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Title: The Young Gentleman and Lady's Monitor, and English Teacher's Assistant

Author: John Hamilton Moore

Release Date: October 3, 2004 [EBook #13588]

Language: English

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THE _YOUNG GENTLEMAN AND LADY's_

MONITOR,

AND

_ENGLISH TEACHER's_

ASSISTANT:

BEING

A COLLECTION OF SELECT PIECES

FROM OUR BEST MODERN WRITERS;

CALCULATED TO

Eradicate vulgar Prejudices and Rusticity of Manners; Improve the
Understanding; Rectify the Will; Purify the Passions; Direct the Minds
of Youth to the Pursuit of proper Objects; and to facilitate their
Reading, Writing, and Speaking the English language, with Elegance and
Propriety.

Particularly adapted for the use of our eminent Schools and Academies,
as well as private persons, who have not an opportunity of perusing the
Works of those celebrated Authors, from whence this collection is made.

DIVIDED INTO SMALL PORTIONS, FOR THE EASE OF READING IN CLASSES.


THE LATEST EDITION.

_BY J. HAMILTON MOORE_,

AUTHOR OF

THE PRACTICAL NAVIGATOR AND SEAMAN'S NEW DAILY ASSISTANT.


1802.




PREFACE.

_As the design of Learning is to render persons agreeable companions to
themselves, and useful members of society; to support solitude with
pleasure, and to pass through promiscuous temptations with prudence;
'tis presumed, this compilation will not be unacceptable; being composed
of pieces selected from the most celebrated moral writers in the English
language, equally calculated to promote the principles of religion, and
to render youth vigilant in discharging, the social and relative duties
in the several stations of life; by instilling into their minds such
maxims of virtue and good-breeding, as tend to eradicate local
prejudices and rusticity of manners; and at the same time, habituate
them to an elegant manner of expressing themselves either in Writing or
Speaking._

_And as the first impression made on the minds of youth is the most
lasting, great care should be taken to furnish them with such seeds of
reason and philosophy as may rectify and sweeten every part of their
future lives; by marking out a proper behaviour both with respect to
themselves and others, and exhibiting every virtue to their view which
claims their attention, and every vice which they ought to avoid.
Instead of this, we generally see youth suffered to read romances, which
impress on their minds such notions of Fairies, Goblins, &c. that exist
only in the imagination, and, being strongly imbibed, take much time to
eradicate, and very often baffle all the powers of philosophy. If books
abounding with moral instructions, conveyed in a proper manner, were
given in their stead, the frequent reading of them would implant in
their mind such ideas and sentiments, as would enable them to guard
against those prejudices so frequently met with amongst the ignorant._

_Nor is it possible that any person can speak or write with elegance and
propriety, who has not been taught to read well, and in such books where
the sentiments are just and the language pure._

_An insipid flatness and languor is almost the universal fault in
reading; often uttering their words so faint and feeble, that they
appear neither to feel nor understand what they read, nor have any
desire it should be understood or felt by others. In order to acquire a
forcible manner of pronouncing words, let the pupils inure themselves,
while reading, to draw in as much air as their lungs can contain with
ease, and to expel it with vehemence in uttering those sounds which
require an emphatical pronunciation, and read aloud with all the
exertion they can command; let all the consonant sounds be expressed
with a full impulse of the breath, and a forcible action of the organs
employed in forming them; and all the vowel sounds have a full and bold
utterance._

_These reasons, and to inspire youth with noble sentiments, just
expression, to ease the teacher, and to render a book cheap, and
convenient for schools, as well as private persons, who have neither
time nor opportunity to peruse the works of those celebrated authors
from whence this Collection is made, was the cause of the following
compilation._

_And as the speeches in both houses of parliament, pleading at the bar,
instructions in the pulpit, and commercial correspondance, are delivered
and carried on in the English language; the cloathing our thoughts with
proper expressions, and conveying our ideas, either in writing or
speaking, agreeably, cannot fail of making an impression upon the hearer
or reader. For a man's knowledge is of little use to the world, when he
is not able to convey it properly to others; which is the case of many
who are endowed with excellent parts, but are either afraid or ashamed
of writing, or speaking in public, being conscious of their own
deficiency of expressing themselves in proper terms._

_In order to remedy these defects, and to ease the teacher, I would
advise, that several young gentlemen read in a class, each a sentence in
this book, (it being divided into small portions for that purpose,) as
often as convenient: and let him who reads best, be advanced to the
head, or have some pecuniary reward; and every inferior one according to
his merit; this will create emulation among them, and facilitate their
improvement much more than threats or corrections, which stupifies and
intimidates them, and often ends in contempt of their teachers, and
learning in general. This will draw forth those latent abilities, which
otherwise might lie dormant forever._

_It may not be improper for the teacher, or some good reader, to read a
sentence or two first, that the learners may gain the proper emphasis,
and read without that monotony so painful to a good ear: for they will
improve more by imitating a good reader, than any rules that can be laid
down to them. When they come to read gracefully, let them stand up in
the school and read aloud, in order to take off that bashfulness
generally attending those who are called upon either to read or speak in
public._

_The next thing I would recommend, is the English Grammar (the best I
know of is the Buchanan's syntax) the knowledge of which is absolutely
necessary, as it is the solid foundation upon which all other science
rests. After they have run over the rules of syntax, the teacher may
dictate to them one or more sentences in false English, which they may
correct by their grammar rules, and also find out the various
significations of each word in the dictionary; by which means they will
soon acquire a copious vocabulary, and become acquainted not with words
only, but with things themselves. Let them get those sentences by heart
to speak extempore; which will in some measure, be delivering their own
compositions, and may be repeated as often as convenient. This will soon
give the young gentlemen an idea of the force, elegance, and beauty of
the English language._

_The next thing I would gladly recommend, is that of letter-writing, a
branch of education, which seems to me of the utmost utility, and in
which most of our youth are deficient at their leaving school; being
suffered to form their own style by chance: or imitate the first
wretched model that falls in their way, before they know what is faulty,
or can relish the beauties of a just simplicity._

_For their improvement in this particular, the teacher may cause every
young gentleman to have a slate or paper before him, on Saturdays, and
then dictate a letter to them, either of his own composition, or taken
out of some book, and turn it into false English, to exercise them in
the grammar rules if he thinks proper, which they shall all write down,
and then correct and transcribe it fairly in their books._

_After the young gentlemen have been accustomed to this some time, a
supposed correspondence may be fixt between every two of them, and
write to one another under the inspection of the teacher who may correct
and shew their faults when he sees occasion; by such a method he will
soon find them improve in epistolary writing. The same may be observed
with regard to young ladies, who are very often deficient, not only in
orthography, but every other part of grammar._

_If something similar to this method be pursued, it will soon reflect
honor on the teacher, give the highest satisfaction to judicious
parents, and entail upon the scholar a pleasing and lasting advantage._

_THE EDITOR_.




CONTENTS.

  Pursuit of Knowledge recommended to Youth,
  Directions how to spend our Time,
  Mispent Time how punished,
  Modesty,
  Affectation,
  The same continued,
  Good humour and Nature,
  Friendship,
  Detraction and Falshood,
  The Importance of Punctuality,
  Exercise and Temperance the best Preservative of Health,
  The Duty of Secrecy,
  Of Cheerfulness,
  On the Advantages of a Cheerful Temper,
  Discretion,
  Pride,
  Drunkenness,
  Gaming,
  Whisperers and Giglers complained of,
  Beauty produced by Sentiments,
  Honour,
  Human Nature,
  The Advantages of representing Human Nature in its proper Dignity,
  Custom a second Nature,
  On Cleanliness,
  The Advantages of a good Education,
  The Disadvantages of a bad Education,
  Learning a necessary Accomplishment in a Woman of Quality or Fortune,
  On the Absurdity of Omens,
  A good Conscience, &c.
  On Contentment,
  Human Miseries chiefly imaginary,
  A Life of Virtue preferable to a Life of Pleasure,
  Virtue rewarded,
  The History of Amanda,
  The Story of Abdallah and Balsora,
  Rashness and Cowardice,
  Fortitude founded upon the Fear of God,
  The Folly of youthful Extravagance,
  The Misery of depending upon the Great,
  What it is to see the World,
  The Story of Melissa,
  On the Omniscience and Omnipresence of the Deity, together with the
      Immensity of his Works,
  Motives to Piety and Virtue, drawn from the Omniscience and
      Omnipresence of the Deity,
  Reflections on the third Heaven,
  The present Life to be considered only as it may conduce to the
      Happiness of a future one,
  On the Immortality of the Soul,
  On the Animal World, and the Scale of Beings,
  Providence proved from Animal instinct,
  Good-Breeding,
  Further Remarks, taken from Lord Chesterfield's Letters to his Son,
  Genteel Carriage,
  Cleanliness of Person,
  Dress,
  Elegance of Expression,
  Small Talk,
  Observation,
  Absence of Mind,
  Knowledge of the World,
  Choice of Company,
  Laughter,
  Sundry little Accomplishments,
  Dignity of Manners,
  Rules for Conversation,
  Further Remarks, taken from Lord Chesterfield's Letters to his Son,
  Entrance upon the World,
  Advice to a young Man,
  The Vision of Mirza, exhibiting a Picture of Human Life,
  Riches not productive of Happiness: The Story of Ortogrul of Basra,
  Of the Scriptures, as the Rule of Life,
  Of Genesis,
  Of Exodus,
  Of Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy,
  Of Joshua,
  Of Judges, Samuel, and Kings,
  Of Chronicles, Ezra, Nehemiah; and Esther,
  Of Job,
  Of the Psalms,
  Of the Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Solomon's Song, the Prophecies, and
      Apocrypha,
  Of the New Testament,
  Of the Example set by our Savior, and his Character,
  A comparative View of the Blessed and Cursed at the last Day, and the
      Inference to be drawn from it,
  Character of St. Paul,
  Of the Epistles,
  The Epistle of St. James,
  Epistles of St. Peter, and the first of St. John,
  Of the Revelations,
  True Devotion productive of the truest Pleasure,
  A Morning Prayer for a young Student at School, or for the common Use of
      a School,
  An Evening Prayer,


  APPENDIX.

  Of Columbus, and the Discovery of America,
  Speech of Romulus after founding Rome,
  Speech of Quinctius Capitolinus,
  Caius Marius to the Romans,
  Demosthenes to the Athenians,
  The perfect Speaker,
  On the Duties of School-Boys, from the pious and judicious Rollin,
  Columbia.--A Poem,
  The Choice of a Rural Life.--A Poem,
  Hymns and Prayers,
  Character of Man,
  Winter,
  Douglas's Account of himself,
  ------how he learned the Art of War,
  Baucis and Philemon,
  On Happiness,
  Speech of Adam to Eve,
  Soliloquy and Prayer of Edward the Black Prince, before the battle of
      Poictiers,
  Invocation to Paradise Lost,
  Morning Hymn, _ibid._
  The Hermit, by Dr. Beatie,
  Compassion,
  Advantages of Peace,
  The Progress of Life,
  Speeches in the Roman Senate,
  Cato's Soliloquy on the Immortality of the Soul,
  Hamlet's Meditation on Death,


  _Select Passages from Dramatic Writers._

  Joy,----_Distressed Mother,_
  Grief,----_Distressed Mother,_
  Pity,----_Venice Preserved,_
  Fear,----_Lear,_
  Awe and Fear,----_Mourning Bride,_
  Horror,----_Scanderberg,_
  Anger,----_Lear,_
  Revenge,----_Merchant of Venice,_
  Admiration,----_Merchant of Venice,_
  Haughtiness,----_Tamerlane,_
  Contempt,----_Fair Penitent,_
  Resignation,----_Jane Shore,_
  Impatience,--_Volpone_
  Remorse and Despair,--_Busiris_,
  Distraction,--_Jane Shore_,
  Gratitude,--_Fair Penitent_,
  Intreaty,--_Jane Shore_,
  Commanding,--_Rinaldo and Armida_,
  Courage,--_Alfred_,
  Boasting,--_Every Man in his Humour_,
  Perplexity,--_Tancred and Sigismunda_
  Suspicion,--_Julius Caesar_,
  Wit and Humour,--_2d Henry_ 4, _1st Henry_ 4,
  Ridicule,--_Julius Caesar_,
  Perturbation--_Lear_,


  ELEMENTS OF GESTURE.

  Section I,
  Section II.
  Section III.


  On Reading and Speaking,

         *       *       *       *       *





THE

YOUNG GENTLEMAN

AND

LADY'S MONITOR,

AND

ENGLISH TEACHERS ASSISTANT,




_Pursuit of Knowledge recommended to Youth_.

1. I am very much concerned when I see young gentlemen of fortune and
quality so wholly set upon pleasure and diversions, that they neglect
all those improvements in wisdom and knowledge which may make them easy
to themselves and useful to the world. The greatest part of our
_British_ youth lose their figure, and grow out of fashion, by that time
they are five and twenty.

2. As soon as the natural gaiety and amiableness of the young man wears
off, they have nothing left to recommend them, but _lie by_ the rest of
their lives, among the lumber and refuse of the species.

It sometimes happens, indeed, that for want of applying themselves in
due time to the pursuits of knowledge, they take up a book in their
declining years, and grow very hopeful scholars by that time they are
threescore. I must therefore earnestly press my readers who are in the
flower of their youth, to labour at these accomplishments which may set
off their persons when their bloom is gone, and to _lay in_ timely
provisions for manhood and old age. In short, I would advise the youth
of fifteen to be dressing up every day the man of fifty; or to consider
how to make himself venerable at threescore.

3. Young men, who are naturally ambitious, would do well to observe how
the greatest men of antiquity wade it their ambition to excel all their
cotemporaries in knowledge. _Julius Caesar_ and _Alexander_, the most
celebrated instances of human greatness, took a particular care to
distinguish themselves by their skill in the arts and sciences. We have
still extant, several remains of the former, which justify the character
given of him by the learned men of his own age.

4. As for the latter, it is a known saying of his, that he was more
obliged to _Aristotle_, who had instructed him, than to _Philip_, who
had given him life and empire. There is a letter of his recorded by
_Plutarch_ and _Aulus Gellius_, which he wrote to _Aristotle_, upon
hearing that he had published those lectures he had given him in
private. This letter was written in the following words, at a time when
he was in the height of his _Persian_ conquests.

5. "ALEXANDER _to_ ARISTOTLE, _Greeting_.

"You have not done well to publish your books of select knowledge; for
what is there now in which I can surpass others, if those things which I
have been instructed in are communicated to every body? For my own part
I declare to you, I would rather excel others in knowledge than power.
_Farewell_."

6. We see by this letter, that the love of conquest was but the second
ambition in _Alexander_'s soul. Knowledge is indeed that, which, next to
virtue, truly and essentially raises one man above another. It finishes
one half of the human soul. It makes being pleasant to us, fills the
mind with entertaining views, and administers to it a perpetual series
of gratifications.

It gives ease to solitude, and gracefulness to retirement. It fills a
public station with suitable abilities, and adds a lustre to those who
are in possession of them.

7. Learning, by which I mean all useful knowledge, whether speculative
or practical, is in popular and mixed governments the natural source of
wealth and honor. If we look into most of the reigns from the conquest,
we shall find, that the favorites of each reign have been those who have
raised themselves. The greatest men are generally the growth of that
particular age in which they flourish.

8. A superior capacity for business and a more extensive knowledge, are
the steps by which a new man often mounts to favor, and outshines the
rest of his cotemporaries. But when men are actually born to titles, it
is almost impossible that they should fail of receiving an additional
greatness, if they take care to accomplish themselves for it.

9. The story of _Solomon_'s choice, does not only instruct us in that
point of history, but furnishes out a very fine moral to us, namely,
that he who applies his heart to wisdom, does at the same time take the
most proper method for gaining long life, riches and reputation, which
are very often not only the rewards, but the effects of wisdom.

10. As it is very suitable to my present subject, I shall first of all
quote this passage in the words of sacred writ, and afterwards mention
an allegory, in which this whole passage is represented by a famous
FRENCH Poet; not questioning but it will be very pleasing to such of my
readers as have a taste for fine writing.

11. In _Gibeon_ the Lord appeared to _Solomon_ in a dream by night: and
God said, "Ask what I shall give thee." And Solomon said, "Thou hast
shewed unto thy servant _David_, my father, great mercy, according as he
walked before thee in truth, and in righteousness, and in uprightness of
heart with thee, and thou hast kept from him this great kindness, that
thou hast given him a son to sit on his throne, as it is this day. And
now, O Lord, my God, thou hast made thy servant King instead of David my
father; and I am but a little child: I know not how to go out or come
in."

12. "Give therefore thy servant an understanding heart to judge thy
people, that I may discern between good and bad: for who is able to
judge this thy so great a people?" And the speech pleased the Lord, that
Solomon had asked this thing. And God said unto him, "Because thou hast
asked this thing, and hast not asked for thyself long life, neither hast
asked riches for thyself, nor hast asked the life of thine enemies, but
hast asked for thyself understanding to discern judgment; behold, I have
done according to thy words, so I have given thee a wise and
understanding heart, so that there was none like thee before thee,
neither after thee shall any arise like unto thee."

13. "And I have also given thee that which thou hast not asked, both
riches and honor, so that there shall not be any among the kings like
unto thee all thy days. And if thou wilt walk in my ways, to keep my
statutes and my commandments as thy father _David_ did walk, then I will
lengthen thy days." And Solomon awoke and behold it was a dream.

14. The French poet has shadowed this story in an allegory, of which he
seems to have taken the hint from the fable of the three goddesses
appearing to Paris, or rather from the vision of _Hercules_, recorded by
_Xenophon_, where _Pleasure_ and _Virtue_ are represented as real
persons making their court to the hero with all their several charms and
allurements.

15. _Health_, _Wealth_, _Victory_ and _Honor_ are introduced
successively in their proper emblems and characters, each of them
spreading her temptations, and recommending herself to the young
monarch's choice. _Wisdom_ enters last, and so captivates him with her
appearance, that he gives himself up to her. Upon which she informs him,
that those who appeared before her were nothing but her equipage, and
that since he had placed his heart upon _Wisdom_, _Health_, _Wealth_,
_Victory_ and _Honor_ should always wait an her as her handmaids.




_Directions how to spend our Time._


1. We all of us complain of the shortness of time, saith _Seneca_, and
yet have much more than we know what to do with. Our lives, says he, are
spent either in doing nothing at all, or in doing nothing to the
purpose, or in doing nothing that we ought to do; we are always
complaining our days are few, and acting as though there would be no end
of them. That noble philosopher has described our inconsistency with
ourselves in this particular, by all those various turns of expression
and thought which are peculiar to his writings.

2. I often consider mankind as wholly inconsistent with itself in a
point that bears some affinity to the former. Though we seem grieved at
the shortness of life in general, we are wishing every period of it at
an end. The minor longs to be at age, then to be a man of business, then
to make up an estate, then to arrive at honors, then to retire. Thus,
although the whole of life is allowed by every one to be short, the
several divisions of it appear to be long and tedious.

3. We are for lengthening our span in general, but would fain contract
the parts of which it is composed. The usurer would be very well
satisfied to have all the time annihilated that lies between the present
moment and next quarter day. The politician would be contented to loose
three years of his life, could he place things in the posture which he
fancies they will stand in after such a revolution of time.

4. The lover would be glad to strike out of his existence all the
moments that are to pass away before the happy meeting. Thus, as far as
our time runs, we should be very glad in most parts of our lives, that
it ran much faster than it does. Several hours of the day hang upon our
hands, nay, we wish away whole years; and travel through time as through
a country filled with many wild and empty wastes which we would fain
hurry over, that we may arrive at those several little settlements or
imaginary points of rest, which are dispersed up and down in it.

5. If we may divide the life of most men into twenty parts, we shall
find, that at least nineteen of them are mere gaps and chasms, which are
neither filled with pleasure nor business. I do not however include in
this calculation the life of those men who are in a perpetual hurry of
affairs, but of those only who are not always engaged in scenes of
action: and I hope I shall not do an unacceptable piece of service to
those persons, if I point out to them certain methods for the filling up
their empty spaces of life. The methods I shall propose to them are as
follow:

6. The first is the exercise of virtue, in the most general acceptation
of the word. That particular scheme which comprehends the social
virtues, may give employment to the most industrious temper, and find a
man in business more than the most active station of life. To advise the
ignorant, relieve the needy, comfort the afflicted, are duties that fall
in our way almost every day of our lives.

7. A man has frequent opportunities of mitigating the fierceness of a
party; of doing justice to the character of a deserving man; of
softening the envious, quieting the angry, and rectifying the
prejudiced; which, are all of them employments suited to a reasonable
nature, and bring great satisfaction to the person who can busy himself
in them with discretion.

8. There is another kind of virtue that may find employment for those
retired hours in which we are altogether left to ourselves, and
destitute of company and conversation: I mean that intercourse and
communication which every reasonable creature ought to maintain with the
great Author of his being.

9. The man who lives under an habitual sense of the divine presence,
keeps up a perpetual cheerfulness of temper, and enjoys every moment the
satisfaction of thinking himself in company with the dearest and best of
friends. The time never lies heavy upon him; it is impossible for him to
be alone.

10. His thoughts and passions are the most busied at such hours when
those of other men are the most inactive; he no sooner steps out of the
world, but his heart burns with devotion, swells with hope, and triumphs
in the consciousness of that presence which every where surrounds him;
or, on the contrary, pours out its fears, its sorrows, its
apprehensions, to the great supporter of its existence.

11. I have here only considered the necessity of a man's being virtuous
that he may have something to do; but if we consider further, that the
exercise of virtue is not only an amusement for the time it lasts, but
that its influence extends to those parts of our existence which lie
beyond the grave, and that our whole eternity is to take its colour from
those hours which we here employ in virtue or in vice, the argument
redoubles upon us, for putting in practice this method of passing away
our time.

12. When a man has but a little stock to improve, and has opportunities
of turning it all to a good account, what shall we think of him if he
suffers nineteen parts of it to lie dead, and perhaps employs even the
twentieth to his ruin or disadvantage? But because the mind cannot be
always in its fervour nor strained up to a pitch of virtue, it is
necessary to find out proper employments for it in its relaxations.

13. The next method therefore that I would propose to fill up our time,
should be useful and innocent diversion. I must confess I think it is
below reasonable creatures to be altogether conversant in such
diversions as are merely innocent, and having nothing else to recommend
them but that there is no hurt in them.

14. Whether any kind of gaming has even thus much to say for itself, I
shall not determine; but I think it is very wonderful to see persons of
the best sense, passing away a dozen hours together in shuffling and
dividing a pack of cards, with no other conversation but what is made up
of a few game phrases, and no other ideas but those of black or red
spots ranged together in different figures. Would not a man laugh to
hear any one of his species complaining that life is short.

15. The stage might be made a perpetual source of the most noble and
useful entertainments, were it under proper regulations.

But the mind never unbends itself so agreeably as in the conversation of
a well-chosen friend. There is indeed no blessing of life that is any
way comparable to the enjoyment of a discreet and virtuous friend. It
eases and unloads the mind, clears and improves the understanding,
engenders thoughts and knowledge, animates virtue and good resolution,
sooths and allays the passions, and finds employment for most of the
vacant hours of life.

16. Next to such an intimacy with a particular person, one would
endeavour after a more general conversation with such as are able to
entertain and improve those with whom they converse, which are
qualifications that seldom go asunder.

There are many other useful amusements of life, which one would
endeavour to multiply, that one might on all occasions have recourse to
something rather than suffer the mind to lie idle, or ran adrift with
any passion that chances to rise in it.

17. A man that has a taste in music, painting, or architecture, is like
one that has another sense when compared with such as have no relish for
those arts. The florist, the planter, the gardener, the husbandman, when
they are only as accomplishments to the man of fortune; are great
reliefs to a country life, and many ways useful to those who are
possessed of them.

SPECTATOR, No. 93.

18. I was yesterday busy in comparing together the industry of man with
that of other creatures; in which I could not but observe, that
notwithstanding we are obliged by duty to keep ourselves in constant
employ, after the same manner as inferior animals are prompted to it by
instinct, we fell very short of them in this particular.

19. We are the more inexcusable, because there is a greater variety of
business to which we may apply ourselves. Reason opens to us a large
field of affairs, which other creatures are not capable of. Beasts of
prey, and I believe all other kinds, in their natural state of being,
divide their time between action and rest. They are always at work or
asleep. In short, their awaking hours are wholly taken up in seeking
after their food, or in consuming it.

20. The human species only, to the great reproach of our natures, are
filled with complaints--That the day hangs heavy on them, that they do
not know what to do with themselves, that they are at a loss how to pass
away their time, with many of the like shameful murmurs, which we often
find in the mouth of those who are styled reasonable beings.

21. How monstrous are such expressions among creatures who have the
labours of the mind as well as those of the body to furnish them with
proper employments; who, besides the business of their proper callings
and professions, can apply themselves to the duties of religion, to
meditation, to the reading of useful books, to discourse; in a word, who
may exercise themselves in the unbounded pursuits of knowledge and
virtue, and every hour of their lives make themselves wiser or better
than they were before.

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

23. I was conveyed, methought, into the entrance of the infernal
regions, where I saw _Rhadamanthus_, one of the judges of the dead,
seated in his tribunal. On his left hand stood the keeper of _Erebus_,
on his right the keeper of _Elysium_. I was told he sat upon women that
day, there being several of the sex lately arrived, who had not yet
their mansions assigned them.

24. I was surprised to hear him ask every one of them the same question,
namely, What they had been doing? Upon this question being proposed to
the whole assembly they stared upon one another, as not knowing what to
answer. He then interrogated each of them separately. Madam, says he to
the first of them, you have been upon the earth about fifty years: What
have you been doing there all this while? Doing, says she, really I do
not know what I have been doing: I desire I may have time given me to
recollect.

25. After about half an hour's pause, she told him that she had been
playing at crimp: upon which _Rhadamanthus_ beckoned to the keeper on
his left hand, to take her into custody. And you, Madam, says the judge,
that look with such a soft and languishing air; I think you set out for
this place in your nine and twentieth year; what have you been doing all
this while? I had a great deal of business on my hands, says she, being
taken up the first twelve years of my life, in dressing a jointed baby,
and all the remaining part of it in reading plays and romances.

