrong ; 
Who, you all know, are honorable men. 

I will not do them wrong — ^I rather choose 
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, 
Than I will wrong such honorable men. 
But here^s a parchment with the seal of Cesar.; 
! 1 found it in his closet ; 'tis his will. 

Let but thfrx^ommons hear this testament, 
(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read) 
And they would go and kiss dead Cesar^s wounds, 
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood — 
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory. 
And, dj'ing, mention it within their wiUS) 
Bequeathixig it, as a rich legacy, 

Sect. V.] IN SPEAKING. 887 

Unto their issue.— 

If you have tear?, prepare to shed th^ra now. 
. You all do know this mantle : I remember 

The first time ever Cesar put it on ; 

'Twas on a summer's evening in his tent, 
. That day he overcome the Nervii- m. 

h9ok I in thiq place run Cassius^ dagger thri^b— 

See what a rent the envious Casca »^ade— - 

Through this the well beloved Brutus stabb d 

And, as he pluckM his cursed steel away, 

Mark how the blood of Cesar foiWd it . 

This, this was the unkindest cut of all! 

For when the noble Cesar saw him stab, 

Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms, 

Quite vanquished him ! then burst his mighty Heart, 

And in his mantle mufflmg up his face, 


(Which all the wlulc ran bl<^d) great Cosar fell, 

what a fall was there, my countrymen I 
TTiexi I, and you, and all of tw, fell down 
WhiUt bloody treason flourish'd over ««• 
O, now yon weep ; and I perceive yon feel 

The dint of pity ! These are graciou* dropj. \a; , - 

Kind aoidfl J What, weep you when v*n behold • \ 

Our Ceaar^f vestttre wounded f Look you Here .^ 
Here is hunself— man^d, as you see, by tiaiton. 
G6od finendB ! Sweet friends ! Let me not sthr you up 
, To inch a sudden flood of mutiny ! ^-.' . - . . 

They thai have done this deed are honorable^ h', • 
What iMfivate gricft they have, alas, I k^w not, ^ - 
That made them do it ! They are wise and honora¥ii» 
And will, no doubt, with reason answer you. 

1 cwne not, friends, to steal away yowr hearts 5 

I am no orator, as Brutos *^ » . 
But, as yon know me all, a plain, bimit man, 
That lov« my friead^-wid that thwr knew foB wtU, 
That gave me pabUc leave to speak of him J 
For I have neither wit, nor words, not worth, 
Action, nor utterance, nor power of speech, 
~ To stir men»s Wood— 1 only speak rigjht cm, 
I tell you that which yoo yourselves do know- 
Show you sweet Cesw's wounds, poor, poor, dumb O|0lltik«) 
And bid them speak for me. But, were I Brutus, 
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 
Would ruflSe up your s^nrits, and put a tMigne 
In every wound of Cesar, that should move 
TbestoaesufRoaetonseinntttmy^ :; 


XTilW^^oUtajgra Soliloquy on ifo»or.~Hw»»TjV. 

OWE heaven a death! 'Tis not due j^t ;• and I 
would be loth to pay him before bis day. What need I 
be so forward with him that calls not on me ? >Yen, *tis 
no matter— ||N:ior pricks me on.— .But how, if honor 
prick me off when I come on ? How then? Can honor 
set to a leg ? No ; or an arm I No ; or take away the grief 
of a wound ? No. Honor hath no skill in surgery, then ? 
No. What is honor ? A word. What is that word hon- 
or i Air ; a trim reckoning. Who hath it ? He that 
died a Wednesday. Doth he feel it ? No. Doth he hear 
it. No. It is insensible, then ? Yea, to the dead. But 
will it not live with the living ? No. Why I Detraction 
will not suffer it. Therefore, I'll none of it. Honor 
lA. a mere 'scutcheon — and so ends my catechism* 

TiJiVf.— Part of Richard IIPs SolUoguy the night pre* 
ceding the Battle of JBosworth. 

Tragkdt of Richard III. . 

'TIS now the dead of nieht, and half the world 
Is with a lonely solenm daTkness hnng ; 
Yet I (so coy a dame is sleep to me) 
With all the weary courtship of 
My care tir'd thoughts, can't win her to my bed,. 
Though e'en the stars do wink, as 'twere, with oyer watching. 
Ill forth, and walk a while. The air's refreshing^ 
And the ripe harvest of the new mown hay 
Gives it a sweet and wholesome odor. 
How awflil is this gloom ! and hark ! From camp to camp 
The hum of either army still sounds, 
That the fix'd sentinels almost receive 
The secret whisper of each other's watch ! 
8teed threatens steed in high and boastii^ neighings, 
Piercing the night's dnU ear. Haik ! From the tents^ 
» The armorers, accomplishing the knight*, 
With clink of hamnier^s closing rivets op. 
Give dreadfhl note of preparation ; while some, 
liUce naerifices) by their fim of walcfa. 
With patience sit, and inly raminate 
The morning's danger. By yon faeavm, ay stecu 
Impatience chides this tardy gaited night, 
Who, like a £miI and n^y witch, does limp 
So tediously away. l-'U to saj coiiclky . 
And Qoce more try to sleep her into momiaf . 

•ftOT. ▼.] nr SPBAKINO. tn§ 

XXV. ^Thc fFcrid eomfiared to a Staff e. 


ALL tiie weild if a tt%gt \ 
And all the men and women, merely plajenu 
Tbej have tiieir eziti and their entrances ; 
And one man, in his time, plays many parts, 
Hi* Acts being seven ages. At first, the Infant ; 
Mewling and pukin^^ in the nurse^s arms. 
And then, the whimnr Schoolboy ; with his sache]| 
And shining morning face, creeping like a snail, 
Unwillingly to school. And, then a Lover, 
Sighing like furnace ; with a woeful ballad 
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, a Soldi* 
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard ; 
Jealous in honor ; Budde&>and q^!tS!k in quairel t 
Seeking the bubble reputation. 
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the Juitioe | 
In fair round belly, with good capon UnM ; 
With eyes severe, and beard of forroal cat; 
Full of wise saws and modern instances : 
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts 
Ibito the lean and slipper'c^banlalpon ; 
With Spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; 
JHii youthful hose well sav'd, a world to wide 
For his shrank shank ; and bis big manly voic^ 
Tunaiog again toward childish treble, pipes 
And whisUes in his sound. Last scene of aUi 
ftat ends this strange eventful histoxy, 
ft second Childishness, and mere Oblivion : 
fiana teethi saop eyet^ MOi taate, mos evfry tfaiij^. 




