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CHILDREN'S BOOK
COLLECTION
MORAL TALES,
IN PROSE AND VERSE,
SELECTED AND REVISES
FROM THE BEST AUTHORS.
LONDON:
PRIICTED AT THE
FOR A. K. NEWMAN <5f CO.
Leadenkall-Strcct.
1314.
MORAL TALES.
THE VANITY OF HUMAN LIFE,
OR THE VISION OF MIRZA,
[BY DR. JOHNSON 1 .]
ON the fifth day of the moon, which, ac-
cording to the custom of my forefathers, I
always kept holy, after having washed my-
self, and offered up my morning devotions,
I ascended the high hills of Bagdad, in order
to pass the rest of the day in meditation and
prayer. As I Was here airing myself on the
top of the mountains, I fell into a profound
contemplation on the vanity of human life ;
and passing from one thought to another,
Surely, said I, man is but a shadow, and life
a dream. Whilst I was tluis musing, I cast
vet, i, $ . my
2 ^ ',THE VANITY OF HUMAN LIFE.
i
in}' eye towards the summit of a rock that
was not far from me, where I discovered one
in the habit of a shepherd, with a musical
instrument in his hand. As I looked upon
him, he applied it to his lips, and began to
play upon it. The sound of it was exceed-
ingly sweet, and wrought into a variety of
tones that were inexpressibly melodious, and
altogether different from any thing I had
ever heard. This put me in mind of those
heavenly airs that are played to the depart-
ed souls of good men upon their first arrival
in paradise, to wear out the impressions of
their agonies, and to qualify them for the
pleasures of that happy place. My hearl
melted away in secret rapture.
I, had often been told that the rock before
me was the haunt of a genius; and that se-
veral had been 'entertained with music who
had passed by it, but never heard that the
musician hid before made himself visible.
When he had raised my thoughts, by those
transporting airs which he played, to taste,
the pleasures of his conversation, as I look-
ed
THE VANITY OF HUMAN LIFE. 3
ed upon him like one astonished, he beckoned
to me, and by the waving of his hand directed
me to approach the place where he sat. I
drew near with that reverence which is due to
a superior nature ; and as my heart was en-
tirely subdued by the captivating strains I had
heard, I fell down at his feet, and wept. The
Genius smiled upon me with a look of com-
passion and affability that familiarised him to
my imagination, and at once dispelled all the
fears and apprehensions with which I ap-
proached him. He lifted me from the ground,
and, taking me by the hand, Mirza, said he, I
have heard thee in thy soliloquies; follow me.
He then led me to the highest pinnacle of
the rock, and placed me at the top of it : Cast
thine eye eastward, said he, and tell me what
thou seest. I see, said I, a huge valley, and
a prodigious tide of water rolling through it.
The valley that thou seest, said he, is the vale
of misery ; and the tide of water that thou
seest is part of the great tide of eternity.
What is the reason, said I, that the tide I see
rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again
loses
4 THE VANITY OF HUMAN LIFE,
loses itself in a thick mist at the other ? What
thou seest, said he, is the portion of eternity
which is called time, measured out by the sun,
and reaching from the beginning of the world
to its consummation. Examine now, said he,
this sea that is thus bounded with darkness at
both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest
in it. I see a bridge, said I, standing in the
midst of the tide. The bridge thou seest, said
he, is human life ; consider it attentively.
Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found
that* it consisted of threescore and ten entire
^arches, with several broken arches, which,
added to those that were entire, made up the
number about an hundred. As I was count-
ing the arches, the Genius told me, that this
bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches ;
but that a great flood swept away the rest, and
left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now
beheld it. But tell me further, said he, what
thou discoverest on it. I see multitudes of
people passing over it, said I, and a black
cloud hanging on each end of it. As I looked
more attentively, I saw several of the passen-
gers
THE VANITY OF HUMAN LIFE. 5
gers dropping through the bridge into the
great tide that flowed underneath it ; and, up-
on further examination, perceived there were
innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in
the bridge, which the passengers no sooner
trod upon, than they fell through them into
the tide, and immediately disappeared. These
hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the en-
trance of the bridge, go that throngs of people
no sooner broke through the cloud, but many
of them fell into them. They grew thinner
towards the middle, but multiplied and lay
closer together towards the end of the arches
that were entire.
There were indeed some persons, but their
numbers were very small, that continued a
kind of hobbling march on the broken arches,
but fell through one after another, being quite (
tired and spent with so long a walk.
I passed some time in the contemplation of
this wonderful structure, and the great variety
wf objects which it presented. My heart was
filled with a deep melancholy, to see several
dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth
B 3 arid
THE VANITY OF HUMAN LIFE
and jollity, and catching at every thing that
stood by them to save themselves. Some were
looking upwards towards the heavens in 4
thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a
speculation stumbled and fell out of sight.
Multitudes were very busy in the prospect of
bubbles that glittered in their eyes, and danced
before them ; but often when they thougkt
themselves within the reach of them, their
footing failed, and down they sunk. In this
confusion of objects I observed some with
scymetars in their hands, and others with uru
nals, who ran to and fro upon the bridge,
thrusting several persons on trap-doors, which
did not seem to lie in their way, and which
they might have escaped, had they not thus
been forced upon them.
The Genius seeing me indulge myself in
this melancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt
long enough upon it : Take thine eye off the
bridge, said he, and tell me if thou seest any
thing thou dost not comprehend. Upon look-
ing up, What mean, said I, those great flights
of birds tbat are perpetually hoveririg about
thq
THE VANITY OF HUMAN LIFE, f
bridge, and settling upon it, from time tq
time ? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormo-
rants, and among many other feathered crea r
tares, several little winged boys, that perch,
in great numbers upon the middle arches.
These, said the Genius, are Envy, Avarice,
Superstition, Despair, Love, with the like
cares and passions that infest human life.
I here fetched a deep sigh. Alas ! said I,
man was made in vain ! How is he given
away to misery and mortality, tortured in life,
and swallowed up in death ! The Genius be-
ing moved with compassion towards me, bid
me quit sp uncomfortable a prospect. Look
no more, said he, on man in the first stage of
his existence, in his setting out for eternity ;
but cast thine eye on that thick mist into
which the tide bears the several generations
of mortals that fall into it. I directed my
sight as I was ordered, and (whether or no the
good Genius strengthed it with any superna-
tural force, or dissipated part of the mist that
was before tc.o thick for the eye to penetrate)
$aw the valle opening at the further end, and
spreading
S THE VANITY OF HUMAN LIFE.
spreading forth into an immense ocean, that
had a huge rock of adamant running through
the mid<t of it, and dividing it into two equal
parts. The clouds still rested on one half of
it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in
it ; but the other appeared to rrjp a vast ocean,
planted with innumerable islands, that were
covered with fruits and flowers, and inter-
woven with a thousand little shining seas
that ran amongst them. I could see persons
dressed in glorious habits, with garlands upon
their heads, passing among the trees, lying
down by the sides of fountains, or resting on
beds of flowers; and could hear a confused
harmony of singing birds, falling waters, hu-
man voices, and musical instruments. Glad-
ness grew in me upon the discovery of so
delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of
an eagle that I might fly away to those happy
seas: but the Genius told me there was no
passage to them, except through the gates of
death, that I saw opening every moment
upon the bridge.
1 he islands, said he, that lie so fresh and
green
THE VANITY OF HUMAN LIFE. 9
green before thee, and with which the whole
face of the ocean appears spotted as far as
thou canst see, are more in number than the
sands of the sea shore. There are myriads of
islands beyond those which thou here disco*
verest, reaching farther than thine eye or even
thine imagination can extend itself. These
are the mansions of good men after death,
\vho, according to the degrees and kinds of
virtue in which they excelled, are distributed
among those several islands, which abound
with pleasures of different kinds and degrees,
suitable to the relishes and perfections of those
who are settled in them : every island is a pa-
radise accommodated to its respective inhabW
tants. Are not these, Q Mirza, habitations
worth contending for ? Does life appear mU
serable, that gives thee opportunities of earn-
jng such a reward ? Is death to be feared,
that will convey thee to so happy an exis-
tence ? Think not man was made in vain,
who has such an eternity reserved for him.
I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these
happy glands. At length, said I, Show me
now,
10 THE BASKET-MAKER.
now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid
under those dark clouds which cover the ocean
on the other side of the rock of adamant. The
Genius making me no answer, I turned about
to address myself to him a second time, but I
found that he had left me ; I then turned
again to the vision which I had been so long
contemplating, but instead of the rolling tide,
the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I
saw nothing but the long hollow valley of
Bagdad, with oxen, sheep, and camels grazing
upon the sides of it.
THE BASKET- MAKER,
A PERUVIAN TALE.
JLN the midst of that vast ocean, commonly
called the South- Sea, lie the Islands of Solo-
mon. In the centre of these lies one not only
distant from the rest, which are immensely
scattered round it, but also larger beyond pro-
portion.
THE BASKET-MAKER. 11
portion. An ancestor of the prince, who now
reigns absolute in this central island, has,
through a long descent of ages, entailed the
name of Solomon's Islands on the whole, by
the effect of that wisdom wherewith he po-
lished the manners of his people.
A descendant of one of the great men of
this happy island, becoming a gentleman to
so improved a degree as to despise the good
qualities which had originally ennobled his
family, thought of nothing but how to sup-
port and distinguish his dignity by the pride
of an ignorant mind, and a disposition aban-
doned to pleasure. He had a house on the
sea-side, where he spent great part of his
time in hunting and fishing : but found him-
self at a loss in pursuit of those important
diversions, by means of a long slip of marsh
land, overgrown with high reeds, that lay be-,
tween his house and the sea. Resolving,, at
'length, that it became not a man of his qua-
lity to submit to a restraint in his pleasures,
Yor the ease and convenience of an obstinate
mechanic ^ and having often endeavoured, in
vain,
12 THE BASKET-MAKER.
vain, to buy out the owner, \vho was an ho-
nest poor basket-maker, and whose livelihood
depended on working up the flags of those
reeds, in a manner peculiar to himself, the
gentleman took advantage of a very high wind,
and commanded his servants to burn down the
barrier.
The basket-maker, who saw himself un-
done, complained of the oppression, in terms
more suited to his sense of the injury, than
the respect due to the rank of the offender :
and the reward this imprudence procured him,
was the additional injustice of blows and re-
proaches, and all kinds of insult and indignity.
There was but one way to a remedy, and
he took it. For going to the capital, with
the marks of his hard usage upon him, he
threw himself at the feet of the king, and
procured a citation for his oppressor's ap-
pearance ; who, confessing the charge, pro-
ceeded to justify his behaviour by the poor
man's unmindfulness of the submission due
from the vulgar to gentlemen of rank and
distinction.
But
-IITZ BASKET-MAKER. IS
But pray, replied the king, what distinction
-of rank had the grandfather of your father,
when, being a cleaver of wood in the palace
of my ancestors, he was raised from among
those vulgar you speak of with such con-
tempt, in reward for an instance he gave of
his courage and loyalty in defence of his mas-
ter? Yet his distinction was nobler than
youas : it was the distinction of soul, not of
birth ; the superiority of worth, not of for-
tune ! I am sorry I have a gentleman in my
kingdom, who is base enough to be ignorant
that ease and distinction of fortune were be-
stowed on him but to this end, that, being at
rest from all cares of providing for himself,
he might apply his heart, head, and hand, for
the public advantage of others.
Here the king, discontinuing his speech,
fixed an eye of indignation on a sullen resent-
ment of mien which he observed in the haugh-
ty offender, who muttered out his dislike of
the encouragement this way of thinking must
give to the commonality, who, he said, were
to be considered as persons of no consequence,
VOL, i. C in
14 THE BASKET-MAKER.
in comparison of men who were born to be
honoured. Where reflection is wanting, re-
plied the king, with a smile of disdain, men
must find their defects in the pain of their
sufferings. Yanhuma, added he, turning to a
captain of hisgallies, strip the injured and the
injurer ; and, conveying them to one of the
most barbarous and remote of the islanus, set
them ashore in the night, and leave them
both to their fortune.
The place in which they were lar.ded was
a marsh ; under cover of those fla^s the gen-
tleman was in hopes of concealing himself,
and giving the slip to his companion, whom
he thought it a disgrace t be found with:
but the lights in the galley having given an
alarm to the savages, a considerable body of
them came down, and discovered, in the
morning, the two strangers in their hiding-
place. Setting up a dismal yell, they sur-
rounded them ; a'nd, advancing ntrarer an,.!
nearer with a kind of clubs, seemed deter-
mined to dispatch them, without sense oi hos-
pitality or mercy.
Here
THE BASKET-MAKER. 15
Here the gentleman began to discover, that
the superiority of his blood was imaginary :
for, between the consciousness of shame and
cold, under the nakedness he had never been
used to ; a fear of the event from the fierce-
ness of the savages' approach ; and the want
of an idea whereby to soften or divert their
asperity, he fell behind the poor sharer of his
calamity ; and, with an unsinewed, appre-
hensive, unmanly sneakingness of mien, gave
up the post of honour, and made a leader of
the very man whom he had thought it a dis-
grace to consider as a companion.
The basket-maker, on the contrary, to
whom the poverty of his condition had made
nakedness habitual ; to whom a life of pain
and mortification represented death as not
dreadful ; and whose remembrance of his skill
in arts, of which these savages were ignorant,
gave him hopes of becoming safe, from de-
monstrating that he could be useful, moved
with bolder and more open freedom; and,
having plucked a handful of the flags, sat
down without emotion, and making signs that
he
16 THE BASKET-MAKER.
he would shew them something worthy of
their attention, fell to work with smiles and
noddings; while the savages drew near, and
gazed with expectation of the consequence.
It was not long before he had wreathed a
kind of coronet of pretty workmanship; and
rising with respect and fearfulness, approach-
ed the savage who appeared the chief, and
placed it gently on his head ; whose figure,
under this new ornament, so charmed and
struck his followers, that they all threw down
their clubs, and formed a dance of welcome
and congratulation round the author of so
prized a favour.
There was not one but shewed the marks
of his impatience to be made as fine as the
captain: so the poor basket-maker had his
hands full of employment. And the savages,
observing one quite idle, while the other was
so busy in their service, took up arms in be-
half of natural justice, and began to lay oa
arguments in favour of their purpose.
The basket-maker's pity now effaced th$
remembrance of his sufferings ^ so he arose
and rescued his oppressor, by making signs
THE BASKET-MAKER. 17
that he was ignorant of the art ; but might,
if they thought fit, be usefully employed in
waiting on the work, and fetching flags to his
supply, as fast as he should want them.
This proposition luckily fell in with a de-
sire the saVages expressed to keep themselves
at leisure, that they might crowd round, and
mark the progress of a 'work they took such
pleasure in. They left the gentleman there-
fore to his duty in the basket-maker's service ;
and considered him, from that time forward,
as one who was and ought to be treated as in-
ferior to their benefactor.
Men, women, and children, from all cor-
ners of the island, came in droves for coro-
nets: and, setting the gentleman to work to
gather boughs and poles, made a fine hut to
lodge the basket-maker : and brought down
daily from the country such provisions as they
lived upon themselves, taking care to offer the
imagined servant nothing till his master had
done eating.
Three months reflection in this mortified
condition, gave a new and just turn to our
C 3 gentleman's
i
IS THE BASKET-MAKER.
gentleman's improved ideas; insomuch that,
Lying weeping and awake one night, he thus
confessed his sentiments in favour of the bas-
ket-maker. I have been to blame, and want-
ed judgment to distinguish between accident
8-nd excellence. When I should have mea T
sured nature, I but looked to vanity. The
preference which fortune gives, is empty and
imaginary : and I perceive too late, that only
things of use are naturally honourable. I am
ashamed, when I compare my malice, to re-
member your humanity : but if the gods should
please to call me to a repossession of my rank
and happiness, I would divide all with you in
atonement for my justly punished arrogance.
He promised, and performed his promise .
for the king, soon after, sent the captain who
had landed them, with presents to the savages;
and ordered him to bring both back again.
And it continues to this day a custom, in that
island, to degrade all gentlemen who cannot
give a better reason for their pride, than that
they were born to do nothing : and the word
for this due punishment is, " Send him to
the basket-maker/*
f 19 3
0WIN AND ANGELINA,
[BY PR. GOLDSMITH.]
r< TURN, gentle hermit of the dale.,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.
ft For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow ;
Where wilds, immeasurable spread,
Seem length'ning as I go."
" Forbear", my son, (the hermit cries)
To tempt the dangerous gloom ;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To, lure thee to thy doom, /
" Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still ;
And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.
20 EDWIN AND ANGELINA.
" Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whatever my cell bestows ;
My rushy couch and frugal- fare,
My blessing and repose.
<( No flocks that range the valley free,
To slaughter I condemn ;
Taught by that power that pities me,
I learn to pity them :
" But from the mountain's grassy side
A guiltless feast I bring ;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supply 'd,
And water from the spring.
" Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong ;
Man wants but little here-below,
Nor wants that little long."
Soft as the dew from heav'n descends,
His gentle accents fell:
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
Far
EDWIN AND ANGELINA. 21
Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay,
A refuge to the neighbYmg poor
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Requir'd a master's care ;
The wicket opening with a latch,
Receiv'd the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their ev'ning rest,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest ;
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily press'd, and smil'd ;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The Hng'ring hours beguil'd.
Around in sympathetic mirth ,
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies,
But
22 EDWIN AND ANGELINA.
But nothing could a charm impart
To sooth the stranger's woe j
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the hermit spy'd,
With answ'ring care opprest :
" And whence, unhappy youth, (he cry'd)
The sorrows of thy breast ?
" From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love ?
" Alas ! the joys that fortune brings,
Are trifling and decay ;
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.
** And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep ;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep I .
And
EDWIN AND ANGELINA. 23
" And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair-one's jest :
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.
" For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex," he said :
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love- lorn guest betray 'd.
Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view ;
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms :
The lovely stranger stands confest
A maid in all her charms.
u And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn, (she cry'd) ;
c * Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where heav'n and you reside.
But
24 EDWIN AND ANGELINA*
tc But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray :
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.
" My father liv'd beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he ;
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,
He had but only me.
* ' To win me from his tender arms,
Unnunr^.cr'd suitors came ;
%Vho prais'd me for imputed charms\
And felt, or feign'd a flame.
" Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove;
Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd,
But never talk'd of love.
ff Jnlwmble, simplest habit clad,
- No wealth nor power had he ;
"Wisdom and worth were all he had, '
But these were all to me.
And
EDWIN AND ANGELINA S
( And when, beside me in the dale,
He carol'd lays of love,
His breath lent fragrance to the gale, -
And music to the grove.