26. Very well, says he, you have employed your time to good purpose.
Away with her. The next was a plain country woman: Well, mistress, says
_Rhadamanthus_, and what have you been doing? An't please your worship,
says she, I did not live quite forty years; and in that time brought my
husband seven daughters, made him nine thousand cheeses, and left my
eldest girl with him to look after his house in my absence, and who, I
may venture to say, is us pretty a housewife as any in the country.

27. _Rhadamanthus_ smiled at the simplicity of the good woman, and
ordered the keeper of _Elysium_, to take her into his care. And you,
fair lady, says he, what have you been doing these five and thirty
years? I have been doing no hurt, I assure you sir, said she. That is
well, says he, but what good have you been doing? The lady was in great
confusion at this question, and not knowing what to answer, the two
keepers leaped out to seize her at the same time; the one took her by
the hand to convey her to _Elysium_; the other caught hold of her to
carry her away to _Erebus_.

28. But _Rhadamanthus_ observing an ingenuous modesty in her countenance
and behaviour, bid them both let her loose, and set her aside for a
re-examination when he was more at leisure. An old woman, of a proud and
sour look, presented herself next at the bar, and being asked what she
had been doing? Truly, says she, I lived three score and ten years in a
very wicked world, and was so angry at the behaviour of a parcel of
young flirts, that I past most of my last years in condemning the
follies of the times.

29. I was every day blaming the silly conduct of people about me, in
order to deter those I conversed with from falling into the like errors
and miscarriages. Very well, says _Rhadamanthus_, but did you keep the
same watchful eye over your own actions? Why truly, says she, I was so
taken up with publishing the faults of others, that I had no time to
consider my own.

30. Madam, says _Rhadamanthus_, be pleased to file off to the left, and
make room for the venerable matron that stands behind you. Old
gentlewoman, says he, I think you are fourscore? You have heard the
question, what have you been doing so long in the world? Ah! sir, says
she, I have been doing what I should not have done, but I had made a
firm resolution to have changed my life, if I had not been snatched off
by an untimely end.

31. Madam, says he, you will please to follow your leader, and spying
another of the same age, interrogated her in the same form. To which the
matron replied, I have been the wife of a husband who was as dear to me
in his old age as in his youth. I have been a mother, and very happy in
my children, whom I endeavoured to bring up in every thing that is good.

32. My eldest son is blest by the poor, and beloved by every one that
knows him. I lived within my own family, and left it much more wealthy
than I found it. _Rhadamanthus_, who knew the value of the old lady
smiled upon her in such a manner, that the keeper of _Elysium_, who knew
his office, reached out his hand to her. He no sooner touched her but
her wrinkles vanished, her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed with
blushes, and she appeared in full bloom and beauty.

33. A young woman observing that this officer, who conducted the happy
to _Elysium_, was so great a _beautifier_, longed to be in his hands, so
that, pressing through the croud, she was the next that appeared at the
bar, and being asked what she had been doing the five and twenty years
that she had passed in the world, I have endeavoured, says she, ever
since I came to the years of discretion, to make myself lovely, and gain
admirers.

34. In order to do it I past my time in bottling up Maydew, inventing
white-washes, mixing colours, cutting out patches, consulting my glass,
suiting my complexion, tearing off my tucker, sinking my
stays--_Rhadamanthus_, without hearing her out, gave the sign to take
her off. Upon the approach of the keeper of _Erebus_ her colour faded,
her face was puckered up with wrinkles, and her whole person lost in
deformity.

35. I was then surprised with a distant sound of a whole troop of
females that came forward laughing, singing, and dancing. I was very
desirous to know the reception they would meet with, and withal was very
apprehensive that _Rhadamanthus_ would spoil their mirth; but at their
nearer approach the noise grew so very great that it awakened me.

36. Employment of time is a subject that, from its importance, deserves
your best attention. Most young gentlemen have a great deal of time
before them, and one hour well employed, in the early part of life, is
more valuable and will be of greater use to you, than perhaps four and
twenty, some years to come.

37. What ever time you can steal from company and from the study of the
world (I say company, for a knowledge of life is best learned in various
companies) employ it in serious reading. Take up some valuable book, and
continue the reading of that book till you have got through it; never
burden your mind with more than one thing at a time: and in reading this
book do not run it over superficially, but read every passage twice
over, at least do not pass on to a second till you thoroughly understand
the first, nor quit the book till you are master of the subject; for
unless you do this, you may read it through, and not remember the
contents of it for a week.

38. The books I would particularly recommend, are Cardinal Retz's
maxims, Rochefoucault's moral reflections, Bruyere's characters,
Fontenelle's plurality of worlds, Sir Josiah Child on trade,
Bollinbroke's works; for style, his remarks on the history of England,
under the name of Sir John Oldcastle; Puffendorff's Jus Gentium, and
Grotius de Jure Belli et Pacis: the last two are well translated by
_Barbeyrac_. For occasional half hours or less, read the best works of
invention, wit and humor; but never waste your minutes on trifling
authors, either ancient or modern.

39. Any business you may have to transact, should be done the first
opportunity, and finished, if possible, without interruption; for by
deferring it we may probably finish it too late, or execute it
indifferently. Now, business of any kind should never be done by halves,
but every part of it should be well attended to: for he that does
business ill, had better not do it at all. And in any point which
discretion bids you pursue, and which has a manifest utility to
recommend it, let not difficulties deter you; rather let them animate
your industry. If one method fails, try a second and a third. Be active,
persevere, and you will certainly conquer.

40. Never indulge a lazy disposition, there are few things but are
attended with some difficulties, and if you are frightened at those
difficulties, you will not complete any thing. Indolent minds prefer
ignorance to trouble; they look upon most things as impossible, because
perhaps they are difficult. Even an hour's attention is too laborious
for them, and they would rather content themselves with the first view
of things than take the trouble to look any farther into them. Thus,
when they come to talk upon subjects to those who have studied them,
they betray an unpardonable ignorance, and lay themselves open to
answers that confuse them. Be careful then, that you do not get the
appellation of indolent, and, if possible, avoid the character of
frivolous.

41. For the frivolous mind is busied always upon nothing. It mistakes
trifling objects for important ones, and spends that time upon little
matters, that should only be bestowed upon great ones. Knick-knacks,
butterflies, shells, and such like, engross the attention of the
frivolous man, and fill up all his time. He studies the dress and not
the characters of men, and his subjects of conversation are no other
than the weather, his own domestic affairs, his servants, his method of
managing his family, the little anecdotes of the neighborhood, and the
fiddle-faddle stories of the day; void of information, void of
improvement. These he relates with emphasis, as interesting matters; in
short, he is a male gossip. I appeal to your own feelings now, whether
such things do not lessen a man in the opinion, of his acquaintance, and
instead of attracting esteem, create disgust.




_Modesty_.


Modesty is the citidel of beauty and virtue. The first of all virtues is
innocence; the second is modesty.

1. Modesty is both in its source, and in its consequence, a very great
happiness to the fair possessor of it; it arises from a fear of
dishonor, and a good conscience, and is followed immediately, upon its
first appearance, with the reward of honor and esteem, paid by all those
who discover it in any body living.

2. It is indeed a virtue in a woman (that might otherwise be very
disagreeable to one) so exquisitely delicate, that it excites in any
beholder, of a generous and manly disposition, almost all the passions
that he would be apt to conceive for the mistress of his heart, in
variety of circumstances.

3. A woman that is modest creates in us an awe in her company, a wish
for her welfare, a joy in her being actually happy, a sore and painful
sorrow if distress should come upon her, a ready and willing heart to
give her consolation, and a compassionate temper towards her, in every
little accident of life she undergoes; and to sum up all in one word, it
causes such a kind of angelical love, even to a stranger, as good
natured brothers and sisters usually bear towards one another.

4. It adds wonderfully to the make of a face, and I have seen a pretty
well turned forehead, fine set eyes, and what your poets call, a row of
pearl set in coral, shewn by a pretty expansion of two velvet lips that
covered them (that would have tempted any sober man living of my own
age, to have been a little loose in his thoughts, and to have enjoyed a
painful pleasure amidst his impotency) lose all their virtue, all their
force and efficacy, by having an ugly cast of boldness very discernibly
spread out at large over all those alluring features.

5. At the same time modesty will fill up the wrinkles of old age with
glory; make sixty blush itself into sixteen; and help a green sick girl
to defeat the satyr of a false waggish lover, who might compare her
colour, when she looked like a ghost, to the blowing of the rose-bud, by
blushing herself into a bloom of beauty; and might make what he meant a
reflection, a real compliment, at any hour of the day, in spite of his
teeth. It has a prevailing power with me, whenever I find it in the sex.

6. I who have the common fault of old men, to be very sour and
humoursome, when I drink my water-gruel in a morning, fell into a more
than ordinary pet with a maid whom I call my nurse, from a constant
tenderness, that I have observed her to exercise towards me beyond all
my other servants; I perceived her flush and glow in the face, in a
manner which I could plainly discern proceeded not from anger or
resentment of my correction, but from a good natured regret, upon a fear
that she had offended her grave old master.

7. I was so heartily pleased, that I eased her of the honest trouble she
underwent inwardly far my sake; and giving her half a crown, I told her
it was a forfeit due to her because I was out of humour with her without
any reason at all. And as she is so gentle-hearted, I have diligently
avoided giving her one harsh word ever since: and I find my own reward
in it: for not being so testy as I used, has made me much haler and
stronger than I was before.

8. The pretty, and witty, and virtuous _Simplicia_, was, the other day,
visiting with an old aunt of her's, that I verily believe has read the
_Atalantis_; she took a story out there, and dressed up an old honest
neighbour in the second hand clothes of scandal. The young creature hid
her face with her fan at every burst and peal of laughter, and blushed
for her guilty parent; by which she atoned, methought, for every scandal
that ran round the beautiful circle.

9. As I was going home to bed that evening, I could not help thinking of
her all the way I went. I represented her to myself as shedding holy
blood every time she blushed, and as being a martyr in the cause of
virtue. And afterwards, when I was putting on my night-cap, I could not
drive the thought out of my head, but that I was young enough to be
married to her; and that it would be an addition to the reputation I
have in the study of wisdom, to marry to so much youth and modesty, even
in my old age.

10. I know there have not been wanting many wicked objections against
this virtue; one is grown insufferably common. The fellow blushes, he is
guilty. I should say rather, He blushes, therefore he is innocent. I
believe the same man, that first had that wicked imagination of a blush
being the sign of guilt, represented good nature to be folly; and that
he himself, was the most inhuman and impudent wretch alive.

11. The author of _Cato_, who is known to be one of the most modest, and
most ingenious persons of the age we now live in, has given this virtue
a delicate name in the tragedy of _Cato_, where the character of
_Marcia_ is first opened to us. I would have all ladies who have a mind
to be thought well-bred, to think seriously on this virtue, which he so
beautifully calls the sanctity of manners.

12. Modesty is a polite accomplishment, and generally an attendant upon
merit. It is engaging to the highest degree, and wins the hearts of all
our acquaintance. On the contrary, none are more disgustful in company
than the impudent and presuming.

The man who is, on all occasions, commending and speaking well of
himself, we naturally dislike. On the other hand, he who studies to
conceal his own deserts, who does justice to the merit of others, who
talks but little of himself, and that with modesty, makes a favourable
impression on the persons he is conversing with, captivates their minds,
and gains their esteem.

13. Modesty, however, widely differs from an aukward bashfulness; which
is as much to be condemned as the other is to be applauded. To appear
simple is as ill-bred as to be impudent. A young man ought to be able to
come into a room and address the company without the least
embarrassment. To be out of countenance when spoken to, and not to have
an answer ready, is ridiculous to the last degree.

14. An aukward country fellow, when he comes into company better than
himself, is exceedingly disconcerted. He knows not what to do with his
hands or his hat, but either puts one of them in his pocket, and dangles
the other by his side: or perhaps twirls his hat on his fingers, or
perhaps fumbles with the button. If spoken to he is in a much worse
situation; he answers with the utmost difficulty, and nearly stammers;
whereas a gentleman who is acquainted with life, enters a room with
gracefulness and a modest assurance; addresses even persons he does not
know, in an easy and natural manner, and without the least
embarrassment.

15. This is the characteristic of good-breeding, a very necessary
knowledge in our intercourse with men; for one of inferior parts, with
the behaviour of a gentleman, is frequently better received than a man
of sense, with the address and manners of a clown. Ignorance and vice
are the only things we need be ashamed of; steer clear of these, and you
may go into any company you will; not that I would have a young man
throw off all dread of appearing abroad; as a fear of offending, or
being disesteemed, will make him preserve a proper decorum.

16. Some persons, from experiencing the bad effects of false modesty,
have run into the other extreme, and acquired the character of impudent.
This is as great a fault as the other. A well-bred man keeps himself
within the two, and steers the middle way. He is easy and firm in every
company; is modest, but not bashful; steady, but not impudent. He copies
the manners of the better people, and conforms to their customs with
ease and attention.

17. Till we can present ourselves in all companies with coolness and
unconcern, we can never present ourselves well; nor will man ever be
supposed to have kept good company, or ever be acceptable in such
company, if he cannot appear there easy and unembarrassed. A modest
assurance in every part of life, is the most advantageous qualification
we can possibly acquire.

18. Instead of becoming insolent, a man of sense, under a consciousness
of merit, is more modest. He behaves himself indeed with firmness, but
without the least presumption. The man who is ignorant of his own merit
is no less a fool than he who is constantly displaying it. A man of
understanding avails himself of his abilities but never boasts of them;
whereas the timid and bashful can never push himself in life, be his
merit as great as it will; he will be always kept behind by the forward
and the bustling.

19. A man of abilities, and acquainted with life, will stand as firm in
defence of his own rights, and pursue his plans as steadily and unmoved
as the most impudent man alive; but then he does it with a seeming
modesty. Thus, manner is every thing; what is impudence in one is proper
assurance only in another: for firmness is commendable, but an
overbearing conduct is disgustful.

20. Forwardness being the very reverse of modesty, follow rather than
lead the company; that is, join in discourse upon their subjects rather
than start one of your own; if you have parts, you will have
opportunities enough of shewing them on every topic of conversation; and
if you have none, it is better to expose yourself upon a subject of
other people's, than on one of your own.

21. But be particularly careful not to speak of yourself if you can help
it. An impudent fellow lugs in himself abruptly upon all occasions, and
is ever the here of his own story. Others will colour their arrogance
with, "It may seem strange indeed, that I should talk in this manner of
myself; it is what I by no means like, and should never do, if I had not
been cruelly and unjustly accused; but when my character is attacked, it
is a justice I owe to myself to defend it." This veil is too thin not to
be seen through on the first inspection.

22. Others again, with more art, will _modestly_ boast of all the
principal virtues, by calling these virtues weaknesses, and saying, they
are so unfortunate as to fall into those weaknesses. "I cannot see
persons suffer," says one of his cast, "without relieving them; though
my circumstances are very unable to afford it--I cannot avoid speaking
truth; though it is often very imprudent;" and so on.

23. This angling for praise is so prevailing a principle, that it
frequently stoops to the lowest object. Men will often boast of doing
that, which, if true, would be rather a disgrace to them than otherwise.
One man affirms that he rode twenty miles within the hour: 'tis probably
a lie; but suppose he did, what then? He had a good horse under him,
and is a good jockey. Another swears he has often at a sitting, drank
five or six bottles to his own share. Out of respect to him, I will
believe _him_ a liar; for I would not wish to think him a beast.

24. These and many more are the follies of idle people, which, while
they think they procure them esteem, in reality make them despised.

To avoid this contempt, therefore, never speak of yourself at all,
unless necessity obliges you; and even then, take care to do it in such
a manner, that it may not be construed into fishing for applause.
Whatever perfections you may have, be assured, people will find them
out; but whether they do or not, nobody will take them upon your own
word. The less you say of yourself, the more the world will give you
credit for; and the more you say, the less they will believe you.




_Affectation_.


1. A late conversation which I fell into, gave me an opportunity of
observing a great deal of beauty in a very handsome woman, and as much
wit in an ingenious man, turned into deformity in the one, and absurdity
in the other, by the mere force of affectation. The fair one had
something in her person upon which her thoughts were fixed, that she
attempted to shew to advantage in every look, word and gesture.

2. The gentleman was as diligent to do justice to his fine parts, as the
lady to her beauteous form: you might see his imagination on the stretch
to find out something uncommon, and what they call bright, to entertain
her: while she writhed herself into as many different postures to engage
him. When she laughed, her lips were to sever at a greater distance than
ordinary to shew her teeth.

3. Her fan was to point to somewhat at a distance, that in the reach she
may discover the roundness of her arm; then she is utterly mistaken in
what she saw, falls back, smiles at her own folly, and is so wholly
discomposed, that her tucker is to be adjusted, her bosom exposed, and
the whole woman put into new airs and graces.

4. While she was doing all this, the gallant had time to think of
something very pleasant to say next to her, or make some unkind
observation on some other lady to feed her vanity. These unhappy
effects of affectation naturally led me to look into that strange state
of mind, which so generally discolours the behaviour of most people we
meet with.

5. The learned Dr. _Burnet_, in his Theory of the Earth, takes occasion
to observe, that every thought is attended with consciousness and
representativeness; the mind has nothing presented to it, but what is
immediately followed by a reflection of conscience, which tells you
whether that which was so presented is graceful or unbecoming.

6. This act of the mind discovers itself in the gesture, by a proper
behaviour in those whose consciousness goes no farther than to direct
them in the just progress of their present thought or action; but
betrays an interruption in every second thought, when the consciousness
is employed in too fondly approving a man's own conceptions; which sort
of consciousness is what we call affectation.

7. As the love of praise is implanted in our bosoms as a strong
incentive to worthy actions; it is a very difficult task to get above a
desire of it for things that should be wholly indifferent. Women, whose
hearts are fixed upon the pleasure they have in the consciousness that
they are the objects of love and admiration, are ever changing the air
of their countenances, and altering the attitude of their bodies, to
strike the hearts of their beholders with a new sense of their beauty.

8. The dressing part of our sex, whose minds are the same with the
sillier part of the other, are exactly in the like uneasy condition to
be regarded for a well tied cravat, an hat cocked with an unusual
briskness, a very well chosen coat, or other instances of merit, which
they are impatient to see unobserved.

9. But this apparent affectation, arising from an ill governed
consciousness, is not so much to be wondered at in such loose and
trivial minds as these. But when you see it reign in characters of worth
and distinction, it is what you cannot but lament, nor without some
indignation. It creeps into the heart of the wise man, as well as that
of the coxcomb.

10. When you see a man of sense look about for applause, and discover an
itching inclination to be commended; lay traps for a little incense,
even from those whose opinion he values in nothing but his own favour;
who is safe against this weakness? or who knows whether he is guilty of
it or not? The best way to get clear of such a light fondness for
applause is, to take all possible care to throw off the love of it upon
occasions that are not in themselves laudable; but, as it appears, we
hope for no praise from them.

11. Of this nature are all graces in men's persons, dress, and bodily
deportment; which will naturally be winning and attractive if we think
not of them, but lose their force in proportion to our endeavour to make
them such.

When our consciousness turns upon the main design of life, and our
thoughts are employed upon the chief purpose either in business or
pleasure, we should never betray an affectation, for we cannot be guilty
of it, but when we give the passion for praise an unbridled liberty, our
pleasure in little perfections robs us of what is due to us for great
virtues and worthy qualities.

12. How many excellent speeches and honest actions are lost, for want of
being indifferent where we ought! Men are oppressed with regard to their
way of speaking and acting, instead of having their thoughts bent upon
what they should do or say; and by that means bury a capacity for great
things, by their fear of failing in indifferent things. This, perhaps,
cannot be called affectation; but it has some tincture of it, at least
so far, as that their fear of erring in a thing of no consequence argues
they would be too much pleased in performing it.

13. It is only from a thorough disregard to himself in such particulars,
that a man can act with a laudable sufficiency; his heart is fixed upon
one point in view; and he commits no errors, because he thinks nothing
an error but what deviates from that intention.

The wild havock affectation makes in that part of the world which should
be most polite, is visible wherever we turn our eyes; it pushes men not
only into impertinences in conversation, but also in their premeditated
speeches.

14. At the bar it torments the bench, whose business it is to cut off
all superfluities in what is spoken before it by the practitioner; as
well as several little pieces of injustice which arise from the law
itself. I have seen it make a man run from the purpose before a judge,
who at the bar himself, so close and logical a pleader, that with all
the pomp of eloquence in his power, he never spoke a word too much.

15. It might be borne even here, but it often ascends the pulpit itself;
and the declaimer, in that sacred place, is frequently so impertinently
witty, speaks of the last day itself with so many quaint phrases, that
there is no man who understands raillery, but must resolve to sin no
more; nay, you may behold him sometimes in prayer, for a proper delivery
of the great truths he is to utter, humble himself with a very well
turned phrase, and mention his unworthiness in a way so very becoming,
that the air of the pretty gentleman is preserved, under the lowliness
of the preacher.

16. I shall end this with a short letter I wrote the other day to a very
witty man, over-run with the fault I am now speaking of.

'DEAR SIR,

I spent some time with you the other day, and must take the liberty of a
friend to tell you of the insufferable affectation you are guilty of in
all you say and do.

17. When I gave you a hint of it, you asked me whether a man is to be
cold to what his friends think of him? No, but praise is not to be the
entertainment of every moment: he that hopes for it must be able to
suspend the possession of it till proper periods of life, or death
itself. If you would not rather be commended than be praiseworthy,
contemn little merits; and allow no man to be so free with you, as to
praise you to your face.

18. Your vanity by this means will want its food. At the same time your
passion for esteem will be more fully gratified; men will praise you in
their actions: where you now receive one compliment you will then
receive twenty civilities. Till then you will never have of either,
further than,

SIR,

Your humble servant.'

SPECTATOR, Vol. 1. No. 38.

19. Nature does nothing in vain; the Creator of the Universe has
appointed every thing to a certain use and purpose, and determined it to
a settled course and sphere of action, from which, if it in the least
deviates, it becomes unfit to answer those ends for which it was
designed.

20. In like manner it is in the disposition of society: the civil
oeconomy is formed in a chain as well as the natural; and in either case
the breach but of one link puts the whole in some disorder. It is, I
think, pretty plain, that most of the absurdity and ridicule we meet
with in the world, is generally owing to the impertinent affectation of
excelling in characters men are not fit for, and for which nature never
designed them.

21. Every man has one or more qualities which may make him useful both
to himself and others: Nature never fails of pointing them out, and
while the infant continues under her guardianship, she brings him on in
his way, and then offers herself for a guide in what remains of the
journey; if he proceeds in that course, he can hardly miscarry: Nature
makes good her engagements; for as she never promises what she is not
able to perform, so she never fails of performing what she promises.

22. But the misfortune is, men despise what they may be masters of, and
affect what they are not fit for; they reckon themselves already
possessed of what their genius inclines them to, and so bend all their
ambition to excel in what is out of their reach; thus they destroy the
use of their natural talents, in the same manner as covetous men do
their quiet and repose; they can enjoy no satisfaction in what they
have, because of the absurd inclination they are possessed with for what
they have not.

23. _Cleanthes_ had good sense, a great memory, and a constitution
capable of the closest application: in a word, there was no profession
in which _Cleanthes_ might not have made a very good figure; but this
won't satisfy him; he takes up an unaccountable fondness for the
character of a line gentleman; all his thoughts are bent upon this,
instead of attending a dissection, frequenting the courts of justice, or
studying the Fathers.

24. _Cleanthes_ reads plays, dances, dresses, and spends his time in
drawing rooms, instead of being a good lawyer, divine, or physician;
_Cleanthes_ is a down-right coxcomb, and will remain to all that knew
him a contemptible example of talents misapplied. It is to this
affectation the world owes its whole race of coxcombs; Nature in her
whole drama never drew such a part; she has sometimes made a fool, but a
coxcomb is always of a man's own making, by applying his talents
otherwise than nature designed, who ever bears an high resentment for
being put out of her course, and never fails of taking revenge on those
that do so.

25. Opposing her tendency in the application of a man's parts, has the
same success as declining from her course in the production of
vegetables; by the assistance of art and an hot bed, we may possibly
extort an unwilling plant, or an untimely sallad; but how weak, how
tasteless, and insipid! Just as insipid as the poetry of _Valerio_.

26. _Valerio_ had an universal character, was genteel, had learning,
thought justly, spoke correctly; 'twas believed there was nothing in
which _Valerio_ did not excel; and 'twas so far true, that there was but
one: _Valerio_ had no genius for poetry, yet was resolved to be a poet;
he writes verses, and takes great pains to convince the town, that
_Valerio_ is not that extraordinary person he was taken for.

27. If men would be content to graft upon nature, and assist her
operations, what mighty effects might we expect? _Tully_ would not stand
so much alone in oratory, _Virgil_ in poetry, or _Caesar_ in war. To
build upon nature, is laying the foundation upon a rock; every thing
disposes itself into order as it were of course, and the whole work is
half done as soon as undertaken. _Cicero's_ genius inclined him to
oratory, _Virgil_'s to follow the train of the muses; they piously
obeyed the admonition, and were rewarded.

28. Had _Virgil_ attended the bar, his modest and ingenuous virtue would
surely have made but a very indifferent figure: and _Tully_'s
declamatory inclination would have been as useless in poetry. Nature, if
left to herself, leads us on in the best course, but will do nothing by
compulsion and constraint; and if we are not satisfied to go her way, we
are always the greatest sufferers by it.

29. Wherever nature designs a production, she always disposes seeds
proper for it, which are as absolutely necessary to the formation of any
moral or intellectual existence, as they are to the being and growth of
plants; and I know not by what fate and folly it is, that men are taught
not to reckon him equally absurd that will write verses in spite of
nature, with that gardener that should undertake to raise a jonquil or
tulip, without the help of their respective seeds.

30. As there is no good or bad quality that does not affect both sexes,
so it is not to be imagined but the fair sex must have suffered by an
affectation of this nature, at least as much as the other: the ill
effect of it is in none so conspicuous as in the two opposite characters
of _Caelia_ and _Iras_. _Caelia_ has all the charms of person, together
with an abundant sweetness of nature, but wants wit, and has a very ill
voice: _Iras_ is ugly and ungenteel, but has wit and good sense.