Reading and SfKU^xiiG. FRiiibiPAi.LiE de^ejjb. 

l.^Exaj»{ile% of ANTiTBEaxs ; or, the OpflosUion of 
Hoards or Sentimenu» 

I. •pECE manocT of speaioBg is as k^KMtant as &• nmtter.— 

t. Cowards die man j times ^ the vaKant ncTer taste of deatfc 
but once. Shaketpeairc, 

8. Temperance, by fortifjring the mind and bodj, leads to bap- 
pineft I intemperance, bj enervating the mind and body, cnda 
jjemmlly in mweiy.-' — ^rt of ThitSking. 

4. TiOe and ancestry render a good man more illustrions ; but 
«n ill one more contemptible. Vice is infamous, though in a 
prince ; and virtue honorable, though in a peasant.: Spectator, 

5. Almost «nreiy obiocitfaa^ attnests our notk^e, has its bright 
and Hs daik side. He who habituates himself to look at the 
^ipleanng side, will sour his disposition, and, consequently, 
impair his happiness ; while he who constantly beholds it on the 
bright side, msensibly ameliorates his temper, and, hi conse- 
qmce of it, impsoves his own happiness, and the happiness of 
all aioniid him. World,. 

t» A wise man endeavors to shine hi himself; a fool to out- 
shine others. The former is humbled by the sense of his own 
iofirmities ; the latter is lifted up hy the discovery of those 
which he observes in otheFs. The wise man coB^uders what he 
wants ; and the fool what he abounds in. The wise man is hap- 
py when he gains his own approbation ; and the fool, when h» 
recommends himself to the applause of those about him.'— 
Siptttator, t ^ 

7. Where opportunities of exercise ase wanting, temperance 
may in a great measure supply its place. If exercise throws off 
all supei^uitiet, temperance prevents them ; l^pt^rcise deare 
the vessels, temperance neither satiates nor overstndns them ;•— > 
exercise raises pvDper fenaeata ia the hujaoiS) end premetai 


tbe circulation of the hlood, tempecance gWei nature her full 
play> and enables her to exert herself in all her force and vigor ; 
if exercise dissipates a growing distemper, tempe ranee starves 
it.- S pectator^ 

& I hav« always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The lattev 
I consider as an act, the former as a habit of the mmd. Mirth 
is short and transient, cheerfulness fixed and permanent. These 
are often raised into the greatest transports of mirth, who are 
subject to the greatest depressions of melancholy- On the con- 
trary, cheerfulness, though it does not give the mind such an 
exquisite gladness, prevents us from falling into any depths of 
sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks trough 
a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment ; cheerfulness, 
keeps up a kind of daylight in the mind, and fills it with a §teadjp 
and perpetual eeremij^^—^fectcUor^ 

9. At the same time that I think discretion the most useful^ 
talent a man can be master of, I look upon cunning to be the ac- 
complishment of little, mean, ungenerous minds. Discretiox^ 
points out the noblest ends to us, and pursues the most proper 
and laudable methods of attaining them y cunning has only pri- 
vate, selfish aims, and sticks at nothing whicl> may make them 
succeed ; discretion has large and extended views, and like a 
well formed eye, commands a whole horizon ; cunning is a kind« 
ef shortsightedness, that discovers the minutest objects, which 
are near at hand, but is not able to discern things at a distance.. 

to* Nothing is more amiable than true modesty, and nothing, 
more contemptible tiian the false. The one guards virtue ; the 
other betrays it. True modesty is ashamed tb do any thing that 
is repugnant to the rules of right reason ; false modesty is a- 
•hamed fr .de any thing that is opposite to the humor of the 
company. True modesty avoids every thing that is criminal ; 
false modesty every thing that is unfashionable. The latter is 
only a general undetermined iustinct ; the fonner is that instinct^ 
limited and circumsctabed by the rvdet of prudence and lelig* 
ion.— -/Sipcc/«rf«r. 

II. How difierent is the view of past Hfey in 'the man who ie- 
iprown old in knowled^ and wisdom, from that of him who it- 
grown old'in ignoraAoe and lolly f The lattev is like the owner 
of a barren country, that fills his eye with the prospect of nijced 
hills and plains, which produces nothing either profitable or or- 
namental ; the fonner beholds a beautiful and spacious landskip^ 
divided into delightful gardens, green meadows,- fruitful fields ;; 
and can scarce cast his eye on a single spot of his possessk>ns, 
that is n9t cQveied|With some beautiful planter flower. ^ ■ S pec 



IS, As there is a worldly ht^pmess, which God pevoeiveB te 
he no other than disgp^ed misery }t as there are worldly honors^ 
which, ID hit evtjtta^, sure reproach } so there is e weridJ^jr 


wiidboL ivbich in hk ngbt. it fooliatoess. Of tfab worldly mk* 
lloffl, oit cbtracten tre gh«n in tb« actiptoes, and pieced 'm 
contiMt with th9ie of the wndooi which it from abore. Tht 
one 18 the wifilom of the cnfty ; the other, that of the upright ; 
The one tenniniiles in Mlfishnejn ; the other in charity : The 
•ne, ftill of atrife, and bitter envying ; the other, of nercjr wiL 
|ood firuiti.'— £2atr. 

13. Trae honor, though it be a different principle ^m refi^ 
ion, is that which producea the same efiects. The lines d ac- 
tion, though drawn from different parts, terminate in the same 
point. Religion embraces virtue, as it is enjoined bj the law 
of God ; honor, as it is graceful and ornamental to human nature. 
The religious man fears, the man of honor scorns, to do an 31 ae-' 
lion. The latter considers vice aa something that is beneath, 
him ; the former, as something that is offensive to the Divine 
Being ; the one^ as what is unbecoming ; the other, as what m 
Ibibidden.— ^GiMVK^ian. 