" The blqssom opening to the day,
The dews of heav'n refin'd,
Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind.
<c The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine ;
Their charms were his, but woe to me !
Their constancy was mine.
For still I try'd each fickle art,
Importunate and vain ;
And while his passion touch'd my heart,
I triumph'd in his pain.
<c Till quite dejected with my scorn^
He left me to my pride ;
And sought a solitude forlorn ,
In secret where he.dy'd.
s But
26 EDWIN AND ANGELINA.
" But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay ;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.
" And, there forlorn, despairing hid,
I'll lay me down and die ;
'Twas so for me that Ed\vin did,
And so for him will I."
" Forbid it Heav'n !" the hermit cry'd,
And clasp'd her to his breast :
The wond'ring fair one turn'd t chide,-7-
"Twas Edwin's self that prest.
" Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restor'd to love and thee.
" Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And ev'ry care resign :
And shall we never, never part,
My life, my all that's mine.
BOZALDAB, 21
" No, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true ;
The sighs that rends thy constant heart,
Shall break thy Edwin's too."
BOZ ALDAB;
OR, THE JUSTICE OF PROVIDENCE,
[BY DR. HAWKESWORTH.]
BOZ ALDAB, caliph of Egypt, had dwelt
securely for many years in the silken pa-
vilions of pleasure, and had every morning
anointed his head with the oil of gladness,
when his only son Aboram, for whom he had
crowded his treasures with gold, extended his
dominions with conquests, and secured them
with impregnable 'fortresses, was suddenly
wounded, as he was Bunting, with an ajrow
from an unknown hand, and expired in the
field.
Bozaldab, in the distraction of grief and
despair, refused to return to his palace, and
retired
28 E02ALDAB.
retired to the gloomiest grotto in the neigh*
bouring mountains ; he there rolled himself
in the dust, tore away the hairs of his hoary
head, and dashed the cup of consolation that
Patience offered him to the ground. He suf-
fered not his minstrels to approach his pre-
sence ; but listened to the screams of the me-
lancholy birds of midnight, that flit through
the solitary vaults and echoing chambers of
the pyramids. (( Can that God be benevo-
lent, (he cried,) who thus wounds the soul,
as from an ambush, with unexpected sor-
rows, and crushes his creatures in a moment
with irremediable calamity ? Ye lying Imans,
prate to us no more of the justice, of the
kindness of an all-directing and all-loving
Providence ! He, whom ye pretend reigns in
heaven, is so far from protecting the misera-
ble sons of men, that he perpetually delights
to blast the sweetest flowerets in the garden of
Hope ; and, like a malignant giant, to beat
down the strongest towers of happiness with
the iron mace of Anger. If this being pos-
sessed the goodness am! the power with which
flattering
BOZALDAB. 29
flattering priests have invested him, he would
doubtless be inclined and enabled to banish
those evils which render the world a dungeon
of distress, a vale of vanity and woe. I will
continue in it no longer !"
At this moment he furiously raised his
hand, which Despair had armed with a dag-
ger, to strike deep into his bosom ; when sud-
denly thick flashes of lightning shot through
the cavern, and a being of more than human
beauty and magnitude, arrayed in azure
robes, crowned with amaranth, and waving
a branch of palm in his right hand, arrested
the arm of .the trembling and astonished Ca-
liph, and said, with a majestic smile, " Fol-
low me to the top of this mountain.
" Look from hence (said the awful con-
ductor) ; I am Caloc, the angel of peace ; look
from hence into the valley."
Bozaldab opened his eyes, and beheld a
barren, sultry, and solitary island, in the midst
of which sat a pale, meagre, arid ghastly
figure j il was a merchant just perishing with
Jamine, and lamenting that he could find nei-
D ther
30 EOZALDAB.
ther wild berries nor a single spring in this
forlorn uninhabited desert ; and begging the
protection of heaven against the tigers that
would now certainly destroy him, since he
had consumed the last fuel he had collected
to make nightly fires to affright them. He
then cast a casket of jewels on the sand, as
trifles of no use ; and crept feeble and
trembling to an eminence, where he was ac-
customed to sit every evening, to watch the
setting sun, and to give a signal to any ship
that might happily approach the island.
" Inhabitant of heaven (cried Bozaldab)
suffer not this wretch to perish by the fury of
wild beasts." Peace ! (said the angel) and ob-
serve."
He looked again, and beheld a vessel ar-
rive at the desolate isle. What words can
paint the rapture of the starving merchant,
when the captain offered to transport him to,
his native country, if he would reward him
with half the jewels of his casket. No sooner
had this pitiful commander received the stipu-
htecj sum, than he held a consyltation with
the
BOZALDAB. 31
the crew, and they agreed to seize the re-
maining jewels, and leave the unhappy exile
in the same helpless and lamentable condi-
tion in which they discovered him. He wept
and trembled, intreated, and implored in vain.
" Will heaven permit such injustice to be
practised ?" (exclaimed Bozaldab.) ." Look
again ! (said the angel) and behold the very ship
in which, short-sighted as thou art, thou
wiShedst the merchant might embark, dashed
in pieces on a rock,; dost thou not hear the
cries of the sinking sailors ? Presume not to
direct the Governor of the Universe in the
disposal of events. The man whom thou
hast pitied shall be taken from this dreary so-
litude, but not by- the method thou wouldst
prescribe. His vice was avarice, by which
he became not only abominable but wretched ^
he fancied some mighty charm in wealth,
which, like the wand of Abdiel, would gratify
every wish, and obviate every fear. This
wealth he has now been taught not only to
despise but abhor ; he cast his jewels upon
ihq sand, and confessed them to be useless :
1 he
3C BOZALDAB.
he offered part of them to the mariners, and
perceived them to be pernicious ; he has now
learned, that they are rendered useful or
vain, good or evil, only by the situation and
temper of the possessor. Happy is he whom
distress has taught wisdom! But turn ttyine
yes to another and more interesting scene."
The Caliph instantly beluld a magnificent
palace, adorned with statues of his ancestors
wrought in jasper ; the ivory doors of which,
turning on hinges of the gold of Golconda,
discovered a throne of diamonds, surrounded
by the rajahs of fifty nations, and wiih am-
bassadors in various habits, and of different
complexions ; on which sat Aboram, the
much-lamented son of Bozaldab, and by his
side a princess fairer than aHouri.
*' Gracious Alia ! It is my son ! (cried
the Caliph) O let me hold him to my heart r"
" Thou canst not grasp an unsubstantial vi-
sion (replied the angel :) I am now showing
thee what would have been the destiny of thy
son, had he continued longer on the earth."
" And why (returned Bozaldab;, why was he
3 not
BOZALDAB. S3
not permitted to continue ? Why was he not
suffered to be a witness of so much felicity
and power?" u Consider the sequel/' re-
plied he that dwells in the fifth heaven. Bo-
zaldab looked earnestly, and saw the counte-
nance of his son, on which he had been used
to behold the placid smile of simplicity, and
the vivid blushes of health, now distorted with
rage, and now fixed in the insensibility of
drunkenness: .it was again animated with dis-
dain, it became pale with apprehension, and
appeared to be withered with intemperance ;
his hands were stained with blood, and he
trembled by turns with fury and terror. The
palace, so lately shining with oriental pomp,
changed suddenly into the cell of a dungeon,
where his son lay stretched out on a cold
pavement, gagged and bound, and his eyes
put out. Soon after he perceived the favourite
sultana, who before was seated by his side,
enter with a bowl of poison, which she com-
pelled Aboram to drink, and afterwards mar-
ried the successor to his throne.
" Happy (said Caloc) is he whom provi-
dence
34 BOZALDAB.
dence has by the angel of death snatched from
guilt ! from whom that power is withheld,
which, if he had possessed, would have accu-
mulated upon himself yet greater misery than
it could upon others."
" It is enough (cried Bozaldab) : I adore
the inscrutable schemes of Omniscience '
From what dreadful evil has my son been
rescued, by a death which I rashly bewailed
as unfortunate and premature. A death of
innocence and peace, wh.ch has blessed his
memory on earth, and transmitted his spirit
to the skies."
" Cast away the dagger (replied the hea-
venly messenger) which thou wast preparing
to plunge into thine own heart. Exchange
complaint for silence, and doubt for adora-
tion. Can a mortal look down without gid-
diness and stupefaction, into the vast abyss of
Eternal Wisdom ? Can a mind that sees not
infinitely, perfectly comprehend any thing
amongst an infinity cf objects, mutually rela-
tive? Can the channels, which thou com-
mandest to be cut to receive the annual.inun-
dation
THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES. 35
dation of the Nile, contain the waters of the
ocean ? ' Remember that perfect happiness
cannot be conferred on a creature, for perfect
happiness is an attribute as incommunicable
as perfect power and eternity."
The angel, while he was thus speaking,
stretched out his pinions to fly back to the
empyreum, and the flutter of his wings was
like the rushing of a cataract.
THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES.
A VISION.
[BY DR. JOHNSON.]
IT is a celebrated thought of Socrates, that
if all the misfortunes of mankind were cast
into a public stock, in order to be equally di-
stributed among the whole species, those who
now think themselves the most unhappy,
would prefer the share they are already pos-
sessed of, before that which would fall to them
by
So THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES.
by such a division. Horace has carried the
thought a great deal further; which implies,
that the hardships or misfortunes we lie un-
der, are more easy to us than those of any
other person would be, in case we should
change conditions with him.
As I was ruminating on these two re-
marks, and seated in my elbow-chair, I in-
sensil !y fell asleep ; when on a sudden, me-
thought there was a proclamation made by
Jupiter, that every mortal should bring in his
griefs and calamities, and throw them toge-
ther in a heap. There was a large plain ap-
pointed for this purpose. I took my stand in
the centre of it, and saw with a great deal of
pleasure the whole human species marching
one after another, and throwing down their
several loads, which immediately grew up in-
to a prodigious mountain, that seemed to rise
above the clouds.
There was a certain lady of a thin airy
shape, who was very active in this solemnity.
She carried a magnifying glass in one of her
hands, and was cipathed in a loo^e flowing
robe,
THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES. 3?
robe, embroidered with several figures of,
fiends and spectres, that discovered themselves
in a thousand chimerical shapes, as her gar-
ment hovered in the wind. There was some~
thing wild and distracted in her looks. Her
name was Fancy. She led up every mortal
to the appointed place, after having very offi-
ciously assisted him in making up his pack,
and laying it upon his shoulders. My heart
melted within me to see my fellow-creatures
groaning under their respective burdens, and
to consider that prodigious bulk of human ca-
lamities which lay before me.
There were, however, several persons- who
gave me great diversion upon this occasion.
I observed one bringing in a fardel very care-
fully concealed under an old embroidered
cloak, which, upon his throwing it into the
heap, I discovered to be Poverty. Another,
after a great deal of puffing, threw down his
luggage ; which, upon examining, I found to
be his wife. <
There were multitudes of lovers saddled
with very whimsical burdens, composed of
VOL. I. E darts
53 THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES.
\
darts and flames; but what was very odd,
though they sighed as if their hearts would
break under these bundles of calamities, they
could not persuade themselves to cast them
into the heap when they came up to it ; but
after a few faint efforts, shook their heads,
and marched away, as heavy-loaded as they
came. I saw multitudes of old women throw
down their wrinkles, and several young ones
who stripped themselves of a tawny skin.
There were very great Jieaps of red noses,
large lips, and rusty teeth. The truth of it
is, I was surprised to see the greatest part of
the mountain made up of bodily deformities.
Observing one advance towards the heap with
a larger cargo than ordinary upon his back,
I found, upon his nearer approach, that it
was only a natural hump, which he disposed
of with great joy of heart, among this collec-
tion of human miseries. There were like-
wise distempers of all sorts $ though I could
not but observe, that there were many more
imaginary than real.
One little packet I could not but take no-
Jce
THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES. 3^
lice of, which was a complication of all the
diseases incident to human nature, and was in
the hands of a great many fine people : this
was called the spleen. But what most of all
surprised me was a remark I made, that there
was not a single vice or folly thrown into the
whole heap : at which 1 was very much asto-
nished, having concluded within myself, that
every one would take this opportunity of* get-
ting rid of his passions, prejudices, and frail-
ties.
I took notice in particular of a very pro-
fligate fellow, who I did not question came
loaded with his-crimes ; but upon searching
into his bundle, I found that, instead of throw-
ing his guilt from him, he had only laid down
his memory. He was followed by another
worthless rogue, who flung away his mo-
desty instead of his ignorance.
When the whole race of mankind had thus
cast down their burdens, the Fantome, which
thad been so busy on this occasion, seeing me
an idle spectator of what passed, approached
towards me. I grew uneasy at her. presence,
when
40 THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES.
\vhcrrona sudden she held her magnifying
glass full before my eyes. I no sooner saw
rny face in it but I was startled at the short-
ness of it, which now appeared to me in the
utmost aggravation. The immoderate breadth
of the features made me very much out of
humour with my own countenance ; upon
\vhich I threw it from me like a mask. It
happened very luckily, that one who stood by
me had just before thrown down his visage,
which it seems was too long for him. It was
indeed extended to a most shameful length :
1 believe the very chin was, modestly speak-
ing, as long as my whole face. We had both
of us an opportunity of mending ourselves ;
and all the contributions being now brought
in, every man was at liberty to change his
misfortunes for those of another person.
I saw, with unspeakable pleasure, the
whole species thus delivered from its sor-
rcnvs ; though at the same time, as we stood
round the heap, and surveyed the several ma-
terials of which it was composed, there was
scarce a mortal, in this vast multitude, who
did
THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES. 41
did not discover what he thought pleasures
and blessings of life ; and wondered how the
owners of them ever came to look upon them
as burdens and grievances.
As we were regarding very attentively this
confusion of miseries, this chaos of calamity,
Jupiter issued out a second proclamation, that
every one was now at liberty to change his
affliction, and to return to his habitation with
any other such bundle as should be delivered
to him.
Upon this Fancy began again to bestir her-
self, and parcelling the whole heap with in-
credible activity, recommended to every one
his particular packet. The hurry and con-
fusion at this time was not to be expressed.
Some observations which I made upon this
occasion I shall communicate to the public.
A venerable grey-headed man, who had laid
down the cholic, and- who I found wanted an
heir to his estate, snatched up an undutiful
son, that had been thrown into the . hap by
an angry father. The graceless youth, in less
than a quarter of an hour, pulled the old gen"~
E ,3 tleman
4J THE MOUNTAIN OF MISER T ES.
tleman by the beardj and had V.kc to have
knocked his brains out ; so that meeting the
true father, who came towards him in a fit of
the gripes, he begged him to take his son
again, and give him back his cholic ; but they
were incapable either of them to recede from
the choice they had made. A poor galley-
slave, who had thrown down his chains, took
up the gout in their stead ; but made such
wry faces, that one might easily perceive he
was no great gainer by the bargain. It was
pleasant enough to see the several exchanges
that were made, for sickness against poverty,
hunger against want of appetite, and care
against pain.
The female world were very busy among
themselves in bartering for features : one was
trucking a lock of grey hairs for a carbuncle;
another was making over a short waist for a
pair of round shoulders ; and a third cheapen-
ing a bad face for a lost reputation ; but on
all these occasions there was not one of them
\vho did not think the new blemish, as soon
as she had got it into her possession, much
more
THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES. 43
more disagreeable than the old one. 'I made
the same observation on every other misfor-
tune or calamity, which every one of the as-
sembly brought upon himself, in lieu of what
he had parted with ; whether it be that all the
evils which befall us are in some measure
suited and proportioned to our strength, or
that every evil becomes more supportable by
pur being accustomed to it, I shall not deter-
mine.
I could not from my heart forbear pitying
the poor hump-backed gentleman, before men-
tioned, who went off a very well-shaped per-
son with a stone in his bladder ; nor the fine
gentleman who had struck up a bargain with
him, that limped through the whole assembly
of ladies who used to admire him, with a pair
of shoulders peeping over his head.
I must not omit my own particular adven-
ture.- My friend with the long visage had no
sooner taken upon him my short face, but he
made such a grotesque figure in it, that as I
looked upon him I could not forbear laughing
at myself, insomuch that I put my own face
out
4-1- THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES.
out of countenance. The poor gentleman
was so sensible of the ridicule, that I found
he was ashamed of what he had done : on the
other side, I found that I myself had got no
great reason to triumph ; for as I went to
touch my forehead, I missed the place, and
clapped my finger upon my tipper lip. Be-
sides, as my nose was exceedingly prominent,
I gave it two or three unlucky knocks, as I
was playing my hand about my face, and
aiming at some other part of it. I saw two
other gentlemen by me, who were in. the same
ridiculous circumstances. These had made a
foolish swap between a couple of thick bandy
legs, and two long trap-sticks that had no
calves to them. One of these looked like a
man walking upon stilts, and was so lifted up
into the air above his ordinary height, that his
head turned round with it ; while the other
made such auk ward circles as he attempted to
walk, that he scarce knew how to move for-
ward upon his new supporters : observing
him to be a very pleasant kind of a fellow, I
struck my cane into the ground, and told him
I would
THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES. 45
I would lay a bottle of wine, that he did not
march up to it in a line that I drew for him,
in a quarter of an hour.
The heap was at last distributed among the
two sexes, who made a most piteous sight, as
they wandered up. and down under the pres-
sure of their several burdens. The whole
plain was filled with murmurs and com-
plaints, groans and lamentations. Jupiter at
length, taking compassion upon the poor
mortals, ordered them a second time to lay
down their loads, with a design to give every
one his own again. They discharged them-
selves with a great deal of pleasure ; after
which, the Fantorne, which had led them into
such gross delusion, was commanded to dis-
appear. There was sent in her stead a god-
dess of quite a different figure : her motions
were steady and composed, and her aspect
serious and cheerful. She every now and then
cast her eyes towards heaven, and fixed them
upon Jupiter. Her name was Patience. She
had no sooner placed herself by the mount of
sorrows, but, what I thought very remark-
able,
46 THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES.
able, the whole heap sunk to such a degree,
that it did not appear a third part so big as it
was before. She afterwards returned every
man his own proper calamity, and teaching
him how to bear it in the most commodious
manner, he marched off with it contentedly,
being very well pleased that he had not been
left to his own choice, as to the kind of evils
which fell to his lot.
Besides the several pieces of morality to be
drawn out of this vision, I learnt from it never
to repine at my own misfortunes, or to envy
the happiness f another, since it is impos-
sible for any man to form a right judgment of
his neighbour's sufferings ; for which reason
also I have determined never to think too
lightly of another's complahits, but to regard
the sorrows of my fellow-creature with sen-
timents f humanity and compassion.