31. If _Caelia_ would be silent, her beholders would adore her; if _Iras_
would talk, her hearers would admire her; but _Caelia_'s tongue runs
incessantly, while _Iras_ gives herself silent airs and soft languors;
so that 'tis difficult to persuade one's self that _Caelia_ has beauty,
and _Iras_ wit: each neglects her own excellence, and is ambitious of
the other's character: _Iras_ would be thought to have as much beauty as
_Caelia_, and _Caelia_ as much wit as _Iras_.

32. The great misfortune of this affectation is, that men not only lose
a good quality, but also contract a bad one: they not only are unfit for
what they were designed, but they assign themselves to what they are not
fit for; and instead of making a very good, figure one way, make a very
ridiculous one in another.

33. If _Semanthe_ would have been satisfied with her natural complexion,
she might still have been celebrated by the name of the olive beauty;
but _Semanthe_ has taken up an affectation to white and red, and is now
distinguished by the character of the lady that paints so well.

34. In a word, could the world be reformed to the obedience of that
famed dictate, _follow nature_, which the oracle of _Delphos_ pronounced
to _Cicero_ when he consulted what course of studies he should pursue,
we should see almost every man as eminent in his proper sphere as
_Tully_ was in his, and should in a very short time find impertinence
and affectation banished from among the women, and coxcombs and false
characters from among the men.

35. For my part I could never consider this preposterous repugnancy to
nature any otherwise, than not only as the greatest folly, but also one
of the most heinous crimes, since it is a direct opposition to the
disposition of providence, and (as _Tully_ expresses it) like the sin of
the giants, an actual rebellion against heaven.

SPECTATOR, Vol. VI. No. 404.




_Good Humour and Nature_.


1. A man advanced in years that thinks fit to look back upon his former
life, and calls that only life which was passed with satisfaction and
enjoyment, excluding all parts which were not pleasant to him, will find
himself very young, if not in his infancy. Sickness, ill-humour, and
idleness, will have robbed him of a great share of that space we
ordinarily call our life.

2. It is therefore the duty of every man that would be true to himself,
to obtain, if possible, a disposition to be pleased, and place himself
in a constant aptitude for the satisfaction of his being. Instead of
this, you hardly see a man who is not uneasy in proportion to his
advancement in the arts of life.

3. An affected delicacy is the common improvement we meet with in these
who pretend to be refined above others: they do not aim at true pleasure
themselves, but turn their thoughts upon observing the false pleasures
of other men. Such people are valetudinarians in society, and they
should no more come into company than a sick man should come into the
air.

4. If a man is too weak to bear what is a refreshment to men in health,
he must still keep his chamber. When any one in Sir _Roger_'s company
complains he is out of order, he immediately calls for some posset drink
for him; for which reason that sort of people, who are ever bewailing
their constitutions in other places, are the cheerfulest imaginable when
he is present.

5. It is a wonderful thing that so many, and they not reckoned absurd,
shall entertain those with whom they converse, by giving them the
history of their pains and aches; and imagine such narrations their
quota of the conversation. This is, of all others, the-meanest help to
discourse, and a man must not think at all, or think himself very
insignificant, when he finds an account of his head ache answered by
another asking, what news in the last mail?

6. Mutual good humour is a dress we ought to appear in wherever we meet,
and we should make no mention of what concerns ourselves, without it be
of matters wherein our friends ought to rejoice: but indeed there are
crowds of people who put themselves in no method of pleasing themselves
or others; such are those whom we usually call indolent persons.

7. Indolence is, methinks, an intermediate state between pleasure and
pain, and very much unbecoming any part of our life after we are out of
the nurse's arms. Such an aversion to labour creates a constant
weariness, and one would think should make existence itself a burden.

8. The indolent man descends from the dignity of his nature, and makes
that being which was rational, merely vegetative; his life consists only
in the mere increase and decay of a body, which, with relation to the
rest of the world, might as well have been uninformed, as the habitation
of a reasonable mind.

9. Of this kind is the life of that extraordinary couple, _Harry
Tersett_ and his lady. _Harry_ was, in the days of his celibacy, one of
those pert creatures who have much vivacity and little understanding;
Mrs. _Rebecca Quickly_, whom he married, had all that the fire of youth
and a lively manner could do towards making an agreeable woman.

10. These two people of seeming merit fell into each other's arms; and
passion being sated, and no reason or good sense in either to succeed
it, their life is now at a stand; their meals are insipid, and time
tedious; their fortune has placed them above care, and their loss of
taste reduced them below diversion.

11. When we talk of these as instances of inexistence, we do not mean,
that in order to live it is necessary we should always be in jovial
crews, or crowned with chaplets of roses, as the merry fellows among the
ancients are described; but it is intended by considering these
contraries to pleasure, indolence and too much delicacy, to shew that it
is prudent to preserve a disposition in ourselves, to receive a certain
delight in all we hear and see.

12. This portable quality of good-humour seasons all the parts and
occurrences we meet with; in such a manner, that there are no moments
lost; but they all pass with so much satisfaction, that the heaviest of
loads (when it is a load) that of time, is never felt by us.

13. _Varilas_ has this quality to the highest perfection, and
communicates it wherever he appears: the sad, the merry, the severe, the
melancholy, shew a new cheerfulness when he comes amongst them. At the
same time no one can repeat any thing that _Varilas_ has ever said that
deserves repetition; but the man has that innate goodness of temper,
that he is welcome to every body, because every man thinks he is so to
him.

14. He does not seem to contribute any thing to the mirth of the
company; and yet upon reflection you find it all happened by his being
there. I thought it was whimsically said of a gentleman, That if
_Varilas_ had wit, it would be the best wit in the world. It is certain
when a well corrected lively imagination and good-breeding are added to
a sweet disposition, they qualify it to be one of the greatest
blessings, as well as pleasures of life.

15. Men would come into company with ten times the pleasure they do, if
they were sure of bearing nothing which should shock them, as well as
expected what would please them. When we know every person that is
spoken of is represented by one who has no ill-will, and every thing
that is mentioned described by one that is apt to set it in the best
light, the entertainment must be delicate, because the cook has nothing
bought to his hand, but what is the most excellent in its kind.

16. Beautiful pictures are the entertainments of pure minds, and
deformities of the corrupted. It is a degree towards the life of angels,
when we enjoy conversation wherein there is nothing present but in its
excellence; and a degree towards that of demons, wherein nothing is
shewn but in its degeneracy.

SPECTATOR, Vol. II. No. 100.




_Friendship_.


1. One would think that the larger the company is in which we are
engaged, the greater variety of thoughts and subjects would be started
in discourse; but instead of this, we find that conversation is never so
much straitened and confined as in numerous assemblies.

2. When a multitude meet together upon any subject of discourse, their
debates are taken up chiefly with forms; and general positions; nay, if
we come into a more contracted assembly of men and women, the talk
generally runs upon the weather, fashions, news, and the like public
topics.

3. In proportion as conversation gets into clubs and knots of friends,
it descends into particulars, and grows more free and communicative; but
the most open, instructive, and unreserved discourse, is that which
passes between two persons who are familiar and intimate friends.

4. On these occasions, a man gives a loose to every passion, and every
thought that is uppermost discovers his most retired opinions of persons
and things, tries the beauty and strength of his sentiments, and exposes
his whole soul to the examination of his friend.

5. _Tully_ was the first who observed, that friendship improves
happiness and abates misery, by the doubling of our joy and dividing of
our grief; a thought in which he hath been followed by all the essayers
upon friendship, that have written since his time. Sir _Francis Bacon_
has finally described other advantages, or, as he calls them, fruits of
friendship; and indeed there is no subject of morality which has been
better handled and more exhausted than this.

6. Among the several fine things which have been spoken of, I shall beg
leave to quote some out of a very ancient author, whose book would be
regarded by our modern wits as one of the most shining tracts of
morality that is extant, if it appeared under the name of a _Confucius_
or of any celebrated Grecian philosopher; I mean the little Apocryphal
Treatise, entitled the Wisdom of the Son of _Sirach_.

7. How finely has he described the art of making friends, by an obliging
and affable behaviour! And laid down that precept which a late excellent
author has delivered as his own, "That we should have many well-wishers,
but few friends." Sweet language will multiply friends; and a
fair-speaking tongue will increase kind greetings. Be in peace with
many, nevertheless have but one counsellor of a thousand.

8. With what prudence does he caution us in the choice of our friends!
And with what strokes of nature (I could almost say of humour) has he
described the behaviour of a treacherous and self-interested friend--"If
thou wouldest get a friend, prove him first, and be not hasty to credit
him: for some man is a friend for his own occasion, and will not abide
in the day of thy trouble."

9. "And there is a friend, who being turned to enmity and strife, will
discover thy reproach." Again, "Some friend is a companion at the table,
and will not continue in the day of thy affliction: but in thy
prosperity he will be as thyself, and will be bold over thy servants. If
thou be brought low, he will be against thee, and hide himself from thy
face."

10. What can be more strong and pointed than the following verse?
"Separate thyself from thine enemies, and take heed of thy friends." In
the next words he particularizes one of those fruits of friendship which
is described at length by the two famous authors above mentioned, and
falls into a general eulogium of friendship, which is very just as well
as very sublime.

11. "A faithful friend is a strong defence; and he that hath found such
a one, hath found a treasure. Nothing doth countervail a faithful
friend, and his excellence is invaluable. A faithful friend is the
medicine of life; and they that fear the Lord, shall find him. Whoso
feareth the Lord, shall direct his friendship aright; for as he is, so
shall his neighbour (that is, his friend) be also."

12. I do not remember to have met with any saying that has pleased me
more than that of a friend's being the medicine of life, to express the
efficacy of friendship in healing the pains and anguish which naturally
cleave to our existence in this world; and am wonderfully pleased with
the turn in the last sentence, That a virtuous man shall, as a blessing,
meet with a friend who is as virtuous as himself.

13. There is another saying in the same author, which would have been
very much admired in an heathen writer: "Forsake not an old friend, for
the new is not comparable to him: a new friend is as new wine; when it
is old thou shalt drink it with pleasure."

14. With what strength of allusion, and force of thought, has he
described the breaches and violations of friendship! "Whoso casteth a
stone at the birds, frayeth them away; and he that upbraideth his
friend, breaketh friendship. Though thou drawest a sword at a friend,
yet despair not, for there may be a returning to favor; if thou hast
opened thy mouth against thy friend, fear not, for there may be a
reconciliation; except for upbraiding, or pride, or disclosing of
secrets, or a treacherous wound; for, for these things, every friend
will depart."

15. We may observe in this and several other precepts in this author,
those little familiar instances and illustrations which are so much
admired in the moral writings of _Horace_ and _Epictetus_. There are
very beautiful instances of this nature in the following pages, which
are likewise written upon the same subject:

16. "Whoso discovereth secrets, loseth his credit, and shall never find
a friend to his mind. Love thy friend, and be faithful unto him; but if
thou betrayest his secret, follow no more after him; for as a man hath
destroyed his enemy, so hast thou lost the love of thy friend; as one
that letteth a bird go out of his hand, so hast thou let thy friend go,
and shall not get him again: follow after him no more, for he is too far
off; he is as a roe escaped out of the snare. As for a wound, it may be
bound up, and after reviling, there may be reconciliation; but he that
betrayeth secrets, is without hope."

17. Among the several qualifications of a good friend, this wise man has
very justly singled out constancy and faithfulness as the principal; to
these, others have added virtue, knowledge, discretion, equality in age
and fortune, and, as _Cicero_ calls it, _morum comitas_, a pleasantness
of temper.

18. If I were to give my opinion upon such an exhausted subject, I
should join to these other qualifications a certain aequibility or
evenness of behaviour. A man often contracts a friendship with one whom
perhaps he does not find out till after a year's conversation: when, on
a sudden, some latent ill-humour breaks out upon him, which he never
discovered or suspected at his first entering into an intimacy with him.

19. There are several persons who, in some certain periods of their
lives, are inexpressibly agreeable, and in others as odious and
detestable. _Martial_ has given us a very pretty picture of one of these
species in the following epigram:

    _Difficilis facilas, jocundus, acerbus, es idem_,
    _Nec tecum possum vivere; nec sine te_. Epig. 47. 1. 12.

    In all thy humours, whether grave or mellow,
    Thou'rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow;
    Hast so much wit and mirth, and spleen about thee,
    There is no living with thee nor without thee.

20. It is very unlucky for a man to be entangled in a friendship with
one, who by these changes and vicissitudes of humour is sometimes
amiable, and sometimes odious: and as most men are at some times in an
admirable frame and disposition of mind, it should be one of the
greatest tasks of wisdom to keep ourselves well when we are so, and
never to go out of that which is the agreeable part of our character.

SPECTATOR, Vol. 1. No. 68.

21. "Friendship is a strong and habitual inclination in two persons to
promote the good and happiness of one another." Though the pleasures and
advantages of friendship have been largely celebrated by the best moral
writers, and are considered by all as great ingredients of human
happiness, we very rarely meet with the practice of this virtue an the
world.

22. Every man is ready to give a long catalogue of those virtues and
good qualities he expects to find in the person of a friend, but very
few of us are careful to cultivate them in ourselves.

Love and esteem are the first principles of friendship, which always is
imperfect where either of these two is wanting.

23. As on the one hand, we are soon ashamed of loving a man whom we
cannot esteem; so on the other, though we are truly sensible of a man's
abilities, we can never raise ourselves to the warmths of friendship,
without an affectionate good will towards his person.

24. Friendship immediately banishes envy under all its disguises. A man
who can once doubt whether he should rejoice in his friend's being
happier than himself, may depend upon it, that he is an utter stranger
to this virtue.

25. There is something in friendship so very great and noble, that in
those fictitious stories which are invented to the honor of any
particular person, the authors have thought it as necessary to make
their hero a friend as a lover. _Achilles_ has his _Patroclus_, and
_AEneas_ his _Achates_.

26. In the first of these instances we may observe, for the reputation
of the subject I am treating of, that _Greece_ was almost ruined by the
hero's love, but was preserved by his friendship.

27. The character of _Achates_ suggests to us an observation we may
often make on the intimacies of great men, who frequently choose their
companions rather for the qualities of the heart, than those of the
head: and prefer fidelity, in an easy, inoffensive, complying temper, to
those endowments which make a much greater figure among mankind.

28. I do not remember that _Achates_, who is represented as the first
favourite, either gives his advice, or strikes a blow through the whole
_AEneid_.

A friendship, which makes the least noise, is very often most useful;
for which reason I should prefer a prudent friend to a zealous one.

29. _Atticus_, one of the best men of ancient _Rome_, was a very
remarkable instance of what I am here speaking.--This extraordinary
person, amidst the civil wars of his country, when he saw the designs of
all parties equally tended to the subvention of liberty, by constantly
preserving the esteem and affection of both the competitors, found means
to serve his friends on either side: and while he sent money to young
_Marius_, whose father was declared an enemy of the commonwealth, he was
himself one of _Sylla's_ chief favourites, and always near that general.

30. During the war between _Caesar_ and _Pompey_, he still maintained the
same conduct. After the death of Caesar, he sent money to _Brutus_, in
his troubles, and did a thousand good offices to _Anthony's_ wife and
friends, when the party seemed ruined. Lastly, even in that bloody war
between _Anthony_ and _Augustus_, _Atticus_ still kept his place in both
their friendships; insomuch, that the first, says _Cornelius Nepos_,
whenever he was absent from _Rome_, in any part of the empire, writ
punctually to him what he was doing, what he read, and whither he
intended to go; and the latter gave him constantly an exact account of
all his affairs.

31. A likeness of inclinations in every particular is so far from being
requisite to form a benevolence in two minds towards each other, as it
is generally imagined, that I believe we shall find some of the firmest
friendships to have been contracted between persons of different
humours; the mind being often pleased with those perfections which are
new to it, and which it does not find among its own accomplishments.

32. Besides that a man in some measure supplies his own defects, and
fancies himself at second-hand possessed of those good qualities and
endowments, which are in the possession of him who in the eye of the
world is looked on as his other self.

33. The most difficult province in friendship is the letting a man see
his faults and errors, which should, if possible, be so contrived, that
he may perceive our advice is given him not so much to please ourselves,
as for his own advantage. The reproaches, therefore, of a friend, should
always be strictly just, and not too frequent.

34. The violent desire of pleasing in the person reproved may otherwise
change into a despair of doing it, while he finds himself censured for
faults he is not conscious of. A mind that is softened and humanized by
friendship, cannot bear frequent reproaches: either it must quite sink
under the oppression, or abate considerably of the value and esteem it
had for him who bestows them.

35. The proper business of friendship is to inspire life and courage;
and a soul, thus supported, out-does itself; whereas if it be
unexpectedly deprived of those succours, it droops and languishes.

36. We are in some measure more inexcusable if we violate our duties to
a friend, than to a relation; since the former arise from a voluntary
choice, the latter from a necessity, to which we could not give our own
consent.

37. As it has been said on one side, that a man ought not to break with
a faulty friend, that he may not expose the weakness of his choice; it
will doubtless hold much stronger with respect to a worthy one, that he
may never be upbraided for having lost so valuable a treasure which was
once in his possession.




_Detraction and Falsehood_


1. I have not seen you lately at any of the places where I visit, so
that I am afraid you are wholly unacquainted with what passes among my
part of the world, who are, though I say it, without controversy, the
most accomplished and best bred in the town.

2. Give me leave to tell you, that I am extremely discomposed when I
hear scandal, and am an utter enemy to all manner of detraction, and
think it the greatest meanness that people of distinction can be guilty
of; however, it is hardly possible to come into company, where you do
not find them pulling one another to pieces, and that from no other
provocation but that of hearing any one commended.

3. Merit, both as to wit and beauty, is become no other than the
possession of a few trifling people's favor, which you cannot possibly
arrive at, if you have really any thing in you that is deserving.

4. What they would bring to pass is, to make all good and evil consist
in report, and with whisper, calumnies, and impertinence, to have the
conduct of those reports.

5. By this means innocents are blasted upon their first appearance in
town: and there is nothing more required to make a young woman the
object of envy and hatred, than to deserve love and admiration.

6. This abominable endeavour to suppressor lessen every thing that is
praise-worthy, is as frequent among the men as women. If I can remember
what passed at a visit last night, it will serve as an instance that the
sexes are equally inclined to defamation, with equal malice, with equal
impotence.

7. _Jack Triplett_ came into my Lady _Airy_'s about eight of the clock.
You know the manner we sit at a visit, and I need not describe the
circle; but Mr. _Triplett_ came in, introduced by two tapers supported
by a spruce servant, whose hair is under a cap till my lady's candles
are all lighted up, and the hour of ceremony begins.

8. I say _Jack Triplett_ came in, and singing (for he is really good
company) 'Every feature, charming creature,'--he went on. It is a most
unreasonable thing that people cannot go peaceably to see their friends,
but these murderers are let loose.

9. Such a shape! such an air! what a glance was that as her chariot
passed by mine!--My lady herself interrupted him: Pray, who is this fine
thing?--I warrant, says another, 'tis the creature I was telling your
ladyship of just now.

10. You were telling of? says _Jack_; I wish I had been so happy as to
have come in and heard you, for I have not words to say what she is: but
if an agreeable height, a modest air, a virgin shame, and impatience of
being beheld, amidst a blaze of ten thousand charms--The whole room flew
out--Oh, Mr. _Triplett_! When Mrs. _Lofty_, a known prude, said she
believed she knew whom the gentleman meant; but she was, indeed, as he
civilly represented her, impatient of being beheld. Then turning to the
lady next her--The most unbred creature you ever saw.

11. Another pursued the discourse:--As unbred, madam, as you may think
her, she is extremely belied if she is the novice she appears; she was
last week at a ball till two in the morning: Mr. _Triplett_ knows
whether he was the happy man that took care of her home; but--This was
followed by some particular exception that each woman in the room made
to some peculiar grace or advantage; so that Mr. _Triplett_ was beaten
from one limb and feature to another, till he was forced to resign the
whole woman.

12. In the end, I took notice _Triplett_ recorded all this malice in his
heart; and saw in his countenance, and a certain waggish shrug, that he
designed to repeat the conversation: I therefore let the discourse die,
and soon after took an occasion to commend a certain gentleman of my
acquaintance for a person of singular modesty, courage, integrity, and
withal, as a man of an entertaining conversation, to which advantages he
had a shape and manner peculiarly graceful.

13. Mr. _Triplett_, who is a woman's man, seemed to hear me, with
patience enough, commend the qualities of his mind; he never heard,
indeed, but that he was a very honest man, and no fool; but for a fine
gentleman, he must ask pardon. Upon no other foundation than this, Mr.
_Triplett_ took occasion to give the gentleman's pedigree, by what
methods some part of the estate was acquired, how much it was beholden
to a marriage for the present circumstances of it: after all, he could
see nothing but a common man in his person, his breeding or
under-Standing.

14. Thus, Mr. _Spectator_, this impertinent humour of diminishing every
one who is produced in conversation to their advantage, runs through the
world; and I am, I confess, so fearful of the force of ill tongues, that
I have begged of all those who are my well-wishers, never to commend me,
for it will but bring my frailties into examination, and I had rather be
unobserved, than conspicuous for disputed perfections.

15. I am confident a thousand young people, who would have been
ornaments to society, have, from fear of scandal, never dared to exert
themselves in the polite arts of life.--Their lives have passed away in
an odious rusticity, in spite of great advantages of person, genius and
fortune.

16. There is a vicious terror of being blamed in some well-inclined
people, and a wicked pleasure in suppressing them in others; both which
I recommend to your spectatorial wisdom to animadvert upon: and if you
can be successful in it, I need not say how much you will deserve of the
town; but new toasts will owe to you their beauty, and new wits their
fame.

17. Truth and reality have all the advantages of appearance, and many
more. If the show of any thing be good for any thing, I am sure
sincerity is better: for why does any man dissemble, or seem to be that
which he is not, but because he thinks it good to have such a quality as
he pretends to? for to counterfeit and dissemble, is to put on the
appearance of some real excellency.

18. Now the best way in the world for a man to seem to be any thing, is
really to be what he would seem to be. Besides that, it is many times as
troublesome to make good the pretence of a good quality, as to have it;
and if a man have it not, it is ten to one but he is discovered to want
it, and then all his pains and labour to seem to have it, is lost. There
is something unnatural in painting, which a skilful eye will easily
discern from native beauty and complexion.

19. It is hard to personate and act a part long; for where truth is not
at the bosom; nature will always be endeavouring to return, and will
peep out and betray herself one time or other. Therefore, if any man
think it convenient to seem good, let him be so indeed, and then his
goodness will appear to every body's satisfaction; so that upon all
accounts sincerity is true wisdom.

20. Particularly as to the affairs of this world, integrity hath many
advantages over all the fine and artificial ways of dissimulation and
deceit; it is much the plainer and easier, much the safer and more
secure way of dealing in the world; it has less of trouble and
difficulty, of entanglement and perplexity, of danger and hazard in it:
it is the shortest and nearest way to our end, carrying us thither in a
straight line, and will hold out and last longest.

21. The arts of deceit and cunning do continually grow weaker and less
effectual and serviceable to them that use them; whereas integrity gains
strength by use, and the more and longer any man practiseth it, the
greater service it does him, by confirming his reputation, and
encouraging those with whom he hath to do, to repose the greatest trust
and confidence in him, which is an unspeakable advantage in the business
and affairs of life.

22. Truth is always consistent with itself, and needs nothing to help it
out; it is always near at hand, and sits upon our lips, and is ready to
drop out before we are aware; whereas a lie is troublesome, and sets a
man's invention upon the rack, and one trick needs a great many more to
make it good.

23. It is like building upon a false foundation, which continually
stands in need of props to shoar it up, and proves at last more
chargeable, than to have raised a substantial building at first upon a
true and solid foundation; for sincerity is firm and substantial, and
there is nothing hollow and unsound in it, and because it is plain and
open, fears no discovery:

24. Of which the crafty man is always in danger, and when he thinks he
walks in the dark, all his pretences are so transparent, that he who
runs may read them; he is the last man that finds himself to be found
out, and whilst he takes it for granted that he makes fools of others,
he renders himself ridiculous.

25. Add to all this, that sincerity is the most compendious wisdom, and
an excellent instrument for the speedy dispatch of business; it creates
confidence in those we have to deal with, saves the labor of many
inquiries, and brings things to an issue in a few words.

26. It is like travelling; in a plain beaten road, which commonly brings
a man sooner to his journey's end than by-ways, in which men often lose
themselves. In a word, whatsoever convenience may be thought to be in
falsehood and dissimulation, it is soon over, but the inconvenience of
it is perpetual, because it brings a man under an everlasting jealousy
and suspicion, so that he is not believed when he speaks truth, nor
trusted when perhaps he means honestly; when a man hath once forfeited
the reputation of his integrity, he is set last, and nothing will then
serve his turn, neither truth nor falsehood.

27. And I have often thought, that God hath, in his great wisdom, hid
from men of false and dishonest minds, the wonderful advantages of truth
and integrity to the prosperity even of our worldly affairs; these men
are so blinded by their covetousness and ambition, that they cannot look
beyond a present advantage, nor forbear to seize upon it, though by ways
never so indirect; they cannot see so far, as to the remote consequences
of a steady integrity, and the vast benefit and advantages which it will
bring a man at last.

28. Were but this sort of men wise and clear sighted enough to discern
this, they would be honest out of very knavery; not out of any love to
honesty and virtue, but with a crafty design to promote and advance more
effectually their own interests; and therefore the justice of the Divine
Providence hath hid this truest point of wisdom from their eyes, that
bad men might not be upon equal terms with the just and upright, and
serve their own wicked designs by honest and lawful means.

29. Indeed if a man were only to deal in the world for a day, and should
never have occasion to converse more with mankind, never more need their
good opinion or good word, it were then no great matter (speaking as to
the concernments of this world) if a man spent his reputation all at
once, or ventured it at one throw.

30. But if he be to continue in the world, and would have the advantage
of conversation while he is in it, let him make use of truth and
sincerity in all his words and actions; for nothing but this will last
and hold out to the end; all other arts will fail, but truth and
integrity will carry a man through, and bear him out to the last.

31. When _Aristotle_ was once asked, what a man could gain by uttering
falsehoods? he replied, "not to be credited when he shall tell the
truth."