14. Where is the man that possesses, or indeed can be requir*^ 
•d to possesS) greater abilities in war, than Pompey f One who 
has fought more pitched battles, than others hare maintained 
personal disputes ! Carried on more wars, than ethers have ac^ 
quired knowledge of hy reading I Reduced more pro\inces, than 
ethers have aspired to, even in thought I >Vhose youth wat 
trained to the profession of arms, not by precepts derived from . 
others, but foj the highest offices of command ! Not hj personal 
uistakes in war, but by a train of important victories ; not by % 
feriea of campaigns, but by a succession of triumphB*<---C»c<re« 

16. Two principles in human nature reign, 
Mflove to urge, and reason to restrain ; 
Kor this a good, nor that a bad we call. 
Each works its end — to move or govern aU..«.-.p#2y^. 

16. In pomt of sermons, His confessed 
Our English clergy make the best ; 

But thia appears, we must confess^ 
Hot from the pulpit, but the piess^ 
{ They manage, with disjointed skill, ^ 
The matter well, the manner ill ; . 
And, what BeejoB paradox at first. 
They make the best, and preach the wonri»-— J^^Kfill. 

17. Know, MTature's children aB divide her care ; 
The fur that warms a monarch warm'd a bear. 
While man exclaims, " See all things for my use ?^^ 
•* See man for mine !'» replies the pamperM goose i 
And just as short of reason he must fall, 

Who thinks all made for one, not one for alL-— — Pi^« 

18. O thou goddess. 

Thou divine \atore f How thyself «iou blazon^st 
bitbe9e two pnncely boys; They aie us gentle 


As zepfajFBblorring below the Tiolct, 

JXot wagging bis sweet head ; and yet as rough 

(Their royal blood enchaf' d) as the rud'st wind • 

That by the top doth take the mountain pine, 

And make them stoop to the vale.— r5Aa*Mpeare. 

19. True ease in writing comes from art, not chance^ 
As those move easiest who have leamM to dance. 

'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence ; 

The sound must seem an echo to the sense. 

Soft is the strain when sfephyr gently blows, 
\ And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; 

But when loud surges laf^h the sounding shore, 

The hoarse rou^ verse should like the torrent roar. 

When Ajax strives some rock^s vast weight to throw, 

The line, too, labors, and the words move slow : 

Not so when swift CamiHa scours the plain, 
> Flies o^er th^ unbending com, andsluma aloAg the main.«*<-— 

20. Good name in man and woman 
Is tlie immediate jewel of their souls. 

Who steals my purse, steals trash ; *tis something^ nothing ^ 
^Twas mine, ^tis his, and has been slaves to thousands* 
But he that filches from me my good name^ 
Brobs me of that which not enri<3ies him^ 
And makes me poor indeed.^— ^o iSAa&e^peare. 

W^-^ExamplcM o Ekumbration ; or the mentioning 
of fiariiculara» 

1. I CONSIDER a human soul, without education, like mar^ 
ble in the quarry ; which shows none of its inherent beauties, 
till the skill of the polisher fetches out the colors, makes the 
surface shine, and discovers every ornamental cloud, spot and 
vein, that runs through the body of it. — Spectator. 

2. The subject of a discourse being opened, explained and 
eonfirmed ; that is to say, the speaker having gained the atten- 
tion and judgment of his audience, he must proceed to complete 
his conquest over the passions ; such as imagination, admiration,. 
surprize, hope, joy, love, feaf, grief, anger. Now he mnst be* 
gin to exert himself ; here it is that a fine genius may display 
itself, in the use of amplification, enumeration, interrogation,, 
metaphor, and every ornament that can render a discourse eDler» 
taming, winning, striking and eUforcing. BaiUie. 

3. I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life ; nor angek|, 
nor principalities, nor powers ; nor things present, nor thing* 
to come; nor height, nor depth ; nor any other creature ;'>hall 
be able to separate us from the lore of God, which it in Ctmsi 
JesusourLord..^— «S/. Pau^ 

4. Sincerity is, to speak as we think, to do as we pretend an4 
profess, to pcrfofm and make good what We promise, and realljr'^ 
to be what we wotfld seem and appear tl5 be.-*— -ra/A/^of*. • 


5. No blessing of life is any way comparable to fee enjoy* 
meat of a discreet and virtuous friend; it eases and unloads 
the mind, clean and improves the Understanding, engenders 
thoughts and knowledge, animates virtue and good resolution?, 
sooths and allays the passions, and finds employment for most of 
the vacant hours of life.-^— Spectoter, 

6. The brightness of the sky, the lengthening of the days^ the 
increasing verdure of the spring, the arrival of any little piece of 
good news, or whatever carries with it the most distant glimpse 
•f loj, is frequently the parent of a social and happy conversa- 

7. In fair ircathcr, when my heart is cheered, and K feel that 
exultation of spirits, which results from light and warmth, join- 
•3 with a beautifril prospect of nature, 1 regard myself as one 
placed by the hand of God, in the midst of an ampla theatre, 
in which fef sun, modii and start, the fruits also, and vegeta- 
bles of the earth, perpetually changing^ their positions or , their 
•ipects, exhibit an ele^^t entertunment to the underst^dhsg 
ms well as to the eye. Thunder and lightning, rain and hail, the 
painted bow and ibe glaring comets, «re decorations of this 
nighty theatre ; and the sable hemi^here, studded with span- 
jlles, the bhie Tault ^ noon, the glonous gildings and rich coloi- 
u^ in the horizexH I lodi^ on as so many successive scenes. 


8. CempMtance renders a enperior amiable, an equal agreea- 
Ue, and an inferior acceptable. It smooths distinction, sweet- 
ens conversation, and makes every one in the company pleased 
with limself. . H produces good nature and mutual benevolence, 
Micottra|^ tfie timerous, sooths the turbulent, humanizes t2kc 
ierce, and distittgai^es a society of civilized persons from a 
confasion of sat^s. In a word, complt^sance is a virtiie tbtEt 
blends all orders of men together in a friendly intercoune of 
words and actions, and is suited to that equality in human na- 
ture wbich every man ought td consider, so far as is conaist^it 
with the «f«ler and economy of the world.-— ^-Gtcofitfutfi. 