THE
f 47 ]
THE TOWN AND COUNTRY MICE.
[BY MR. POPE.]
ONCE on a time, so runs the fable,
A country mouse, right hospitable,
Receiv'd a town mouse at his board,
Just as a farmer might a lord.
A frugal mouse upon the whole,
Yet lov'd his friend, and had a soul ;
Knew what was handsome, and would do%
On just occasion, coute (jui coute.
He brought him bacon, nothing lean,
Pudding, that might have pleas'd a dean;
Cheese, such as men in Suffolk make,
But wish'd it Stilton for his sake ;
Yet, to his guest tho' no way sparing,
He eat himself the rind and paring.
Our courtier scarce could touch a bit,
But show'd his breeding and his wit;
Ho did his best to seem to eat,
And cried, " I vow you're mighty neat.
But
48 THE TOWN AND COUNTRY MICE.
But lord, my friend, this savage scene '
For God's sake, come and live with men:
Consider, mice, like men, must die,
Both small and great, both you and I :
Then spend your life in joy and sport ;
This doctrine, friend, I learn at court."
The veriest hermit in the nation
May yield, God knows, to streng temptation.
Away they come, thro' thick and thin,
To a tall house near Lincoln's-Inn:
'Twas on the night of a debate,
When all their lordships had sat late.
Behold the place, where, if a poet
Shin'd in description, he might show it ;
Tell how the moon-beam trembling falls,
And tips with silver all the walls ;
Palladian walls, Venetian doors,
Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors :
But let it, in a word, be said,
The moon was uj), and men abed,
The napkins white, the carpet red:
The guests withdrawn had left the treat,
And down the mice sate, telc-a-ftfe*
Our
THE TOWN AND COUNTRY MICE. 49
Our courtier walks from dish to dish>
Tastes for his friend of fowl and fisli ;
Tells all their names, lays down the law,
(i 2ue ca est hon ! Ah qoutez $a !
That jelly's rich, this malmsey healing,
Pray, dip your whiskers and your tail in."
Was ever such a happy swain ?
He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again.
" I'm quite asham'd 'tis mighty rude
To eat so much but all 's so good.
I have a thousand thanks to give
My lord alone knows how to live."
No sooner said, but from the hall
Rush chaplain, butler, dogs and all ;
" A rat 1 a rat ! clap to the door !"
The cat comes bouncing on the floor,
O, for the heart of Homer's mice,
Or gods to save them in a trice !
S An't please your honour," quoth the peasant,
*' This same dessert is not so pleasant :
Give me again my hollow tree,
A crust of bread and liberty !"
VOL. I. F THE
THE VISION OF ALMET.
AN EASTERN STORY.
[EY DR. HAWKF.SVr'ORTII.j
ALMET, the dervise, who watched the sa-
cred lamp in the sepulchre of the prophet, as
he one day rose up from the devotions of the
morning, which he had performed at the gate
of the temple, with his body turned towards
the east, and his forehead on the earth, saw
before him a man in splendid apparel, attend-
ed by a long refmue, who gazed stedfastly
on him, with a look of mournful compla-
cency, and seemed desirous to speak, but un-
willing to offend.
The dervise, after a short silence, advanced,
and saluting him with the calm dignity which
independence confers upon humility, request-
ed that he would reveal his purpose.
*' Almet, (said the stranger) thou seest be-
fore thee a man, whom the hand of prosperity
has
THE VISION OF ALMET, 51
has overwhelmed with wretchedness. What-
ever I once desired as the means of happiness,
I now possess ; but I am not yet happy, and
therefore I despair. I regret the lapse of
time, because it glides away without enjoy-
ment ; and as I expect nothing in the future
but the vanities of the past, I do not wish
that the future should arrive. Yet I tremble
lest I should be cut off; and my heart sinks
when I anticipate the moment, in which eter-
nity shall close over the vacuity of my life,
like the sea upon the path of a ship, and
leave no traces of my existence more durable
than the furrow which remains after the waves
have united. If in the treasures of thy wis-
dom there is any precept to obtain felicity,
vouchsafe it to me: for this purpose I am
come ; a purpose which yet I fear to reveal,
lest, like all the former, it should be disap-
pointed." -Almet listened with looks of asto-
nishment and pity, to this complaint of a
being, in whom reason was known to be a
pledge of immortality : but the serenity of his
countenance soon returned ; and stretching
out
0*2 THE VISJON OF ALMET.
out his hands towards heaven, " Stranger,
(said he) the knowledge which I have re-
ceived from the prophet I will communicate
to thse.
" As I was sitting once at the porch of the
temple, pensive and alone, mine eyes wander-
ing among the multitude that was scattered
before me; and while I remarked the weari-
ness and solicitude which was visible in every
countenance, I was suddenly struck with a
sense of their condition. Wretched mortals!
said I, to what purpose are you busy? If to
produce happiness, by whom is it enjoyed I
Do the linens of Egypt, and the siiks of
Persia, bestow felicity on those who wear
them, equal to the wretchedness of yonder
slaves, whom I see leading the camels that
bring them : Is the fineness .of the texture,
or the splendour of the tints, regarded with
delight by those to whom custom has reri-
d- red them familiar r Or, can the power of
t render others insensible; of pain, who
live only to traverse the desert ; a scene of
dreadful uniformity, where a barren level is
bounded
THE VISION OF ALMET. 53
bounded only by the horizon ; where no
change of prospect, nor variety of images,
relieve the traveller from a sense of toil and
danger; of whirlwinds, which in a moment
may bury him in the sand ; and of thirst,
which the wealthy have given half their pos-
sessions to allay ? Do those on whom he-
reditary diamonds sparkle with unregarded
lustre, gain from the possession what is lost
by the wretch who seeks them in the mine ;
who lives excluded from the common boun-
ties of nature ; to whom even the vicissitude
of day and night is not known ; who sighs in
perpetual darkness, and whose life is one
mournful alternative of insensibility and la-
bour? If those are not happy who possess,
in proportion as those are wretched who be-
stow, how vain a dream is the life of man !
And if there is indeed such difference in the
value of existence, how shall we acquit of
partiality the hand by /which this difference
has been made ?
" While my thoughts thus multiplied, and
my heart burnt within me, I became sensible
F 3 of
54 THE VISION OF ALMET.
of a sudden influence from above. The streets
and the crowds of Mecca disappeared. I
found myself sitting on the declivity of a
mountain, and perceived at my right-hand an
angel, whom I knew to be Azoran, the mi-
nister of reproof. When I saw him, I was
afraid. I cast my eyes on the ground, and
was about to deprecate his anger, when he
commanded me to be silent. * Almet, (said
he) thou hast devoted thy life to meditation,
that thy counsel might deliver ignorance from
the maz^s of error, and deter presumption
from the precipice of guilt ; but the book of
nature thou hast read without understanding:
it is again open before thee ; look up, consider
it, and be wise.'
" I looked up, and beheld an inclosure,
beautitul as the gardens of paradise, but of a
small extent. Through the middle there was
a green walk ; at the end a wild desert ; and
beyond, impenetrable darkness. The walk
was shaded with trees of every kind, that
were covered at once with blossoms and fruit ;
innumerable birds were singing in the bra -ch-
es;
THE VISION OF ALMET. 55
cs ; the grass was intermingled with flowers,
which impregnated the breeze with fragrance,
and painted the path with beauty : on the
other side flowed a gentle transparent stream,
which was just heard to murmur over, the
golden sands that sparkled at the bottom ;
and on the other were walks and bowers,
fountains, grottos, and cascades, which diver-
sified the scene with endless variety, but did
not conceal the bounds.
" While I was gazing in a transport of
delight and wonder -on this enchanting spot,
I perceived a man stealing along the walk
\vith a thoughtful and deliberate pace : his
eyes were fixed upon the earth, and his arms
crossed on his bosom ; he sometimes started
as if a sudden pang had seized upon him ; his
countenance expressed solicitude and terror ;
he looked round with a sigh, and having
gazed a moment on the desert that lay before
him, he seemed as if he wished to stop,
but was impelled forward by some invisible
power : his features, however, soon settled
again into a calm melancholy ; his eyes were
again
56 THE VISION OF ALMET.
again fixed on the ground, but he went on as
before, with apparent reluctance, but with-
out emotion. 1 was struck with this appear-
ance ; and turning hastily to the angel, was
about 10 enquire, what could produce such
infelicity in a being, surrounded v\ilh every
object that could gratify every sense i but he
prevented my request : ' The book of na-
ture, (said he) is before thee ; look up, con-
sider it, and be wise/ I looked and beheld a
valley between two mountains that were
craggy and barren : on the path there was
no verdure, and the mountains afforded na
sfcade : the sun burnt in the zenith, and every
spring was dried up : but the valley termi-
nated in a country that was pleasant and fer-
tile, shaded w r ith woods, and adorned with
buildings. At a second view, i discovered a
man in this valley, meagre iiu'eed and naked,
but his countenance was cheerful, and his
deportment active: he kept his eyes fixed
upon the country before him, and looked as
if he would have run, but he was restrained,
as the other had been impelled, by some se-
cret
THE VISION OF ALMET. 57
cret influence: sometimes, indeed, I perceived
a sudden expression of pain, and sometimes
he stopped short as if his foot was pierced by
the asperities of the way ; but the sprightli-
ness of his countenance instantly returned,
and he passed forward without appearance of
repining or complaint.
" I turned again towards the angel, impa-
tient to enquire from what secret source hap-
piness was derived, in a situation so different
from that in which it might have been ex-
pected ; but he again prevented my request :
* Almet, (said he) remember what thou hast
seen, and let this memorial be written upon
the tablet of thy heart. Remember, Almet,
that the world in which thou art placed is but
the road to another ; and that happiness de-
pends not upon the path, but the end: the
value of this period of thy existence, is fixed
by hope and fear. The wretch who wished
to linger in the garden, who looked round
upon its limits with terror, was destitute of
enjoyment, and was perpetually tormented by
the dread of losing that which he did not en-
joy.
53 THE VISION OF ALMET.
joy. The song of the birds had been repeated
till it was not heard, and the flowers had so
eften recurred that their beauty was not seen ;
the river glided by unnoticed, and he feared to
lift his eye to the prospect, lest he should be-
hold the waste that circumscribed it. But he
that toiled through the valley was happy, be-
cause he looked forward with hope. Thus,
to the sojourner upon the earth, it is of little
moment, whether the path he treads be strew-
ed with flowers or with thorns, if he perceives
himself to approach those regions, in compa-
rison of winch the thorns and the floweis of
this wilJen ess lose their distii.ction, and are
both alike impotent to give pleasure c.r pain.
" What then has eternal wij-dom unequally
distributed ? That which can make every
station happy, and without which every sta-
tion must be wretched, is acquired by virtue;
and virtue is possible to all. Remember,
Almet, the vision which thou hast seen j and
let my wo:ds be written on the tablet of thy
heart, that ;hon ma vest direct the wanderer
to happiness, and justify God to man/ "
" While
THE VISION OF ALMfiT. 59
* f While the voice of . Azoran was yet
sounding in my ear, the prospect vanished
from before me, and I found myself again
sitting at the porch of the temple. The sun
was gone down, the multitude was retired to
rest, and the solemn quiet of midnight con-
curred with the resolution of my doubts tc
complete the tranquillity of my mind.
" Such, my son, was the vision which the
prophet vouchsafed me, not for my sake only,
but for thine. Thou hast sought felicity in
temporal things ; and therefore thuu art dis-
appointed. Let not instruction be lost upon
thee ; but go thy way, let thy flock cloath
the naked, and thy table feed the hungry ; de-
liver the poor from oppression, and let thj
conversation be above. Thus shah thou re-
joice in hope, and look forward to the end of
life, as the consummation of thy felicity/'
Almet, in whose breast devotion kindled as
he spake, returned into the temple, and the
stranger departed in peace.
TOM
[ 60 ]
TOM RESTLESS,
A STORY.
[BY DR. MAYOR.]
A. FLITTING stone gathers no moss ;**
so says the proverb, and it is true. Activity
is not sufficient to ensure success, unless it be
directed to one invariable end. The desultory
bustle of unsteady minds is only labour in
vain. The path that leads to respectability
and wealth, must be pursued through all its
asperities and obliquities, if you wish to reach
the object in view. The traveller who turns
aside to gather every flower, or who some-
times hurries and sometimes loiters, will find
himself distanced at last by those who calmly
pace on, and are neither diverted by difficul-
ties, nor attracted by every casual appearance
of temporary pleasure.
Tom Restless was one of the cleverest boys
at the school where he xva r . brought up. He
outstripped his companions whenever he gave
hi iv
TOM RESTLESS. Gl
himself the trouble to enter into competition
with them. At play, learning, every pur-
suit he engaged in, he carried away the palm of
superiority; but all his motions were irregu-
lar; and long-continued application to any
business was his aversion and contempt.
From school he was removed into the
compting-house of a West-India merchant.
His relations augured w r ell to his success in
commerce, from his known talents and acti-
vity. In any situation he might have shone ;
but he chose rather to dazzle for a moment,
than to preserve a clear and steady light. He
became master of all the routine of the compt-
ing-house in less than twelve months.
Why, thought our hero, should he be longer
confined to ledgers and waste-books ? Here
he had nothing more to learn. His solicita-
tions to be permitted to take a trading voyage,
for the benefit of his employer, overcame
both the merchant and his own relations. He
was soon equipped, and set sail for the West-
Indies, in ruptures at the idea of seeing the
world. A storm, which he had to encounter
VOL. i. ,G before
62 TOM RESTLESS.
before clearing the Channel, gave Torn no
very favourable opinion of the felicity of a
sailor's life, but the storm vanished, and,
wiih it, his sense of danger and uneasiness.
The remainder of the voyage was barren of
occurrences. He landed in due time on the
island of Jamaica, to which the vessel was
bound ; and, in consequence of his eagerness
to visit the new scenes which presented them-
selves, his hurry, and his neglect of proper
precautions, he soon fell sick of the endemial
fever of the West-Indies ; and with difficulty
escaped with his life. Our adventurer now
began to reflect on his imprudence . regretted
his having left the compting-house to encoun-
ter useless dangers : and began to form reso-
lutions of checking his natural propensity for
change. The vow, formed in illness and un-
der restraint, is seldom observed when health
and liberty return. Tom felt all the vagaries
of his natural disposition as soon as he reco-
vered. He made himself speedily acquainted
"with the management of sugar-plantations*,
aad with the West-India trade in general.
But,
TOM RESTLESS. 63
But, as he had a heart of benevolence, and
not of stone, the task-master met with his
unqualified detestation, the situation of the
slave awakened his most generous feelings.
He soon became disgusted with a traffic in
which blood was shed without pity, and whips
were the reward of toil. He saw the ship
freighted, with pleasure, and bade adieu to
these islands without regret. Ke had a plea-
sant voyage, returned full of information,
and had obtained the credit of prudent and
dexterous conduct ; but he was sick of what
he had seen ; and, for once, gobdness of prin-
ciple united with versatility of disposition to
make him relinquish this branch of commerce
at least. But there were numerous ether
avenues to wealth in the mercantile profes-
sion ! True : had not Tom been tired of the
whole, he might have selected parts that
would have suited almost any taste.
For some time, however, he had set his
heart on being a soldier. When his connec-
tions found that his resolution in this respect
could not be shaken, they procured a liberation
from
64 TOM RESTLESS.
from his original engagements, and purchased
a pair of colours for him. He joined his re-
giment, which was quartered in the country,
strutted in a laced coat and cockade ; and
thought himself the happiest fellow alive.
So he was for a few weeks, but here he
found that he had little to learn, and less to
practise; and his mind revolted at the idea of
quiet. Tom was ever impatient of inactivity,
he found it necessary to be doing some-
thing ; and, in conformity to this principle,
though against the remonstrances of his
friends, he exchanged into a regiment just
about to sail for the East- Indies.
A new scene, and a new quarter of the
globe, again pleased and attracted his fancy.
He anticipated the greatest felicity in pro-
spect from this new change ; but fortune de-
termined otherwise. The ship in which he
had embarked w r as wrecked on the M a Id i via
Islands. He preserved life by swimming;
but could save few of those accommodations
that render it delightful. As he hated Idleness
as much as he disliked any constant employ,
he
TOM RESTLESS. 65
fee set about providing the means of subsis-
tence with all possible diligence, ingratiated
himselt with the natives, and became a mighty
favourite with their chief. Had not the thought
of being cut off from polished society disturb-
ed him, he might have been happy still. For
a short space he did not form any particular
plan for effecting his deliverance. He, in-
deed, kept a good look-out lor any ship that
miiiht pass, but such a chance was rare. At
last he bethought himself of attempting some-
thing. He persuaded the Maldivians that he
could teach them to build ships. The bait
took : in a few weeks the first vessel was
constructed : she was strong, but of rude for-
mation ; and all were eager to see her launch-
td, and to try heron the waves. Tom se-
lected the best manners, as well as those
whom he thought most friendly, to have the
honour of this experiment. He had fortu-
nately saved a compass, and some o<her ne-
cessaries, from the wreck; and had privately
laid in a small stock of provisions. The ves-
sel sailed to a miracle, all were delighted
c 3 with
66 TOM RESTLESS.
\vith this nautic excursion ; an 1 by degrees
they lost sight of land. Now \vas the criti-
cal moment ! His associates wished to re-
turn ; he distributed some liquors among
them, and made a feint to tack about ; but,
the wind being pretty high, and blowing off
the shore, this could not be effected. He
veered on another tack with no better success,
as he wished it to be believed. At length no
person, except himself, knew the direction of
the shore they had left.
Night coming on, he steered by the com-
pass, and kept his companions in good hu-
mour, by telling them there was no danger of
their landing next morning. In the mean-
while he made the best of the wind and the
time ; and, as no one could presirrse to direct
the course of the vessel but himself, all were
fearful of interfering, and on the thircl day
he providentially landed near Cape Comorin.
Thence our hero undertook a long journey
to Fort St. George, where. he was soon re-
placed in his rank ; and sent with a detach-
ment against one of the country povrer?. who
TOM RESTLESS. 67
had just revolted. Captain Restless, as we
should now call him, behaved with abundant
resolution : success crowned the endeavours
of his country; and he was rapidly rising in
his new profession, when he once more be-
came dissatisfied and disgusted with it, because
he was confined to a garrison, while the range
of the whole peninsula would scarcely have
gratified his roving ambition.
As he had behaved with bravery, and
evinced a fertility of resources on every emer-
gency, he was allowed to sell out, though
with concern for his less; and the very next
day, he entered on board a ship bound to
China, with no other view than to ascertain
whether the Chinese women have smaller feet
than the Europeans ,from nature or art, and
to drink tea, as he termed it, at the fountain-
head.