The character of a lyar is at once so hateful and contemptible, that
even of those who have lost their virtue it might be expected, that from
the violation of truth they should be restrained by their pride. Almost
every other vice that disgraces human nature, may be kept in countenance
by applause and association.

32. The corrupter of virgin innocence sees himself envied by the men,
and at least not detested by the women: the drunkard may easily unite
with beings, devoted like himself to noisy merriment or silent
insensibility, who will celebrate his victories over the novices of
intemperance, boast themselves the companions of his prowess, and tell
with rapture of the multitudes whom unsuccessful emulation has hurried
to the grave: even the robber and the cut-throat have their followers,
who admire their address and intrepidity, their stratagems of rapine,
and their fidelity to the gang.

33. The lyar, and only the lyar, is invariably and universally despised,
abandoned and disowned: he has no domestic consolations, which he can
oppose to the censure of mankind; he can retire to no fraternity where
his crimes may stand in the place of virtues, but is given up to the
hisses of the multitude, without friend and without apologist. It is the
peculiar condition of falsehood, to be equally detested by the good and
bad: "The devils," says Sir _Thomas Brown_, "do not tell lies to one
another; for truth is necessary to all societies; nor can the society of
hell subsist without it."

34. It is natural to expect, that a crime thus generally detested,
should be generally avoided; at least that none should expose himself to
unabated and unpitied infamy, without an adequate temptation; and that
to guilt so easily detected, and so severely punished, an adequate
temptation would not readily be found.

35. Yet so it is, that in defiance of censure and contempt, truth is
frequently violated; and scarcely the most vigilant unremitted
circumspection will secure him that mixes with mankind, from being
hourly deceived by men of whom it can scarcely be imagined, that they
mean an injury to him or profit to themselves; even where the subject of
conversation could not have been expected to put the passions in motion,
or to have excited either hope or fear, or zeal or malignity, sufficient
to induce any man to put his reputation in hazard, however little he
might value it, or to overpower the love of truth, however weak might be
its influence.

36. The casuists have very diligently distinguished lies into their
several classes, according to their various degrees of malignity; but
they have, I think, generally omitted that which is most common, and,
perhaps, not less mischievous; which, since the moralists have not given
it a name, I shall distinguish as the lie of vanity.

To vanity may justly be imputed most of the falsehoods which every man
perceives hourly playing upon his ear, and perhaps most of those that
are propagated with success.

37. To the lie of commerce, and the lie of malice, the motive is so
apparent, that they are seldom negligently or implicitly received:
suspicion is always watchful over the practices of interest; and
whatever the hope of gain, or desire of mischief, can prompt one man to
assert, another is, by reasons equally cogent, incited to refute. But
vanity pleases herself with such slight gratifications, and looks
forward to pleasure so remotely consequential, that her practices raise
no alarm, and her stratagems are not easily discovered.

38. Vanity is, indeed, often suffered to pass unpursued by suspicion;
because he that would watch her motions, can never be at rest; fraud and
malice are bounded in their influence; some opportunity of time and
place is necessary to their agency; but scarce any man is abstracted one
moment from his vanity; and he, to whom truth affords no gratifications,
is generally inclined to seek them in falsehoods.

39. It is remarked by Sir _Kenelm Digby_, "that every man has a desire
to appear superior to others, though it were only in having seen what
they have not seen."

Such an accidental advantage, since it neither implies merit, nor
confers dignity, one would think should not be desired so much as to be
counterfeited; yet even this vanity, trifling as it is, produces
innumerable narratives, all equally false, but more or less credible, in
proportion to the skill or confidence of the relater.

40. How many may a man of diffusive conversation count among his
acquaintances, whose lives have been signalized by numberless escapes;
who never cross the river but in a storm, or take a journey into the
country without more adventures than befel the knight-errants of ancient
times in pathless forests or enchanted castles! How many must he know,
to whom portents and prodigies are of daily occurrence; and for whom
nature is hourly working wonders invisible to every other eye, only to
supply them with subjects of conversation!

41. Others there are who amuse themselves with the dissemination of
falsehood, at greater hazard of detection and disgrace; men marked out
by some lucky planet for universal confidence and friendship, who have,
been consulted in every difficulty, entrusted with every secret, and
summoned to every transaction: it is the supreme felicity of these men,
to stun all companies with noisy information; to still doubt, and
overbear opposition, with certain knowledge or authentic intelligence.

42. A lyar of this kind, with a strong memory or brisk imagination, is
often the oracle of an obscure club, and, till time discovers his
impostures, dictates to his hearers with uncontrolled authority: for if
a public question be started, he was present at the debate; if a new
fashion be mentioned, he was at court the first day of its appearance;
if a new performance of literature draws the attention of the public, he
has patronized the author, and seen his work in manuscript; if a
criminal of eminence be condemned to die, he often predicted his fate,
and endeavoured his reformation; and who that lives at a distance from
the scene of action, will dare to contradict a man, who reports from his
own eyes and ears, and to whom all persons and affairs are thus
intimately known?

45. This kind of falsehood is generally successful for a time, because
it is practised at first with timidity and caution; but the prosperity
of the lyar is of short duration; the reception of one story is always
an incitement to the forgery of another less probable; and he goes on
to triumph over tacit credulity, till pride or reason rises up against
him, and his companions will no longer endure to see him wiser than
themselves.

44. It is apparent, that the inventors of all these fictions intend some
exaltation of themselves, and are led off by the pursuit of honour from
their attendance upon truth: their narratives always imply some
consequence in favor of their courage, their sagacity, or their
activity, their familiarity with the learned, or their reception among
the great; they are always bribed by the present pleasure of seeing
themselves superior to those that surround them, and receiving the
homage of silent attention and envious admiration.

45. But vanity is sometimes excited to fiction by less visible
gratifications: the present age abounds with a race of lyars who are
content with the consciousness of falsehood, and whose pride is to
deceive others without any gain or glory to themselves. Of this tribe it
is the supreme pleasure to remark a lady in the play-house or the park,
and to publish, under the character of a man suddenly enamoured, an
advertisement in the news of the next day, containing a minute
description of her person and her dress.

46. From this artifice, however, no other effect can be expected, than
perturbations which the writer can never see, and conjectures of which
he can never be informed: some mischief, however, he hopes he has done;
and to have done mischief is of some importance. He sets his invention
to work again, and produces a narrative of a robbery, or a murder, with
all the circumstances of the time and place accurately adjusted. This is
a jest of greater effect and longer duration. If he fixes his scene at a
proper distance, he may for several days keep a wife in terror for her
husband, or a mother for her son; and please himself with reflecting,
that by his abilities and address some addition is made to the miseries
of life.

47. There is, I think, an ancient law in _Scotland_, by which
_Leasing-making_ was capitally punished. I am, indeed, far from desiring
to increase in this kingdom the number of executions; yet I cannot but
think, that they who destroy the confidence of society, weaken the
credit of intelligence, and interrupt the security of life; harrass the
delicate with shame, and perplex the timorous with alarms; might very
properly be awakened to a sense of their crimes, by denunciations of a
whipping-post or a pillory: since many are so insensible of right and
wrong, that they have no standard of action but the law; nor feel guilt,
but as they dread punishment.




_The Importance of Punctuality_.


1. It is observed in the writings of _Boyle_, that the excellency of
manufactures and the facility of labor would be much promoted, if the
various expedients and contrivances which lie concealed in private
hands, were, by reciprocal communications, made generally known; for
there are few operations that are not performed by one or other with
some peculiar advantages, which, though singly of little importance,
would, by conjunction and concurrence, open new inlets to knowledge, and
give new powers to diligence.

2. There are in like manner several moral excellencies distributed among
the various classes of mankind, which he that converses in the world
should endeavor to assemble in himself. It was said by the learned
_Cajucius_, that he never read more than one book, by which he was not
instructed; and he that shall inquire after virtue with ardour and
attention, will seldom find a man by whose example or sentiments he may
not be improved.

3. Every profession has some essential and appropriate virtue, without
which there can be no hope of honor or success, and which, as it is more
or less cultivated, confers within its sphere of activity different
degrees of merit and reputation. As the astrologers range the
subdivisions of mankind under the planets which they suppose to
influence their lives, the moralist may distribute them according to the
virtues which they necessarily practise, and consider them as
distinguished by prudence or fortitude, diligence or patience.

4. So much are the modes of excellence settled by time and place, that
man may be heard boasting in one street of that which they would
anxiously conceal in another. The grounds of scorn and esteem, the
topics of praise and satire, are varied according to the several
virtues or vices which the course of our lives has disposed us to admire
or abhor; but he who is solicitous for his own improvement, must not
suffer his affairs to be limited by local reputation, but select from
every tribe of mortals their characteristical virtues, and constellate
in himself the scattered graces which shine single in other men.

5. The chief praise to which a trader generally aspires, is that of
punctuality, or an exact and rigorous observance of commercial promises
and engagements; nor is there any vice of which he so much dreads the
imputation, as of negligence and instability. This is a quality which
the interest of mankind requires to be diffused through all the ranks of
life, but which, however useful and valuable, many seem content to want:
it is considered as a vulgar and ignoble virtue, below the ambition of
greatness, or attention of wit, scarcely requisite among men of gaiety
and spirit, and sold at its highest rate when it is sacrificed to a
frolic or a jest.

6. Every man has daily occasion to remark what vexations and
inconveniences arise from this privilege of deceiving one another. The
active and vivacious have so long disdained the restraints of truth,
that promises and appointments have lost their cogency, and both parties
neglect their stipulations, because each concludes that they will be
broken by the other.

7. Negligence is first admitted in trivial affairs, and strengthened by
petty indulgences. He that is not yet hardened by custom, ventures not
on the violation of important engagements, but thinks himself bound by
his word in cases of property or danger, though he allows himself to
forget at what time he is to meet ladies in the park, or at what tavern
his friends are expecting him.

8. This laxity of honor would be more tolerable, if it could be
restrained to the play-house, the ball-room, or the card table; yet even
there it is sufficiently troublesome, and darkens those moments with
expectation, suspence, uncertainty and resentment, which are set aside
for the softer pleasures of life, and from which we naturally hope for
unmingled enjoyment, and total relaxation. But he that suffers the
slightest breach in his morality, can seldom tell what shall enter it,
or how wide it shall be made; when a passage is opened, the influx of
corruption is every moment wearing down opposition, and by slow degrees
deluges the heart.

9. _Aliger_ entered into the world a youth of lively imagination,
extensive views, and untainted principles. His curiosity incited him to
range from place to place, and try all the varieties of conversation;
his elegance of address and fertility of ideas gained him friends
wherever he appeared; or at least he found the general kindness of
reception always shewn to a young man whose birth and fortune gave him a
claim to notice, and who has neither by vice or folly destroyed his
privileges.

10. _Aliger_ was pleased with this general smile of mankind, and being
naturally gentle and flexible, was industrious to preserve it by
compliance and officiousness, but did not suffer his desire of pleasing
to vitiate his integrity. It was his established maxim, that a promise
is never to be broken; nor was it without long reluctance that he once
suffered himself to be drawn away from a festal engagement by the
importunity of another company.

11. He spent the evening, as is usual in the rudiments of vice, with
perturbation and imperfect enjoyment, and met his disappointed friends
in the morning with confusion and excuses. His companions, not
accustomed to such scrupulous anxiety, laughed at his uneasiness,
compounded the offence for a bottle, gave him courage to break his word
again, and again levied the penalty.

12. He ventured the same experiment upon another society; and found them
equally ready to consider it as a venial fault, always incident to a man
of quickness and gaiety; till by degrees he began to think himself at
liberty to follow the last invitation, and was no longer shocked at the
turpitude of falsehood. He made no difficulty to promise his presence at
distant places, and if listlessness happened to creep upon him, would
sit at home with great tranquillity, and has often, while he sunk to
sleep in a chair, held ten tables in continual expectation of his
entrance.

13. He found it so pleasant to live in perpetual vacancy, that he soon
dismissed his attention as an useless incumbrance, and resigned himself
to carelessness and dissipation, without any regard to the future or the
past, or any other motive of action than the impulse of a sudden
desire, or the attraction of immediate pleasure. The absent were
immediately forgotten, and the hopes or fears of others had no influence
upon his conduct. He was in speculation completely just, but never kept
his promise to a creditor; he was benevolent, but always deceived those
friends whom he undertook to patronize or assist; he was prudent, but
suffered his affairs to be embarrassed for want of settling his accounts
at stated times.

14. He courted a young lady, and when the settlements were drawn, took a
ramble into the country on the day appointed to sign them. He resolved
to travel, and sent his chests on ship-board, but delayed to follow them
till he lost his passage. He was summoned as an evidence in a cause of
great importance, and loitered in the way till the trial was past. It is
said, that when he had with great expense formed an interest in a
borough, his opponent contrived by some agents, who knew his temper, to
lure him away on the day of election.

15. His benevolence draws him into the commission of thousand crimes,
which others, less kind or civil, would escape. His courtesy invites
application, his promises produce dependence: he has his pockets filled
with petitions, which he intends some time to deliver and enforce; and
his table covered with letters of request, with which he purposes to
comply; but time slips imperceptibly away, while he is either idle or
busy: his friends lose their opportunities, and charge upon him their
miscarriages and calamities.

This character, however contemptible, is not peculiar to _Aliger_.

16. They whose activity of imagination is often shifting the scenes of
expectation, are frequently subject to such sallies of caprice as to
make all their actions fortuitous, destroy the value of their
friendship, obstruct the efficacy of their virtues, and set them below
the meanest of those that persist in their resolutions, execute what
they design, and perform what they have promised.




_Exercise & Temperance the best Preservative of Health._


1. Bodily labor is of two kinds, either that which a man submits to for
his livelihood, or that which he undergoes for his pleasure. The latter
of them generally changes the name of labor for that of exercise, but
differs only from ordinary labor as it rises from another motive.

A country life abounds in both these kinds of labor, and for that reason
gives a man a greater stock of health, and consequently a more perfect
enjoyment of himself, than any other way of life.

2. I consider the body as a system of tubes and glands, or, to use a
more rustic phrase, a bundle of pipes and strainers, fitted to one
another after so wonderful a manner, as to make a proper engine for the
soul to work with. This description does not only comprehend the bowels,
bones, tendons, veins, nerves and arteries, but every muscle and every
ligature, which is a composition of fibres, that are so many
imperceptible tubes or pipes interwoven on all sides with invisible
glands or strainers.

3. This general idea of a human body, without considering it in its
niceties of anatomy, let us see how absolutely necessary labor is for
the right preservation of it. There must be frequent motions and
agitations, to mix, digest, and separate the juices contained in it, as
well as to clear and disperse the infinitude of pipes and strainers of
which it is composed, and to give their solid parts a more firm and
lasting tone. Labor or exercise ferments the humors, casts them into
their proper channels, throws off redundancies, and helps nature in
those secret distributions, without which the body cannot subsist in its
vigor, nor the soul act with cheerfulness.

4. I might here mention the effects which this has upon all the
faculties of the mind, by keeping the understanding clear, the
imagination untroubled, and refining those spirits that are necessary
for the proper exertion of our intellectual faculties, during the
present laws of union between soul and body. It is to a neglect in this
particular that we must ascribe the spleen, which is so frequent in men
of studious and sedentary tempers, as well as the vapours to which those
of the other sex are so often subject.

5. Had not exercise been absolutely necessary for our well-being, nature
would not have made the body so proper for it, by giving such an
activity to the limbs, and such a pliancy to every part, as necessarily
produce those compressions, extensions, contortions, dilations, and all
other kinds of motions that are necessary for the preservation of such a
system of tubes and glands as has been before mentioned. And that we
might not want inducements to engage us in such an exercise of the body,
as is proper for its welfare, it is so ordered, that nothing, valuable
can be procured without it. Not to mention riches and honor, even food
and raiment are not to be come at without the toil of the hands and
sweat of the brows.

6. Providence furnishes materials, but expects that we should work them
up ourselves. The earth must be labored before it gives its increase,
and when it is forced into its several products, how many hands must
they pass through before they are fit for use. Manufactures, trade and
agriculture, naturally employ more than nineteen parts of the species in
twenty; and as for those who are not obliged to labor, by the condition
in which they are born, they are more miserable than the rest of
mankind, unless they indulge themselves in that voluntary labor which
goes by the name of exercise.

7. My friend Sir _Roger_ hath been an indefatigable man in business of
this kind, and has hung several parts of his house with the trophies of
his former labors. The walls of his great hall are covered with the
horns of several kinds of deer that he has killed in the chase, which he
thinks the most valuable furniture of his house, as they afford him
frequent topics of discourse, and show that he has not been idle.

8. At the lower end of the hall is a large otter's skin stuffed with
hay, which his mother ordered to be hung up in that manner, and the
knight looks upon it with great satisfaction, because it seems he was
but nine years old when his dog killed it. A little room adjoining to
the hall is a kind of arsenal, filled with guns of several sizes and
inventions, with which the knight has made great havoc in the woods, and
destroyed many thousands of pheasants, partridges and woodcocks. His
stable-doors are patched with noses that belonged to foxes of the
knight's own hunting down.

9. Sir _Roger_ shewed me one of them that, for distinction sake, has a
brass nail stuck through it, which cost him about fifteen hours riding,
carried him, through half a dozen counties, killed him a brace of
geldings, and lost about half his dogs. This the knight looks upon as
one of the greatest exploits of his life.

10. The perverse widow, whom I have given some account of, was the death
of several foxes; for Sir _Roger_ has told me, that in the course of his
amours he patched the western door of his stable. Whenever the widow was
cruel, the foxes were sure to pay for it. In proportion as his passion
for the widow abated and old age came on, he left off fox-hunting; but a
hare is not yet safe that sits within ten miles of his house.

11. There is no kind of exercise which I would so recommend to my
readers of both sexes as that of riding, as there is none which so much
conduces to health, and is every way accommodated to the body, according
to the idea which I have given of it. Dr. _Sydenham_ is very lavish in
its praise; and if the _English_ reader will see the mechanical effects
of it described at length, he may find them in a book published not many
years since, under the title of _Medicina Gymnastica_.

12. For my own part, when I am in town, for want of these opportunities,
I exercise myself an hour every morning upon a dumb bell that is placed
in a corner of my room, and pleases me the more because it does
everything I require in the most profound silence. My landlady and her
daughters are so well acquainted with my hours of exercise, that they
never come into my room to disturb me whilst I am ringing.

13. When I was some years younger than I am at present, I used to employ
myself in a more laborious diversion, which I learned from a _Latin_
treatise of exercise, that is written with great erudition: It is there
called the _Skimachia_, or the fighting with a man's own shadow, and
consists in the brandishing of two short sticks grasped in each hand,
and loaded with plugs of lead at either end. This opens the chest,
exercises the limbs, and gives a man all the pleasure of boxing, without
the blows.

14. I could wish that several learned men would lay out that time which
they employ in controversies, and disputes about nothing, in _this
method_ of fighting with their own shadows. It might conduce very much
to evaporate the spleen, which makes them uneasy to the public as well
as to themselves.

As I am a compound of soul and body, I consider myself as obliged to a
double scheme of duties; and think I have not fulfilled the business of
the day when I do not thus employ the one in labour and exercise, as
well as the other in study and contemplation.

15. There is a story in the _Arabian Nights Tales_, of a king who had
long languished under an ill habit of body, and had taken abundance of
remedies to no purpose. At length, says the fable, a physician cured him
by the following method: He took an hollow ball of wood, and filled it
with several drugs; after which he closed it up so artificially that
nothing appeared. He likewise took a mall, and after having hollowed the
handle, and that part which strikes the ball, inclosed in them several
drugs after the same manner as in the ball itself.

16. He then ordered the sultan who was his patient, to exercise himself
early in the morning with these rightly prepared instruments, till such
time as he should sweat; when, as the story goes, the virtue of the
medicaments perspiring through the wood, had so good an influence on the
sultan's constitution, that they cured him of an indisposition which all
the compositions he had taken inwardly had not been able to remove.

17. This eastern allegory is finely contrived to shew us how beneficial
bodily labour is to health, and that exercise is the most effectual
physic. I have described in my hundred and fifteenth paper, from the
general structure and mechanism of an human body, how absolutely
necessary exercise is for its preservation; I shall in this place
recommend another great preservative of health, which in many cases
produces the same effects as exercise, and may, in some measure, supply
its place, where opportunities of exercise are wanting.

18. The preservative I am speaking of is temperance, which has those
particular advantages above all other means of health, that it may be
practised by all ranks and conditions, at any season, or in any place.
It is a kind of regimen into which every man may put himself, without
interruption to business, expense of money, or loss of time. If exercise
throws off all superfluities, temperance prevents them: if exercise
clears the vessels, temperance neither satiates nor over-strains them;
if exercise raises proper ferments in the humours, and promotes the
circulation of the blood, temperance gives nature her full play, and
enables her to exert herself in all her force and vigour: if exercise
dissipates a growing distemper, temperance starves it.

19. Physic, for the most part, is nothing else but the substitute of
exercise or temperance. Medicines are indeed absolutely necessary in
acute distempers, that cannot wait the slow operations of these two
great instruments of health: but did men live in an habitual course of
exercise and temperance, there would be but little occasion for them.
Accordingly we find that those parts of the world are the most healthy,
where they subsist by the chase; and that men lived longest when their
lives were employed in hunting, and when they had little food besides
what they caught.

20. Blistering, cupping, bleeding, are seldom of use to any but the idle
and intemperate; as all those inward applications, which are so much in
practice among us, are, for the most part, nothing else but expedients
to make luxury consistent with health. The apothecary is perpetually
employed in countermining the cook and the vintner. It is said of
_Diogenes_, that meeting a young man who was going to a feast, he took
him up in the street, and carried him home to his friends, as one who
was running into imminent danger, had he not prevented him.

21. What would that philosopher have said, had he been present at the
gluttony of a modern meal? Would not he have thought the master of the
family mad, and have begged his servant to tie down his hands, had he
seen him devour fowl, fish and flesh; swallow oil and vinegar, wines and
spices; throw down sallads of twenty different herbs, sauces of an
hundred ingredients, confections and fruits of numberless sweets and
flavours? What unnatural motions and counter-ferments must such a medley
of intemperance produce in the body? For my part, when I behold a
fashionable table set out in all its magnificence, I fancy, that I see
gouts and dropsies, fevers and lethargies, with other innumerable
distempers, lying in ambuscade among the dishes.

22. Nature delights in the most plain and simple diet. Every animal but
man keeps to one dish. Herbs are the food of this species, fish of
that, and flesh of a third. Man falls upon every thing that comes in his
way; not the smallest fruit or excrescence of the earth, scarce a berry,
or a mushroom can escape him.

It is impossible to lay down any determinate rule for temperance,
because what is luxury in one may be temperance in another; but there
are few that have lived any time in the world, who are not judges of
their own constitutions, so far as to know what kinds and what
proportions of food do best agree with them.

23. Were I to consider my readers as my patients, and to prescribe such
a kind of temperance as is accommodated to all persons, and such as is
particularly suitable to our climate and way of living, I would copy the
following rules of a very eminent physician. Make your whole repast out
of one dish. If you indulge in a second, avoid drinking any thing strong
till you have finished your meal: at the same time abstain from all
sauces, or at least such as are not the most plain and simple.

24. A man could not be well guilty of gluttony, if he stuck to these few
obvious and easy rules. In the first case, there would be no variety of
tastes to solicit his palate and occasion excess; nor in the second, any
artificial provocatives to relieve satiety, and create a false appetite.
Were I to prescribe a rule for drinking, it should be formed on a saying
quoted by Sir _William Temple:--The first glass for myself, the second
for my friends, the third for good humour, and the fourth for my
enemies_. But because it is impossible for one who lives in the world to
diet himself always in so philosophical a manner, I think every man
should have his days of abstinence, according as his constitution will
permit.

25. These are great reliefs to nature, as they qualify her for
struggling with hunger and thirst, whenever any distemper or duty of
life may put her upon such difficulties; and at the same time give her
an opportunity of extricating herself from her oppressions, and
recovering the several tones and springs of her distended vessels.
Besides that, abstinence well-timed often kills a sickness in embryo,
and destroys the first seeds of an indisposition.

26. It is observed by two or three ancient authors, that _Socrates_,
notwithstanding he lived in _Athens_ during that great plague, which
has made so much noise through all ages, and has been celebrated at
different times by such eminent hands; I say, notwithstanding that he
lived in the time of this devouring pestilence, he never caught the
least infection, which those writers unanimously ascribe to that
uninterrupted temperance which he always observed.

27. And here I cannot but mention an observation which I have often
made, upon reading the lives of the philosophers, and comparing them
with any series of kings or great men of the same number. If we consider
these ancient sages, a great part of whose philosophy consisted in a
temperate and abstemious course of life, one would think the life of a
philosopher and the life of a man were of two different dates. For we
find that the generality of these wise men were nearer an hundred than
sixty years of age at the time of their respective deaths.

28. But the most remarkable instance of the efficacy of temperance
towards the procuring of long life, is what we meet with in a little
book published by _Lewis Cornaro_, the _Venetian_; which I the rather
mention, because it is of undoubted credit, as the late _Venetian_
ambassador, who was of the same family, attested more than once in
conversation, when he resided in _England_. _Cornaro_, who was the
author of the little treatise I am mentioning, was of an infirm
constitution, till about forty, when, by obstinately persisting in an
exact course of temperance, he recovered a perfect state of health;
insomuch that at fourscore he published his book, which has been
translated into _English_, under the title of, _Sure and certain methods
of attaining a long and healthy Life_.

29. He lived to give a third or fourth edition of it, and after having
passed his hundredth year, died without pain or agony, and like one who
falls asleep. The treatise I mention has been taken notice of by several
eminent authors, and is written with such a spirit of cheerfulness,
religion and good sense, as are the natural concomitants of temperance
and sobriety. The mixture of the old man in it is rather a
recommendation than a discredit to it.




_The Duty of Secrecy._


1. It is related by _Quintus Curtius_, that the _Persians_ always
conceived a lasting and invincible contempt of a man who had violated
the laws of secrecy: for they thought that, however he might be
deficient in the qualities requisite to actual excellence, the negative
virtues at least were always in his power, and though he perhaps could
not speak well if he was to try, it was still easy for him not to speak.