9. It is owing to our having early imbibed false notions of vir* 
tue, that the word Christian does not cary with it at first view, 
all ti»t is great, worthy, friendly, generous and heroic. TJie 
jnan whd suspends his hopes of tlie rewards of worthy actimis 
till after deatb ; who can bestow, unseen ; who can overlook 
batred ; do good to his slanderer ; who can never be angry at 
lis friend \* never revengeful to his enemy — is certainly formed 
4»r tbe benefit of society. SpieioMr, 

10. Thoogh we seem grieved at the shortaesB of Ufe^ in ^e»> 
•ral, we arc wishing every period of it at an eod. IAm minor 

»ng8 to be of ue— then to be a man of business^then t» makA 
p an esUte-o^en to arrive at ho&on-^tben to TCtlxe* Hie 
mrwr would be. vof/ wtii eatiified^ im W* att tbrtiM maH^ 


lated tiiat lies between the present moment and the next quar- 
ter day — the politician would be contented to lose three years 
in his life, could he place things in a posture which he fancies 
they win stand in after such a revolution of time — and the lov- 
er would be glad to strike out of his existence, all the moments 
that are to pass away before the happy meeting. 

11. Should the greater part of people sit down and draw up a 
particular account of their time, what a shameful bill would it 
be ! So much in eating, drinking, and sleeping, beyond what na 
ture requires; so much in revelimg and wantonness; so much 
for the recovery of the last night^s intemperzmce ; so much in gam- 
ing, plays and masquerades; so much in idle and foolish pra- 
ting, in censurine and reviling our neighbors; so much for 
dressing our bodies^ and in talking of fashions ; and so much 
wasted and lost in doing nothing at all.— ^/ierZocfc. 

12. If we would have the kindness of others, we must cjsdure 
their follies. He who cannot persuade himself to withdraw 
from society, must be content to pay a tribute of his time to a 
multitude of tyrants ; ^o the loiterer who makes appointments 
he never keeps — to the consulter, who asks advice which he 
never takes^— to the boaster, who blusters only to be praised — ^to 
the complainer, who whines only to be pitied — ^to the projector, 
whose happiness is to entertain his friends with expectations, 
which all but himself know to be vain-^to the economist, who 
tells of bargains and settlements-^if'to the politician, who predicts 
the consequences of deaUis, battles and alliances — to the usu- 
rer, who compares the state of the difierent funds-^and to the 
talker who talks only because he loves to be talking. ^ 


13. Charity suffereth long, and is kind 5 charity envieth not ; 
ohaxity vaunteth not itself ; is not puffed up ; doth not behave 
itself unseemly ; seeketh not her own ; is not easily provoked ; 
thinketh no evil ; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoic^th in the 
truth; beareth all things, believetb all things, hopeth all things^ 
cndureth all things. fSt. Paid, 

14. Delightful task to rear the tender thought. 
To teach the young idea how to shoot, 

To pour the Xresfa instruction o^er the mind) 
To breathe th' enlivening spirit, and to fix 
The generous purpose in the glowing breast Thomttm. 

15. Dread o^er the scene the Ghost of Halmet stalks-^ 
Othehe rages — ^poor Monimia mourns-r- 

And Belvidera pours her soul in love. 
Terror .oljarms the breast — ^the comely tear 
SteaJs o'er the cheek. Or else the comic muse 
Holds to the world a picture of itself. 
And raueSf sly, t^e fair impartial laugh^ 


Sometimes the shifts her etrain, and paints the scenes 
Of beauteous life ; whatever can deck mankind. 
Or charm the heart, the generous Bevil showM. 

16. Then Commerce brought into the public walk 
The busy meichant ; the big warehouse built ; 
RaisM the strong crane ; choakM up the loaded street 
With fereign plenty.; and thy stream, O TkaTnes^ 
I^argc, gentle, deep, majestic, king of floods ! 
Chose for his grand resort. On either hand, 
Ijike a long wiutry forest, groves of masts 
fehoot up &eir spires ; the bellying sheet between, 
l*os5esj«'d the breezy void ; the sooty hulk 
Stecr'd sluggish on ; the splendid barge along 
ilowed regular, to harmony ; around, 
'i'he boat, like skimming, stretchM its oary wings.; 
AN hilt", deep, the various voice of fervent toil, 
1 rom bank to bank, increas'd ; whence ribb'd with oak. 
To bear the Britibh thunder, black and bold, 
'J'he roaring vessel rush'd into the main. TTiomton. 

n. 'Tis from high life high characters are drawn ; 
A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn. 
A judge is just ; a chancellor juster still ; 
A gowuman learn'd ; a bishop — what you will,: 
Wise, if a minister ; but, if a king, 
More wise, more learn'^d, more just, more everything.— Pope, 

18. 'Tis education forms the common mind; 
Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclinM. 
Boastful and rough, your first son is a squire ; 
The next a tradesman, meek, and much a liar; 
Tom struts a soldier, open^ bold and brave ; 
Will sneaks a scriv'ner, an exceeding knave. 

Is he a churchman ? then he's fond of power ; 

A quaker? Sly; a presbyterian ? Sour; 

A smart freethinker f Ail things in an. hocff**.*— .i?(^c» 

19. See what agfao» was seated on his brow; 
Hyperion's curls ; the front of Jove himself: 
An eye like Maiv, to threaten. and > command.; 

A station like the .herald .Men:ury. 

New lighted, on a heaven kissing hill ; 

A combination, and a form indeed. 

Where every god did seem to set his seal, 

To give the world assurance of a man.— ..-^SAaJfcpi^Mi^ 

20. The cloud capt; towers, the goreeous palaces. 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself. ~ 
Yea, ^1 which it inherit, shall dissolve j 

And, hke the baseless fabric of a vision. 

:l-€ave not a wreck behind. ^hakes^e. ' 


lll,r^£»ttmfile& of SeamNftiaN } m- u dtla^ing qf the 

t. AS beauty t)f p«i*on wiA an agreeable carriage, pleases 
the eye, and that pleasure consists in ohfierving that all the parts 
have a cerlain elegaitce, and are ppoportiened to each other ; so 
doQ^ cUcftRpy of b€>haviA»r obtain the app^obatioB-of all with whom 
w« <>oaver^n icom the order, coofisteucy and lAoderatiou of our 
wonls aiid a(;tions.- — "-^l^cteUor, 

1t\. Tf Pericles, as historians ireport, conld" shake the ihtnest 
resol«tk)BS of his hearers, and Set thfe -passions of eAl €hreec« m 
a fernaent, when the public welfare of his country, or the fear 
ef hostile invasions, was the subject ; What may we not expect 
. from tliat orator, who with a becoming energy, warns his audiejice 
against those evils which have no remedy, when once undergone, 
«ither from prudence or time ? Spectator, 

3. Tlioua:h there is a great, deal of pieasure in contemplating 
the material world, by which I mean tJiat system of bodies into 
which nature has so curiously wrought the mass of dead matter, 
with the f everaJ relations which those bodies bear to one another ; 
there is stiU something more wonderful and surprising ih contem- 
plating the world of life, or those various animals with which every 
part of the universe is furnished.— »S[pcc#af or. 