He had no sooner arrived in China, than
he wished to survey the country ; but he had
nearly forfeited his life by the attempt. A
country not to be seen had no charms for
Captain Restless, and he returned in an Indian
ship,
CS TOM RESTLESS.
ship, which was sailing for Europe, as wise
as he went; but with a very unfavourable
opinion of Chinese hospitality, though he
ought to have done justice to its policy. On
reaching the Cape of Good Hope, he deter-
mined to proceed no farther till he had visited
the Hottentots, and ascertained some facts in
their natural history.
It would be endless to enumerate all his
adventures in this quarter of the globe. Some-'
time 5 he was reduced to the greatest distress
and dar.j.e ; but his ingenuity always brought
him off. At last he landed in England, found
his father was no more, and, in consequence,
took possession of his patrimony.
It might have been supposed his adventures
would now have terminated, and that he would
have been happy in the enjoyment of that
quiet which fortune allowed him to possess.
Tvo such thing : lie had never made the tour
of Europe : and he was determined not to sit
down as a country gentleman, till he had vi-
sited the continent. He soon reached Paris :
h^re he begin to display his usual activity:
he
TOM RESTLESS. 69
lie could neither be idle nor usefully em-
ployed. He began with uttering some spe-
culative opinions, by the adoption of which
he conceived that the French government
might be vastly improved, and the country
made one of the most desirable in the world.
For these, be was speedily rewarded with a
lodging in the Bastile. After a close con-
finement of five years he was liberated,
but the hardships he had undergone ruined
his health, and he died, at Paris, in a few
weeks after he had recovered his liberty.
REFLECTION. The heedless career of
Tom Restless will, I hope, instruct the
young never to give way to a roving and
unsettled turn of mind. He might have
been happy, he might have been honoured,
in any situation, had he stuck to it ; but he
rendered himself miserable by a romantic
search after he did not know what.
ISevcr, on slight grounds, relinquish the
station in which you are first placed. If
you once 'deviate from the track intended
for you, it is no easy matter to recover it.
It
70 THE YOUTH AND THE PHILOSOPHER.
It is therefore wise to oppose the first irre-
gular sallies of the mind. The road of life
will be easy, when once you have obtained
a mastery over yourself.
THE YOUTH AND THE PHILOSOPHER.
[BY WHITEKEAD,]
A GRECIAN youth of talents rare,
Whom Plato's philosophic care
Had ibrm'J for virtue's nobler view,
By precept and example too,
Would often boast his matchless skill,
To curb the steed, and guide ttie wheel ;
And as he pass'd the gazing throng,
With graceful ease, and smack'd the thong,
The idiot wonder they express'd,
Was praise and transport to his breast.
At length, quite vain, he needs would show
His master what his art could do ;
And
THE YOUTH AND THE PHILOSOPHER. 71
And bade his slaves the chariot lead
To Academus* sacred shade.
The trembling grove confessed its fright ?
The wood-nymphs started at the sight;
The Muses drop the learned lyre,
And to their inmost shades retire.
Howe'er, the youth, with forward air,
Bows to the sage, and mounts the car.
The lash resounds, the coursers spring,
.The chariot marks the rolling ring;
And gathering crowds, with eager eyes,
And shouts, pursue him as he flies.
Triumphant to the goal returned,
With nobrler thirst his bosom burn'd ;
And now along th' indented plain
The self-same track he marks again,
Pursues with care the nice design,
Nor ever deviates from the line.
Amazement seiz'd the circling crowd 3
The youths with emulation glow'd ;
E'en bearded sages hail'd the boy ;
And all but Plato gaz'd with joy.
For he, deep-judging sage, beheld
With pain the triumphs of the field :
And
72 PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY.
And when the charioteer drew nigh,
And, flushed with hope, had caught his eve,
" Alas! unhappy youth, (hecry'd)
Expect no praise from me, (and sigh'd).
With indignation I survey
Such skill and judgment thrown away :
The time profusely squander'd there,
On vulgar arts beneath thy care,
If well employ'd, at less expense,
Had taught thee hono'ur, virtue, sense ;
And rais'd thee from a coachman's fate
To govern men, and guide the state."
PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY.
AN ALLEGORY.
PROSPERITY and Adversity, the daugh-
ters of Providence, were sent to the house of
a rich .Phoenician merchant, named Velasco,
whose residence was at Tyre, the capital
city of that kingdom.
Prosperity
PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY. 73
Prosperity, the elder, was beautiful as the
morning, and cheerful as the spring : but
Adversity was sorrowful and ill-favoured.
Velasco had two sons, Felix and Uranio.
They were both bred to commerce, though
liberally educated, and had lived together from
their infancy in the strictest harmony and
friendship. But love, before whom all the
affections of the soul are as the traces of a
ship upon the ocean, which remain only for a
moment, threatened in an evil hour to set
them at variance ; for both were become ena-
moured with the beauties of Prosperity. The
nymph, like one of the daughters of men,
gave encouragement to each by turns ; but,
to avoid a particular declaration, she avowed
a resolution never to marry, unless her sister,
from whom she said it was impossible for her
to be long separated, was married at tUe same
time.
Velasco, who was no stranger to the pas-
sions of his sons, and who dreaded every thing
from their violence, to prevent consequences,
obliged them by hi$ authority .to decide their
VOL, x. H pretensions
74 PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY.
pretensions by lot ; each previously engag
in a solemn oath to marry the nymph that
should fall to his share. The lots were ac-
cordingly drawn ; and Prosperity became the
wife of Felix, and Adversity of Uranio.
Soon after the celebration of these nuptials,
Velasco died, having bequeathed to his eldest
son Felix the house wherein he dwelt, toge-
ther with the greatest part of his large fortune
and effects.
The husband of Prosperity was so trans-
ported with the gay disposition and enchant-
ing beauties of his bride, that he cloathed her
in gold and silver, and adorned her with jewels
of inestimable value. He built a palace for
her in the wood ; he made rivers in his gar-
dens, and beautified their banks with temples
and pavilions. He entertained at his table
the nobles of the land, delighting their ears
with music, and their eyes with magnificence.
But his kindred he beheld as strangers, and
the companions of his youth passed by him
unregarded. His brother also became hate-
ful in his sight, and in process of time he com-
manded
PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY. 75
inanded the doors of his house to be shut
against him.
But as the stream flows from its channel,
and loses itself among the valleys, unless con-
fined by bounds ; so also will the current of
fortune be dissipated, unless bounded by eco-
nomy. In a few years the estate of Felix
wasted by extravagance, his merchandise failed
him by neglect, and his effects were seized by
the merciless hands of creditors. He applied
himself for support to the nobles and great
men, whom he had feasted and made presents
to; but his voice was as the voice of a stran-
ger, and they remembered not his face. The
friends whom he had neglected, derided him
in their turn ; his wife also insulted him, and
turned her back upon him and fled. Yet was
his heart so bewitched with her sorceries,
that he pursued her with entreaties, till, by
her haste to abandon him, her mask fell off,
and discovered to him a face as withered and
deformed, as before it had appeared youthful
and engaging.
What became of him afterwards, tradition
does
76 PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY.
does not relate with certainty. It is believed
that he fled into Egypt, and lived precariously !
on the scanty benevolence of a few friends,
who had not totally deserted him, and that he
died in a short time, wretched and an exile.
Let us now return to Uranio, who,, as we
have already observed, had been driven out of
doors by his brother Felix. Adversity, though
hateful to his heart, and a spectre to his eyes,
ivas the constant attendant upon his steps :
and to aggravate his sorrow, he received cer-
tain intelligence that his richest vessel was
taken by a Sardinian pirate ; that another was
lost upon the Lybian Syrtes; and, to com-
plete all, that the banker with whom the
greatest part of his ready money was entrust-
ed, had deserted his creditors, and retired into
Sicily. Collecting there fore the small remains
of his fortune, he bid adieu to Tyre ; and, led
by Adversity through unfrequented roads and
forests, overgrown with thickets, he came at
last to a small village at the foot of a moun-
tain : here they took up their abode some time;
and Adversity, in return for all the anxiety he
had
PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY. 77
had suffered, softening the severity of her
looks, administered to him the most faithful
counsels, weaning his heart from the immo-
derate love of earthly things, ancUeaching him
to revere the gods, and to place his whole trust
and happiness in their government and pro-
tection. She humanized his Soul, made him
modest and humble, taught him to compas-
sionate the distresses of his if. How-creatures,
and inclined him to relieve them.
" I am sent (said she) by the gods, to those
only whom they love : for I not only train
them up by my severe discipline to future
glory, but also prepare them to receive with
greater relish all such moderate enjoyments
as are not inconsistent with this probationary
state. As the spider, when assailed, seeks
shelter in its inmost web, so the mind which
I afflict contracts its wandering thoughts, and
files for happiness to itself. It was I who
raised the characters of Cato, Socrates, and
Timoleon, to so divine a height, and set them
up as guides and examples to every future
age. Prosperity, my smiling but treacherous
H 3 sister.
78 PROSPERITY AtfD AD-VERSITY.
sister, too frequently delivers those whom she
has seduced to be scourged by her cruel fol-
lowers, Anguish and Despair : while Adver-
sity never fails to lead those who will be in-
structed by her, to the blissful habitations of
Tranquillity and Content."
Uranio listened to her words with great
attention; and as he looked earnestly on her
4ace, the deformity of it seemed insensibly to
decrease. By -gentle degrees his aversion to
her abated ; and at last he gave himself
wholly up to her counsel and direction. She
would often repeat to him the wise rtfaxims
of the philosopher, " That those who want
the fewest things, approach nearest to the
gods, who want nothing." She admonished
him to turn his eyes to the many thousands
beneath him, instead of gazing on the few
who live in pomp and splendour ; and in his
addresses to the gods, instead of supplicating
for riches and popularity, to pray only for a
virtuous mind, a quiet state, an unblemished
life, and a death full of good hopes.
Finding him to be every day more and more
composed
PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY, 79
composed and resigned, though neither ena-
moured of her face, nor delighted with her
society, she at last addressed him in the fol-
lowing manner :
" As gold is purged and refined from dross
by the fire, so is Adversity sent by Providence
to try and improve the virtue of mortals. The
end obtained, my task is finished ; and I now
leave you to go and give an account of my
charge. Your brother, whose lot was Pros-
perity, and whose condition you so much en-
vied, after having experienced the error of his
choice/ is at last released by death from the
most wretched of lives. Happy has it been
for Uranio, that his lot was Adversity, whom,
if he remember as he ought, his life will be
honourable, and his death happy."
As she pronounced these words, she va-
nished from his sight. But though her fea-
tures at that moment, instead of inspiring
their usual horror, seemed to display a kind
of languishing beauty, yet as Uranio, in spite
of his utmost efforts, could not prevail on
himself to love her, he neither regretted her
departure,
SO PROSPERITY AXD ADVERSITY.
departure, nor wished for her return. But
though he rejoiced in her absence, he trea-
sured up her counsels in his heart, and grew
happy by the practice of them.
He afterwards betook himself again to
merchandise ; and having in a short time ac-
quired a competency sufficient for a real en-
joyment of life, he retreated to a little farm
which he had bought for that purpose, and
\vhere he determined to continue the remain-
der of his days. Here he employed his time
in planting, gardening, and husbandry, in
quelling all disorderly passions, and in form-
ing his mind by the lessons of Adversity. He
took great delight in a little cell or hermitage
in his garden, which stood under a tuft of
trees, encompassed with eglantine and honey-
suckles. Adjoining it was a cold bath, formed
by a spring issuing from a rock, and over the
door was written in large characters the fol-
lowing inscription :
Beneath this moss-grown roof, within this cell,
Truth, Liberty, Content, and Virtue, dwell.
ABBAS AND MIRZA. $1
Say, you who dare this happy place disdain,
What splendid palace boasts so fair a train ?
He lived to a good old age, and died ho-
noured and lamented.
ABBAS AND MIRZA,
AN EASTERN STORY.
IT pleased the mighty sovereign Abba 3
Carascan, from whom the kings of the eartk
derive honour and dominion, to set Mirza his
servant over the province of Tauris. In the
hand of Mirza, the balance of distribution
was splendid with impartiality ; and under his
administration the weak were protected, ths
learned received honour, and the diligent b6-
came rich: Mirza, therefore, was beheld by
every eye with complacency, and every tongue
pronounced blessings on his head. But it was
observed that he derived no joys from the be-
nefits
82 ABBAS AND MIR0A.
nefits which he diffused ; he became pensive*
and melancholy ; he spent his leisure in soli-
tude ; in his palace he sat motionless upon a
sofa ; and when he went out, his walk was
slow, and his eyes were fixed upon the ground :
he applied to the business of state with re-
luctance i and resolved to relinquish the toils
of government, of which he could no longer
enjoy the reward.
He therefore obtained permission to ap-
proach the throne of his sovereign ; and being
asked what was his request, he made this re-
ply : " May the lord of the world forgive the
slave whom he has honoured, if Mirza pre-
sumes again to lay the bounty of Abbas at his
feet. Thou hast given me the dominion of a
country, fruitful as the gardens of Damascus ;
and of a city, glorious above all others, except
that only which reflects the splendor of thy
presence. *But the longest life is a period
scarce sufficient to prepare for death : all
other business is vain and trivial, as the toil
of emmets in the path of the traveller, under
whose foot they perish for ever ; and all en-
joyment
ABBAS AND MIRZA. S3
joymcnt is unsubstantial and evanescent, as
the colours of the bow that appear in the in-
terval of a storm. Suffer me, therefore, to
prepare for the approach of eternity ; let me
give up my soul to meditation ; let solitude
and silence acquaint me with the mysteries of
devotion; let me forget the world, and by the
world be forgotten, till the moment arrives in
which the veil of eternity shall fall, and I
shall be found at the bar of the Almighty."
Mirza then bowed himself to the earth, and
stood silent.
By the command of Abbas it is recorded,
that at these words he trembled upon that
throne, at the footstool of which the world
pays homage ; he looked round upon his no-
bles, but every countenance was pale, and
every eye was upon the earth. No man
opened his mouth ; and the king first broke
silence, after it had continued an hour.
" Mirza, terror and doubt are come upon,
me ! I am alarmed, as a man who suddenly
perceives that he is near the brink of a pre-
cipice, and is urged forward by an irresistible
force ;
84 ABBAS AND MTRZA.
force j but yet I know not whether my danger
is a reality or a dream. I am as thou art,
reptile on the earth ; my life is a moment ;
and eternity, in which days, and years, and
ages, are nothing ; eternity is before me, for
which I also should prepare : but by whom
then must the faithful be governed ? By those
only who have no fear of judgment ? By
those alone whose life is brutal ; because, like
brutes, they do not consider that they shall
die ? Or who, indeed, are the faithful ? Are
the busy multitudes that crowd the city, in a
state of perdition ? And is the cell of the
dervise alone the gate of paradise ? To all,
the life of a dervise is not possible : to all,
therefore, it cannot be a duty. Depart to
the house which has in the city been prepared
for thy residence; i shall meditate the reason
of thy request ; and may he who illumes the
mind of the humble, enable me to determine
with wisdom."
Mirza departed ; and on the third day,
having received no commands, he again re-
quested 'an audience, and it was granted.
When
ABBAS AND MIRZA. 8
When he entered the royal presence, his
countenance appeared more cheerful ; he
<lrew a letter from his bosom, and having
kissed it, he presented it with his right hand.
" My lord, (said he,) I have learned by
this letter, which I received from Cosrou the
Iman, who now stands before thee, in what
manner life may be best improved. I am
enabled to look back with pleasure, and for-
ward with hope ; and I shall now icjoice still
to be the shadow of thy power at Tauris, and
to keep those honours which I so lately wish-
ed to resign." The king, who had listened to
Mirza with a mixture of surprize and curio-
sity, immediately gave the letter to Cosrou,
and commanded that it should be read. The
eyes of the court were at once turned on the
hoary sage, whose countenance was suffused
with an honest blush ; and it was not
without some hesitation that he read these
words :
" To Mirza, whom the wisdom of Abbas
our mighty lord has honoured with dominion,
be everlasting health ! When I heard thy
VOL. i. i purpose
86 ABBAS AND MI HZ A.
purpose to v/ithdraw the blessings of thy
government from the thousands of Tauris,
my heart was wounded with the arrow of
affliction, and my eyes became dim with sor-
row. But who shall speak before the king
when he is troubled? And who shall boast
of knowledge, when he is distressed by doubt?
To thee I will relate the events of my
youth, which thou hast renewed before me ;
and those truths which they taught me, may
the prophet multiply to thee.
'* Under the instruction of the physician
Aluazer, I obtained an early knowledge of
his art. To those who were smitten with
d!sease, I could administer plants, which the
sun had impregnated with the spirit of heahh.
But the scenes of pain, languor, and morta-
lity, which were perpetually rising before
me, made me often tremble for myself. I
saw the grave open at my feet ; I determined,
therefore, to contemplate only the regions be-
yond it, and to despise every acquisition which
I could not keep. I conceive^ an opinion,
that as there was no mem but a voluntary
poverty,
ABBAS AN0 M1RZA. S7
poverty, and silent meditation, those who de-
sired money were not proper objects of boun-
ty^ therefor*; money was despised. I buried
mine in the earth ; and, renouncing society, I
wandered into a wild and sequestered part of
the country ; my dwelling was a cave by the side
of a hill ; I drank the running water from the
spring, and eat such fruits and herbs as I could
find. To increase the austerity of my life, I fre-
quently watched all night, sitting at the en-
trance of the cave with my face to the east,
resigning myself to the secret influences of
the prophet, and expecting illumination from
above. One morning after my nocturnal
vigil, just as I perceived the horizon glow at
the approach of the sun, the power of sleep
became irresistible, and I sunk under it. I
imagined myself still sitting at the entrance
of my cell ; that the dawn increased ; and
that as I looked earnestly for the first beam
of day, a dark spot appeared to intercept it.
I perceived that it was in motion ; it increased
in size as it drew near, and at length I disco-
vered it to be an eagle. I still kept my eye
fixed
S3 ABBAS AND MIRZA.
fixed steadily upon it, and saw it alight at a
small distance, where I now descried a fox,
whose two fore-legs appeared to be broken.
Before this fox the eagle laid part of a kid,
which it had brought in its talons, and then
disappeared. When I awaked, I laid my
forehead upon the ground, and blessed the
prophet for the instruction of the morning.