2. In this opinion of the easiness of secrecy, they seem to have
considered it as opposed, not to treachery, but loquacity, and to have
conceived the man, whom they thus censured, not frighted by menaces to
reveal, or bribed by promises to betray, but incited by the mere
pleasure of talking, or some other motive equally trivial, to lay open
his heart with reflection, and to let whatever he knew slip from him,
only for want of power to retain it.

3. Whether, by their settled and avowed scorn of thoughtless talkers,
the _Persians_ were able to diffuse to any great extent, the virtue of
taciturnity, we are hindered by the distress of those times from being
able to discover, there being very few memoirs remaining of the court of
_Persepolis_, nor any distinct accounts handed down to us of their
office-clerks, their ladies of the bed-chamber, their attornies, their
chamber-maids, or the foot-men.

4. In these latter ages, though the old animosity against a prattler is
still retained, it appears wholly to have lost its effects upon the
conduct of mankind; for secrets are so seldom kept, that it may with
some reason be doubted, whether the ancients were not mistaken in their
first postulate, whether the quality of retention be so generally
bestowed, and whether a secret has not some subtile volatility, by which
it escapes almost imperceptibly at the smallest vent; or some power of
fermentation, by which it expands itself so as to burst the heart that
will not give it way.

5. Those that study either the body or the mind of man, very often find
the most specious and pleasing theory falling under the weight of
contrary experience: and instead of gratifying their vanity by inferring
effects from causes, they are always reduced at last to conjecture
causes from effects. That it is easy to be secret, the speculatist can
demonstrate in his retreat, and therefore thinks himself justified in
placing confidence: the man of the world knows, that, whether difficult
or not, it is not uncommon, and therefore finds himself rather inclined
to search after the reason of this universal failure in one of the most
important duties of society.

6. The vanity of being known to be trusted with a secret is generally
one of the chief motives to disclose it; for however absurd it may be
thought to boast an honour, by an act that shews that it was conferred
without merit, yet most men seem rather inclined to confess the want of
virtue than of importance, and more willingly shew their influence and
their power, though at the expence of their probity, than glide through
life with no other pleasure than the private consciousness of fidelity:
which, while it is preserved, must be without praise, except from the
single person who tries and knows it.

7. There are many ways of telling a secret, by which a man exempts
himself from the reproaches of his conscience, and gratifies his pride
without suffering himself to believe that he impairs his virtue. He
tells the private affairs of his patron or his friend, only to those
from whom he would not conceal his own; he tells them to those who have
no temptation to betray their trust, or with the denunciation of a
certain forfeiture of his friendship, if he discovers that they become
public.

8. Secrets are very frequently told in the first ardour of kindness, or
of love, for the sake of proving by so important a sacrifice, the
sincerity of professions, or the warmth of tenderness; but with this
motive, though it be sometimes strong in itself, vanity generally
concurs, since every man naturally desires to be most esteemed by those
whom he loves, or whom he converses, with whom he passes his hours of
pleasure, and to whom he retires from business and from care.

9. When the discovery of secrets is under consideration, there is always
a distinction carefully to be made between our own and those of another,
those of which we are fully masters as they affect only our own
interest, and those which are deposited with us in trust, and involve
the happiness or convenience of such as we have no right to expose to
hazard by experiments upon their lives, without their consent. To tell
our own secrets is generally folly, but that folly is without guilt; to
communicate those with which we are entrusted is always treachery, and
treachery for the most part combined with folly.

10. There have, indeed, been some enthusiastic and irrational zealots
for friendship, who have maintained; and perhaps believed that one
friend has a right to all that is in possession of another; and that
therefore it is a violation of kindness to exempt any secret from this
boundless confidence; accordingly a late female minister of state has
been shameless enough to inform the world, that she used, when she
wanted to extract any thing from her sovereign, to remind her of
_Montaigne_'s reasoning, who has determined, that to tell a secret to a
friend is no breach of fidelity, because the number of persons trusted
is not multiplied, a man and his friend being virtually the same.

11. That such fallacy could be imposed upon any human understanding, or
that an author could have been imagined to advance a position so remote
from truth and reason any otherwise than as a declaimer to shew to what
extent he could stretch his imagination, and with what strength he could
press his principle, would scarcely have been credible, had not this
lady kindly shewed us how far weakness may be deluded, or indolence
amused.

12. But since it appears, that even this sophistry has been able, with
the help of a strong desire to repose in quiet upon the understanding of
another, to mislead honest intentions, and an understanding not
contemptible, it may not be superfluous to remark, that those things
which are common among friends are only such as either possesses in his
own right, and can alienate or destroy without injury to any other
person. Without this limitation, confidence must run on without end, the
second person may tell the secret to the third upon the same principle
as he received it from the first, and the third may hand it forward to a
fourth, till at last it is told in the round of friendship to them from
whom it was the first intention chiefly to conceal it.

13. The confidence which _Caius_ has of the faithfulness of _Titius_ is
nothing more than an opinion which himself cannot know to be true, and
which _Claudius_, who first tells his secret to _Caius_, may know, at
least may suspect to be false; and therefore the trust is transferred by
_Caius_, if he reveal what has been told him, to one from whom the
person originally concerned would probably have withheld it; and
whatever may be the event, _Caius_ has hazarded the happiness of his
friend, without necessity and without permission, and has put that trust
in the hand of fortune was given only to virtue.

14. All the arguments upon which a man who is telling the private
affairs of another may ground his confidence in security, he must upon
reflection know to be uncertain, because he finds them without effect
upon himself. When he is imagining that _Titius_ will be cautious from a
regard to his interest, his reputation, or his duty, he ought to reflect
that he is himself at that instant acting in opposition to all these
reasons, and revealing what interest, reputation and duty direct him to
conceal.

15. Every one feels that he should consider the man incapable of trust,
who believed himself at liberty to tell whatever he knew to the first
whom he should conclude deserving of his confidence: therefore _Caius_,
in admitting _Titius_ to the affairs imparted only to himself, violates
his faith, since he acts contrary to the intention of _Claudius_, to
whom that faith was given. For promises of friendship are, like all
others, useless and vain, unless they are made in some known sense,
adjusted and acknowledged by both parties.

16. I am not ignorant that many questions may be started relating to the
duty of secrecy, where the affairs are of public concern; where
subsequent reasons may arise to alter the appearance and nature of the
trust; that the manner in which the secret was told may change the
degree of obligation; and that the principles upon which a man is chosen
for a confidant may not always equally constrain him.

17. But these scruples, if not too intricate, are of too extensive
consideration for my present purpose, nor are they such as generally
occur in common life; and though casuistical knowledge be useful in
proper hands, yet it ought by no means to be carelessly exposed, since
most will use it rather to lull than awaken their own consciences; and
the threads of reasoning, on which truth is suspended, are frequently
drawn to such subtility, that common eyes cannot perceive, and common
sensibility cannot feel them.

18. The whole doctrine as well as practice of secrecy is so perplexing
and dangerous, that, next to him who is compelled to trust, I think him
unhappy who is chosen to be trusted; for he is often involved in
scruples without the liberty of calling in the help of any other
understanding; he is frequently drawn into guilt, under the appearance
of friendship and honesty; and sometimes subjected to suspicion by the
treachery of others, who are engaged without his knowledge in the same
schemes; for he that has one confidant has generally more, and when he
is at last betrayed, is in doubt on whom he shall fix the crime.

19. The rules therefore that I shall propose concerning secrecy, and
from which I think it not safe to deviate, without long and exact
deliberation, are--never to solicit the knowledge of a secret. Not
willingly nor without any limitations, to accept such confidence when it
is offered. When a secret is once admitted, to consider the trust as of
a very high nature, important to society, and sacred as truth, and
therefore not to be violated for any incidental convenience, or slight
appearance of contrary fitness.




_Of Cheerfulness._


1. I have always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The latter I consider
as an act, the former as a habit of the mind. Mirth is short and
transient, cheerfulness fixed and permanent. Those are often raised into
the greatest transports of mirth, who are subject to the greatest
depressions of melancholy; on the contrary, cheerfulness, though it does
not give the mind such an exquisite gladness, prevents us from falling
into any depths of sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of lightning that
breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment;
cheerfulness keeps up a kind of day-light in the mind, and fills it with
a steady and perpetual serenity.

2. Men of austere principles look upon mirth as too wanton and dissolute
for a state of probation, and as filled with a certain triumph and
insolence of heart that is inconsistent with a life Which is every
moment obnoxious to the greatest dangers. Writers of this complexion
have observed, that the sacred person who was the great pattern of
perfection, was never seen to laugh.

3. Cheerfulness of mind is not liable to any of these exceptions; it is
of a serious and composed nature; it does not throw the mind into a
condition improper for the present state of humanity, and is very
conspicuous in the characters of those who are looked upon as the
greatest philosophers among the heathens, as well as among those who
have been deservedly esteemed as saints and holy men among christians.

4. If we consider cheerfulness in three lights, with regard to
ourselves, to those we converse with, and to the great Author of our
being, it will not a little recommend itself on each of these accounts.
The man who is in possession of this excellent frame of mind, is not
only easy in his thoughts, but a perfect master of all the powers and
faculties of the soul: his imagination is always clear, and his judgment
undisturbed: his temper is even and unruffled, whether in action or
solitude. He comes with a relish to all those goods which nature has
provided for him, tastes all the pleasures of the creation which are
poured about him, and does not feel the full weight of those accidental
evils which may befal him.

5. If we consider him in relation to the persons whom he converses with,
it naturally produces love and good will towards him. A cheerful mind is
not only disposed to be affable and obliging, but raises the same good
humour in those who come within its influence. A man finds himself
pleased, he does not know why, with the cheerfulness of his companion:
it is like a sudden sun-shine that awakens a secret delight in the mind,
without her attending to it. The heart rejoices of its own accord, and
naturally flows out into friendship and benevolence towards the person
who has so kindly an effect upon it.

6. When I consider this cheerful stale of mind in its third relation, I
cannot but look upon it as a constant habitual gratitude to the great
Author of Nature. An inward cheerfulness is an implicit praise and
thanksgiving to Providence under all its dispensations. It is a kind of
acquiescence in the state wherein we are placed, and a secret
approbation of the Divine will in his conduct towards man.

7. There are but two things which, in my opinion, can reasonably deprive
us of this cheerfulness of heart. The first of these is the sense of
guilt. A man who lives in a state of vice and impenitence, can have no
title to that evenness and tranquility of mind which is the health of
the soul, and the natural effect of virtue and innocence. Cheerfulness
in an ill man, deserves a harder name than language can furnish us
with, and is many degrees beyond what we commonly call folly or madness.

8. Atheism, by which I mean a disbelief of a Supreme Being, and
consequently of a future state, under whatsoever title it shelters
itself, may likewise very reasonably deprive a man of this cheerfulness
of temper. There is something so particularly gloomy and offensive to
human nature in the prospect of non-existence, that I cannot but wonder,
with many excellent writers, how it is possible for a man to out-live
the expectation of it. For my own part, I think the being of a God is so
little to be doubted, that it is almost the only truth we are sure of,
and such a truth as we meet with in every object, in every occurrence,
and in every thought.

9. If we look into the characters of this tribe of infidels, we
generally find they are made up of pride, spleen and cavil: It is indeed
no wonder that men, who are uneasy to themselves, should be so to the
rest of the world; and how is it possible for a man to be otherwise than
uneasy in himself, who is in danger every moment of losing his entire
existence, and dropping into nothing?

10. The vicious man and atheist have therefore no pretence to
cheerfulness, and would act very unreasonably, should they endeavor
after it. It is impossible for any one to live in good humour, and enjoy
his present existence, who is apprehensive either of torment or of
annihilation; of being miserable, or of not being at all.

After having mentioned these two great principles, which are destructive
of cheerfulness in their own nature, as well as in right reason, I
cannot think of any other that ought to banish this happy temper from a
virtuous mind. Pain and sickness, shame and reproach, poverty and old
age, nay, death itself, considering the shortness of their duration, and
the advantage we may reap from them, do not deserve the name of evils.

11. A good mind may bear up under them with fortitude, with indolence,
and with cheerfulness of heart--the tossing of a tempest does not
discompose him, which he is sure will bring him to a joyful harbour.

A man who uses his best endeavours to live according to the dictates of
virtue and right reason, has two perpetual sources of cheerfulness, in
the consideration of his own nature, and of that Being on whom he has a
dependence.

12. If he looks into himself, he cannot but rejoice in that existence,
which is so lately bestowed upon him, and which, after millions of ages,
will still be new, and still in its beginning; How many
self-congratulations naturally arise in the mind, when it reflects on
this its entrance into eternity, when it takes a view of those
improveable faculties, which in a few years, and even at its first
setting out, have made so considerable a progress, and which will be
still receiving an increase of perfection, and consequently an increase
of happiness?

13. The consciousness of such a being spreads a perpetual diffusion of
joy through the soul of a virtuous man, and makes him look upon himself
every moment as more happy than he knows how to conceive.

The second source of cheerfulness to a good mind is, its consideration
of that Being on whom we have our dependence, and in whom, though we
behold him as yet but in the first faint discoveries of his perfections,
we see every thing that we can imagine as great, glorious, or amiable.
We find ourselves every where upheld by his goodness, and surrounded by
an immensity of love and mercy.

14. In short, we depend upon a Being, whose power qualifies him to make
us happy by an infinity of means, whose goodness and truth engage him to
make those happy who desire it of him, and whose unchangeableness will
secure us in this happiness to all eternity.

Such considerations, which every one should perpetually cherish in his
thoughts, will banish from us all that secret heaviness of heart which
unthinking men are subject to when they lie under no real affliction,
all that anguish which we may feel from any evil that actually oppresses
us, to which I may likewise add those little cracklings of mirth and
folly, that are apter to betray virtue than support it; and establish in
us such an even and cheerful temper, as makes us pleasing to ourselves,
to those with whom we converse, and to him whom we are made to please.




_On the Advantages of a Cheerful Temper_.

[SPECTATOR, No. 387.]


1. Cheerfulness is in the first place the best promoter of health.
Repining and secret murmurs of heart give imperceptible strokes to those
delicate fibres of which the vital parts are composed, and wear out the
machine insensibly; not to mention those violent ferments which they
stir up in the blood, and those irregular disturbed motions, which they
raise in the animal spirits.

2. I scarce remember in my own observation, to have met with many old
men, or with such, who (to use our _English_ phrase) _were well_, that
had not at least a certain indolence in their humour, if not a more than
ordinary gaiety and cheerfulness of heart. The truth of it is, health
and cheerfulness mutually beget each other; with this difference, that
we seldom meet with a great degree of health which is not attended with
a certain cheerfulness, but very often see cheerfulness where there is
no great degree of health.

3. Cheerfulness bears the same friendly regard to the mind as to the
body: it banishes all anxious care and discontent, soothes and composes
the passions, and keeps the soul in a perpetual calm. But, having
already touched on this last consideration, I shall here take notice,
that the world in which we are placed is filled with innumerable objects
that are proper to raise and keep alive this happy temper of mind.

4. If we consider the world in its subserviency to man, one would think
it was made for our use; but if we consider it in its natural beauty and
harmony, one would be apt to conclude it was made for our pleasure. The
sun, which is as the great soul of the universe, and produces all the
necessaries of life, has a particular influence in cheering the mind of
man; and making the heart glad.

5. Those several living creatures which are made for our service or
sustenance, at the same time either fill the woods with their music,
furnish us with game, or raise pleasing ideas in us by the
delightfulness of their appearance. Fountains, lakes and rivers, are as
refreshing to the imagination as to the soul through which they pass.

6. There are writers of great distinction, who have made it an argument
for Providence, that the whole earth is covered with green, rather than
with any other colour, as being such a right mixture of light and shade,
that it comforts and strengthens the eye instead of weakening or
grieving it. For this reason several painters have a green cloth hanging
near them, to ease the eye upon after too great an application to their
colouring.

7. A famous modern philosopher accounts for it in the following
manner:--All colours that are more luminous, overpower and dissipate the
animal spirits which are employed insight: on the contrary, those that
are more obscure do not give the animal spirits a sufficient exercise;
whereas the rays that produce in us the idea of green, fall upon the eye
in such a due proportion, that they give the animal spirits their proper
play, and by keeping up the struggle in a just balance, excite a very
agreeable and pleasing sensation. Let the cause be what it will, the
effect is certain; for which reason, the poets ascribe to this
particular colour the epithet of _cheerful_.

8. To consider further this double end in the works of nature; and how
they are, at the same time, both useful and entertaining, we find that
the most important parts in the vegetable world are those which are the
most beautiful. These are the seeds by which the several races of plants
are propagated and continued, and which are always lodged in flowers or
blossoms. Nature seems to hide her principal design, and to be
industrious in making the earth gay and delightful, while she is
carrying on her great work, and intent upon her own preservation. The
husbandman, after the same manner, is employed in laying out the whole
country into a kind of garden or landscape, and making every thing smile
about him, whilst, in reality, he thinks of nothing but of the harvest
and increase which is to arise from it.

9. We may further observe how Providence has taken care to keep up this
cheerfulness in the mind of man, by having formed it after such a
manner, as to make it capable of conceiving delight from several objects
which seem to have very little use in them; as from the wildness of
rocks and deserts, and the like grotesque parts of nature. Those who are
versed in philosophy may still carry this consideration higher by
observing, that, if matter had appeared to us endowed only with those
real qualities which it actually possesses, it would have made but a
very joyless and uncomfortable figure; and why has Providence given it a
power of producing in us such imaginary qualities, as tastes and
colours, sounds and smells, heat and cold, but that man, while he is
conversant in the lowest stations of nature, might have his mind cheered
and delighted with agreeable sensations? In short, the whole universe is
a kind of theatre filled with objects that either raise in us pleasure,
amusement, or admiration.

10. The reader's own thoughts may suggest to him the vicissitude of day
and night, the change of seasons, with all that variety of scenes which
diversify the face of nature, and fill the mind with a perpetual
succession of beautiful and pleasing images.

I shall not here mention the several entertainments of art, with the
pleasures of friendship, books, conversation, and other accidental
diversions of life, because I would only take notice of such incitements
to a cheerful temper, as offer themselves to persons of all ranks and
Conditions, and which may sufficiently show us, that Providence did not
design this world should be filled with murmurs and repinings, or that
the heart of man should be involved in gloom and melancholy.

11. I the more inculcate this cheerfulness of temper, as it is a virtue
in which our countrymen are observed to be more deficient than any other
nation. Melancholy is a kind of daemon that haunts our island, and often
conveys herself to us in an easterly wind. A celebrated _French_
novelist, in opposition to those who begin their romances with a flowery
season of the year, enters on his story thus: _In the gloomy month of_
November, _when the people of_ England _hang and drown themselves, a
disconsolate lover walked out into the fields_, &c.

12. Every one ought to fence against the temper of his climate or
constitution, and frequently to indulge in himself those considerations
which may give him a serenity of mind, and enable him to bear up
cheerfully against those little evils and misfortunes which are common
to human nature, and which, by a right improvement of them, will produce
a satiety of joy, and an uninterrupted happiness.

13. At the same time that I would engage my readers to consider the
world in its most agreeable lights, I must own there are many evils
which naturally spring up amidst the entertainments that are provided
for us, but these, if rightly considered, should be far from overcasting
the mind with sorrow, or destroying that cheerfulness of temper which I
have been recommending.

14. This interspersion of evil with good, and pain with pleasure, in the
works of nature, is very truly ascribed by Mr. _Locke_ in his Essay upon
Human Understanding, to a moral reason, in the following words:

_Beyond all this, we may find another reason_ why _God hath scattered up
and down_ several degrees of pleasure and pain, in all the things that
environ and effect us, _and blended them together in almost all that our
thoughts and senses have to do with; that we, finding imperfection,
dissatisfaction, and want of complete happiness in all the enjoyments
which the creature can afford us, might be fed to seek it in the
enjoyment of him_, with whom there is fulness of joy, and at whose right
hand are pleasures for evermore.




_Discretion_.


1. I have often thought if the minds of men were laid open, we should
see but little difference between that of the wise man and that of the
fool. There are infinite reveries, numberless extravagancies, and a
perpetual train of vanities, which pass through both. The great
difference is, that the first knows how to pick and cull his thoughts
for conversation, by suppressing some, and communicating others; whereas
the other lets them all indifferently fly out in words. This sort of
discretion, however, has no place in private conversation between
intimate friends. On such occasions the wisest men very often talk like
the weakest; for indeed the talking with a friend is nothing else but
thinking aloud.

2. _Tully_ has therefore very justly exposed a precept delivered by some
ancient writers, that a man should live with his enemy in such a manner,
as might leave him room to become his friend; and with his friend in
such a manner, that if he became his enemy, it should not be in his
power to hurt him. The first part of this rule, which regards our
behaviour towards an enemy, is indeed very reasonable, as well as
prudential; but the latter part of it, which regards our behaviour
towards a friend, favours more of cunning than of discretion, and would
cut a man off from the greatest pleasures of life, which are the
freedoms of conversation with a bosom friend. Besides, that when a
friend is turned into an enemy, and (as the son of _Sirach_ calls him) a
betrayer of secrets, the world is just enough to accuse the
perfidiousness of the friend, rather than the indiscretion of the person
who confided in him.

3. Discretion does not only shew itself in words, but In all the
circumstances of action; and is like an under-agent of Providence, to
guide and direct us in the ordinary concerns of life.

There are many more shining qualities in the mind of man, but there is
none so useful as discretion; it is this indeed which gives a value to
all the rest, which sets them at work in their proper times and places,
and turns them to the advantage of the person who is possessed of them.
Without it, learning is pedantry, and wit impertinence; virtue itself
looks like weakness; the best parts only qualify a man to be more
sprightly in errors, and active to his own prejudice.

4. Nor does discretion only make a man the master of his own parts, but
of other men's. The discreet man finds out the talents of those he
converses with, and knows how to apply them to proper uses. Accordingly,
if we look into particular communities and divisions of men, we may
observe, that it is the discreet man, not the witty, nor the learned,
nor the brave, who guides the conversation, and gives measures to the
society. A man with great talents, but void of discretion, is like
_Polyphemus_ in the fable, strong and blind, endued with an irresistible
force, which for want of sight, is of no use to him.

5. Though a man has all other perfections, and wants discretion, he will
be of no great consequence in the world; but if he has this single
talent in perfection and but a common share of others, he may do what he
pleases in his station of life.

At the same time that I think discretion the most useful talent a man
can be master of, I look upon cunning to be the accomplishment of
little, mean, ungenerous minds. Discretion points out the noblest ends
to us, and pursues the most proper and laudable methods of attaining
them; cunning has only private selfish aims, and sticks at nothing which
may make them succeed.

6. Discretion has large and extended views, and, like a veil formed eye,
commands a whole horizon: cunning is a kind of short-sightedness, that
discovers the minutest objects which are near at hand, but is not able
to discern things at a distance. Discretion, the more it is discovered,
gives a greater authority to the person who possesses it; cunning, when
it is once detected, loses its force, and makes a man incapable of
bringing about even those events which he might have done, had he passed
only for a plain man. Discretion is the perfection of reason, and a
guide to us in all the duties of life: cunning is a kind of instinct,
that only looks out after our immediate interest and welfare.

7. Discretion is only found in men of strong sense and good
understandings: cunning is often to be met with in brutes themselves,
and in persons who are but the fewest removes from them. In short,
cunning is only the mimic of discretion, and may pass upon weak men, in
the same manner as vivacity is often mistaken for wit, and gravity for
wisdom.

The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet man, makes him look
forward into futurity, and consider what will be his condition millions
of ages hence, as well as what it is at present.

8. He knows, that the misery or happiness which are reserved for him in
another world, lose nothing of their reality by being placed at so great
a distance from him. The objects do not appear little to him because
they are remote. He considers that those pleasures and pains which lie
hid in eternity, approach nearer to him every moment, and will be
present with him in their full weight and measure, as much as those
pains and pleasures which he feels at this very instant. For this reason
he is careful to secure to himself that which is the proper happiness of
his nature, and the ultimate design of his being.

9. He carries his thoughts to the end of every action, and considers the
most distant as well as the most immediate effects of it. He supercedes
every little prospect of gain and advantage which offers itself here,
if he does not find it consistent with his views of an hereafter. In a
word, his hopes are full of immortality, his schemes are large and
glorious, and his conduct suitable to one who knows his true interest,
and how to pursue it by proper methods.

10. I have, in this essay upon discretion, considered it both as an
accomplishment and as a virtue, and have therefore described it in its
full extent; not only as it is conversant about worldly affairs, but as
it regards our whole existence; not only as it is the guide of a mortal
creature, but as it is in general the director of a reasonable being. It
is in this light that discretion is represented by the wise man, who
sometimes mentions it under the name of discretion, and sometimes under
that of wisdom.

11. It is indeed (as described in the latter part of this paper) the
greatest wisdom, but at the same time in the power of every one to
attain. Its advantages are infinite, but its acquisition easy; or, to
speak of her in the words of the apocryphal writer, "_Wisdom_ is
glorious, and never fadeth away, yet she is easily seen of them that
love her, and found of such as seek her."

12. "She preventeth them that desire her, in making herself first known
unto them. He that seeketh her early, shall have no great travel: for he
shall find her sitting at his doors. To think, therefore, upon Her, is
perfection of wisdom, and whoso watcheth for her, shall quickly be
without care. For she goeth about seeking such as are worthy of her,
sheweth herself favourably unto them in the ways, and meeteth them in
every thought."




_Pride_.


1. There is no passion which steals into the heart more imperceptibly,
and covers itself under more disguises, than pride. For my own part, I
think, if there is any passion or vice which I am wholly a stranger to,
it is this; though at the same time, perhaps this very judgment which I
form of myself, proceeds in some measure from this corrupt principle.

2. I have been always wonderfully delighted with that sentence in holy
writ, _Pride was not made for man_. There is not, indeed, any single
view of human nature under its present condition, which is not
sufficient to extinguish in us all the secret seeds of pride; and, on
the contrary, to sink the soul into the lowest slate of humility, and
what the school-men call self-annihilation. Pride was not made for man,
as he is,

1. A sinful,

2. An ignorant,

3. A miserable being.

There is nothing in his understanding, in his will, or in his present
condition, that can tempt any considerate creature to pride or vanity.