4. Since it is certain that our hearts cannot deceive ns in the 
love of the world, and that we oaqnot command ourselves enough 
to resign it, though we every day wish ourselves disengaged 
from its allurements'; let us not stand upon a formal taking of 
leave, but wean ourselves frftid'them, while we are in tbe midst 
of them. "Spectatw, 

5. When a man hai got spc^ a great and exited soul, as that 
lie can look upon life and death, riches and poverty, with indiffer- 
ence, and closely adKeres to honesty, in whatever shape she pre- 
sents herself ; theii it is that virtue appears with such a brightness, 
-as that all the world must admire her beauties. Cicfro, 

6. To hear a judicious and elegant discourse fKom the pnJpit, 
-which would in pritit make a noble ifnre, mardeiied by him who 
had leaniing and taste to c^ropase it, but having been neglected 
as to one important p«rt of hi^ education, -knowa n»t bow to de- 
liver it, otherwise than with a tone between singing and paying, 
or with a nod of his head, to enforce, as witli a hammer, every 
emphatical word, or with the same unaniinated monotony in 
Which he was used to repeat Quor genu* at Weatmin'ster scl\6ol ; 
Vv'hat can be imagined more lamentable ? Yet what more, com- 
mon !-, — Burgh, 'fUx 

7. Having already shojm how the fewff><%i.^'^fj«ibha^the 
works of na^e, and afterwards considw^hin .«««f^a»,ll>oth 
tfce works of ^a3U«e and, ^ hpw th^ey inttlwd]|^alNiMt|«ld ^vom- 


t»lete each otiier^ *m htnimg «Qch ■eenet vaA fMPMpMti, iff we 
most apt to delight the mind of the beholder ; I shall, in this p*- 
per, throw together some reflections on that particular art, 
which has a more immediate tendencj than an^ other, to pro- 
doce ti^oie primary pleararei of the imagination, which hare 
hitherto been the ral]^tof this diiooorae* ■ ^ Sjpsctolar. 

6. The canaes of good and evil are so various and tmcerteiD) 
•D often entangled with each other, so diTenified hj vaiiooa 
relations, and so much subject to accidents which cannot be 
foreseen ; that be, who would fix his condition upon incontea- 
lible reasons of preference, wiatlhre and die enquiring and delib- 
fimting* Johnion, 

9. He, who through Tart immenntj can pierce. 
See worlds on worlds compose one universe, 
Obsenre how sjstam into sjstem runs, 

"What other phmeta circle other sons ; 
Whatraricd beings people every star. 
May ten, why heaven has made us as we are.— Pi||w» 

10. In that soft season, when descending showeia 
Call fordi the greens, and wake the rising flowers ; 
When opening buds salute the welcome day. 
And earth, relenting, feels the gei"^ "^7 '* 

As balmy sleep had charmM my cares to rest, 

And love itself was banished from my breast ; 

A train of phantoms in wild order rose. 

And joinM, this faiteUectual scene compose.— JPiipt/ 

11. Nor fame I slight, nor for her favors caQ ; 
Bhe comes unlocked for, if she comes at alL 
But, if the purchase cost so dear a price, 

As soothing folly, or exalting vice^ 
And if the muse must flatter lawless sway, 
And follow still where fortune leads the way j 
Or, if no basis bear my rising tiame 
But the fall'n ruins of another's fame ; 
Then teach me, heaven, to scorn the guitty bays 5 ^ 

• Drive from my breast tiiM wretched hut of praise. 
UnblenaashM let me Iiv^, or die unknown ; 
O, gwait me honest fame, or grant me none.— — Piigrtt 

12. As one, who long in p<^ulous city pent, 
Where houses thick and sewers annoy the air. 
Forth issuing on a summer^s mom, to breathe, 

• Among the pleasant vOlages and farms 
" Adjoined, from each thing met conceives delight; 

The smell of grain, or tedded grass, or kine, 
-9 ' Or'di^, i^kch ruiral sight, each ruHEJ sound ; 
' If ^chancae, with ixymph like step, fair viigin paMf 
' WM pleasing leeai^d, for her now pleases Aoi«r 


Bbe mosiy and iirfaerlook soms all ddight: 
Such plearare took the gerpent to behold 
This flowhry plat the sweet recess of Eve, 
Thuseariy, thus tJoae. ■ Jftftoii. 

IV.^^Mxam/UtM of Pabektessis ; or word4 interfiOMtd 
in SenUnceM. 

1. THOUGH good sense is not in the number, nor alwajs, 
it must be owned, in the company of the sciences ; yet it is (as 
the most sensible of the poets has justly observed) fairly worth 
the seven. Melmoth. 

2. An elevated genius, employed in little things, appears (to 
use the simile of Longinus) like thd sun in his evening declina- 
tion : he remits his splendor, but retains his magnitude ; and 
pleases more though he dazzles less. Johnson, 

3. The horror with which we entertain the thoughts of death 
(or indeed of any iuture evil) and the uncertainty of its approach, 
fill a melancholy mind with innumerable apprehensions and sua- 
picions.*-— 5p«e/a^or. 

4. If envious people were to ask themselves, whether tiiey 
would exchange their entire situations with the persons envied, 
(1 mean their minds, passions, notions, as well as then* persons, 
fortunes, dignities, &c.) 1 presume the self love, common to 
all human nature, would generally make them prefer their own 
condition. Shensiont. 

6. Notwithstanding all the care of Ciceto, history informs u« 
that Marcus proved a mere blockhead ; and that nature (who 
it seems, was even with the son for her prodigality to the fa- 
ther) rendered him incapable of improving, by all the rules of 
eloquence, the precepts of philosophy, his own endeavors, and 
the most refined conversation in Athens. Sputaior, 

6. The opera (in which" action is joined with music, in order 
to entertain the eye at the same time with the ear) I must beg 
leave (with all due submission to the taste of the great) to con- 
sider as a forced conjunction of two things, which nature does 
not allow to go together.— —BwrgA. 