I reviewed my dream, and said thus to my-
self, * Cosrou, thou hast done well to re-
nounce the tumult, the business, and the vani-
ties of life ; but thou hast as yet only done it
in part : thou art still every day busied in the
search of food ; thy mind is not wholly at rest,
neither is thy trust in Providence complete*
What art thou taught by this vision ? If thou
hast seen an eagle commissioned by heaven to
feed a fox that is lame, shall not the hand of
heaven also supply thee with food ; when that
which prevents thee from procuring it to thy-
self, is not necessity but devotion ? I was now
so confident of a miraculous supply, that I
neglected to walk out for my repast, which,
jjfter the first day, I expected with an impa-
tience
ABBAS AND MIRZA. 9
tience that left me little power of attending to,
any other object. This impatience, however,
I laboured to suppress, and persisted. in my
resolution ; but my eyes at length began to
fail me, and my knees smote each other. I
threw myself backward, and hoped my weak-
ness would soon increase to insensibility. But
I was suddenly roused by the voice of an invi-
sible being, who pronounced these words:
" Cosrou, I am the angel who, by the com-
mand of the Almighty, have registered the
thoughts of thy heart, which I am now com-
missioned to reprove. Whilst thou wast at-
tempting to become wise above that which vis
revealed, thy folly has perverted the instruc-
tions which were vouchsafed to thee.* Art
thou disabled as the fox ? Hast thou not ra-
ther the powers of the eagle ? Arise, let the
eagle be the object of thy emulation. To
pain and sickness be thou again the messenger
of ease and health. Virtue is not rest, but
action. If thou doest good to man, as an
evidence of thy love to God, thy virtue will
be exalted from moral to divine ; and that
I 3 happiness,
90 ABBAS AND MIRZA.
happiness, which is the pledge of paradise,
will be thy reward upon earth."
" At these words I was not less astonished
than if a mountain had been overturned at
my feet. I humbled m)self in the dust ; I
returned to the city ; I dug up my treasures ;
I was liberal, yet I became rich. My skill
in restoring health to the body, gave me fre-
quent opportunities of curing the diseases of
the soul. I put on the sacred vestments ; I
grew eminent beyond my merit ; and it was
the pleasure of the king that I should stand
before him. Now, therefore, be not offend-
ed ; I boast of no knowledge that I have not
received : as the sands of the desart drink up
the drops of rain, or the dew of the morning ;
so do I also, who am but dust, imbibe the
instructions of the prophet. Believe, then,
that it is he who tells thee, all knowledge is
profane which terminates in thyself ; and by
a life wasted in speculation, little even of this
can be gained. When the gates of Paradise
are thrown open before thee, thy mind shall
be irradiated in a moment j here thou canst
little
ABBAS AND MIRZA, $1
little more than pile error upon error ; there
thou shalt build truth upon truth. Wait,
therefore, for the glorious vision j and in the
mean time emulate the eagle. Much is itf
thy power ; and therefore, much is expected
of thee. Though the Almighty only can give
virtue ; yet, as a prince, thou mayest stimu-
late those to beneficence who act from no
higher motive than immediate interest ; thou
canst not produce the principle, but mayest
enforce the practice. The relief of the poor
is equal, whether they receive it from osten-
tation or charity ; and the effect of example
is the same, whether it be intended to obtain
the favour of God or man. Let thy virtue be
shus diffused ; and if thou believest with re-
verence, thou shalt be accepted above. Fare-
well ! May the smile of Kim who resides in
the heaven of heavens be upon thee ! And
against thy name, in the volume of his will,
may happiness be written !"
The king, whose doubts, like those of Mir-
za, were now removed, looked up with a
smile that communicated the joy of his mind.
92 THE BIAHS AND THE BEES.
|Ie dismissed the prince to his government ;
and commanded these events to be recorded,
to the end that posterity may know, u That
no life is pleasing to God, but that which is
useful to man/'
THE BEARS AND THE BEES.
[BY MERRICK.]
AS two young bears, in wanton mood,
Forth issuing from a neighbouring wood,
Came where th* industrious bees had stor'd,
In artfull cells, their luscious hoard ;
O'erjoy'd they seiz'd, with eager haste,
Luxurious on the rich repast.
Alarm'd at this, the little crew
About their ears vindictive flew.
The beasts, unable to sustain
Th' unequal combat, quit the plain ;
Half blind with rage, and mad with pain,
Their native shelter they regain ;
Thert
THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON.
Tfcere sit, and now, discreeter grown,
Too late their rashness they bemoan ;
And this by dear experience gain,
That pleasure's ever bought with pain.
So when the gilded baits of vice
Are plac'd before our longing eyes,
With greedy haste we snatch our fill,
And swallow down the latent ill :
But when experience opes our ey6s,
Away the fancied pleasure flics.
It flies, but oh ! too late we find,
It leaves a real sting behind.
THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON.
I HAVE sometimes heard it disputed in
conversation, whether it be more laudable or
desirable that a man should think too highly
or too meanly of himself. It is on all hands
agreed to be best, that he should think right-
ly 5 but since a fallible being will always
make
4 THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON.'
make some deviations from exact rectitude,
it is not wholly useless to enquire towards
which side it is safer to incline.
The prejudices of mankind seem to favour
him who errs by under-rating his own powers ;
he is considered as a modest and harmless
member of society, not likely to break the
peace by competition, to endeavour after such
splendour of reputation as may dim the lustre
of others, or to interrupt any in the enjoy-
ment of themselves ; he is no man's rival,
and therefore may be every man's friend.
The opinion which a man entertains of
himself ought to be distinguished in order to
an accurate discussion of this question, as it
relates to persons or to things. To think
highly of ourselves in comparison with others,
to assume by our own authority that prece-
dence which none is willing to grant, must be
always invidious and offensive ; but to rate
our powers high in proportion fo things, and
imagine ourselves equal to great undertakings,
while we leave others in possession of the
same
THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON. 95
same abilities, cannot with equal justice pro-
voke censure.
It must be confessed, that self-love may
dispose us to decide too hastily in our own
favour ; but who is hurt by the mistake ? If
we are incited by this vain opinion to attempt
more than we can perform, ours is the labour
and ours is the disgrace.
But he that dares to think well of himself,
will not always prove to be mistaken ; and
the good effects of his confidence will then
appear in great attempts and great perform-
ances : if he should not fully complete his
design, he will at least advance it so far as to
leave an easy task for him that succeeds him ;
and even though he should whelly fail, he
will fail with honour.
But from the opposite error, from torpid
despondency, can come no advantage ; it is
the frost of the soul, which binds up all its
powers, and congeals life in perpetual steri-
lity. He that has no hopes of success will
make no attempt ; and where nothing is at-
tempted, nothing will be done.
Every
96 THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON.
Every man should, therefore, endeavour to
maintain in himself a favourable opinion of
the powers of the human mind ; which are,
perhaps, in every man, greater than they ap-
pear, and might, by diligent cultivation, be
exalted to a degree beyond what their posses-
sor presumes to believe. There is scarce any
man but has found himself able, at the insti-
gation of necessity, to do what in a state of
leisure and deliberation he would have con-
cluded impossible ; and some of our species
have signalized themselves by such achieve-
ments, as prove that there are few things
above human hope.
It has been the policy of all nations, to
preserve, by some public monuments, the
memory of those who have served their coun-
try by great exploits ; there is the same rea-
son for continuing or reviving the names of
those whose extensive abilities have dignified
humanity. An honest emulation may be alike
excited, and the philosopher's curiosity may
be inflamed by a catalogue of the work.; of
Boyle
THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON. 97
Boyle or Bacon, as Themistocles was kept
awake by the trophies of Miltiades.
Among the favourites of nature that have
from time to time appeared in the world, en-
riched with various endowments and contra-
rieties of excellence, none seems to have been
more exalted above the common rate of hu-
manity, than the man known about two cen-
turies ago by the appellation of the Admirable
Crichton ; of whose history, whatever we
may suppress as surpassing credibility, yet
we shall upon incontestible authority relate
enough to rank him among prodigies.
Virtue, says Virgil, is better accepted when
it comes in a-pleasing form. The person of
Crichton was eminently beautiful ; but his
beauty was conststent with such activity and
strength, that in fencing he would spring at
one bound the length of twenty feet upon his
antagonist ; and he used the sword in either
hand with such force and dexterity, that scarce
any one had courage to engage him.
Having studied at St. Andrew's, in Scot-
land, he went to Paris, in his twenty-first
VOL, I. K year,
98 THE ADMIRABLE CRICHToN.
year, and affixed on the gate of the college of
Navarre, a kind of challenge to the learned
of .that university, to dispute with them on a
certain day ; offering to his opponents, who-
ever they might be, the choice of ten lan-
guages, and of all the faculties and sciences.
On the day appointed, three thousand audi-
tors assembled, when four doctors of the
church and fifty ministers appeared against
him; and one of his antagonists confesses
that the doctors were defeated : that he gave
proofs of knowledge above the reach of man ;
and that an hundred years, passed without
food or sleep, would not be sufficient for the
attainment of his learning. After a disputa-
tion of nine hours, he was presented by the
president and professors with a diamond and
a purse of gold, and dismissed with re-
peated acclamations.
From Paris he went away to Rome, where
he made the same challenge, and had in the
presence of the pope and cardinals the same
success. Afterwards he contracted, at Ve-
nice, an acquaintance with Aldus Manutius r
THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON. 99
by whom he was introduced to the learned of
that city ; he then visited Padua, where he
engaged in another public disputation, begin-
ning his performance with an extempore poem
in praise of the city and the assembly then pre-
sent, and concluding with an oration equally un-
premeditated in commendation of ignorance.
He afterwards published another challenge,
in which he declared himself ready to detect
the errors of Aristotle and all his commen-
tators, either in the common forms of logic,
or in any which his antagonists should pro-
pose, of an hundred different kinds of verse.
These acquisitions of learning, however
stupendous, were not gained at the expence
of any pleasure which youth generally in-
dulges, or by the omission of any accom-
plishment in which it becomes a gentleman
to excel : he practised in great perfection the
arts of drawing and painting $ he was an emi-
nent performer in both vocal and instrumen-
tal music ; he danced with uncommon grace^
fulness ; and on the day after his disputation
at Paris, exhibited his skill in horsemanship
before
100 THE ADMIRABLE C RICH TON.
before the court of France, where, at a public
match of tilting, he bore away the ring upon
his lance fifteen times together.
He excelled likewise in domestic games of
less dignity and reputation; and in the inter-
val between his challenge and disputation at
Paris, he spent so much of his time at cards,
dice, and tennis, that a lampoon was fixed
upon the gate of the Sorbonne, directing those
who would see this monster of erudition to
look for him at the tavern.
So extensive was his acquaintance with life
nnd manners, that in an Italian comedy, com-
posed by himself^ and exhibited before the
court of Mantua, he is said to have personated
fifteen different characters ; in all which he
might succeed without great difficulty, since
he had such power of retention, that once
hearing an oration of an hour, he would re-
peat it exactly, and in the recital follow the
speaker through all the variety of tone and
gesticulation.
Nor was his skill in arms less than in
learning, or his courage inferior to his skill.
There
THE ADMIRABLE CUCHTON. 101
*]There was a prize-fighter at Mantua, who
(travelling about the world, according to the
barbarous custom of that age, as a general
challenger) had defeated the most celebrated
masters in many parts of Europe ; and in
Mantua, where he then resided, had killed
three that appeared against him. The duke
repented that he had granted him his protec-
tion; when Crichton, looking on his sangui-
nary success with indignation, offered to stake
fifteen hundred pistoles, and mount the stage
against him. The duke, with some reluc-
tance, consented ; and on the day fixed, the
combatants appeared : their weapons seem to
have been the single rapier, which was then
newly introduced into Italy. The prize-
fighter advanced with great violence and fierce-
ness, while Crichton contented himself calm-
ly to ward his passes, and suffered him to ex-
haust his vigour by his own fury. Crichton
then became the assailant ; and pressed upon
him with such force and agility, that he thrust
him thrice, through the body, and saw him ex-
pire. He then divided the prize he had won
K 3 among
102 THE ADMIRABLE CRlCHTOtf.
among the widows whose husbands had been
killed.
The death of this wonderful man I should
be willing to conceal, did I not know that
every reader will enquire curiously after that
fatal hour, which is common to all human
beings, however distinguished from each other
by nature or fortune.
The duke of Mantua, having received so
many proofs of his various merit, made him
tutor to his son, Vincentio di Gonzago, a
prince of loose manners and turbulent dispo-
sition. On this occasion it was that he com-
posed the comedy, in which he exhibited so
many different characters with exact propriety.
But his honour was of short continuance, for
as he was one night in the time of Carnival
rambling about the streets with his guitar in
his hand, he was attacked by six men masked.
Neither his courage nor skill at this exigence
deserted him ; he opposed them with such
activity and spirit, that he soon dispersed
them, and disarmed their leader, who, throw-
ing off his mask, discovered himself to be
the
THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON. 103
the prince his pupil. Crichton, falling upon
his knees, took his own sword by the point,
and presented it to the* prince, who immedi-
ately seized it, and instigated, as some say,
by jealous^, according to others only by drunk-
en fury and brutal resentment, thrust him
through, the heart.
Thus was the admirable Crichton brought
into that state, in which he could excel the
meanest of mankind only by a few empty ho-
nours paid to his memory : The court of
Mantua testified their esteem by a public
mourning ; the cotemporary wits were pro-
fuse of their encomiums ; and the palaces of
Italy were adorned with pictures representing
him on horseback, with a lance in one hand,
ajid a book in the other.
CRUELTY
[ 104 ]
CRUELTY TO HORSES.
[BY PERCIVAL.]
IM the month of June, Lucy, Emilia, and
Jacobus, were carried by Hortensia to view
the crowds of company as they passed to the
races which are annually held upon Kersai
Moor, near Manchester The variety of
countenances which they saw, the mirth of
some, the eagerness of others, and the dissi-
pation of all, furnished^ delightful entertain-
ment to their young minds, unalloyed by any
reflections on extravagance, on gambling, and
intemperance, which such diversions produce.
Whilst they were enjoying this scene of plea,
sure, they observed two men advancing on a
full gallop, spurring and lashing their horses,
to increase their speed. The day was ex.
tremely hot, and one of the horses fell gasp-
ing at the feet of Jacobus. By his agility,
the rider instantly freed himself from the stir-
rups ; and rising with fury from the ground,
beat his horse in the most savage and relent-
less.
CRUELTY TO HORSES. 105
less manner. The poor animal was unable
to move; and at every stroke of the whip,
expressed his agonies by the most piercing
groans. In vain the surrounding croud in-
i tereeded in his behalf. The tyrant to whom
he belonged, inflamed with anger and re-
venge, continued inexorable ; and Hortensia
withdrew with her young charge from a spec-
tacle so painful and distressing.
When Euphronius returned to Hart-Hill
in the evening, his children flocked around
him, impatient to relate this tale of woe. I
know and pity the unhappy horse, said he ;
and if you will listen to me, I will give you
the particulars of his history. " Tlte sire of
this animal was a native of Arabia Felix,
where he ranged without controul in the most
fertile and extensive plains, enjoying all the
luxuries of nature. He was the leader of a
herd which consisted of more than five hun-
dred of his species ; and thus supported by
the united force of numbers, no beast of the
forest durst attack him. When his follow^
ers ?lfpt ? he stood as centlnel, to give notice
of
106 CRUELTY TO HORSES.
of approaching danger, and if an Arab hap/
pened to advance, he sometimes walked up
boldly towards him, as if to examine his
strength, or to iniimidate him ; then instant-
ly he gave the signal to his fellows, by a loud
snorting, and the whole herd fled with the
swiftness of the wind. In one of these flights,
he was taken by a trap concealed upon the
ground, which entangling his feet, made him
an easy prey to the hunter. He was carried
to Constantinople, sold to the British Envoy
there, and brought by him into England, to
improve our breed of horses. The first colt
he got, was the poor animal whose sufferings
you now lament, and whom I remember to
have seen gay, frolicsome, and happy. He
was. fed in a large pasture, where he used to
gallop round and round; trying every active
movement of his limbs, and increasing his
strength and agility by those gambols and ex-
ercises, which jocund nature and early youth
inspires. Thus passed the first period of his
life, but now his state of servitude and misery
commenced. To render him more tame and
passive,
CRUELTY TO HORSES. 107
passive, a painful operation was performed
upon him, by which the size and firmness of
his muscles were impaired, his spirit was de-
pressed, and he lost, with the distinction of
his sex, one essential power of usefulness and
enjoyment. Nature had furnished him with a
flowing tail, which was at once an ornament,
a covering for what fhould be concealed, and
a weapon of defence against the flies of sum-
mer. But false taste decreed the extirpation
of it ; and several joints were taken off by a
coarse instrument, and blundering farrier.
The blood gushed from the wound, and 'to
ftop the discharge the tender *part was seared
with a red-hot iron. At this instant of time,
I happened to pass by ; and whilst I was
pierced to the heart with the sufferings of th
horse, I saw the savage who inflicted them,
suspend his operation, to curse and beat him
for the groans he uttered. When the tail
was thus reduced to a ridiculous shortness, a
turn upwards, it was thought, would give ad-
ditional grace to it : and to produce this effect,
several deep cuts were made in the under side
of
108 CRUELTY TO HORSES.
of it, and the tail was drawn up by a cord and
pulley ,ito a most painful position, till the flesh
was healed. He was now trained, cr broke,
as it is usually termed, for riding*, and during
this season of discipline, he underwent all the
severities of the lash and of the spur. Many a
time were his sides covered with blood before
his aversion to the ass could be fully subdued.
The dread of this animal he derived from his
sire ; for, in the state of nature, the ass and.
the horse bear the utmost antipathy to each
other ; and if a horse happen to stray into the
pastures where the wild asses graze, they at-
tack him with fury ; and surrounding him,
prevent his flight, while they bite and kick
him till he dies. Wfcen rendered perfectly
tractable, he was sold to the present proprie- w
tor, whom he has. faithfully served during ten
years. He has been a companion to him in
various journeys ; has borne him with ease
and security many thousand miles ; has con-
tributed to restore him from sickness to health,
by the gentle exercise which he afforded ; and
by the swiftness cf his feet, he has twice res-
1 * cued
CRUELTY TO HORSES. 109
cued him from robbers and assassins. But he
is now growing old ; his joints become stiff;
his wind fails him; and urged beyond his
speed, on so sultry a day, he fell breathless at
your feet. In a few hours he recovered him-
self ; and the owner has since disposed of him,
at a low price, to a matter of post-horses in
Manchester. He is now to be ridden as a
common hackney, or to be driven in a chaise;
and he will be at the mercy of every coxcomb
traveller who gallops night and day through
different countries to acquire a knowledge of
mankind, by observing their manners, cus-
toms, laws, arts, police, and government. It
is obvious that the horse will soon be unfit
for this violent and cruel service ; and if he
survive, he will probably b sold to grind in
a mill, In this state his exercise will be less
severe, but almost continual ; the movement
in a circle will produce a dizziness of the
head, and in a month or two he will become
blind. Still, however, his labours are to con-
tinue ; and he may drag on years of toil and
VOL. i, L sorrow,
1 10 THE THREE WARNINGS.
sorrow, ere death closes the period of his suf-
ferings."