3. These three very reasons why he should not be proud, are,
notwithstanding, the reasons why he is so. Were not he a sinful
creature, he would not be subject to a passion which rises from the
depravity of his nature; were he not an ignorant creature, he would see
that he has nothing to be proud of; and were not the whole species
miserable, he would not have those wretched objects before his eyes,
which are the occasions of this passion, and which make one man value
himself more than another.

4. A wise man will be contented that his glory be deferred till such
time as he shall be truly glorified; when his understanding shall be
cleared his will rectified, and his happiness assured; or, in other
words, when he shall be neither sinful, nor ignorant, nor miserable.

5. If there be any thing which makes human nature appear _ridiculous_ to
beings of superior faculties, it must be pride. They know so well the
vanity of those imaginary perfections that swell the heart of man, and
of those little supernumerary advantages, whether in birth, fortune, or
title, which one man enjoys above another, that it must certainly very
much astonish, if it does not very much divert them, when they see a
mortal puffed up, and valuing himself above his neighbours on any of
these accounts, at the same time that he is obnoxious to all the common
calamities of the species.

6. To set this thought in its true light, we will fancy, if you please,
that yonder mole-hill is inhabited by reasonable creatures, and that
every pismire (his shape and way of life only excepted) is endowed with
human passions. How should we smile to hear one give us an account of
the pedigrees, distinctions, and titles that reign among them!

7. Observe how the whole swarm divide and make way for the pismire that
passes through them! You must understand he is an emmet of quality, and
has better blood in his veins than any pismire in the mole-hill.--Don't
you see how sensible he is of it, how slow he marches forward, how the
whole rabble of ants keep their distance?

8. Here you may observe one placed upon a little eminence, and looking
down upon a long row of labourers. He is the richest insect on this side
the hillock, he has a walk of half a yard in length, and a quarter of an
inch in breadth, he keeps a hundred menial servants, and has at least
fifteen barley-corns in his granary. He is now chiding and beslaving the
emmet that stands before him, and who, for all that we can discover, is
as good an emmet as himself.

9. But here comes an insect of figure! don't you take notice of a little
white straw that he carries in his mouth? That straw, you must
understand, he would not part with for the longest tract about the
mole-hill: did you but know what he has undergone to purchase it! See
how the ants of all qualities and conditions swarm about him! Should
this straw drop out of his mouth, you would see all this numerous circle
of attendants follow the next that took it up, and leave the discarded
insect, or run over his back to come at his successor.

10. If now you have a mind to see all the ladies of the mole-hill,
observe first the pismire that listens to the emmet on her left hand, at
the same time that she seems to turn away her head from him. He tells
this poor insect that she is a goddess, that her eyes are brighter than
the sun, that life and death are at her disposal. She believes him, and
gives herself a thousand little airs upon it.

11. Mark the vanity of the pismire on your left hand. She can scarce
crawl with age; but you must know she values herself upon her birth; and
if you mind, spurns at every one that comes within her reach. The little
nimble coquette that is running along by the side of her, is a wit. She
has broke many a pismire's heart. Do but observe what a drove of lovers
are running after her.

12. We will here finish this imaginary scene; but first of all, to draw
the parallel closer, will suppose, if you please, that death comes down
upon the mole-hill in the shape of a cock-sparrow, who picks up without
distinction, the pismire of quality and his flatterers, the pismire of
substance and his day labourers, the white straw officer and his
sycophants, with all the goddesses, wits, and beauties of the mole-hill.

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

GUARDIAN, Vol. II. No. 153.




_Drunkenness_.


1. No vices are so incurable as those which men are apt to glory in. One
would wonder how drunkenness should have the good luck to be of this
number. _Anarcharsis_, being invited to a match of drinking at Corinth,
demanded the prize very humourously, because he was drunk before any of
the rest of the company, for, says he, when we run a race, he who
arrives at the goal first, is entitled to the reward:

2. On the contrary, in this thirsty generation, the honour falls upon
him who carries off the greatest quantity of liquor, and knocks down the
rest of the company. I was the other day with honest _Will Funnell_, the
West Saxon, who was reckoning up how much liquor had passed through him
in the last twenty years of his life, which, according to his
computation, amounted to twenty-three hogsheads of October, four ton of
port, half a kilderkin of small-beer, nineteen barrels of cyder, and
three glasses of champaigne; besides which he had assisted at four
hundred bowls of punch, not to mention sips, drams, and whets without
number.

3. I question not but every reader's memory will suggest to him several
ambitious young men, who are as vain in this particular as _Will
Funnell_, and can boast of as glorious exploits.

Our modern philosophers observe, that there is a general decay of
moisture in the globe of the earth. This they chiefly ascribe to the
growth of vegetables, which incorporate into their own substance many
fluid bodies that never return again to their former nature:

4. But with submission, they ought to throw into their account, those
innumerable rational beings which fetch their nourishment chiefly out of
liquids: especially when we consider that men, compared with their
fellow-creatures, drink much more than comes to their share.

5. But however highly this tribe of people may think of themselves, a
drunken man is a greater monster than any that is to be found among all
the creatures which God has made; as indeed there is no character which
appears more despicable and deformed, in the eyes of all reasonable
persons, than that of a drunkard.

6. _Bonosus_, one of our own countrymen, who was addicted to this vice,
having set up for a share in the Roman empire, and being defeated in a
great battle, hanged himself. When he was seen by the army in this
melancholy situation, notwithstanding he had behaved himself very
bravely, the common jest was, that the thing they saw hanging upon the
tree before them, was not a man, but a bottle.

7. This vice has very fatal effects on the mind, the body and fortune of
the person who is devoted to it.

In regard to the mind, it first of all discovers every flaw in it. The
sober man, by the strength of reason, may keep under and subdue every
vice or folly to which he is most inclined; but wine makes every latent
seed sprout up in the soul, and shew itself: it gives fury to the
passions, and force to those objects which are apt to produce them.

8. When a young fellow complained to an old philosopher that his wife
was not handsome; Put less water into your wine, says the philosopher,
and you'll quickly make her so. Wine heightens indifference into love,
love into jealousy, and jealousy into madness. It often turns the good
natured man into an idiot, and the choleric into an assassin. It gives
bitterness to resentment, it makes vanity insupportable, and displays
every little spot of the soul in its utmost deformity.

9. Nor does this vice only betray the hidden faults of a man, and shew
them in most odious colours, but often occasions faults to which he is
not naturally subject. There is more of turn than of truth in a saying
of _Seneca_, that drunkenness does not produce, but discover faults.
Common experience teaches the contrary.

10. Wine throws a man out of himself, and infuses qualities into the
mind, which she is a stranger to in her sober moments. The person you
converse with, after the third bottle, is not the same man who at first
sat down at the table with you. Upon this maxim is founded one of the
prettiest sayings I ever met with, which is inscribed to _Publius Syrus,
He who jests unto a man that is drunk, injures the absent_.

11. Thus does drunkenness act in direct contradiction to reason, whose
business it is to clear the mind of every vice which is crept into it,
and to guard it against all the approaches of any that endeavour to make
its entrance. But besides these ill effects which this vice produces in
the person who is actually under its dominion, it has also a bad
influence on the mind, even in its sober moments, as it insensibly
weakens the understanding, impairs the memory, and makes those faults
habitual which are produced by frequent excesses: it wastes the estate,
banishes reputation, consumes the body, and renders a man of the
brightest parts the common jest of an insignificant clown.

12. A method of spending one's time agreeably is a thing so little
studied, that the common amusement of our young gentlemen (especially of
such as are at a great distance from those of the first breeding) is
drinking. This way of entertainment has custom on its side; but as much
as it has prevailed, I believe there have been very few companies that
have been guilty of excess this way, where there have not happened more
accidents which make against, than for the continuance of it.

13. It is very common that events arise from a debauch which are fatal,
and always such as are disagreeable. With all a man's reason and good
sense about him, his tongue is apt to utter things out of a mere gaiety
of heart, which may displease his best friends. Who then would trust
himself to the power of wine, without saying more against it, than, that
it raises the imagination and depresses judgment?

14. Were there only this single consideration, that we are less masters
of ourselves when we drink in the least proportion above the exigencies
of thirst: I say, were this all that could be objected, it were
sufficient to make us abhor this vice. But we may go on to say, that as
he who drinks but a little is not master of himself, so he who drinks
much is a slave to himself.

15. As for my part, I ever esteemed a drunkard of all vicious persons
the most vicious: for if our actions are to be weighed and considered
according to the intention of them, what can we think of him who puts
himself into a circumstance wherein he can have no intention at all, but
incapacitates himself for the duties and offices of life, by a
suspension of all his faculties.

16. If a man considers that he cannot, under the oppression of drink, be
a friend, a gentleman, a master, or a subject; that he has so long
banished himself from all that is dear, and given up all that is sacred
to him, he would even then think of a debauch with horror; but when he
looks still further, and acknowledges that he is not only expelled out
of all the relations of life, but also liable to offend against them
all, what words can express the terror and detestation he would have of
such a condition? And yet he owns all this of himself who says he was
drunk last night.

17. As I have all along persisted in it, that all the vicious in general
are in a state of death, so I think I may add to the non-existence of
drunkards that they died by their own hands. He is certainly as guilty
of suicide who perishes by a slow, as he that is dispatched by an
immediate poison.

18. In my last lucubration I proposed the general use of water-gruel,
and hinted that it might not be amiss at this very season: but as there
are some, whose cases, in regard to their families, will not admit of
delay, I have used my interest in several wards of the city, that the
wholesome restorative above-mentioned may be given in tavern kitchens to
all the mornings draught-men within the walls when they call for wine
before noon.

19. For a further restraint and mark upon such persons, I have given
orders, that in all the officers where policies are drawn upon lives, it
shall be added to the article which prohibits that the nominee should
cross the sea, the words, _Provided also, That the above-mentioned_ A.B.
_shall not drink before dinner during the term mentioned in this
indenture_.

20. I am not without hopes that by this method I shall bring some
unsizeable friends of mine into shape and breadth, as well as others who
are languid and consumptive into health and vigour. Most of the
self-murderers whom I yet hinted at, are such as preserve a certain
regularity in taking their poison, and make it mix pretty well with
their food:

21. But the most conspicuous of those who destroy themselves, are such
as in their youth fall into this sort of debauchery, and contract a
certain uneasiness of spirit, which is not to be diverted but by
tippling as often as they can fall into company in the day, and conclude
with down-right drunkenness at night. These gentlemen never know the
satisfaction of youth, but skip the years of manhood, and are decrepid
soon after they are of age.

22. I was godfather to one of these old fellows. He is now three and
thirty, which is the grand climacteric of a young drunkard. I went to
visit the crazy wretch this morning, with no other purpose but to rally
him, under the pain and uneasiness of being sober.

But as our faults are double when they effect others besides ourselves,
so this vice is still more odious in a married than a single man.

23. He that is the husband of a woman of honour, and comes home
overloaded with wine, is still more contemptible, in proportion to the
regard we have to the unhappy consort of his bestiality. The imagination
cannot shape to itself any thing more monstrous and unnatural, than the
familiarities between drunkenness and chastity. The wretched _Astraea_,
who is the perfection of beauty and innocence, has long been thus
condemned for life. The romantic tales of virgins devoted to the jaws of
monsters, have nothing in them so terrible, as the gift of _Astraea_ to
that bacchanal.

24. The reflection of such a match as spotless innocence with abandoned
lewdness, is what puts this vice in the worst figure it can bear with
regard to others; but when it is looked upon with respect only to the
drunkard himself, it has deformities enough to make it disagreeable,
which may be summed up in a word, by allowing, that he who resigns his
reason, is actually guilty of all that he is liable to from the want of
reason.

TATLER, Vol. IV, No. 241.




_Gaming_.


SIR,

1. 'As soon as you have set up your unicorn, there is no question but
the ladies will make him push very furiously at the men; for which
reason, I think it is good to be beforehand with them, and make the lion
roar aloud at female irregularities. Among these I wonder how their
gaming has so long escaped your notice.

2. 'You who converse with the sober family of the _Lizards_, are,
perhaps, a stranger to these viragoes; but what would you say, should
you see the _Sparkler_ shaking her elbow for a whole night together, and
thumping the table with a dice-box? Or how would you like to hear good
widow lady herself returning to her house at midnight and alarming the
whole street with a most enormous rap, after having sat up till that
time at crimp or ombre? Sir, I am the husband of one of these female
gamesters, and a great loser by it both in rest my and pocket. As my
wife reads your papers, one upon this subject might be of use both to
her, and;

YOUR HUMBLE SERVANT.'

3. I should ill deserve the name of _Guardian_, did I not caution all my
fair wards against a practice, which, when it runs to excess, is the
most shameful but one that the female world can fall into. The ill
consequences of it are more than can be contained in this paper.
However, that I may proceed in method, I shall consider them, First, as
they relate to the mind; Secondly, as they relate to the body.

4. Could we look into the mind of a female gamester, we should see it
full of nothing but trumps and mattadores. Her slumbers are haunted with
kings, queens, and knaves. The day lies heavy upon her till the
play-season returns, when for half a dozen hours together, all her
faculties are employed in shuffling, cutting, dealing and sorting out a
pack of cards; and no ideas to be discovered in a soul which calls
itself rational, excepting little square figures of painted and spotted
paper.

5. Was the understanding, that divine part in our composition, given for
such an use? Is it thus that we improve the greatest talent human nature
is endowed with? What would a superior being think, were he shewn this
intellectual faculty in a female gamester, and at the same time told,
that it was by this she was distinguished from brutes, and allied to
angels?

6. When our women thus fill their imaginations with pips and counters, I
cannot wonder at the story I have lately heard of a new-born child that
was marked with the five of clubs.

Their passions suffer no less by this practice than their understandings
and imaginations. What hope and fear, joy and anger, sorrow and
discontent, break out all at once in a fair assembly, upon so noble an
occasion as that of turning up a card?

7. Who can consider, without a secret indignation, that all those
affections of the mind which should be consecrated to their children,
husbands and parents, are thus vilely prostituted and thrown away upon a
hand at loo? For my own part, I cannot but be grieved, when I see a fine
woman fretting and bleeding inwardly from such trivial motives: when I
behold the face of an angel, agitated and discomposed by the heart of a
fury.

8. Our minds are of such a make, that they naturally give themselves up
to every diversion which they are much accustomed to, and we always
find, that play, when followed with assiduity, engrosses the whole
woman. She quickly grows uneasy in her own family, takes but little
pleasure in all the domestic innocent endearments of life, and grows
more fond of _Pam_ than of her husband.

9. My friend _Theophrastus_, the best of husbands and of fathers, has
often complained to me, with tears in his eyes, of the late hours he is
forced to keep if he would enjoy his wife's conversation. When she
returns to me with joy in her face, it does not arise, says he, from the
sight of her husband but from the good luck she has had at cards.

10. On the contrary, says he, if she has been a loser, I am doubly a
sufferer by it. She comes home out of humor, is angry with every body,
displeased with all I can do or say, and in reality for no other reason
but because she has been throwing away my estate. What charming bed
fellows and companions for life are men likely to meet with, that chuse
their wives out of such women of vogue and fashion? What a race of
worthies, what patriots, what heroes must we expect from mothers of this
make?

11. I come in the next place to consider the ill consequences which
gaming has on the bodies of our female adventurers. It is so ordered,
that almost every thing which corrupts the soul decays the body. The
beauties of the face and mind are generally destroyed by the same means.
This consideration should have a particular weight with the female
world, who are designed to please the eye and attract the regards of the
other half of the species.

12. Now there is nothing that wears out a fine face like the vigils of
the card table, and those cutting passions which naturally attend them.
Hollow eyes, haggard looks, and pale complexions, are the natural
indications of a female gamester. Her morning sleeps are not able to
repair her midnight watchings.

13. I have known a woman carried off half dead from bassette, and have
many a time grieved, to see a person of quality gliding by me in her
chair at two o'clock in the morning, and looking like a spectre amidst a
glare of flambeaux: in short, I never knew a thorough-paced female
gamester hold her beauty two winters together.

14. But there is still another case in which the body is more endangered
than in the former. All play-debts must be paid in specie, or by an
equivalent. The man that plays beyond his income pawns his estate; the
woman must find out something else to mortgage when her pin-money is
gone. The husband has his lauds to dispose of, the wife her person. Now
when the female body is once _dipped_, if the creditor be very
importunate, I leave my reader to consider the consequences.

15. It is needless here to mention the ill consequences attending this
passion among the men, who are often bubbled out of their money and
estates by sharpers, and to make up their loss, have recourse to means
productive of dire events, instances of which frequently occur; for
strictly speaking, those who set their minds upon gaming, can hardly be
honest; a man's reflections, after losing, render him desperate, so as
to commit violence either upon himself or some other person, and
therefore gaming should be discouraged in all well regulated
communities.




_Whisperers_.

SIR,

1. As the ladies are naturally become the immediate objects of your
care, will you permit a complaint to be inserted in your paper, which is
founded upon matter of fact? They will pardon me, if by laying before
you a particular instance I was lately witness to of their improper
behaviour, I endeavour to expose a reigning evil, which subjects them to
many shameful imputations.

2. I received last week a dinner card from a friend, with an intimation
that I should meet some very agreeable ladies. At my arrival, I found
that the company consisted chiefly of females, who indeed did me the
honour to rise, but quite disconcerted me in paying my respects, by
their whispering each other, and appearing to stifle a laugh. When I was
seated, the ladies grouped themselves up in a corner, and entered into a
private cabal, seemingly to discourse upon points of great secrecy and
importance, but of equal merriment and diversion.

3. The same conduct of keeping close to their ranks was observed at
table, where the ladies seated themselves together. Their conversation
was here also confined wholly to themselves, and seemed like the
mysteries of the _Bonna Deo_, in which men were forbidden to have any
share. It was a continued laugh and a whisper from the beginning to the
end of dinner. A whole sentence was scarce ever spoken aloud.

4. Single words, indeed, now and then broke forth; such as _odious_,
_horrid_, _detestable_, _shocking_, HUMBUG. This last new-coined
expression, which is only to be found in the nonsensical vocabulary,
sounds absurd and disagreeable, whenever it is pronounced; but from the
mouth of a lady it is, "shocking, detestable, horrible and odious."

5. My friend seemed to be in an uneasy situation at his own table; but I
was far more miserable. I was mute, and seldom dared to lift up my eyes
from my plate, or turn my head to call for small beer, lest by some
aukward posture I might draw upon me a whisper or a laugh. _Sancho_,
when he was forbid to eat of a delicious banquet set before him, could
scarce appear more melancholy.

6. The rueful length of my face might possibly increase the mirth of my
tormentors: at least their joy seemed to rise in exact proportion with
my misery. At length, however, the time of my delivery approached.
Dinner ended, the ladies made their exit in pairs, and went off hand in
hand whispering like the two kings of _Brentford_.

7. Modest men, Mr. _Town_, are deeply wounded when they imagine
themselves the subjects of ridicule or contempt; and the pain is the
greater, when it is given by those whom they admire, and from whom they
are ambitious of receiving any marks of countenance and favour. Yet we
must allow, that affronts are pardonable from ladies, as they are often
prognostics of future kindness.

8. If a lady strikes our cheek, we can very willingly follow the precept
of the gospel, and turn the other cheek to be smitten: even a blow from
a fair hand conveys pleasure. But this battery of whispers is against
all legal rights of war; poisoned arrows and stabs in the dark, are not
more repugnant to the general laws of humanity.

9. Modern writers of comedy often introduce a pert titling into their
pieces, who is very severe upon the rest of the company; but all his
waggery is spoken _aside_.--These giglers and whisperers seem to be
acting the same part in company that this arch rogue does in the play.
Every word or motion produces a train of whispers; the dropping of a
snuff-box, or spilling the tea, is sure to be accompanied with a titter:
and, upon the entrance of any one with something particular in his
person, or manner, I have seen a whole room in a buz like a bee hive.

10. This practice of whispering, if it is any where allowable, may
perhaps be indulged the fair sex at church, where the conversation can
only be carried on by the secret symbols of a curtsy, an ogle, or a nod.
A whisper in this place is very often of great use, as it serves to
convey the most secret intelligence, which a lady would be ready to
burst with, if she could not find vent for it by this kind of auricular
confession. A piece of scandal transpires in this manner from one pew to
another, then presently whizes along the channel, from whence it crawls
up to the galleries, till at last the whole church hums with it.

11. It were also to be wished, that the ladies would be pleased to
confine themselves to whispering in their _tete-a-tete_ conferences at
an opera or the play-house; which would be a proper deference to the
rest of the audience. In _France_, we are told, it is common for the
_parterre_ to join with the performers in any favorite air: but we seem
to have carried this custom still further, as the company in our boxes,
without concerning themselves in the least with the play, are even
louder than the players.

12. The wit and humour of a _Vanbrugh_, or a _Congreve,_ is frequently
interrupted by a brilliant dialogue between two persons of fashion; and
a love scene in the side box has often been more attended to, than that
on the stage. As to their loud bursts of laughter at the theatre, they
may very well be excused, when they are excited by any lively strokes in
a comedy: but I have seen our ladies titter at the most distressful
scenes in _Romeo_ and _Juliet_, grin over the anguish of a _Monimia_, or
_Belvidera_, and fairly laugh king _Lear_ off the stage.

13. Thus the whole behaviour of these ladies is in direct contradiction
to good manners. They laugh when they should cry, are loud when they
should be silent, and are silent when their conversation is desirable.
If a man in a select company was thus to laugh or whisper me out of
countenance, I should be apt to construe it as an affront, and demand an
explanation.

14. As to the ladies I would desire them to reflect how much they would
suffer, if their own weapons were turned against them, and the gentlemen
should attack them with the same arts of laughing and whispering. But,
however free they may be from our resentment, they are still open to
ill-natured suspicions. They do not consider, what strange constructions
may be put on these laughs and whispers.

15. It were indeed, of little consequence, if we only imagined, that
they were taking the reputation of their acquaintance to pieces, or
abusing the company round; but when they indulge themselves in this
behaviour, some perhaps may be led to conclude, that they are
discoursing upon topics, which they are ashamed to speak of in a less
private manner.

16. If the misconduct which I have described, had been only to be
found, Mr. _Town_, at my friend's table, I should not have troubled you
with this letter: but the same kind of ill breeding prevails too often,
and in too many places. The giglers and the whisperers are innumerable;
they beset us wherever we go; and it is observable, that after a short
murmur of whispers, out comes the burst of laughter: like a gunpowder
serpent, which, after hissing about for some time, goes off in a bounce.

17. Some excuse may perhaps be framed for this ill-timed merriment, in
the fair sex. _Venus_, the goddess of beauty, is frequently called
_laughter-loving dame_; and by laughing, our modern ladies may possibly
imagine, that they render themselves like _Venus_. I have indeed
remarked, that the ladies commonly adjust their laugh to their persons,
and are merry in proportion as it sets off their particular charms.

18. One lady is never further moved than to a smile or a simper, because
nothing else shews her dimples to so much advantage; another who has a
fine set of teeth, runs into a broad grin; while a third, who is admired
for a well turned neck and graceful chest, calls up all her beauties to
view by breaking into violent and repeated peals of laughter.

19. I would not be understood to impose gravity or too great a reserve
on the fair sex. Let them laugh at a feather; but let them declare
openly, that it is a feather which occasions their mirth. I must
confess, that laughter becomes the young, the gay, and the handsome: but
a whisper is unbecoming at all ages, and in both sexes: nor ought it
ever to be practised, except in the round gallery of St. _Paul's_, or in
the famous whispering place in _Gloucester_ cathedral, where two
whisperers hear each other at the distance of five-and-twenty yards.

_I am, Sir,

Your humble Servant._




_Beauty_.

1. Though the danger of disappointment is always in proportion to the
height of expectation, yet I this day claim the attention of the ladies,
and profess to teach an art by which all may obtain what has hitherto
been deemed the prerogative of a few: an art by which their predominant
passion may be gratified, and their conquest not only extended, but
secured; "The art of being PRETTY."

2. But though my subject may interest the ladies, it may, perhaps,
offend those profound moralists who have long since determined, that
beauty ought rather to be despised than desired; that, like strength, it
is a mere natural excellence, the effect that causes wholly out of our
power, and not intended either as the pledge of happiness or the
distinction of merit.

3. To these gentlemen I shall remark, that beauty is among those
qualities which no effort of human wit could ever bring into contempt:
it is therefore to be wished at least, that beauty was in some degree
dependent upon sentiment and manners, that so high a privilege might not
be possessed by the unworthy, and that human reason might no longer
suffer the mortification of those who are compelled to adore an idol,
which differs from a stone or log only by the skill of the artificer:
and if they cannot themselves behold beauty with indifference, they
must, surely, approve an attempt to shew that it merits their regard.

4. I shall, however, principally consider that species of beauty which
is expressed in the countenance; for this alone is peculiar to human
beings, and is not less complicated than their nature. In the
countenance there are but two requisites to perfect beauty, which are
wholly produced by external causes, colour and proportion: and it will
appear, that even in common estimation these are not the chief; but that
though there may be beauty without them, yet there cannot be beauty
without something more.

5. The finest features, ranged in the most exact symmetry, and
heightened by the most blooming complexion, must be animated before they
can strike; and when they are animated, will generally excite the same
passions which they express. If they are fixed in the dead calm of
insensibility, they will be examined without emotion; and if they do not
express kindness, they will be beheld without love.

6. Looks of contempt, disdain, or malevolence, will be reflected, as
from a mirror, by every countenance on which they are turned; and if a
wanton aspect excites desire; it is but like that of a savage for his
prey, which cannot be gratified without the destruction of its object.

7. Among particular graces, the dimple has always been allowed the
pre-eminence, and the reason is evident; dimples are produced by a
smile, and a smile is an expression of complacency; so the contraction
of the brows into a frown, as it is an indication of a contrary temper,
has always been deemed a capital defect.

8. The lover is generally at a loss to define the beauty, by which his
passion was suddenly and irresistibly determined to a particular object;
but this could never happen, if it depended upon any known rule of
proportion, upon the shape and disposition of the features, or the
colour of the skin: he tells you that it is something which he cannot
fully express, something not fixed in any part, but diffused over the
whole; he calls it a sweetness, a softness, a placid sensibility, or
gives it some other appellation which connects beauty with sentiment,
and expresses a charm which is not peculiar to any set of features, but
is perhaps possible to all.