7. As to my own abilities ki speaking (for I shall admit thi* 
charge, ahbough experience has convinced me that what is called, 
the power of eloquence depends, for the most part, upon the 
hearers, and that tlie characters of public speakers are deter- 
mined .by that degree of favor, which you vou« hsafe to each) if 
long practice, I say, hath given me any proficiency in speaking, 
you have ever found it devoted to my country. — < — Demosthtnes,. 

8. When Socrates' fetters were knocked off, (as was usual 
to be done on the day that the condemned person was to be ex- 
«^ted) \^if% seated is ^o midst of >is disciples, and layinif 


•De of hit legs over fl^ other, in m ruy miieQDG«ni%d postcfre, 
begsiD to nib it, where it had been galled bj the iron ; and 
(whether it was to show the indifierence with which he enter- 
tained the thousrhts of his approaching death, or (after his usual 
nianrier) to take every occasion of philosophising upon soma 
useful subject) he observed the pleasora of that^senBatipn, which 
now arose in those very parts of his leg, that just before had been 
10 much pained by fetters. Upon this he reflected on the nature 
of pletisure and pain in geneial, and how constantly they succeed- 
ed one another.-—- ^>ecto^(ir. 

9. Let us (since life can little more supply 
Than just to look about us and to die) 
Expatiate free, oVr all this scene of man ; 

A mighty maze ! but not without a plan.— —Pope. 

10. His years arc young, but bis experience old ; 
His head unmellowM but his judgment ripe ; 
And, in a word (for far behind his worth 

Corae all the praises that I now bestow) 
He is complete in feature and in mind, 
yViih all good grace to grace agcntlenmn. 

^haktspeare^i Tteo (^eniUmen of Vtrontt^ 

tl. Tliat man i' tlie worhj, who shaB report, he has 
A better wife, let hijn in nought be trusted, 
For speaking false in that.' Thou art alone 
(U tliy rare qualities, sweet gentleness, 
Thy meekness, saintlike, wifelike government, 
Obeying in coiafflanding, and thy parts, 
Sovereign and pious, could but speak thee out) 
The queen <^ earthly queens.— ^teto/iwireV Htnry 8. 

12. Forthwith, (behold the excellence^ the power, 
T^'hich God hath in bis mighty angels plac'd) 
•their arms away they threw, and to tlie hills 
(For earth hath this variety from heaveii. 
Of pleasure situate in hill and dale) 
Ligot as the lightning's glimpse, they ran, they ilcw ; 
From their foundations loos^nin^ too and fro. 
They pluck'd the seated hills, with iJl their load. 
Rocks, waters, w^ods ; and, by the shaggy topt 
Uplifted, bore them in their hasids. Paradiit htt. 

V. — JBxamfiite of Iht^rko a Arir>vi^ or Qui^tioning^, 
1. ONE day, when the Moon was under an edipse, she com- 
plained thus to the Sua d|^ the discontinuance- of hify favors. My 
dearest friend, said die, Why do yOu not shine upon me as you 
used to do ? Do I not Bhih,e upon thee ? sM th^ Sun : 1 am very 
sure that I intend it. O no V replies the Moon ! but I now per- 
ceive the reason. I see that dJirty placet th« £wth hw^t bAt^Pum 
W«. Dodsl&y-^s Fables^ T * t -"^ 


ft. Seaiching eveiy kkigdom for a man wlio ha* the leart com- 
fbrt in life, Where if he to be found ? In the foyd palace.—^ 
What, his Maje^ i Tee, especially if he be a despot. 

Jirt of Thinking. 

3. Tou have obliged a man ; very well ! What would you hare- 
more } Is not the coosoiovsness of doins good a sufficient reward I 

Art of Tkivkuig. 

4. A certain passenger at sea had the curiosity to ask the pi* 
lot of the vessel, what death his father died of. What death? 
said the pilot Why he perished at sea, as m^ grandfather did 
before him. And art you Hot afraid of trustmg yourself to an 
element that has proved thus fatal to your family ? Afraid ! ^j 
no means t Is not your father dead ? Yes, but hf died in his bed. 
And why then, returned the pilot, are you not afraid of trusting 
yourself in your bed ?— — vir/ of Thinking, 

5. Is it credible, is it possible, that the mighty soul of a New 
ton should share exactly the same fate with the vilest insect 
that crawls upon the ground ? that, after haviug laid open the 
mysteries of nature, and pushed its discoveries aloMMt to the very 
boundaries of the universe, it should, on a sudden, have all its 
lights at once extinguished, and sink into everlasting- darkness 
and insensibility ? Spectator • 

6. Suppose a youth to have no prospect either of sitting in 
Parliament, of pleading at the bar, of abpearing upon the stage, 
or in the ipulpit ; Does it follow that he need bestow no pains 
in learning to speak properly his native lang^uage f Will he nev* 
er have occasiou to read, in a company of his friends, a copy of 
verses, a passage of a book or newspaper ? Must he never read 
a discourse of Tillotson, or a chapter of the Whole Duty of Man 
for the instruction of his children and servants? Cicero justly 
observes, that address in speaking is highly ornamental, as well 
as useful, even • in private life. The limbs are parts of the body 
much less noble than the tongue ; yet no gentleman grudges a 
considerable expense, of time and money, to have his son .taught 
to «se them properly; which is very commendable. And is 
there, no attention to be paid to the use of the tongue,- the glory 
of man ?— ^— .JJwrgA. 

7. Does greatness secure persons of rank from infirmitiea, ci- 
ther of body or mind? Will the headach, the gout or fever 
spare a prinoe any more than a subject? When old age comet 
to lie heavy upon him, will his engineers relieve him of the load ? 
Can his goaitis and sentinels, by doubling and trebling their 
numbers, and their watchfulness, prevent the approach of death? 
Nay, if jealousy, or even ill humor disturb his happiness, will 
the cringes of his fawning attendants restore his tranquillity ? 
What comfort has he in reflecting (if he can make the reflection) 
whUe theooHok, like Prometheus^ vulture, tears his bowels, that 
he i6 under a canopy of crioison telyet, fringed with gold ? 

K K 2 


When tbe panp of lh« grout vt stooe, extort from him aoream* 
^ ifc^oiiy, do lU titJes of iiighness cor Majetty coaoke iweetly iuto 
hiB ear Mf be is a^tated with rage, dotr« tlie souiul of Serene, 
or Moit (hristian, iirevt^nt his staring, reddening and gnashing 
hist(«th lik« a maduiaji ? Would not a twinge of the toothacb, 
or an froni an rnfr-rior, make the mighty Cesar forget 
that he was emperor of the world ?— Jlfonfti^Tie. 