The children were much affected by this
narrative, and Jacobus cried out with emo-
tion, " I love my little horse, and will never
abuse him ; and when he grows old, he shall
rest from his work, and I will feed him, and
take care of him till he dies. 1 '
THE THREE WARNINGS.
[BY MRS. TIIRALE.]
JL HE tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground ;
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,
That love of life increas'd with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.
This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
1 If
THE THREE WARNINGS. 1U
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleas'd to hear a modern tale.
When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbour Dodson's wedding-day,
Death call'd aside the jocund groom
With him into another room ;
And looking grave " You must," says he,
" Quit your sweet bride, and come with me."
" With you ! and quit my Susan's side !
With you !" the hapless husband cried ;
" Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard I
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepar'd:
My thoughts on other matters go ;
This is my wedding-day you know."
What more he urg'd, I have not heard,
His reasons could not Well be stronger j
So Death the poor delinquent spar'd,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke
" Neighbour," he said, " Farewell, No more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour :
And
J12 THE THREE WARNINGS.
And farther, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several Warnings you shall have,
Before you're summon'd to the grave.
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,
And grant a kind reprieve ;
In hopes you'll have no more to say j
But, when I call again this way,
Well pleas'd the world will leave/'
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.
What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he liv'd, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursu'd his course,
And smok'd his pipe, and strok'd his horse,
The willing Muse shall tell:
He chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceiv'd his growing old,
Nor thought of death as near ;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,
He
THE THREE WARNINGS. 113
He pass'd his hours in peace.
But while he view'd his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares,
Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,
Th* unwelcome messenger of fate
Once more before him stood.
Half kilTd with anger and surprise,
" So soon return 'd !" old Dodson cries.
<{ So soon, d'ye call it?" Death replies:
" Surely, my friend, you're but in jest !
Since I was here before
'Tis six-and-thirty years at least,
And you are now fourscore."
" So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd ;
" To apare the aged would be kind :
However, see your search be legal 5
And your authority is't regal ?
Else you arc cme on a fool's errand.
With but a secretary's warrant.
1 14- THE THREE WARNINGS.
Beside, you promis'd me Three Warnings,
Which I have look'd for nights and mornings !
But for that loss of time and ease,
I can recover damages."
" I know," cries Death, " that, at the best,
I seldom am a welcome guest ;
But don't be captious, friend, at least :
I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable ;
Your years have run to a great length ;
I wish you joy, tho', of your strength !"
" Hold," says the farmer, " not so fast!
I have been lame these four years past.' ?
" And no great wonder," Death replies :
<c However, you still keep your eyes ;
And sure, to see one's loves and friends,
For legs and arms would make amends.'*
" Perhaps," says Dodson, " so it might,
But latterly I've lost my sight."
" This is a shocking tale, 'tis true ;
But still there's comfort left for you :
Each strives your sadness to amuse ;
I warrant you hear all the news,"
; Thert's
RELIGION AND SUPERSTITION. 115
There's none,*' cries he ; u and if there AverCj
I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.'*
" Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoin'd,
" These are unjustifiable yearnings,
If you are Lame, and Deaf, and Blind,
You've had your Three sufficient Warnings.
So, come along, no more we'll part:"
He said, and touch 'd him -with his dart.
And now, old Dodson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate so ends my tale.
RELIGION AND SUPERSTITION
CONTRASTED.
I HAD lately a very remarkable dream,
which made so strong an impression on me,
that I remember it every word; and if you
are not better employed, you may read the
relation of it as follows.
Methought
llo RELIGION AND
Methought I was in the midst of a very en*
tertaining set of company, and extremely de-
lighted in attending to a lively conversation,
when, on a sudden, I perceived one of the
most shocking figures imagination can frame,
advancing towards me. She was dressed in
black , her skin was contracted into a thou-
sand wrinkles ; her eyes deep sunk in her
head ; and her complexion pale and livid as
the countenance of Death. Her looks were
filled with terror and unrelenting severity;
and her hands armed with whips and scor-
pions. As soon as she came near, with a
horrid frown, and a voice that chilled my
very blood, she bade me follow her. I obey-
ed; and she led me through rugged paths,
beset with briars and thorns, into a deep soli-
tary valley. Wherever she passed, the fading
verdure withered beneath her steps, her pesti-
lential breath infected the air with malignant
vapours, obscured the lustre of the sun, and
involved the fair face of heaven in universal
gloom. Dismal howling resounded through
the
SUPERSTITION CONTRASTED. 117
the forest from every baleful tree ; the night
raven uttered his dreadful note, and the pros-
pect was rilled with desolation and horror. In
the midst of this tremendous scene, my exe-
crable guide addressed me in the following
manner ;
" Retire with me, O rash, unthinking
mortal ! from the vain allurements of a de-
ceitful world, and learn that pleasure was
not designed the portion of human life. Man
was born to mourn and to be wretched : this
is the condition of all below the stars ; and
whoever endeavours to oppose it, acts in con-
tradiction to the will of Heaven. Fly then
from the fatal enchantments of youth and
social delight, and here consecrate the solitary
hours to lamentation and woe. Misery is the
duty of all sublunary beings ; and every en-
joyment is an offence to the Deity, who is
to be worshipped only by the mortification of
every sense of pleasure, and the everlasting
exercise of sighs and tears.
This melancholy picture of life quite sunk
my
118 RELIGION AND
my spirits, and seemed to annihilate every
principle of joy within me. I threw myself
beneath a blasted yew, where the winds blew
cold and dismal round my head, and dreadful
apprehensions chilled my heart. Here I re-
solved to lie, till the hand of Death, which I
impatiently invoked, should put an end to the
miseries of a life so deplorably wretched. In
this sad situation, I espied on one hand of me
a deep muddy river, whose heavy waves rolled
on in slow, sullen murmurs. Here I deter-
mined to plunge ; and was just upon the
brink, when I found myself suddenly drawn
back. I turned about, and was surprised by
the sight of the loveliest object I had ever be-
held. The most engaging charms ef youth
and beauty appeared in all her form ; efful-
geiat glories sparkled in her eyes, and their
awful splendors were softened by the gentlest
looks of compassion and peace. At her ap-
proach, the frightful spectre, who had before
tormented me, vanished away, and with her
all the horrors she had caused. The gloomy
clouds
SUPERSTITION CONTRASTED. 119
clouds brightened into cheerful sunshine,
the groves recovered their verdure, and the
whole region looked gay and blooming as the
garden of Eden. I was quite transported at
this unexpected change, and reviving pleasure
began to gladden my thoughts ; when, with a
look of inexpressible sweetness, my beauteous
deliverer thus uttered her divine instructions:
" My name is Religion. I am the off-
spring of Truth and Love, and the parent of
Benevolence, Hope, and Joy. That monster,
from whose power I have freed you, is called
Superstition : she is the child of Discontent,
and her followers are Fear and Sorrow.
Thus, different as we are, she has often the
insolence to assume my name and character,
and seduces unhappy mortals to think us the
same, till she at length drives them to the
borders of despair, that dreadful abyss into
which you were just going to sink.
" Look round, and survey the various beau-
ties of this globe, which Heaven has destined
for the seat of the human race, and consider
whether
120 RELIGION AND
whether a world thus exquisitely framed could
be meant for the abode of Misery and Pain.
For what end has the lavish hand of Provi-
dence diffused such innumerable objects of
delight, but that all might rejoice in the pri-
vilege of existence, and be filled with grati-
tude to the beneficent author of it ? Thus to
enjoy the blessings he has sent, is virtue and
obedience ; and to reject them merely as
means of pleasure, is pitiable ignorance, or
absurd perverseness. Infinite goodness is the
source of created existence. The proper ten-
dency of every rational being, from the high-
est order of raptured seraphs, to the meanest
rank of men, is to rise incessantly from lower
degrees of happiness to higher. They have >
each faculties assigned them for various orders
of delight."
" What ! (cried i; is this the language of
Religion ? Does she lead her votaries through
flowery paths, and bid them pass an unlabo-
rious life ? Where are the painful toils of
virtue, the mortifications of penitents, and
SUPERSTITION CONTRASTED. 121
the self-denying exercises of saints and he-
roes r"
" The true enjoyments of a reasonable
being (answered she, mildly) do not consist in
unbounded indulgence, or luxurious ease, in the
tumult of passions, the languor of indolence,
or the flutter of light amusements. Yielding
to immoral pleasures corrupts the mind ; liv-
ing to animal and trifling ones, debases it ;
both in their degrees disqualify it for its ge-
nuine good, and consign it over to wretched-
ness. Whoever would be really happy, must
make the diligent and regular exercise of his
superior powers his chief attention ; adoring
the perfections of his Maker, expressing
good-will to his fellow-creatures, and calcu-
lating inward rectitude. To his lower facul-
ties he must allow such gratifications as will,
by refreshing them, invigorate his nobler pur-
suits. In the regions inhabited by angelic
natures, unmingled felicity for ever blooms ;
joy flows there with a perpetual and abundant
stream, nor needs there any mound to check
VOL, I. M its
122 RELIGION AND
its course. Beings conscious of a frame of
mind originally diseased, as all the humaa
race has cause to be, must use the regimen
of a stricter self-government. Whoever has
been guilty of voluntary excesses, must pa-
tiently submit both to the painful workings
of nature, and needful severities of medicine,
in order to his cure. Still he is entitled to a
moderate share of whatever alleviating accom-
modations this fair mansion of his merciful
parent affords, consistent with his recovery.
And, in proportion as his recovery advances,
the liveliest joy will spring from his secret
sense of an amended and improved heart.
So far from the horrors of despair is the con-
dition even of the guilty. Shudder, poor
mortal, at the thoughts of the gulf into which
thou wast just now going to plunge.
'* While the most faulty have every en-
couragement to amend, the more innocent
soul will be supported with still sweeter con-
solations, under all its experience of human
infirmities, supported by the gladdening assu-
rance.
SUPERSTITION CONTRASTED. 125
ranee, that every sincere endeavour to out-
grow them, shall be assisted, accepted, and
rewarded. To such a one, the lowest self-
abasement is but a deep-laid foundation for
the most elevated hopes ; since they xvho
faithfully examine and acknowledge what they
are, shall be enabled, under my conduct, to
become what they desire. The Christian and
the hero are inseparable ; and to the aspirings
of unassuming trust and filial confidence, are
set no bounds. To him who is animated with
a view of obtaining approbation from the So-
vereign of the universe, no difficulty is insur-
mountable. Secure in his pursuit of every
needful aid, his conflict with the severest pains
and trials, is little more than the vigorous
exercises of a mind in health. His patient
dependence on that Providence which looks
through all eternity, his silent resignation,
his ready accommodation of his thoughts and
behaviour to its inscrutable ways, is at once
the most excellent sort ef self-denial, and
Source of the most exalted transports. Society
124 RELIGION AND
Is the true sphere of human virtue. In social
active life, difficulties will perpetually be met
with ; restraints of many kinds will be neces-
sary ; and studying to behave right in respect
of these, is a discipline of the human heart,
useful to others, and improving to itself. Suf-
fering is no duty, but where it is necessary to
avoid guilt, or to do good; nor pleasure a
crime, but where it strengthens the influence
of bad inclinations, or lessens the generous
activity of virtue. The happiness allotted to
man in his present state, is indeed faint and
Jow, compared with his immortal prospect
and noble capacities. But yet, whatever por-
tion of it the distributing hand of Heaven
offers to each individual, is a needful support
and refreshment for the present moment, so
far as it may not hinder the attaining his final
destination.
" Return then with me, from continual
misery, to moderate enjoyment, and grateful
alacrity ; return from the contracted views of
solitude, to the proper duties of a relative and
dependent
SUPERSTITION CONTRASTED. 125
dependent being. Religion is not confined to
cells and closets, nor restrained to sullen re-
tirement. These are the gloomy doctrines of
Superstition, by which she endeavours to
break those chains of benevolence and social
affection, that link the welfare of every par-
ticular with that of the whole. Remember,
that the greatest honour you can pay to the
Author of your being, is such a cheerful
behaviour as discovers a mind satisfied with
its own dispensations."
Here my preceptress paused ; and I was
going to express my acknowledgments for
her discourse, when a ring of bells from the
neighbouring village, and the new-risen sun
darting his beams through my windows, awa-
kened me.
THE
I '26 ]
THE STORY OF POLEMO.
[BY PERCIVAL,]
POLEMO was a young man cf Athens, so
distinguished by his excesses, that he was the
aversion of all the discreeter part of the city.
He led a life of continual intemperance and
dissipation. His days were given up to feast-
ing and amusements, his nights to riot and in-
toxication. He was constantly surrounded
by a set of loose young men, who imitated
and encouraged his vices; and when they had
totally drowned the little reason they pos-
sessed in copious draughts of wine, they were
accustomed to sally out and practise every
species of absurd and licentious frolic. One
morning they were thus wandering about, af-
ter having spent the night as usual, when
they beheld a great concourse of people, who
were listening to the discourses of a celebrated
philosopher, named Xenocrates. The greater
part of the young men, who still retained some
sense of shame, were so struck with this spec-
tacle, tfcat they turned out of the way ; but
STORY OF POLEMQ. 127
Polemo, who was more daring and abandon-
ed than the rest, prest forward into the midst
of the audience. His figure was too remark-
able not to attract universal notice ; for his
head was crowned with flowers, his robe hung
negligently about him, and his whole body
was reeking with perfumes : besides, his look
and manners were such, as very little quali-
fied him for such company. Many of the au-
dience were so displeased at this interruption,
that they were ready to treat the young man
with great severity ; but the venerable philo-
sopher prevailed upon them not to molest the
intruder, and calmly continued his discourse,
which happened to be upon the dignity and
advantage of temperance. As he proceeded,
he discanted upon this subject with so much
force and eloquence, that the young man be-
came more composed and attentive, as it were
in spite of himself. Presently, as the sage
grew still more animated in his representa-
tion of the shameful slavery which attends
the giving way to our passions, and the sub-
lime happiness of reducing them all to or-
128 STORY OF POLBMO.
der, the countenance of Polemo began to
change, and the expression of it to be soften-
ed. He cast his eyes in mournful silence upon
the ground, as if in deep repentance for his
contemptible conduct. Still the philosopher
increased in vehemence ; he seemed to be ani-
mated with the sacred genius of the art which
he professed, and to exercise an irresistible
power over the minds of his hearers. He
drew the portrait of an ingenuous and mo-
dest young man, that had been bred up to
virtuous toils and manly hardiness. He
painted him triumphant over all his passions,
and trampling upon human fears and weak-
ness. Should his country be invaded, you see
him fly to its defence, and ready to pour forth
all his blood. Calm and composed he ap-
pears with a terrible beauty in the front of
danger, the ornament and bulwark of his
country. The thickest squadrons are pene-
trated by his resistless valour, and he points
out the paths of victory to his admiring fol-
lowers. Should he fall in battle, how glori-
ous
STORY OF POLEMO. 129
ous is his lot! To be cut off in the honourable
discharge of his duty, to be wept for by all the
brave and virtuous, and to survive in the eter-
nal records of fame ! While Xenocrates was
thus discoursing, Polemo seemed to be trans-
ported with a sacred enthusiasm ; his eyes
flashed fire ; his countenance glowed with
martial indignation ; and the whole expression
of his person wa changed. Presently the
philosopher, who had remarked the effects of
his discourse, painted in no less glowing co-
lours the life and manners of an effeminate
young man. Unhappy youth, said he, what
"words shall I find equal to thy abasement !
Thou art the reproach of thy parents, the dis-
grace of thy country, the scorn or pity of
every generous mind. How is nature disho-
noured in thy person, and all her choicest
gifts rendered abortive ! That strength which
ivould have made thee the glory of thy city,
afnd the terror of her foes, is basely thrown
away on luxury and intemperance 1 Thy
youth and beauty are wasted in riot, and pre T
maturely
J30 STORY OF POLEMO.
maturely blasted by disease. Instead of the
eye of fire, the port of intrepidity, the step of
modest firmness, a squalid paleness sits upon
thy face, a bloated corpulency enfeebles thy
limbs, and presents a picture of human na-
ture in its most abject state. But hark ! the
trumpet sounds ; a savage band of unrelent-
ing enemies have surrounded the city, and are
prepared to scatter flames and ruin through
the whole! The virtuous youth that have
been educated to noble cares, arm with gene-
rous emulation, and fly to its defence. How
lovely do they appear drest in resplendent
arms, and moving slowly on in a close impe-
netrable phalanx! They are animated by
every motive which can give energy to a hu-
man breast, and lift it to the sublimest at-
chievements. Their hoary sires, their vene-
rable magistrates, the beauteous forms of
trembling, virgins attend them to the war with
prayers and acclamations. Go forth, ye ge-
nerous bands, secure to meet the rewards of
victory, or the repose of honourable death !
Go
STORY OF POLE MO. 131
Go forth, ye generous bands, but unaccom-
panied by the wretch I have described. His
feeble arm refuses to bear the ponderous
shield; the pointed spear sinks feebly from
his grasp ; he trembles at the noise and tu-
mult of the war, and flies like the haunted
hart, to lurk in shades and darkness. Be-
hold him roused from his midnight orgies,,
reeking with wine and odours, and crowned
with flowers, the only trophies of his war-
fare ; he hurries with trembling steps across
the city ; his voice, his gait, his whole de-
portment proclaim the abject slave of intem-
perance, and stamp indelible infamy upon his
name. While Xenocrates was thus discours-
ing, Polemo listened with fixt attention : the
former animation of his countenance gave
way to a visible dejection ; presently his lips
trembled and his cheeks grew pale; he was
lost in melancholy recollection, and a silent
tear was observed to trickle down. But when
the philosopher described a character so like
his own, shame seemed to take entire posses-
sion
132 STORY OF POLEMO.
sion of his soul, and rousing as from a long
and painful lethargy, he softly raised his hands
to his head, and tore away the chaplets of
flowers, the monuments of his effeminacy and
disgrace : he seemed intent to compose his
dress into a more decent form, and wrapped
his robe about him, that before hung loosely,
\vaving with an air of studied effeminacy.