9. This beauty, however, does not always consist in smiles, but varies
as expressions of meekness and kindness vary with their objects: it is
extremely forcible in the silent complaint of patient sufferance, the
tender solicitude of friendship, and the glow of filial obedience; and
in tears, whether of joy, of pity, or of grief, it is almost
irresistible.

10. This is the charm which captivates without the aid of nature, and
without which her utmost bounty is ineffectual. But it cannot be assumed
as a mask to conceal insensibility or malevolence; it must be the
genuine effect of corresponding sentiments, or it will impress upon the
countenance a new and more disgusting deformity, affectation: it will
produce the grin, the simper, the stare, the languish, the pout, and
innumerable other grimaces, that render folly ridiculous, and change
pity to contempt.

11. By some, indeed, this species of hypocrisy has been practised with
such skill as to deceive superficial observers, though it can deceive
even those but for a moment.--Looks which do not correspond with the
heart, cannot be assumed without labour, nor continued without pain; the
motive to relinquish them must, therefore, soon preponderate, and the
aspect and apparel of the visit will be laid by together; the smiles and
languishments of art will vanish, and the fierceness of rage, or the
gloom of discontent, will either obscure or destroy all the elegance of
symmetry and complexion.

12. The artificial aspect is, indeed, as wretched a substitute for the
expression of sentiment; as the smear of paint for the blushes of
health: it is not only equally transient, and equally liable to
dejection; but as paint leaves the countenance yet more withered and
ghastly, the passions burst out with move violence after restraint, the
features become more distorted and excite more determined aversion.

13. Beauty, therefore, depends principally upon the mind, and,
consequently, may be influenced by education. It has been remarked, that
the predominant passion may generally be discovered in the countenance;
because the muscles by which it is expressed, being almost perpetually
contracted, lose their tone, and never totally relax; so that the
expression remains when the passion is suspended; thus an angry, a
disdainful, a subtle and a suspicious temper, is displayed in characters
that are almost universally understood.

14. It is equally true of the pleasing and the softer passions, that
they leave their signatures upon the countenance when they cease to act:
the prevalence of these passions, therefore, produces a mechanical
effect upon the aspect, and gives a turn and cast to the features which
makes a more favorable and forcible impression upon the mind of others,
than any charm produced by mere external causes.

15. Neither does the beauty which depends upon temper and sentiment,
equally endanger the possessor: "It is," to use an eastern metaphor,
"like the towers of a city, not only an ornament, but a defence;" if it
excites desire, it at once controls and refines it; it represses with
awe, it softens with delicacy, and it wins to imitation. The love of
reason and virtue is mingled with the love of beauty; because this
beauty is little more than the emanation of intellectual excellence,
which is not an object of corporeal appetite.

16. As it excites a purer passion, it also more forcibly engages to
fidelity: every man finds himself more powerfully restrained from giving
pain to goodness than to beauty; and every look of a countenance in
which they are blended, in which beauty is the expression of goodness,
is a silent reproach of the first irregular wish: and the purpose
immediately appears to be disingenious and cruel, by which the tender
hope of ineffable affection would be disappointed, the placid confidence
of unsuspected simplicity abased, and the peace even of virtue
endangered by the most sordid infidelity, and the breach of the
strongest obligations.

17. But the hope of the hypocrite must perish. When the fictitious
beauty has laid by her smiles, when the lustre of her eyes and the bloom
of her cheeks have lost their influence with their novelty; what remains
but a tyrant divested of power, who will never be seen without a mixture
of indignation and disdain? The only desire which this object could
gratify, will be transferred to another, not only without reluctance,
but with triumph.

18. As resentment will succeed to disappointment, a desire to mortify
will succeed to a desire to please; and the husband may be urged to
solicit a mistress, merely by a remembrance of the beauty of his wife,
which lasted only till she was known.

Let it therefore be remembered, that none can be disciples of the
Graces, but in the school of Virtue; and that those who wish to be
lovely, must learn early to be good.

19. A FRIEND of mine has two daughters, whom I will call _Laetitia_ and
_Daphne_. The former is one of the greatest beauties of the age in which
she lives; the latter no way remarkable for any charms in her person.
Upon this one circumstance of their outward form, the good and ill of
their life seem to turn. _Laetitia_ has not from her very childhood heard
any thing else but commendations of her features and complexion, by
which means she is no other than nature made her, a very beautiful
outside.

20. The consciousness of her charms has rendered her insupportably vain
and insolent towards all who have to do with her. _Daphne_, who was
almost twenty before one civil thing had ever been said to her, found
herself obliged to acquire some accomplishments to make up for the want
of those attractions which she saw in her sister.

21. Poor _Daphne_ was seldom submitted to in a debate wherein she was
concerned; her discourse had nothing to recommend it but the good sense
of it, and she was always under a necessity to have very well considered
what she was to say before she uttered it; while _Laetitia_ was listened
to with partiality, and approbation sat in the countenances of those she
conversed with, before she communicated what she had to say.

22. These causes have produced suitable effects, and _Laetitia_ is as
insipid a companion as _Daphne_ is an agreeable one. _Laetitia_,
confident of favour, has studied no arts to please: _Daphne_, despairing
of any inclination towards her person, has depended only on her merit.
_Laetitia_ has always something in her air that is sullen, grave and
disconsolate.

23. _Daphne_ has a countenance that appears cheerful, open and
unconcerned. A young gentleman saw _Laetitia_ this winter at play, and
became her captive. His fortune was such, that he wanted very little
introduction to speak his sentiments to her father. The lover was
admitted with the utmost freedom into the family, where a constrained
behaviour, severe looks, and distant civilities were the highest favours
he could obtain from _Laetitia_; while _Daphne_ used him with the good
humour, familiarity, and innocence of a sister.

24. Insomuch that he would often say to her, _Dear Daphne, wert thou but
as handsome as Laetitia!_--She received such language with that ingenious
and pleasing mirth, which is natural to a woman without design. He still
sighed in vain for _Laetitia_ but found certain relief in the agreeable
conversation of _Daphne_. At length, heartily tired with the haughty
impertinence of _Laetitia_, and charmed with repeated instances of good
humour he had observed in _Daphne_, he one day told the latter, that he
had something to say to her he hoped she would be pleased with.

25. ----_Faith Daphne_, continued he, _I am in love with thee, and
despise thy sister sincerely_. The manner of his declaring himself gave
his mistress occasion for a very hearty laughter.--_Nay_, says he, _I
knew you would laugh at me, but I'll ask your father_. He did so; the
father received his intelligence with no less joy than surprize, and was
very glad he had now no care left but for his beauty, which he thought
he would carry to market at his leisure.

26. I do not know any thing that has pleased me so much a great while,
as this conquest of my friend _Daphne's_. All her acquaintance
congratulate her upon her chance medley, and laugh at that premeditating
murderer, her sister. As it is an argument of a light mind, to think the
worse of ourselves for the imperfections of our persons, it is equally
below us to value ourselves upon the advantages of them.

27. The female world seems to be almost incorrigibly gone astray in this
particular; for which reason, I shall recommend the following extract
out of a friend's letter to the profess'd beauties, who are a people
almost as insufferable as the profess'd wits.

'Monsier St. _Evrement_ has concluded one of his essays with affirming,
that the last sighs of a handsome woman are not so much for the loss of
her life, as her beauty.

28. 'Perhaps this raillery is pursued too far, yet it is turned upon a
very obvious remark, that woman's strongest passion is for her own
beauty, and that she values it as her favourite distinction. From hence
it is that all hearts, which intend to improve or preserve it, meet with
so general a reception among the sex.

29. To say nothing Of many false helps, and contraband wares of beauty,
which are daily vended in this great mart, there is not a maiden
gentlewoman, of a good family, in any county of _South Britain_, who has
not heard of the virtues of may-dew, or is unfurnished with some receipt
or other in favour of her complexion; and I have known a physician of
learning and sense, after eight years study in the university and a
course of travels into most countries of _Europe_, owe the first raising
of his fortune to a cosmetic wash.

30. 'This has given me occasion to consider how so universal a
disposition in womankind, which springs from a laudable motive, the
desire of pleasing, and proceeds upon an opinion, not altogether
groundless, that nature may be helped by art, may be turned to their
advantage. And, methinks, it would be an acceptable service to take them
out of the hands of quacks and pretenders, and to prevent their
imposing upon themselves, by discovering to them the true secret and art
of improving beauty.

31. 'In order to do this, before I touch upon it directly, it will be
necessary to lay down a few preliminary maxims, _viz._

That no woman can be handsome by the force of features alone, any more
she can be witty only by the help of speech.

That pride destroys all symmetry and grace, and affectation is a more
terrible enemy to fine faces than the small-pox.

That no woman is capable of being beautiful, who is not incapable of
being false.

And, that what would be odious in a friend, is deformity in a mistress.

32 'From these few principles thus laid down, it will be easy to prove
that the true art of assisting beauty consists in embellishing the whole
person by the proper ornaments of virtuous and commendable qualities. By
this help alone it is, that those who are the favourite work of nature,
or, as Mr. _Dryden_ expresses it, the porcelain clay of human kind,
become animated, and are in a capacity of exerting their charms: and
those who seem to have been neglected by her, like models wrought in
haste, are capable, in a great measure, of finishing what she has left
imperfect.

33. 'It is, methinks, a low and degrading idea of that sex, which was
created to refine the joys, and soften the cares of humanity, by the
most agreeable participation, to consider them merely as objects of
sight.--This is abridging them of their natural extent of power to put
them upon a level with their pictures at the pantheon. How much nobler
is the contemplation of beauty heightened by virtue, and commanding our
esteem and love, while it draws our observation?

34. 'How faint and spiritless are the charms of a coquette, when
compared with the real loveliness of _Sophronia's_ innocence, piety,
good-humour, and truth; virtues which add a new softness to her sex, and
even beautify her beauty! That agreeableness, which must otherwise have
appeared no longer in the modest virgin, is now preserved in the tender
mother, the prudent friend and faithful wife'.

35. 'Colours artfully spread upon canvas may entertain the eye, but not
affect the heart; and she, who takes no care to add to the natural
graces of her person, any excelling qualities, may be allowed still to
amuse as a picture, but not to triumph as a beauty.

'When _Adam_ is introduced by _Milton_ describing _Eve_ in Paradise, and
relating to the angel the impressions he felt upon seeing her at her
first creation, he does not represent her like a _Grecian Venus_, by her
shape of features, but by the lustre of her mind which shone in them,
and gave them their power of charming.

36.

    Grace was in all her steps, Heav'n in her eye,
    In all her gestures dignity and love:

'Without this irradiating power, the proudest fair-one ought to know,
whatever her glass may tell her to the contrary, that her most perfect
features are uninformed and dead.

'I cannot better close this moral, than by a short epitaph, written by
_Ben Johnson_ with a spirit which nothing could inspire, but such an
object as I have been describing.

    'Underneath this stone doth lie,
    As much virtue as could die;
    Which when alive did vigour give
    To as much beauty as could live.'


_I am, Sir_

_Your most humble Servant_,

R.B.

SPECTATOR, Vol. I. No.33.




_Honour_.


1. Every principle that is a motive to good actions, ought to be
encouraged, since men are of so different a make, that the same
principle does not work equally upon all minds. What some men are
prompted to by conscience, duty, or religion, which are only different
names for the same thing, others are prompted to by honour.

2. The sense of honour is of so fine and delicate a nature, that it is
only to be met with in minds which are naturally noble, or in such as
have been cultivated by great examples, or a refined education. This
paper, therefore, is chiefly designed for those who by means of any of
these advantages, are, or ought to be, actuated by this glorious
principle.

3. 'But as nothing is more pernicious than a principle or action, when
it is misunderstood, I shall consider honour with respect to three sorts
of men. First of all, with regard to those who have a right notion of
it. Secondly, with regard to those who have a mistaken notion of it. And
thirdly, with regard to those who treat it as chimerical, and turn it
into ridicule.

4. 'In the first place, true honour, though it be a different principle
from religion, is that which produces the same effects. The lines of
action, though drawn from different parts, terminate in the same point.
Religion embraces virtue as it is enjoined by the laws of God: Honour,
as it is graceful and ornamental to human nature.

5. 'The religious man _fears_, the man of honor _scorns_ to do an ill
action. The former considers vice as something that is beneath him, the
other as something that is offensive to the Divine Being. The one as
what is _unbecoming_, the other as what _forbidden_. Thus _Seneca_
speaks in the natural and genuine language of a man of honor, when he
declares that were there no God to see or punish vice, he would not
commit it, because it is of so mean, so base, and so vile a nature.

6. 'I shall conclude this head with the description of honor in the part
of young _Juba_.

    Honour's a sacred tie, the law of kings,
    The noble mind's distinguishing perfection,
    That aids and strengthens virtue where it meets her,
    And imitates her actions where she is not.
    It ought not to be sported with.--                        CATO.

7. 'In the second place we are to consider those who have mistaken
notions of honor, and these are such as establish any thing to
themselves for a point of honor which is contrary either to the laws of
God, or of their country; who think it is more honourable to revenge
than to forgive an injury; who make no scruple of telling a lie, but
would put any man to death that accuses them of it: who are more careful
to guard their reputation by their courage than by their virtue.

8. 'True fortitude is indeed so becoming in human nature, that he who
wants it scarce deserves the name of a man; but we find several who so
much abuse this notion that they place the whole idea of honor in a kind
of brutal courage; by which means we have had many among us who have
called themselves men of honour, that would have been a disgrace to a
gibbet.

9. In a word, the man who sacrifices any duty of a reasonable creature
to a prevailing mode of fashion, who looks upon any thing as honourable
that is displeasing to his Maker, or destructive to society, who thinks
himself obliged by this principle to the practice of some virtues and
not of others, is by no means to be reckoned among true men of honor.

10. _Timogenes_ was a lively instance of one actuated by false honor.
_Timogenes_ would smile at a man's jest who ridiculed his Maker, and at
the same time run a man thro' the body that spoke ill of his friend.
_Timogenes_ would have scorned to have betrayed a secret, that was
intrusted with him, though the fate of his country depended upon the
discovery of it.

11. _Timogenes_ took away the life of a young fellow in a duel, for
having spoken ill of _Belinda_, a lady whom he himself had seduced in
his youth, and betrayed into want and ignominy. To close his character,
_Timogenes_, after having ruined several poor tradesmen's families, who
had trusted him, sold his estate to satisfy his creditors; but, like a
man of honor, disposed of all the money he could make of it, in paying
off his play-debts, or, to speak in his own language, his debts of
honor.

12. In the third place, we are to consider those persons, who treat this
principle as chimerical, and turn it into ridicule. Men who are
professedly of no honour, are of a more profligate and abandoned nature,
than even those who are actuated by false notions of it, as there is
more hope of a heretic than of an atheist. These sons of infamy consider
honor with old _Syphax_, in the play before mentioned, as a fine
imaginary notion, that leads astray young unexperienced men, and draws
them into real mischief, while they are engaged in the pursuits of a
shadow.

13. These are generally persons, who, in _Shakspeare's_ phrase, are
_worn and hackney'd in the ways of men_; whose imaginations are grown
callous, and have lost all those delicate sentiments which are natural
to minds that are innocent and undepraved. Such old battered miscreants
ridicule every thing as romantic, that comes in competition with their
present interest, and treat those persons as visionaries who dare stand
up in a corrupt age, for what has not its immediate reward joined to it.

14. The talents, interest, or experience of such men, make them very
often useful in all parties, and at all times. But whatever wealth and
dignities they may arrive at, they ought to consider, that every one
stands as a blot in the annals of his country, who arrives at the temple
of _honor_ by any other way than through that of _virtue_.

GUARDIAN, Vol. II. No. 161.




_Human Nature_.


Mr. SPECTATOR,

1. 'I have always been a very great lover of your speculations, as well
in regard to the subject, as to your manner of treating it. Human nature
I always thought the most useful object of human reason, and to make the
consideration of it pleasant and entertaining, I always thought the best
employment of human wit: other parts of philosophy may make us wiser,
but this not only answers that end, but makes us better too.

2. 'Hence it was that the oracle pronounced _Socrates_ the wisest of all
men living, because he judiciously made choice of human nature for the
object of his thoughts; an enquiry into which as much exceeds all other
learning, as it is of more consequence to adjust the true nature and
measures of right and wrong, than to settle the distance of the planets,
and compute the times of their circumvolutions.

3. 'One good effect that will immediately arise from a near observation
of human nature, is, that we shall cease to wonder at those actions
which men are used to reckon wholly unaccountable; for as nothing is
produced without a cause, so by observing the nature and course of the
passions, we shall be able to trace every action from its first
conceptions to its death.

4. 'We shall no more admire at the proceedings of _Cataline_ and
_Tiberius_, when we know the one was actuated by a cruel jealousy; the
other by a furious ambition; for the actions of men follow their
passions as naturally as light does heat, or as any other effect flows
from its cause; reason must be employed in adjusting the passions, but
they must ever remain the principles of action.

5. 'The strange and absurd variety that is so apparent in men's actions,
shews plainly they can never proceed immediately from reason; so pure a
fountain emits no such troubled waters: they must necessarily arise from
the passions, which are to the mind as the winds to a ship; they only
can move it, and they too often destroy it; if fair and gentle, they
guide it into the harbour; if contrary and furious, they overset it in
the waves.

6. 'In the same manner is the mind assisted or endangered by the
passions; reason must then take the place of pilot, and can never fail
of securing her charge if she be not wanting to herself; the strength of
the passions will never be accepted as an excuse for complying with
them: they were designed for subjection; and if a man suffers them to
get the upper hand, he then betrays the liberty of his own soul.

7. 'As nature has framed the several species of beings as it were in a
chain, so man seems to be placed as the middle link between angels and
brutes; hence he participates both of flesh and spirit by an admirable
tye, which in him occasions perpetual war of passions; and as a man
inclines to the angelic or brute part of his constitution, he is then
denominated good or bad, virtuous or wicked: if love, mercy, and
good-nature prevail, they speak him of the angel; if hatred, cruelly,
and envy predominate, they declare his kindred to the brute.

8. 'Hence it was that some ancients imagined, that as men in this life
incline more to the angel or the brute, so after their death they should
transmigrant into the one or the other; and it would be no unpleasant
notion to consider the several species of brutes, into which we may
imagine that tyrants, misers, the proud, malicious, and ill-natured,
might be changed.

9. 'As a consequence of this original, all passions are in all men, but
appear not in all: constitution, education, custom of the, country,
reason, and the like causes may improve or abate the strength of them,
but still the seeds remain, which are ever ready to sprout forth upon
the least encouragement.

10. 'I have heard a story of a good religious man, who having been bred
with the milk of a goat, was very modest in public, by a careful
reflection he made of his actions, but he frequently had an hour in
secret, wherein he had his frisks and capers; and, if we had an
opportunity of examining the retirement of the strictest philosophers,
no doubt but we should find perpetual returns of those passions they so
artfully conceal from the public.

11. 'I remember _Machiavel_ observes, that every state should entertain
a perpetual jealousy of its neighbours, that so it should never be
unprovided when an emergency happens; in like manner should reason be
perpetually on its guard against the passions, and never suffer them to
carry on any design that may be destructive of its security; yet, at the
same time, it must be careful, that it don't so far break their strength
as to render them contemptible, and, consequently, itself unguarded.

12. 'The understanding being of itself too slow and lazy to exert itself
into action, it is necessary it should be put in motion by the gentle
gales of passion, which may preserve it from stagnation and corruption;
for they are necessary to the help of the mind, as the circulation of
the animal spirits is to the health of the body; they keep it in life,
and strength and vigour: nor is it possible for the mind to perform its
offices without their assistance; these motions are given us with our
being: they are little spirits, that are born and die with us; to some
they are mild, easy and gentle; to others wayward and unruly; yet never
too strong for the reins of reason, and the guidance of judgment.

13. 'We may generally observe a pretty nice proportion, between the
strength of reason and passion; the greatest geniuses have commonly the
strongest affections, as on the other hand, the weaker understandings
have generally the weaker passions: and 'tis fit the fury of the
coursers should not be too great for the strength of the charioteer.

14. 'Young men, whose passions are not a little unruly, give small hopes
of their being considerable; the fire of youth will of course abate, and
is a fault, if it be a fault, that mends every day; but surely, unless a
man has fire in youth, he can hardly have warmth in old age.

15. We must therefore be very cautious, lest while we think to regulate
the passions, we should quite extinguish them; which is putting out the
light of the soul; for to be without passion, or to be hurried away with
it, makes a man equally blind. The extraordinary severity used in most
of our schools has this fatal effect; it breaks the spring of the mind,
and most certainly destroys more good geniuses than it can possibly
improve.

16. 'And surely 'tis a mighty mistake that the passions should be so
entirely subdued; for little irregularities are sometimes not only to be
borne with, but to be cultivated too, since they are frequently attended
with the greatest perfections. All great geniuses have faults mixed with
their virtues, and resemble the flaming bush which has thorns amongst
lights.

17. 'Since therefore the passions are the principles of human actions,
we must endeavour to manage them so as to retain their vigour, yet keep
them under strict command; we must govern them rather like free subjects
than slaves, lest while we intend to make them obedient, they become
abject, and unfit for those great purposes to which they were designed.

18. 'For my part I must confess, I could never have any regard to that
sect of philosophers, who so much insisted upon an absolute indifference
and vacancy from all passion; for it seems to me a thing very
inconsistent for a man to divest himself of humanity, in order to
acquire tranquility of mind, and to eradicate the very principles of
action, because it is possible they may produce ill effects.

_I am, Sir_,

_Your affectionate admirer_

T.B.

SPECTATOR, Vol. IV. No. 408.





_The Advantages of representing Human Nature in its proper Dignity_.

TATLER, No. 198.

It is not to be imagined how great an effect well-disposed lights, with
proper forms, and orders in assemblies, have upon some tempers, I am
sure I feel it in so extraordinary a manner, that I cannot in a day or
two get out of my imagination any very beautiful or disagreeable
impression which I receive on such occasions. For this reason I
frequently look in at the play-house, in order to enlarge my thoughts,
and warm my mind with some new ideas, that may be serviceable to me in
my lucubrations.

1. In this disposition I entered the theatre the other day, and placed
myself in a corner of it, very convenient for seeing, without being
myself observed. I found the audience hushed in a very deep attention,
and did not question but some noble tragedy was just then in its crisis,
or that an incident was to be unravelled which would determine the fate
of an hero. While I was in this suspense, expecting every moment to see
my old friend Mr. _Bitterton_ appear in all the majesty of distress, to
my unspeakable amazement, there came up a monster with a face between
his feet; and, as I was looking on, he raised himself on one leg in such
a perpendicular posture, that the other grew in a direct line above his
head.

2. It afterwards twisted itself into the motions and wreathings of
several different animals, and, after great variety of shapes and
transformations, went off the stage in the figure of a human creature.
The admiration, the applause, the satisfaction of the audience, during
this strange entertainment, is not to be expressed. I was very much out
of countenance for my dear countrymen, and looked about with some
apprehension, for fear any foreigner should be present.

3. Is it possible, thought I, that human nature can rejoice in its
disgrace, and take pleasure in seeing its own figure turned into
ridicule, and distorted into forms that raise horror and aversion? There
is something disingenuous and immoral in the being able to bear such a
sight. Men of elegant and noble minds are shocked at the seeing
characters of persons who deserve esteem for their virtue, knowledge, or
services to their country, placed in wrong lights, and by
misrepresentations made the subject of buffoonery.

4. Such a nice abhorrence is not, indeed, to be found among the vulgar;
but methinks it is wonderful, that those, who have nothing but the
outward figure to distinguish them as men, should delight in seeing it
abused, vilified and disgraced.

I must confess there is nothing that more pleases me, in all that I
read in books, or see among mankind, than such passages as represent
human nature in its proper dignity.

5. As man is a creature made up of different extremes, he has something
in him very great and very mean: a skilful artist may draw an excellent
picture of him in either of these views. The finest authors of antiquity
have taken him on the more advantageous side. They cultivate the natural
grandeur of the soul, raise in her a generous ambition, feed her with
hopes of immortality and perfection, and do all they can to widen the
partition between the virtuous and the vicious, by making the difference
betwixt them as great as between gods and brutes.

6. In short, it is impossible to read a page in _Plato_, _Tully,_ and a
thousand other ancient moralists, without being a greater and a better
man for it. On the contrary, I could never read any of our modish
_French_ authors, or those of our own country who are the imitators and
admirers of that trifling nation, without being for some time out of
humour with myself, and at every thing about me.

7. Their business is, to depreciate human nature, and consider it under
its worst appearances. They give mean interpretations and base motives
to the worthiest actions; they resolve virtue and vice into
constitution. In short, they endeavour to make no distinction between
man and man, or between the species of men and that of brutes. As an
instance of this kind of authors, among many others, let any one examine
the celebrated _Rochefoucault_, who is the great philosopher for
administering of consolation to the idle, the envious, and worthless
parts of mankind.

8. I remember a young gentleman of moderate understanding, but great
vivacity, who, by dipping into many authors of this nature, had got a
little smattering of knowledge, just enough to make an atheist or a free
thinker, but not a philosopher or a man of sense. With these
accomplishments, he went to visit his father in the country, who was a
plain, rough, honest man, and wise though not learned. The son, who took
all opportunities to shew his learning, began to establish a new
religion in the family, and to enlarge the narrowness of their country
notions; in which he succeeded so well, that he had seduced the butler
by his table talk, and staggered his eldest sister.

9. The old gentleman began to be alarmed at the schisms that arose
among his children, but did not yet believe his son's doctrine to be so
pernicious as it really was, till one day talking of his setting-dog,
the son said he did not question but _Trey_ was as immortal as any one
of the family; and in the heat of the argument told his father, that for
his own part he expected to die like a dog. Upon which the old
gentleman, starting up in a very great passion, cried out, Then, sirrah,
you shall live like one; and taking his cane in his hand, cudgeled him
out of his system. This had so good an effect upon him, that he took up
from that day, fell to reading good books, and is now a bencher in the
_Middle Temple_.

10. I do not mention this cudgeling part of the story with a design to
engage the secular arm in matters of this nature; but certainly, if it
ever exerts itself in affairs of opinion and speculation, it ought to do
it on such shallow and despicable pretenders to knowledge, who endeavour
to give man dark and uncomfortable prospects of his being, and destroy
those principles which are the support, happiness, and glory of all
public societies, as well as private persons.