8. ^^ hen wiU you, my countrymen, when will yen rouse from 
your indolence, and bethink yourselves of what is to be done ?^.- 
Vhen you are forced to it by some fatal disaster? When inre* 
sibtible necessity drives you ? What think you of the disgrace* 
which are already come upon you ? It not the past sufficient to 
stimulate your activity ? Or, do jou wait for somewhat more 
forcible and urgent ? How long will you amuse yourselves with 
inquirins: of one another after news, as you ramble idly about 
the streets ? W bat news so strange ever came to Athens, us that 
a Macedonian should subdue this stale, and lord it over Greece ? 


9. What is the blooming tiBctue of the Mm^ 
To peac« of mind and harmony within ? 
What the bright sparkling of the finest eye. 
To the soft soothing of a calm reply ? 
Can comeliness of fonH) or shape, or air, 
V\ ith comeliness of word or deeds compare ? 
No ; — Those atfirst th^ unwary heart may gain ; 
UmI these, these only, can tlw heart retaiD.-^-*^Gay. 

le. Wrcmg'd in my lore all proffers I disdain : 
Deceived for once I tnist not kin^ again. 
Ye have my answer— WIj at remains to do, 
Tour king, Ulysses, may consult with you. 
'What needs he the defence, this arm can make ? 
Has be not walls no human force can shake ? 
Has he not fencM his guarded navy rdund 
With piles, with ramparts, and a trench profonnd ? 
And will not these, the wonders he has done. 
Repel the rage of Priam^s single son ?— — PepeU bonier. ' 

yid^m^xamfiUs of Climax, cr a gtaduui increttBt of 
'^enae or Pattsion, 

1. CONSULT your whole natnre. Consider yonrselTes, net 
«nly as. sensitive, but as rational bemga ; not only fts ncttOAiJ, 
but social ; not only as social,' but immortal.— —^mr. 

St, Whom he did foreknew, , he also di<l predestin^ite ; tod 
whom he did predestinate^ them he al&o called ; and whom he 
ouUed, them he ul^o iusti£e4 ; aad whosi he ju«tified, Id^^tA te 
lilso glorified.— -5/, jftut/^ . . 


3. What hop6 ia there remaming of liberty, if whatever is 
their pleasure, it is lawful for them to do ; if what is lawful for 
them to do, they are tible to do ; if what they are able to do, they 

. dare do ; if what tliey dare do, they really execute ; and if what 
they execute is no way offensive to you.^:: — Cicero, 

4. Nothing ia more pleasant to the faney, than to enlarge itself 
by degrees in its contemplation of the various proportions which 
its several objects bear to each other ; whei^ it compares the 
body of a man to the bulk of the whole earth ; the earth to the 
circle it describes round the sun ; that circle to the sphere of 
the fixed «tars j the sphere of the fixed stars to the circuit of 
the whole creation ; the whole creation itself, to the infinite space 
that is every where diffused around it. Spectator, 

'\ . « ■ 

5. After we have practiced good actions awhile, they be« 
come easy ; and when they are easy, we begin to take pleasure 
In theni ; and when thej please ns, we do them frequently ; and 
by frequency of acts, a thing grows into a habit ; and a confined 
habit is M second kind of nature ; and so far ae any thing ie 
natural, so iar it is necessary ; and we can hardly do otherwise ; 
Ai^, we do it many times when we do not think of it«->~— 


6. It is pleasant to be virtuous and good, because that is to ex- 
cel many others ; it is pleasant to grew better, because that is 
to excel ourselves ; it is pleasant to mortify and subdue our 
lusts, because t))at is victory ; it is pleasant to command our 
appetites and pas^Hs, and to keep ihem in due order, within 
the beunds of reason and religion, because that is empire.— 


7. TuDy has a very beantiiu] gradation of thoughts to show 
how amiable virtue is. We love a ri^teous man, says he, who 
lives in the remotest parts of the earth, though we are altogeth- 
er out of the re^h of his virtue, and can receive from it no man- 
ner of benefit ; nay, one who died several ages ago, raises a se- 
cret fondness and benevolence for him in our minds, when we 
read his story ; nay, what is 9t3ll more, one who has been the 
enemy of our country, provided his wars were reg^kted by jus- 
tice and humamty.— «^5[pefftt/or. 

8. As trees and plants necessarily arise from steeds, so are yea 
Antony, the seed of this most calamitous war.-4-You mourn, O 
Romans, that three of our armies have been slaughtered — they 
were slaughtered by Antony ; you lament the loss of your most 
illustrious citizens — they were torn from you by Antony ; the 
authority of this order is deeply wounded— it is wounded by An- 
tony ; in short aM the calamities we have ever since beheld 
(and what calaraiticfi have i^e not beheld ?) have been entirely 
owing to Antony 4 As Helen Uras of Troy, so the bane, the nM»- 
ery^ the destruction of this state is— -Antony,— =— Cicero, 

404 APPsStiit. 

-^m me tiie cvp* 

And let the ketfle lo tlie tnimpetsspeaki 

The tnimpeti to the cannoneeft within. 

The cannoDs to the hearens, the heareivr to earth, 

Mow the kkgdrinka to Hamlet Trag. •/ BamUf.^ 

10. At thirtj, man snspecti hinuelf a fo<^ z 
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; 
At fifty ehides his infanioos delay, 
Pushes bis prudent purpose to resolre^. 
In all the magnanimity of thought,^ 
Resolves and re-resolyea— then dies the s^me.-— — Toun^^ 

Vll.^^ExantfUeM oftAe/irinci/ial Emotions and PatHons^ 
Abmibation, C0NTSMFT9 Jot, GBiftfy Cot;rao&i 
FsAK, LovB, HATa£09 Pitt, AhobHi RKvsNax aTid 

1. WflAT a piece of work is man ! How noble iSi teason I 
How infinite in faculties ! In form and moirin|^ how cKoress and 
admirable! In action bow like an angelt In apprehension how 
like a god > HawUet, 

2. Away I No woman oould descend so low. 
A skipping, dancing, worthless tribe you are. 
Fit only for yourselves, you herd together ; 

And when the circling glass warms your vain hearts, 

You talk of beauties which you never saw. 