But when Xenocrates had finished his dis-
course, Polemo approached him with all the
humility of conscious guilt, and begged to be-
come his disciple ; telling him that he had
that day gained the most glorious conquest
that had ever been atchieved by reason and
philosophy, by inspiring with the love of vir-
tue, a mind that had been hitherto plunged
in folly and sensuality. Xenocrates embraced
the young man, encouraged him in such a lau-
dable design, and admitted him among his dis-
ciples. Nor had he ever reason to repent of
his facility ; for Polemo, from that hour, aban-
doned all his former companions and vices,
and, by his uRComnvon ardour for improve-
ment.
THE HERMIT. 133
ment, very soon became as celebrated for vir-
tue and wisdom, as he had before been for
every contrary quality.
THE HERMIT.
[BY PARNEI.L.]
FAR in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age a rev'rend hermit grew ;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well ;
Remote from man, with God he pass'd his
days,
Pray'r all his business, all his pleasure jtraise.
A life so sacred, such serene repose,
Seem'd heav'n itself, till one suggestion rose-
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey;
This sprung some doubt of Providence's
sway ;
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast,
And all the teuor of his soul is lost,
. VOL. I. N So
J34 THE HERMIT.
So when a smooth expanse receives im-
prest
Calm nature's image on its wat'ry breast,
Down bend the banks, the trees depending
grow,
And skies beneath with answering colours
glow :
But if a stone the gentle sea divide,
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side,
And glimrn'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,)
He quits his cell ; the pilgrim-staff he bore,
And fix'd the scallop in his hat before ;
Then with the sun a rising journey went,
Sedate to think, and watching each event.
The morn was wasted in the pathless grass,
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass :
But
THE HERMIT. 135
But when the southern sun had warm'd the
day,
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way :
His raiment decent, his complexion fair,
And soft in graceful ringlets wav'd his hair :
Then near approaching, " Father, hail !" he
cried,
And, " Hail, my son !" the rev'rend sire re-
plied.
Words follow'd words, from question answer
flow'd,
And talk of various kind deceived the road :
Till each with other pleas'd, and loath to
part,
While in their age they differ, join in heart :
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound,
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.
Now sunk the sun j the closing hour of
day
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober
gray ;
Nature in silence bid the world repose :
When near the road a stately palace rose.
There,
136 THE HERMIT.
There, by the moon, through ranks of trees
they pass,
Whose verdure crown'd the sloping sides of
grass.
It chanc'd the noble master of the dome
Still made his house the wand'ring stranger's
home ;
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise,
Prov'd the vain flourish of expensive ease.
The pair arrive ; the liv'ried servants wait ;
Their lord receives them at the pompous
gate.
The table groans with costly piles of food,
And all is more than hospitably good.
Then, led to rest, the day's long toil they
drown,
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of
down.
At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play ;
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep*
And shake the neighboring wood to banish
sleep.
Up
THE HERMIT. 137
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call ;
An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall ;
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet grac'd,
Which the kind master forc'd the guests to
taste.
Then, pleas'd and thankful, from the porch
they go ;
And, but the landlord, none had cause of
woe :
His cup was vanished ; for in secret guise
The younger guest purloin-d the glitt'ring
prize.
As one who spies a serpent in his way,
Glist'ning and basking in the summer ray,
Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near,
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with
fear ;
So seem'd the sire, when far upon the road
The shining spoil his wily partner show'd.
He stopp'd with silence, walk'd with tremb-
ling heart,
And much he wish'd> but durst not ask to
part :
N 3 Murm'ring
133 THE HERMIT.
Murm'ring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it
hard
That gen'rous actions meet a base reward.
While thus they pass, the sun his glory
shrouds,
The changing skies hang out their sable
clouds ;
A sound in air presag'd approaching rain,
And beasts to covert scud across the plain.
Warn'd by the signs, the wand' ring pair re-
treat,
To seek for shelter at a neighb'ring seat.
'Twas built with turrets on a rising ground,
And strong, and large, and uniroprov'd
around;
Its owner's temper, tim'rous and severe,
Unkind and griping, caus'd a desert there.
As near the miser's heavy doors they drew,
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ;
The nimble lightning mix'd with show'rs be-
gan,
And o'er their heads loud rolling thunder
ran.
Here
THE HERMIT. 139
Here long they k,nock, but knock or call in
vain, *
Driv'n by the wind and batter'd by the rain.
At length some pity warm'd the master's
breast ;
('Twas then his threshold first received a
guest ;)
Slow creaking turns the door with jealous
care,
And half he welcomes in the shiv 'ring pair.
One frugal faggot lights the naked walls,
And nature's fervour through their limbs re-
calls.
Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wine,
(Each hardly grantee),) serv'd them both to
dine :
And when the tempest first appeared to cease,
A ready warning bid them part in peace.
With still remark the pond'ring hermit
view'd
In one so rich a life so poor and rude ;
And why should such (within himself he
cried)
Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside
140 THE HERMIT.
But what new marks of wonder soon take
place,
In ev'ry settling feature of his face,
When from his rest the young companion
bore
That cup the gen'rous landlord own'd be-
/ore.
And paid profusely with the precious bowl
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul !
But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ;
The sun emerging opes an azure sky ;
A fresher green the smelling leaves dis-
play,
And, glitt'ring as they tremble,' cheer the day:
The weather courts them from the poor re-
treat,
And the glad master bolts the wary gate.
While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bo-
som wrought
With all the travail of uncertain thought ;
His partner's acts without their cause ap-
pear j
'Twas there a vice j and seem'd a madness
here :
THE HERMIT. 141
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes,
Lost and confounded with the various shows.
Now night's dim shade's again involve"^
the sky ; f
Again the wand'rers want a place to lie : C
Again they search and find a lodging nigh, j
The soil improv'd around, the mansion neat,
And neither poorly low, nor idly great,
It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind,
Contentj 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 mr^er hears, and thus re-
plies :
" Without a vain, without a grudging
heart,
To him who gives us all I yield a part ;
From him you come, for him accept it
here,
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer,"
He
142 THE HERMIT.
He spoke, and bid the welcome tabl
spread,
Then talk/d of virtue till the time of bed ;
When the grave houshold round his hall re-
pair,
Warn'd by a bell, and close the hours with
pray'r.
At length the world, renew'd by calm re-
pose,
Was strong for toil ; the dappled morn arose ;
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept
Near the clos'd cradle, "where an infant
slept,
And writh'd his neck : the landlord's little
pride,
O strange return ! grew black, and gasp'd,
and died.
Horror of horrors 1 what ! his only son !
How look'd our hermit when the fact was
done !
Not hell, tho* hell's black jaws in sunder
part,
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his
heart.
Confus'd -
THE HERMIT. 143
Confus'd and struck with silence at the
deed,
He flies; but, trembling, fails to fly with
speed.
His steps the youth pursues ; the country lay
Perplex'd with roads ; a servant show'd the
way :
A river cross' d the path ; the passage o'er
Was nice to find ; the servant trod before :
Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied,
And deep the waves beneath the bending
branches glide.
The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin,
Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust
him in:.
Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head ;
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the
dead.
Wild sparkling rage inflames the father's
eyes ;
He bursts the bands of fear, and rnadly cries ;
" Detested wretch ! " But scarce his speech
began,
When the strange partner seem'd no longer
man.
144 THE HERMIT.
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ;
His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his
feet;
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ;
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air ;
And wings whose colours glitter'd on the day,
Wide at his back their gradual plumes dis-
play.
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight,
And moves in all the majesty of light.
Tho' loud at first the pilgrim's passion
grew,
Sudden he gaz'd, and wist not what to do ;
Surprise, in secret chains, his words sus-
pends,
And in a calm his settling temper ends.
But silence here the beauteous angel broke ;
The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke.
"Thy pray'r, thy praise, thy life to vice
unknown,
In sweet memorial ri.->e before the throne:
These charms success in our bright region
find,
Aftd force an angel do\vn to calm thy mind ;
2 For
THE HERMIT. 14$
For this commission'd I forsook the sky
Nay, cease to kneel thy fellow-servant I.
Then know the truth of government divine^
And let these scruples be no longer thine.
The Maker justly claims that world he
made:
In this the right of Providence is laid.
Its sacred majesty through all depends
On using second means to work his ends.
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human
eye,
The Pow'r exerts his attributes on high ;
Your actions uses, nor controls your will ;
And bids the doubting sons of men be still.
What strange events can strike with more
surprise,
Than those which lately struck thy wond'r-
ing eyes ?
Yet, taught by these, confess the .Almighty
just;
And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust.
" The great vain man, who far'd on costly
food,
Whose life was too luxurious to be good ;
VOL. j. o Wlio
146 THE HERMIT.
Who made his iv'ry stands with goblets shine,
And forc'd his guests to morning draughts
of wine ;
Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost,
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost.
" The mean suspicious wretch, whose bolt-
ed door
Ne'er mov'd in pity to the wand'ring poor,
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind
Thatbeav'n can bless, if mortals will be kind.
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the
bowl,
And feels compassion touch his grateful souJ.
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 runs below.
" Long had our pious friend in virtue trod ;
But now the child half wean'd his heart from
God:
Child of his age, for him he liv'd in pain,
And measur'd back his steps to earth again.
To what excesses had his dotage run !
But God, to save the father, took the son.
2 T*
THE HERMIT. H7
To all but thee in fits he seemM to go ;
And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow.
The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust,
Now owns in tears the punishment was just.
But how had all his fortunes felt a wrack,
Had that false servant sped in safety back !
This night his treasur'd heaps he meant to
steal,
And what a fund of charity would fail !
Thus Heav'n instructs thy mind : this trial
o'er,
Depart in peace, resign, to sin no more/*
On sounding pinions here the youth with-
drew;
The sage stood wond'ring as the seraph flew.
Thus look'd Elisha, when, to mount on high,
His master took the chariot of the sky :
The fiery pornp ascending left the view ;
The prophet gaz'd, and wish'd to follow too.
The bending Hermit here a pray'r begun :
Lard ; a$ in Jieav'n, on earth thy will be done.
Then, gladly turniqg, sought his ancient
place ;
And pass'd a life qf piety and peace.
THE
[ 148 ]
THE SAILOR.
[BY GOLDSMITH. }
observation is more common, and at
the same time more true, than " That one
half of the world are ignorant how the other
half lives/' The misfortunes of the great
are held up to engage our attention ; are
enlarged upon in tones of declamation ; and
the world is called upon to gaze at the no-
ble sufferers : the great, under the pressure
of calamity, are conscious of several others
sympathizing with their distress ; and have,
at once, the comfort of admiration and pity.
There is nothing magnanimous in bearing
misfortunes with fortitude, when the whole
world is looking on : men in such circum-
stances will act bravely even from motives
of vanity ; but he who, in the vale of obscu-
rity, can brave adversity; who, without
friends to encourage, acquaintances to pity,
or
THE SAILOR. 149
or even without hope to alleviate his mis-
fortunes, can behave with tranquillity and
indifference, is truly great : whether peasant
or courtier, he deserves admiration, and
should be held up for our imitation and
respect.
While the slightest inconveniencies of the
great are magnified into calamities $ while
Tragedy mouths out their sufferings in all
the strains of eloquence, the miseries of the
poor are entirely disregarded ; and yet some
of the lower ranks of people undergo more
real hardships in one day, than those of a
more exalted station suffer in their whole
lives. It is inconceivable what difficulties
the meanest of our common sailors and sol-
diers endure without murmuring or regret ;
without passionately declaiming against Pro-
vidence, or calling their fellows to be gazers
on their intrepidity. Every day is to them
a day of misery, and yet they entertain their
hard fate without repining.
With what indignation do I hear an Ovid,
a Cicero,
150 THE SAILOR.
a Cicero, or a Rabutin, complain of their
misfortunes and hardships, whose greates;
calamity was that of being unable to visit a
certain spot of earth, to which they bad
foolishly attached an idea of happiness !
Their distresses were pleasures, compared
to what many of the adventuring poor every
day endure without murmuring. They ate,
drank, and slept ; they had slaves to attend
them, and were sure of subsistence for life ;
while many of their fellow-creatures are
obliged to wander, without a friend to com-
fort or assist them, and even without a shel-
ter from the severity of the season.
I have been led into these reflections from
accidentally meeting, some days ago. a poor
fellow, whom I knew when a boy, dressed
in a sailor's jacket, and begging at one of
the outlets of the to\vfl, with a wooden leg.
I knew him to be honest and industrious
when in the country, and was curious to
learn what had reduced him to his present
situation. Wherefore, after giving him what
I thought
THE SAILOR. 151
I thought proper, I desired to know the his-
tory of his life and misfortunes,* and the
manner in which he was reduced to his pre-
sent distress. The disabled soldier, for such
he was, though dressed in a sailor's habit,
scratching his head, and leaning on his
crutch, put himself into an attitude to com-
ply with my request, and gave me his his-
tory as follows :
*< As for my misfortunes, master, I can't
pretend to have gone through any more
than other folks ; for, except the loss of inv
limb, and my being obliged to beg, I don't
know any reason, thank Heaven, that I have
to complain ; there is Bill Tibbs, of our re-
giment, he has lost both his legs, and an
eye to boot ; but, thank Heaven ! it is riot so
bad with me yet.
" f was born in Shropshire ; my father was
a labourer, and died when I was five years
old ; so I was put upon the parish. As he
had been a wandering sort of a man, the
parishioners were not able to tell to what
parish
152 THE SAILOR.
parish I belonged, or where I was born, so
they sent me to another parish, and that pa-
rish sent me to a third. I thought in my
heart, they kept sending me about so long,
that they would not let me be born in any
parish at all ; but, at last, however, they
fixed me. I had some disposition to be a
scholar, and was resolved, at least, to know
my letters ; but the master of the workhouse
put me to business as soon as I was able to
handle a mallet ; and here I lived an easy
kind of a life for five years. I only wrought
ten hours in the day, and had my meat and
drink provided for my labour. It is true,
I was not suffered to stir out of the house,
for fear, as they said, I should run away :
but what of that, I had the liberty of the
whole house, and the yard before the door,
and that was enough for me. I was then
bound out to a farmer, where I was up both
early and late ; but I ate and drank well,
and liked my business well enough, till he
died, when I was obliged to provide for my-
self;
THE SAILOR. 153
self; so I was resolved to go and seek my
fortune.
" In this manner I went from town to
town, worked when I could get employ-
ment, and starved when I could get none :
when happening one day to go through a
field belonging to a justice of peace, I spy'd
a hare crossing the path just before me ; and
I believe the devil put it in my head to fling
my stick at it : well, what will you have
bn't ? I killed the hare, and was bringing it
away in triumph, when the justice himself
met me : he called me a poacher and a vil-
lain ; and collaring me, desired I would give
an account of myself; I fell upon my knees,
begged fiis worship's pardon, and began to
give a full account of all that I knew of my
breed, seed, and generation ; but though I
gave a very good account, the justice would
not believe a syllable I had to say ; so I was
indicted at the sessions, found guilty of being
poor, and sent up to London to Newgate, in
order to be transported as a vagabond.
Peopte
154 THE SAILOR.
" People may say this and that of being
in jail ; but, for my part, I found Newgate
as agreeable a place as ever I was in in all
my life. I had my belly full to eat and
drink, and did no work at all. This kind
of life was too good to last for ever; so I
was taken out of prison, after five months,
put on board a ship, and sent off, with two
hundred more, to the plantations. We had
but an indifferent passage, for, being all con-
fined in the hold, more than a hundred of
our people died for want of sweet air ; and
those that remained were sickly enough,
God knows. When we came a-shore we
were sold to the planters, and I was bound
for seven years more. As I was no scholar,
for I did not know my letters, I was obliged
to work among the negroes ; and I served
out my time, as in duty bound to do.
" When my time was expired, I worked
my passage home, and glad I was to see Old
England again, because I loved my country.
1 was afraid, however, that I should be in-
Dieted
THE SAILOR. 155
dieted for a vagabond once more, so did not
iiiuch care to go down into the country, but
kept about the town, and did little jobs when
I could get them.
" I was very happy in this manner for
some time, till one evening, coming home
from work, two men knocked me down, and
then desired me to stand. They belonged
to a press-gang. I was carried before the
justice, and, as I could give no account of
myself, I had my choice left, whether to go
on board a man of war, or list for a soldier.
I chose the latter ; and, in this post of a gen-
tleman, I served two campaigns in Flanders,
was at the battles of Val and Fontenoy, and
received but one wound, through the breast
here ; but the doctor of our regiment soon
made me well again.
" When the peace came on, I was dis-
charged ; and, as I could network, because
my wound was sometimes troublesome, I
listed for a landman in the East-India Com-
pany's service. I here fought the French in
]56 THE SAILOR.
six pitched battles ; and I verily believe,
that, if I could read or write, our captain
would have made me a corporal. But it
was not my good fortune to have any pro-
motion, for I soon fell sick, and so got leave
to return home again, with forty pounds in
my pocket. This was at the beginning of
the present war, and I hoped to be set on
shore, and to have the pleasure of spending!
my money; but the government wanted)
men, and so I was pressed for a sailor before!
ever I could set foot on shore.
" The boatswain found me, as he said,
an obstinate fellow : he swore he knew thatj
I understood my business well, but that I
shammed Abraham, merely to be idle ; but,!
God knows, I knew nothing of sea business,
and he beat me without 'considering what he|
was about. I had still, however, my forty!
pounds, and that was some comfort to mej
under every beating ; and the money I
might have had to this day, but that our!
ship was taken by the French, ana so I 1
4
THE SAILOR. 157
Our crew was carried into Brest, and
many of them died, because they were not
used to live in a jail ; but, for my part, it
was nothing to me, for I was seasoned. One
night, as I was sleeping on the bed of
boards, with a warm blanket about me, for
I always loved to lie well, I was awakened
by the boatswain, who had a dark lanthorn
in his hand. Jack, says he to me, will you
knock out the French centry's brains? I
don't care, says I, striving to keep myself
awake, if I lend a hand. Then follow me,
says he, and I hope we shall do the business.
So up I got, and tied my blanket, which
was all the clothes I had, about my middle,
and went with him to fight the Frenchmen.
I hate the French, because they are att
slaves, and wear wooden shoes.
" Though we had no arms, one English-
man is able to beat five French at any timjs ;
so we went down to the door, where botU
the Gentries were posted, and rushing upon
them, seized their arms in a moment, and
VOL. i. p knocked
15S THE SAILOR.
knocked them down. From thence, nine of
us ran together to the quay, and, seizing
the first boat we met, got out of the harbour
and put to sea. We had not been here
three days before we were taken up by the
Dorset privateer, who were glad of so many
good hands ; and we consented to run our
chance. However, we had not as much luck
as we expected. In three days we fell in
"with the Pompadour privateer, of forty guns,
while we had but twenty-three ; so to it we
went, yard-arm and yard-arm. The fight
lasted for three hours, and I verily believe
we should have taken the Frenchman, had
we but had some more men left behind;
but, unfortunately, we lost all our men just
as we were going to get the victory.