And fancy raptures that you never knew.— —Fair PenitcnU-. 

3. Let miyth go on ; let pleasure know no pause, 
But fill up every minute of this day. 

'Tis yours, my children^ sacred to your loves. 
The glorious sun himself for you looks gay ; 
He shines for Altamont, and for Calista. * 
Take care my gates be open. Bid all welcome ; 
All who rejoice ^vith me to day aye friends, 
^et each indulge his genius ; each be glad, 
Jocund and free, and swell the feast with mirth. 
The sprightly bowl shall cheerfully go round ; 
None shall be grave, nor too severe^ wise : 
Losses and disappointments, care and poverty. 
The rich man^s msolence, and great man's scor&y 
In wine shaU be forgotten all. FiHr PeniUnt, 

4. AD dark and comfortless. 

Where all those various objects, that but now 

Employed my busy eyes ? Where those eyes F 

These groping hands are now my only guides^ 

And feeling all my sight. 

O misexy • What wor^s dtt soundmy^f I * ^' 


Shut from the livimif w^ht aasettl; the tivini^ ;^ 
I>ark as the graTe, amidst the bvstliBg world ; 
At once from busioeM^ and irom pleamre barrM ; 
No more to view the beawt^r of the sprung^ 
Or see the face of kiiidred orof If lead !—«-—- 

Tragedy cf Lear, 

5. Thou speaVst a woman^a ; hear a warrior^B wish. 
Right from their native laud, the stormy north, 
May the wind blow, till every keel is fix'd 
Immoveable in Caledonia's strand ! 
Then shall our foes repent their bold invasion, 
And roving armies shun the fatal shore.— 

Tragedy of Douglas, 

6. Ah ! Mercy on my soul ! What's that ? My old friend's 
ghost ! They say, none but wicked folks walk. I wish I were 
at the bottom of a coalpit ! La ! how pale, and how long hit 
face is grown since his death ! He never was handsome ; and 
death has improved him very much the wrong way. — Pray, do 
not come near me ! I wished you very well when you were a-» 
live. — But I could never abide a dead man cheek by jowl with 
me. — Ah ! Ah! mwcy on me ! No nearer, pray ! If it be only 
to take your leave of me, that you are come back, I could have 
excuted you the ceremony with all my heart. — Or if you — mercy 
on us ! — No nearer, pray — or if you have wrong' d any body, as 
you adiwavs lovM money a little, I give yoa the word of a fright- 
ed Christian, I wiU pray, as long as you please, for the deliver- 
ance and repose of your departed soul. My good, worthy, no- 
ble friend, do, pray, disappear, as ever yo*i would wish your old 
friend, Anselm, to come to his senses again. ■ ■■ ■■ 

J^oliereU Blunderer, 

7. Who can behold such beauty and be silent ! 

! I coulff talk to thee forever ; 
Forever fix and gaze on those dear eyes ; 

For every glance they send darts through my soul ! 


8. How like a fawning publican he looks I 

1 hate him for he is a Christian : 
But more, for tiiat in low simplicity 

He lends, out money gratis, and brings down 

The rate of usance with us here in Venice. 

If I can catch him once upon the hip, 

I will feed fat that ancient grudge I bear him. 

He hate^ our sacred nation ; anil he rails, 

E'en there where the merchants most do congregate, 

On me, xnj bargains, and my well won thrift, ^^ 

Which he calls usury. Cursed be my tribe * 

If 1 forgive him.— — JMferc/iaTi/ of Ftniee^ 


9. A% in a tkMtra^lbe eyes •£«)««, 
After a weH graced actor leaves the stage^ 
Aie idljr bent on kim that eaten next, 
Tbin^ing his pfattie to be ledioiis ; 

£▼•11 so, or with raueh Biore coatempt, hmd^s ^r^a ^ 

Did scowl on Richard. No ma» eriM, God save him f 

No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home i 

But dust was thrown upon his sacred bead I 

Which^ with such gentle sorrow, he shook off, 

(His face ctill combatiug with tears and smiles, 

The badges of his grief and patience ;) 

That had notOod, for some strong purpose, steel'd 

The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted ; 

And barbarism itself have pitied him.— — iitc/tartf Ild^ 

10. Hear me, rash man, on thy allegiance hear me» 
Since thou ha«t striven to make us break our vow, 
(Which nor our nature nor our place can bear) 

We banish thee forever from our sight 

And kingdoin* Ifi when three days are expired^ 

Thy hated trunk be found in our dominions,, 

I'hat moment is thy death. Away t 

By Jupiter this shidl not be revoked.— —7Va^e<fyo^r<ar. 

11. Ifit will feed nothine else, it will feed my revenge. He 
hath disgraced me, and hmdered me of half a million, laughed 
at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted 
my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And * 
what^s Us reason ? 1 am a Jew. Hath not a 'Jew eyes I Hath not 
a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, aflections, passions t U 
be not fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons^ sub- 
ject to the same diseases, healed bv the same means, warmed 
and cooled by the same summer and winter, as a Christian is i 
If you prick us, do we not bleed f If you tickle us, do we not 
laugh ? If you poison us. do we not die ? And if you wrong us^ 
shall we not revenge ? If^we are like you m the rest^ we will re- 
semble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his hu- 
mility ? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what would his 
sufTerancei be, by Christian example ? Why, revenge. The vil- 
lany you teach me I will execute ; and it shall go hard^ but I 
will better the instruction.-^^— JWcrc/iani of Venice* 

12. Ye amaranths ! Ye roses, like the mom J 
Sweet myrtles, and ye golden orange groves J 
Joy giving, love inspiring, holy bower ! 
Know, in thy fragrant bosom, thou receiv^st 
A murderer ? Oh, I shall stain thy lilies. 
And horror will usurp the seat of bliss ? 
^ > Ha 1 She sleeps— 
The dajT^s uncommon haat has OTercoiaa hnHm 


!rheD take, my longing ej€«, jonrktiC ftill| 
Oh, what a sight is here! How dreadful fair ! 
V^ho would not think that being innocent ! 
Where shall I strike ? Who strikes her, strikes himtetf— 
My own lifers bl«od will issae at her wound— 
But see she smiks ! 1 neyer shall smile more- 
It strongly tempts me to a parting kiss— 
Ha, smue again ! She dreams of him she loreSk-— 
Ome on her charms J VU stab her through them all* 



JAi\ 1 4 1938 

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