" I was oru;e more in the power of the
Ffeiich, and I believe it would have gone
hard with me had I been brought back to
Brest : but, by good fortune, M r e were re-
taken by the Viper. I had almost forgot to tell
you, that, in that engagement, [ was wound-
ed
/
THE SAILOR. 1.5$
ed in two places; Most four fingers of the
left hand, and my leg was shot off. If I had
had the good fortune to have lost my leg and
use of my hand on board a king's ship, and
not a-board a privateer, J should have been
entitled to cloathing and maintenance dur-
ing the rest of my life ; but that was not my
chance : one man is born with a silver spoon
in his mouth, and another with a wooden
kdle. However, blessed be God, I enjoy
good health, and will for ever love liberty
and Old England. Liberty, preperty, and
Old England, for ever, huzza!"
Thus saying, he limped off, leaving me
in admiration at his intrepidity and content ;
Bor could I avoid acknowledging, that an
habitual acquaintance with misery serves
better than philosophy to teach us to de-
spise it.
*
ALCANDER
[ 160 ]
ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIU3.
[BY GOLDSMITH.]
ATHENS, long after the decline of the
Koman empire, still continued the seat of
learning, politeness, and wisdom. Theodo-
ric, the Ostrogoth, repaired the schools which
barbarity was suffering to fall into decay, and
continued those pensions to men of learning
which avaricious, governors had monopolized.
* In this city, and about this period, Alcaa-
dor and Septimius were fellow-students toge-
ther. The one the most subtle reasoner of
the Lyceum, the other the^ most eloquent
speaker in the Academic Grove. Mutual ad-
miration soon begot a friendship ; their for-
tunes were nearly equal, and they were na-
tives of the two most celebrated cities in the
world ; for Alcander was of Athens, Septi-
mius came from Rome.
In this state of harmony they lived for some
time
ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS. l6l
time together, when Alcander, after passing
the first part of youth in the indolence of phi-
losophy, thought at length of entering into
the busy world; and, as a step previous to
this, placed his affections on Hypatia, a lady
of exquisite beauty. The day of their intend-
ed nuptials was fixed ; the previous ceremo-
nies were performed ; and nothing now re-
mained, but her being conducted in triumph
to the apartment of the intended bridegroom.
Alcander, exulting in his own happiness,
or being unable to enjoy any satisfaction with-
out making his friend Septimius a partner,
prevailed upon him to introduce Hypatia to
his fellow student ; which he did, with all the
gaiety of a man who found himself equally
happy in friendship and love. But this was
an interview fatal to the future peace of both ;
for Septimius no sooner saw Hypatia, than he
was smitten with a violent passion ; .and
though he used every effort to suppress desires
at once so imprudent and unjust, the emotions
of his mind, in a short time, became so strong,
that
^ 162 ALCANDER AND SEPTIMiUS.
that they brought on a fever, \vhich the phy-
sicians judged incurable.
During this illness, Alcander watched him
with all the anxiety of fondness, and brought
his mistress to join in those amiable offices of
friendship. The sagacity of the physicians,
by these means, soon discovered that the cause
of their patient's disorder was love ; and Al-
cander being apprised of their discovery, at
length extorted a confession from the reluc-
tant dying lover.
It would but delay the narrative to describe -
the conflict between love and friendship, in
the breast of Alcander on this occasion : it is
enough to say, that the Athenians were at this
time arrived at such refinement in moral:, that
every virtue was carried to excess. In short,
forgetful of big own felicity, he gave up his
bride, in all her charms to the young Roman.
They were married privately py his conniv-
ance ; and this unlocked for change of for-
!"J
tune wrought as unexpected a change in th?
constitution of the now happy Septimius. In
a few
ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS. 16*3
a few days he was perfectly recovered, and
set out with his fair partner for Rome.
Here, by an exertien of those talents which
he so eminently possessed, Septimius, in a
few years, arrived at the highest dignities of
the state, and was constituted the city judge or
praetor.
In the mean time, Alcander not only felt
the pain of being separated from his friend and
his mistress, but he was also prosecuted by
the relations of Hypatia, for having basely
given up his bride, as was suggested, for.mo-
ney. His innocence of the crime laid to his
charge, and even his eloquence in his own de-
fence, were not able to withstand the influ-
ence of a powerful party. He was case, and
condemned to pay an enormous fine. How-
ever, being unable to raise so large a sum at the
time appointed, his possessions were confis-
cated, he himself was stripped of his. habit of
freedom, exposed as a slave in the market-
place, and sold to the highest bidder.
A merchant of Thrace becoming his pur^
chaser.
164- ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS.
chaser, Alcander, with some other companions
of distress, was carried into that desolate and
barren region. His stated employment was
to follow the herds of an imperious master ;
and his success in hunting was all that was al-
lowed him to supply his precarious subsist-
ence. Every morning waked him to a re-
newal of famine or toil, and every change of
season served but to aggravate his unsheltered
distress. After some years of bondage, how-
ever, an occasion for escaping having offered,
he embraced it with ardour ; so that travelling
by night, and lodging in caverns by day, he
at last arrived at Rome. The same day on
which Alcander arrived, Septimius sat dis-
pensing justice in the Forum, whither our
wanderer came, expecting to be instantly
known, and publicly acknowledged by his for-
mer friend. Here he stood the whole day
amongst the crowd, watching the eyes of the
judge, and expecting to be taken notice of ; but
he was so much altered by a long succession of
hardships, that he continued unnoticed amongst
the
ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS. \6j
the rest ; and in the evening, when he was go-
ing up to the praetor's chair, he was brutally
repulsed by the surrounding lictors. The at-
tention of the poor is generally driven from
one ungrateful object to another ; for night
coming on, he now found himself under the
necessity of seeking a place to lie in, and yet
knew not where to apply; all emaciated and
in rags as he was, none of the citizens would
harbour so much wretchedness ; and sleeping
in the streets might be attended with pain, and
even with danger : in short, he was obliged to
take up his lodging in one of the tombs with-
cut the city, the usual retreat of guilt, poverty,
and despair. In this mansion of horror, laying
his head upon an inverted urn, he forgot his
miseries for a while in sleep, and found on his
flinty couch more ease than beds of down can
supply to the guilty.
As he continued here, about midnight two
robbers came to make this their retreat ; but
happening to disagree about the division
of their plunder, one of them stabbed the
other
166 ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS,
other to the heart, and left him weltering in
blood at the entrance. In this condition he
was found next morning, at the mouth of the
vault, and this naturally inducing an enquiry,
an alarm was spread ; the cave was examined ;
and Alcander was apprehended and accused
of robbery and murder. The circumstances
against him were strong, and the wretched-
Bess of his appearance confirmed suspicion.
Misfortune and he were now so long ac-
quainted, that he at last became regardless of
life. He detested a world where he found
only ingratitude, falsehood, and cruelty *, he
was determined to make no defence j and thus
lowering with resolution, he was dragged,
bound with cords, before the tribunal of Sep-
timius. As the proofs were positive against
him, and he offered nothing in his own de-
fence, the judge was proceeding to doom him
to a most cruel and shameful death, when the
attention of the multitude was soon divided
by another object. The robber who had been
really guilty, was apprehended selling his
plunder,
ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS. 167
plunder, and, struck with a panic, had confess-
ed his crime. He was brought bound to the
same tribunal, and acquitted every other per-
son of any partnership in his guilt. Alcan-
der's innocence therefore appeared ; but the
sullen rashness of his conduct remained a won-
der to the surroundipg multitude: their asto-
nishment, however, was still farther increased,
when they saw their judge start from his tri-
bunal, to embrace the supposed criminal. Sep-
timius recollected his friend and former bene-
factor, and hung upon his neck with tears of
pity and of joy. Need the sequel be related ?
Alcander was acquitted ; shared the friend-
ship and honours of the principal citizens of
Rome; lived afterwards in happiness and
ease, and left it to be engraved 'on his tomb,
that " No circumstances are so desperate,
which Providence may not relieve."
THE
[ 168 ]
THE PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT.
[BY WARTON.]
VV HEN ROW mature in classic knowledge,
The joyful youth is sent to college ;
His father comes, a vicar plain,
At Oxford bred in Anna's reign,
^Ynd thus in form of humble suitor
Bowing accosts a reverend tutor :
" Sir, I'm a Gloucestershire divine,
And this my eldest son of nine ;
My wife's ambition and my own
Was that this child should wear a gown :
I'll warrant that his good behaviour
Will justify your future favour:
And for his parts, to tell the truth,
My son's a very forward youth ;
Has Horace all by heart you'd wonder
And mouths put Homer's Greek like thunder.
If you'd examine and admit him,
A scholarship would nicely fit him,
That he succeeds 'tis ten to one ;
Your vote and interest, Sir I VTis done."
THE PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT. l6<>
Our pupil's hopes, though twice defeated,
Are with a scholarship completed.
A scholarship but half maintains,
And college rules are heavy chains :
In garret dark he smokes and puns,
A prey to discipline and duns:
And now intent on new designs,
Sighs for a fellowship and fines.
When nine full tedious winters past,
TJiat utmost wish is crown'd at last :
But the rich prize no sooner got,
Again he quarrels with his lot:
" These fellowships are pretty things,
We live indeed like petty kings :
But who can bear to waste his whole age
Ajnid the dullness of a college ;
Debarr'd the common joys of life,
And that prime bliss a loving wife 1
Oh, what 's a table richly spread,
Without a woman at its head!
Would some snug benefice but fall,
Ye feasts, ye dinners! fareweltall I
To offices I'd bid adieu,
Of dean, vice-praef. of bursar too;
VOL. i. CL Como
170 THE PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT.
Come, joys, that rural quiet yields,
Come, tithes, and house, and fruitful fields!"
Too fond of liberty and ease,
A patron's vanity to please,
Long time he watches, and by stealth,
Each frail incumbent's doubtful health ;
At length and in his fortieth year,
A living drops two hundred clear !
With breast elate beyond expression,
He hurries down to take possession,
With rapture views the sweet retreat
" What a convenient house ! how neat !
For fuel here's sufficient wood:
Pray God the cellars may be good !
The garden that must be new plann'd
Shall these old-fashion'd yew-trees stand ?
O'er yonder vacant plot shall rise
The flow'ry shrub of thousand dies :
Yon wall that feels the southern ray,
Shall blush, with ruddy fruitage gay ;
Whilst thick beneath its aspect warm,
O'er well-rang'd hives the bees shall swarm,
From which, ere long, of golden gleam
Metheglin's luscious juice shall stream:
THE PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT. ]?l
This awkward hut o'ergrown with ivy,
We'll alter to a modern privy :
Up yon green slope, of hazels trim,
An avenue so cool and dim,
Shall to an arbour, at the end,
In spite of gout, entice a friend.
My predecessor lov'd devotion
But of a garden had no notion."
Continuing this fantastic farce on,
He now commences country parson.
To make his character entire,
He weds a cousin of the 'squire ;
Not over- weighty in the purse,
But many doctors have done worse :
And though me boasts no charms divine,
Yet she can carve and make birch-wine.
Thus fixt, content he taps his barrel,
Exhorts his neighbours not to quarrel :
Finds his church-wardens have discernmg
Both in good liquor, and good learning :
With tithes his barns replete he sees,
And chuckles o'er his surplice-fees ^
Studies to find out latent dues,
An4 regulates the state of pews-:
172 THE PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT.
Rides a sleek mare with purple housing,
To share the monthly club's carousing ;
Of Oxford pranks facetious tells,
And but on Sundays hears BO bells ;
Sends presents of his choicest fruit,
And prunes himself each sapless shoot.
Plants cauliflowers, and boasts to rear
The earliest melons of the year ;
Thinks alteration charming work is,
Keeps Bantam cocks, and feeds his turkeys ;
Builds in his copse a favourite bench,
And stores the pond with carp and tench.
But, ah : too soon his thoughtless breast
By cares domestic is opprest :
And a third butcher's-bill and brewing Vj A
Threaten inevitable ruin ;
For children fresh expenses yet,
And Dicky now for school is fit.
<( Whv did I sell my college life
(He cries) for benefice and wife ?
Return, ye days ! when endless pleasure
J found in reading, or in leisure !
When calm around the common room
I puffd my daily pipe's perfume !
Rod
THE PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT. 173
Rode for a stomach, and inspected,
At annual Settlings, corks selected :
And din'd untax'd, untroubled, under
The portrait of our pious founder !
When impositions were supplied
To light my pipe or sooth, my pride
No cares were then for forward pease/
A yearly-longing wife to please.
My thoughts no christening dinner crost,
No children cried for butter'd toast ;
And every night I went to bed,
Without a modus in my head !"
Oh ! trifling head, and fickle heart !
Chagrin'd at whatsoe'er thou art ;
A dupe to follies yet untried,
And sick of pleasures scarce enjoy'd!
Each prize possess'd, thy transport ceases,
And in pursuit alone it pleases.
PITY
PITY.
AX ALLEGORY.
[BY MRS. BARBAVLD.]
IN the happy period of the golden age,
when all-the celestial inhabitants descended
to the earth, and conversed familiarly with
mortals, among the most cherished of the
heavenly powers, were twins, the offspring
of Jupiter, Love and Joy. Wherever they
appeared, the flowers sprung up beneath
their feet, the sun shone with a brighter ra-
diance, and all nature seemed embellished
by their presence. They were inseparable
companions ; and their growing attachment
was favoured by Jupiter, who had decreed
that a lasting union should be solemnized
between them so soon as they were arrived
at maturer years. But in the mean time the
sons of men deviated from their native inno-
cence ; vice and ruin over-ran the earth with
giant strides ; and Astrea, with her train of
celestial visitants, forsook their polluted
abodes
PITY: AN ALLEGORY. 175
abodes. Love alone remained, having been
stolen away by Hope, who was his nurse,
and conveyed by her to the forests of Aj-ca-
dia, where he was brought up among the
shepherds. But Jupiter assigned him a dif-
ferent partner, and commanded him to es-
pouse Sorrow, the daughter of Ate. He
complied with reluctance; for her features
were harsh and disagreeable, her eyes sunk,
her forehead contracted into perpetual wrin-
kles, a ad her temples were covered with a
wreath of cypress and wormwood. From this
union sprung a virgin, in whom might be
traced a strong resemblance to both her pa-
rents ; but the sullen and unamiable featUftis
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
neighbouring plains gathered round, and
called her Pity. A red-breast was obscured
to build iu the cabin where she was born :
and while she was yet an infant, a dove pur-.
sued by au hawk flow into her bosom, Thh
riytnpb
116 PITY: AN ALLEGORY.
nymph had a dejected appearance, but so
soft and gentle a mien, that she was beloved
to a degree of enthusiasm. Her voice was
low and plaintive, but inexpressibly sweet ;
and 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 amongst them, and
captivate their hearts by her tales full of a
charming sadness. She wore on her head a
garland, composed of her father's myrtles
twisted with her mother's cypress.
One day, as she sat musing by the waters
of Helicon, her tears by chance fell into the
fountain ; and ever since the Muses 1 spring
has retained a strong taste of the infusion.
Pity was commanded by Jupiter to follow
the steps of her mother through the world,
dropping balm into the wounds she made,
and binding up the hearts she had broken.
She follows with her hair loose, her bosom
bare
THE SHEPHERD AND PHILOSOPHER. 177
bare and throbbing, her garments torn by
the briars, and her feet Weeding with the
roughness of the path. The nymph is. mor-
tal, for her mother is so; and wh?n she has
fulfilled her destined course upon the earth,
they shall both expire together, and Love be
again united o Joy, his immortal and Jong-
betrothed bride.
THE SHEPHERD AND THE PHILOSOPHER.
BY GAY.]
IxEMOTE from cities liv'd a swain,
Unvex'd with all the cares of gain ;
His head was silver'd o'er with age,
And long experience made him sage ;
In summer's heat and winter's cold,
He fed his flock and penn'd the fold ;
His hours in cheerful labour flew,
Nor envy nor ambition knew :
His wisdom and his honest fame
Through all the country rais'd his name.
A deep philosopher (whose rules
Of moral life were drawn from schools)
178 THE SHEPHERD AND
The shepherd's homely cottage sought,
And thus explorM his reach of thought.
" Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil
O'er books consumed the midnight oil ?
Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey 'd,
And the vast sense of Plato weigh'd . ?
Hath Socrates thy soul refin'd,
And hast thou fathom'd Tully's mind ?
Or, like the wise Ulysses, thrown,
By various fates on realms unknown,
Hast thou through many cities stray M,
Their customs, laws, and manners weigh'd r'*
The shepherd modestly replied,
" I ne'er the paths of learning tried;
Nor have I roam'd in foreign parts,
To read mankind, their laws and arts ;
For man is practis'd in disguise,
He cheats the most discerning eyes.
Who by that search shall wiser grow ?
By that ourselves we never know.
The little knowledge I have gain'd,
Was all from simple nature (jrain'd ;
Hence my life's maxims took their rise,
Hence grew my settled .hr.te of vice.
The
THE PHILOSOPHER. 179
The daily labours of the bee
Awake my soul to industry.
Who can observe the careful ant,
And not provide for future want ?
My dog (the trustiest of his kind)
With gratitude inflames my mind :
I mark his true, his faithful way,
And in my service copy Tray.
In constancy and nuptial love,
I learn my duty from the dove.
The hen, who from the chilly air,
With pious wing, protects her cane,
And ev'ry fowl that flies, at large,
Instruct me in a parent's charge."
" From nature too I take my rule,
To shun contempt and ridicule.
I never, with important air,
In conversation overbear.
Can grave and formal pass for wise,
When men the solemn owl despise ?
My tongue within my lips I rein j
For who talks much must talk in vain.
We from the wordy torrent fly :
Who listens to the chatt'ring pye I
Nor
ISO THE SHEPHERD AND PHILOSOPHER.
Nor would I, with felonious flight,
By stealth invade my neighbour's right :
Rapacious animals we hate ;
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 bite.
Thus ev'ry object of creation
Can furnish hints to contemplation;.
And from the most minute and mean,
A virtuous mind can morals glean."
" Thy fame is just," the sage replies ;
** Thy virtue proves thee truly wise.
Pride often guides the author's pen,
Books as affected are as men :
But he who studies nature's laws,
From certain truth his maxims draws ;
And those, without our schools, suffice
To make men moral, good, and wise.
END OF VOJ,, I.
7. Adlird* Jfnntrr, Date-Street*