11. I think it is one of _Pythagoras's_ golden sayings, _that a man
should take care above all things to have a due respect for himself_;
and it is certain, that this licentious sort of authors, who are for
depreciating mankind, endeavour to disappoint and undo what the most
refined spirits have been labouring to advance since the beginning of
the world. The very design of dress, good-breeding, outward ornaments
and ceremonies, were to lift up human nature, and set it of too
advantage. Architecture, painting, and statuary, were invented with the
same design; as indeed every art and science that contributes to the
embellishment of life, and to the wearing off and throwing into shades
the mean and low parts of our nature.

12. Poetry carries on this great end more than all the rest, as may be
seen in the following passages taken out of Sir _Francis Bacon's
Advancement of Learning_, which gives a true and better account of this
art than all the volumes that were ever written upon it.

"Poetry, especially heroical, seems to be raised altogether from a noble
foundation, which makes much for the dignity of man's nature. For
seeing this sensible world is in dignity inferior to the soul of man,
poesy seems to endow human nature with that which history denies; and to
give satisfaction to the mind, with at least the shadow of things, where
the substance cannot be had."

13. "For if the matter be thoroughly considered, a strong argument may
be drawn from poesy, that a more stately greatness of things, a more
perfect order, and a more beautiful variety, delights the soul of man
than any way can be found in nature since the fall. Wherefore, seeing
the acts and events, which are the subjects of true history, are not of
that amplitude as to content the mind of man, poesy is ready at hand to
feign acts more heroical."

14. "Because true history reports the successes of business not
proportionable to the merit of virtues and vices, poesy corrects it, and
presents events and fortunes according to desert, and according to the
law of Providence: because true history, through the frequent satiety
and similitude of things, works a distaste and misprision in the mind of
man; poesy cheereth and refresheth the soul, chanting things rare and
various, and full of vicissitudes."

15. "So as poesy serveth and conferreth to delectation, magnanimity and
morality; and therefore it may seem deservedly to have some
participation of divineness, because it doth raise the mind, and exalt
the spirit with high raptures, proportioning the shew of things to the
desires of the mind, and not submitting the mind to things as reason and
history do. And by these allurements and congruities, whereby it
cherisheth the soul of man, joined also with concert of music, whereby
it may more sweetly insinuate itself; it hath won such access, that it
hath been in estimation, even in rude times, among barbarous nations,
when our learning stood excluded."

16. But there is nothing which favours and falls in with this natural
greatness and dignity of human nature so much as religion, which does
not only promise the entire refinement of the mind, but the glorifying
of the body, and the immortality of both.




_Custom a Second Nature_.

1. There is not a common saying which has a better turn of sense in it
than what we often hear in the mouths of the vulgar, that Custom is a
second Nature. It is indeed able to form the man anew, and give him
inclinations and capacities altogether different from those he was born
with.

2. Dr. _Plot_, in his history of _Staffordshire_, tells of an idiot,
that chancing to live within the sound of a clock, and always amusing
himself with counting the hour of the day whenever the clock struck: the
clock being spoiled by some accident, the idiot continued to strike and
count the hour without the help of it, in the same manner as he had done
when it was entire.

3. Though I dare not vouch for the truth of this story, it is very
certain that custom has a mechanical effect upon the body, at the same
time that it has a very extraordinary influence upon the mind.

4. I shall in this paper consider one very remarkable effect which
custom has upon human nature; and which, if rightly observed, may lead
us into very useful rules of life. What I shall here take notice of in
custom, is its wonderful efficacy in making every thing pleasant to us.

5. A person who is addicted to play or gaming, though he took but little
delight in it at first, by degrees contracts so strong an inclination
towards it, and gives himself up so entirely to it, that it seems the
only end of his being. The love of a retired or busy life will grow upon
a man insensibly, as he is conversant in the one or the other, till he
is utterly unqualified for relishing that to which he has been for some
time disused.

6. Nay, a man may smoke or drink, or take snuff, till he is unable to
pass away his time without it; not to mention how our delight in any
particular study, art, or science, rises and improves in proportion to
the application which we bestow upon it. Thus what was at first an
exercise, becomes at length an entertainment. Our employments are
changed into diversions. The mind grows fond of those actions it is
accustomed to, and is drawn with reluctancy from those paths in which it
has been used to walk.

7. Not only such actions as were at first indifferent to us, but even
such as were painful, will by custom and practice become pleasant.

8. Sir _Francis Bacon_ observes in his natural philosophy, that our
taste is never better pleased than with those things which at first
create a disgust in it. He gives particular instances of claret, coffee,
and other liquors; which the palate seldom approves upon the first
taste: but when it has once got a relish of them, generally retains it
for life. The mind is constituted after the same manner, and after
having habituated itself to any particular exercise or employment, not
only loses its first aversion towards it, but conceives a certain
fondness and affection for it.

9. I have heard one of the greatest genuises this age has produced, who
had been trained up in all the polite studies of antiquity, assure me,
upon his being obliged to search into several rolls and records, that
notwithstanding such an employment was at first very dry and irksome to
him, he at last took an incredible pleasure in it, and preferred it even
to the reading of _Virgil_ or _Cicero_.

10. The reader will observe that I have not here considered custom as it
makes things easy, but as it renders them delightful; and though others
have often made the same reflection, it is possible they may not have
drawn those uses from it, with which I intend to fill the remaining part
of this paper.

11. If we consider attentively this property of human nature, it may
instruct us in very fine moralities. In the first place, I would have no
man discouraged with that kind of life or series of actions, in which
the choice of others or his own necessities may have engaged him. It may
perhaps be very disagreeable to him at first; but use and application
will certainly render it not only less painful, but pleasing and
satisfactory.

12. In the second place, I would recommend to every one the admirable
precept which _Pythagoras_ is said to have given to his disciples, and
which that philosopher must have drawn from the observation I have
enlarged upon: _Optimum vitae genus eligito nam consuctudo facict
jucundissimum._ Pitch upon that course of life which is the most
excellent, and custom will render it the most delightful.

13. Men, whose circumstances will permit them to choose their own way of
life, are inexcusable if they do not pursue that which their judgment
tells them is the most laudable. The voice of reason is more to be
regarded than the bent of any present inclination, since by the rule
above-mentioned, inclination will at length come over to reason, though
we can never force reason to comply with inclination.

14. In the third place, this observation may teach the most sensual and
irreligious man to overlook those hardships and difficulties, which are
apt to discourage him from the prosecution of a virtuous life. The Gods,
said _Hesiod_, have placed labour before virtue; the way to her is at
first rough and difficult, but grows more smooth and easy, the further
you advance in it. The man who proceeds in it, with steadiness and
resolution, will in a little time find that her ways are ways of
pleasantness, and that all her paths are peace.

15. To enforce this consideration, we may further observe, that the
practice of religion will not only be attended with that pleasure which
naturally accompanies those actions to which we are habituated, but with
those supernumerary joys of heart, that rise from the consciousness of
such a pleasure, from the satisfaction of acting up to the dictates of
reason, and from the prospect of an happy immortality.

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

17. The last use which I shall make of this remarkable property in human
nature, of being delighted with those actions to which it is accustomed,
is to shew how absolutely necessary it is for us to gain habits of
virtue in this life, if we would enjoy the pleasures of the next.

18. The state of bliss we call heaven, will not be capable of affecting
those minds, which are not thus qualified for it: we must in this world
gain a relish of truth and virtue, if we would be able to taste that
knowledge and perfection which are to make us happy in the next. The
seeds of those spiritual joys and raptures, which are to rise up and
flourish in the soul to all eternity, must be planted in it, during this
its present state of probation. In short, heaven is not to be looked
upon only as the reward, but as the natural effect of a religious life.

19. On the other hand, those evil spirits, who by long custom, have
contracted in the body, habits of lust, sensuality, malice and revenge,
an aversion to every thing that is good, just, or laudable, are
naturally seasoned and prepared for pain and misery. Their torments have
already taken root in them; they cannot be happy when divested of the
body, unless we may suppose, that Providence will in a manner create
them anew, and work a miracle in the rectification of their faculties.

20. They may, indeed, taste a kind of malignant pleasure in those
actions to which they are accustomed whilst in this life; but when they
are removed from all those objects which are here apt to gratify them,
they will naturally become their own tormentors, and cherish in
themselves those painful habits of mind which are called, in scripture
phrase, the worm which never dies.

21. This notion of heaven and hell is so very conformable to the light
of nature, that it was discovered by several of the most exalted
heathens. It has been finely improved by many eminent divines of the
last age, as in particular by Archbishop _Tillotson_ and Dr. _Sherlock_;
but there is none who has raised such noble speculations upon it as Dr.
_Scott_, in the first book of his Christian Life, which is one of the
finest and most rational schemes of divinity, that is written in our
tongue or any other. That excellent author has shewn how every
particular custom and habit of virtue will, in its own nature, produce
the heaven, or a state of happiness, in him who shall hereafter practise
it: as on the contrary, how every custom or habit of vice will be the
natural hell of him in whom it subsists.




_On Cleanliness_.

SPECTATOR, No. 631.

1. I had occasion to go a few miles out of town, some days since, in a
stage-coach, where I had for my fellow travellers, a dirty beau, and a
pretty young Quaker woman. Having no inclination to talk much at that
time, I placed myself backward, with a design to survey them, and pick a
speculation out of my two companions. Their different figures were
suificient of themselves to draw my attention.

2. The gentleman was dressed in a suit, the ground whereof had been
black, as I perceived from some few spaces that had escaped the powder,
which was incorporated with the greatest part of his coat; his periwig,
which cost no smull sum, was after so slovenly a manner cast over his
shoulders, that it seemed not to have been combed since the year 1712;
his linen, which was not much concealed, was daubed with plain Spanish
from the chin to the lowest button, and the diamond upon his finger
(which naturally dreaded the water) put me in mind how it sparkled
amidst the rubbish of the mine where it was first discovered.

3. On the other hand, the pretty Quaker appeared in all the elegance of
cleanliness. Not a speck was to be found on her. A clear, clean, oval
face, just edged about with little thin plaits of the purest cambrick,
received great advantages from the shade of her black hood: as did the
whiteness of her arms from that sober-coloured stuff in which she had
clothed herself. The plainness of her dress was very well suited to the
simplicity of her phrases, all which put together, though they could not
give me a great opinion of her religion, they did of her innocence.

4. This adventure occasioned my throwing together a few hints upon
_cleanliness_, which I shall consider as one of the half virtues, as
_Aristotle_ calls them, and shall recommend it under the three following
heads: As it is a mark of politeness; as it produceth love; and as it
bears analogy to purity of mind.

5. First, it is a mark of politeness. It is universally agreed upon,
that no one, unadorned with this virtue, can go into company without
giving a manifest offence. The easier or higher any one's fortune is,
this duty rises proportionably. The different nations of the world are
as much distinguished by their cleanliness, as by their arts and
sciences. The more any country is civilized, the more they consult this
part of politeness. We need but compare our ideas of a female
_Hottentot_ with an _English_ beauty, to be; satisfied with the truth of
what hath been advanced.

6. In the next place, cleanliness may be said to be the foster-mother
of love. Beauty, indeed, most commonly produces that passion in the
mind, but cleanliness preserves it. An indifferent face and person, kept
in perpetual neatness, hath won many a heart from a pretty slattern. Age
itself is not unamiable, while it is preserved clean and unsullied: like
a piece of metal constantly kept smooth and bright, we look on it with
more pleasure than on a new vessel that is cankered with rust.

7. I might observe further, that as cleanliness renders us agreeable to
others, so it makes it easy to ourselves; that it is an excellent
preservative of health; and that several vices, destructive both to mind
and body, are inconsistent with the habit of it. But these reflections I
shall leave to the leisure of my readers, and shall observe in the third
place, that it bears a great analogy with purity of mind, and naturally
inspires refined sentiments and passions.

8. We find, from experience, that through the prevalence of custom, the
most vicious actions lose their horror, by being made familiar to us. On
the contrary, those who live in the neighbourhood of good examples, fly
from the first appearances of what is shocking. It fares with us much
after the same manner as our ideas. Our senses, which are the inlets to
all the images conveyed to the mind, can only transmit the impression of
such things as usually surround them; so that pure and unsullied
thoughts are naturally suggested to the mind, by those objects that
perpetually encompass us, when they are beautiful and elegant in their
kind.

9. In the East, where the warmth of the climates makes cleanliness more
immediately necessary than in colder countries, it is made one part of
their religion; the Jewish law (and the Mahometan, which, in somethings,
copies after it) is filled with bathings, purifications, and other rites
of the like nature. Though there is the above named convenient reason to
be assigned for these ceremonies, the chief intention, undoubtedly, was
to typify inward purity and cleanliness of heart by those outward
washings.

10. We read several injunctions of this kind in the book of Deuteronomy,
which confirms this truth, and which are but ill accounted for by
saying, as some do, that they were only instituted for convenience in
the desert, which otherways could not have been habitable, for so many
years.

11. I shall conclude this essay with a story which I have some where
read in an account of Mahometan superstition. A dervise of great
sanctity one morning had the misfortune, as he took up a crystal cup,
which was consecrated to the prophet, to let it fall upon the ground and
dash it in pieces. His son coming in some time after, he stretched out
his hand to bless him, as his manner was every morning; but the youth
going out stumbled over the threshold and broke his arm. As the old man
wondered at those events, a caravan passed by in its way from _Mecca_.
The dervise approached it to beg a blessing; but as he stroked one of
the holy camels, he received a kick from the beast, that sorely bruised
him. His sorrow and amazement increased upon him, till he recollected,
that, through hurry and inadvertency, he had that morning come abroad
without washing his hands.




_The Advantages of a good Education_.

1. I consider a human soul without education like marble in the quarry,
which shews none of its inherent beauties, until the skill of the
polisher fetches out the colours, makes the surface shine, and discovers
every ornamental cloud, spot and vein, that runs through the body of it.
Education, after the same manner, when it works, upon a noble mind,
draws out to view every latent virtue and perfection, which, without
such helps, are never able to make their appearance.

2. If my reader will give me leave to change the allusion so soon upon
him, I shall make use of the same instance to illustrate the force of
education, which _Aristotle_ has brought to explain his doctrine of
substantial forms, when he tells us that a statue lies hid in a block of
marble; and that the art of the statuary only clears away the
superfluous matter, and removes the rubbish. The figure is in the stone,
the sculptor only finds it. What sculpture is to a block of marble,
education is to an human soul.

3. The philosopher, the saint, or the hero, the wise, the good, or the
great man, very often lie hid and concealed in a plebeian, which a
proper education might have disinterred, and have brought to light. I am
therefore much delighted with reading the accounts of savage nations,
and with contemplating those virtues which are wild and uncultivated; to
see courage exerting itself in fierceness, resolution in obstinacy,
wisdom in cunning, patience in sullenness and despair.

4. Men's passions operate variously, and appear in different kinds of
actions, according as they are more or less rectified or swayed by
reason. When one hears of negroes, who upon the death of their masters,
or upon changing their service, hang themselves upon the next tree, as
it frequently happens in our American plantations, who can forbear
admiring their fidelity, though it expresses itself in so dreadful a
manner?

5. What might not that savage greatness of soul which appears in these
poor wretches on many occasions, be raised to, were it rightly
cultivated? And what colour of excuse can there be for the contempt with
which we treat this part of our species? that we should not put them
upon the common foot of humanity; that we should only set an
insignificant fine upon the man who murders them; nay, that we should,
as much as in us lies, cut them off from the prospect of happiness in
another world, as well as in this, and deny them that which we look upon
as the proper means for attaining it.

6. It is therefore an unspeakable blessing to be born in those parts of
the world where wisdom and knowledge flourish, though it must be
confessed there are, even in these parts, several poor uninstructed
persons, who are but little above the inhabitants of those nations of
which I have been here speaking; as those who have had the advantages of
a more liberal education, rise above one another by several different
degrees of perfection.

7. For, to return to our statue in the block of marble, we see it
sometimes only begun to be chipped, sometimes sough hewn, and but just
sketched into an human figure; sometimes we see the man appearing
distinctly in all his limbs and features, sometimes we find the figure
wrought up to a great elegancy, but seldom meet with any to which the
hand of _Phidias_ or _Prixiteles_ could not give several nice touches
and finishings.




_The Disadvantages of a bad Education._


SIR,

1. I was condemned by some disastrous influence to be an only son, born
to the apparent prospect of a large fortune, and allotted to my parents
at that time of life when satiety of common diversions allows the mind
to indulge parental affection with great intenseness. My birth was
celebrated by the tenants with feasts and dances and bagpipes;
congratulations were sent from every family within ten miles round; and
my parents discovered in my first cries such tokens of future virtue and
understanding, that they declared themselves determined to devote the
remaining part of life to my happiness and the increase of their estate.

2. The abilities of my father and mother were not perceptibly unequal,
and education had given neither much advantage over the other. They had
both kept good company, rattled in chariots, glittered in play-houses,
and danced at court, and were both expert in the games that were in
their times called in as auxiliaries against the intrusion of thought.

3. When there is such a parity between two persons associated for life,
the dejection which the husband, if he be not completely stupid, must
always suffer for want of superiority, sinks him to submissiveness. My
mamma therefore governed the family without control; and except that my
father still retained some authority in the stables, and now and then,
after a supernumery bottle, broke a looking-glass, or china-dish, to
prove his sovereignty, the whole course of the year was regulated by her
direction; the servants received from her all their orders, and the
tenants were continued or dismissed at her discretion.

4. She therefore thought herself entitled to the superintendance of her
son's education; and when my father, at the instigation of the parson,
faintly proposed that I should be sent to school, very positively told
him, that she would not suffer so fine a child to be ruined: that she
never knew any boys at a grammar-school that could come into a room
without blushing, or set at the table without some awkward uneasiness;
that they were always putting themselves into danger by boisterous
plays, or vitiating their behaviour with mean company; and that for her
part, she would rather follow me to the grave than see me tear my
clothes, and hang down my head, and sneak about with dirty shoes and
blotted fingers, my hair unpowdered, and my hat uncocked.

5. My father, who had no other end in his proposal than to appear wise
and manly, soon acquiesced, since I was not to live by my learning; for
indeed he had known very few students that had not some stiffness in
their manner. They therefore agreed that a domestic tutor should be
procured, and hired an honest gentleman of mean conversation and narrow
sentiments, but who having passed the common forms of literary
education, they implicitly concluded qualified to teach all that was to
be learned from a scholar. He thought himself sufficiently exalted by
being placed at the same table with his pupil, and had no other view
than to perpetuate his felicity by the utmost flexibility of submission
to all my mother's opinions and caprices. He frequently took away my
book, lest I should mope with too much application, charged me never to
write without turning up my ruffles, and generally brushed my coat
before he dismissed me into the parlour.

6. He had no occasion to complain of too burthensome an employment; for
my mother very judiciously considered that I was not likely to grow
politer in his company, and suffered me not to pass any more time in his
apartment, than my lesson required. When I was summoned to my task, she
enjoined me not to get any of my tutor's ways, who was seldom mentioned
before me but for practices to be avoided. I was every moment admonished
not to lean on my chair, cross my legs, or swing my hands like my tutor;
and once my mother very seriously deliberated upon his total dismission,
because I began, said she, to learn his manner of sticking on my hat,
and had his bend in my shoulders, and his totter in my gait.

7. Such, however, was her care, that I escaped all these depravities,
and when I was only twelve years old, had rid myself of every appearance
of childish diffidence. I was celebrated round the country for the
petulence of my remarks, and the quickness of my replies; and many a
scholar five years older than myself, have I dashed into confusion by
the steadiness of my countenance, silenced by my readiness of repartee,
and tortured with envy by the address with which I picked up a fan,
presented a snuff-box, or received an empty tea-cup.

8. At fourteen I was completely skilled in all the niceties of dress,
and I could not only enumerate all the variety of silks, and distinguish
the product of a French loom, but dart my eye through a numerous
company, and observe every deviation from the reigning mode. I was
universally skilful in all the changes of expensive finery; but as every
one, they say, has something to which he is particularly born, was
eminently known in Brussels lace.

9. The next year saw me advanced to the trust and power of adjusting the
ceremonial of an assembly. All received their partners from my hand, and
to me every stranger applied for introduction. My heart now disdained
the instructions of a tutor, who was rewarded with a small annuity for
life, and left me qualified, in my own opinion, to govern myself.

10. In a short time I came to London, and as my father was well known
among the higher classes of life, soon; obtained admission to the most
splendid assemblies, and most crowded card-tables. Here I found myself
universally caressed and applauded, the ladies praised the fancy of my
clothes, the beauty of my form, and the softness of my voice;
endeavoured in every place to force themselves to my notice; and
incited, by a thousand oblique solicitations, my attendance at the
play-house, and my salutations in the park. I was now happy to the
utmost extent of my conception; I passed every morning in dress, every
afternoon in visits, and every night in some select assemblies, where
neither care nor knowledge were suffered to molest us.

11. After a few years, however, these delights became familiar, and I
had leisure to look round me with more attention. I then found that my
flatterers had very little power to relieve the languor of satiety, or
recreate weariness by varied amusement; and therefore endeavoured to
enlarge the sphere of my pleasures, and to try what satisfaction might
be found in the society of men. I will not deny the mortification with
which I perceived that every man whose name I had heard mentioned with
respect, received me with a kind of tenderness nearly bordering on
compassion; and that those whose reputation was not well established,
thought it necessary to justify their understandings, by treating me
with contempt. One of these witlings elevated his crest by asking me in
a full coffee-house the price of patches; and another whispered, that he
wondered Miss _Frisk_ did not keep me that afternoon to watch her
squirrel.

12. When I found myself thus hunted from all masculine conversation by
those who were themselves barely admitted, I returned to the ladies, and
resolved to dedicate my life to their service and their pleasure. But I
find that I have now lost my charms. Of those with whom I entered the
gay world, some are married, some have retired, and some have so much
changed their opinion, that they scarcely pay any regard to my
civilities, if there is any other man in the place. The new flight of
beauties to whom I have made my addresses, suffer me to pay the treat,
and then titter with boys: So that I now find myself welcome only to a
few grave ladies, who, unacquainted with all that gives either use or
dignity to life, are content to pass their hours between their bed and
their cards, without esteem from the old, or reverence from the young.

13. I cannot but think, Mr. _Rambler_, that I have reason to complain;
for surely the females ought to pay some regard to the age of him whose
youth was passed in endeavouring to please them. They that encourage
folly in the boy, have no right to punish it in the man. Yet I find,
that though they lavish their first fondness upon pertness and gaiety,
they soon transfer their regard to other qualities, and ungratefully
abandon their adorers to dream out their last years in stupidity and
contempt.

I am, &c. _Florentulus_.

[RAMBLER.]




_Learning a necessary Accomplishment in a Woman of Quality or Fortune_.


GUARDIAN, No. 155.

1. I have often wondered that learning is not thought a proper
ingredient in the education of a woman of quality or fortune. Since they
have the same improveable minds as the male part of the species, why
should they not be cultivated, by the same method? Why should reason be
left to itself in one of the sexes, and be disciplined with so much care
to the other?

2. There are some reasons why learning seems more adapted to the female
world than to the male. As in the first place, because they have more
spare time upon their hands, and lead a more sedentary life. Their
employments are of a domestic nature, and not like those of the other
sex, which are often inconsistent with study and contemplation.

3. The excellent lady, the lady _Lizard_, in the space of one summer
furnished a gallery with chairs and couches of her own and her daughters
working; and at the same time heard all Dr. _Tillotson's_ sermons twice
over. It is always the custom for one of the young ladies to read, while
the others are at work; so that the learning of the family is not at all
prejudicial to its manufactures.

4. I was mightily pleased the other day to find them all busy in
preserving several fruits of the season, with the Sparkler in the midst
of them, reading over "The plurality of Worlds." It was very
entertaining to me to see them dividing their speculations between
jellies and stars, and making a sudden transition from the sun to an
apricot, or from the Copernicum system to the figure of a cheese cake.

5. A second reason why women should apply themselves to useful knowledge
rather than men, is because they have that natural gift of speech in
greater perfection. Since they have so excellent a talent, such a _Copia
Verborum_, or plenty of words, it is pity they should not put it to some
use. If the female tongue will be in motion, why should it not be set to
go right? Could they discourse about the spots in the sun, it might
divert them from publishing the faults of their neighbours: could they
talk of the different aspects and conjunctions of the planets, they need
not be at the pains to comment upon oglings and clandestine marriages.
In short, were they furnished with matters of fact, out of arts and
sciences, it would now and then be of great ease to their invention.

6. There is another reason why those, especially who are women of
quality, should apply themselves to letters, namely, because their
husbands are generally strangers to them. It is great pity there should
by no knowledge in a family. For my own part, I am concerned when I go
into a great house, where perhaps there is not a single person that can
spell, unless it be by chance the butler, or one of the foot-men. What a
figure is the young heir likely to make, who is a dunce both by father
and mother's side?

7. If we look into the histories of famous women, we find many eminent
philosophers of this sex. Nay, we find that several females have
distinguished themselves in those sects of philosophy which seem almost
repugnant to their natures. There have been famous female
_Pythagorians_, notwithstanding most of that philosophy consisted in
keeping a secret, and that the disciple was to hold her tongue five
years together.

8. Learning and knowledge are perfections in us, not as we are men, but
as we are reasonable creatures, in which order of beings the female
world is upon the same level with the male. We ought to consider in this
particular, not what is the sex, but what is the species to which they
belong. At least I believe every one will allow me, that a female
philosopher is not so absurd a character, and so opposite to the sex, as
a female gamester; and that it is more irrational for a woman to pass
away half a dozen hours at cards or dice, than in getting up stores of
useful learning.

9. This, therefore, is another reason why I would recommend the studies
of knowledge to the female world, that they may not be at a loss how to
employ those hours that lie heavy upon their hands.

10. I might also add this motive to my fair readers, that several of
their sex, who have improved their minds by books and literature, have
raised themselves to the highest posts of honour and fortune. A
neighbouring nation may at this time furnish us with a very remarkable
instance of this kind: but I shall conclude this head with the history
of Athenais, which is a very signal example to my present purpose.

11. The Emperor Theodosius being about the age of one-and-twenty, and
designing to take a wife, desired his sister Pulcheria and his friend
Paulinus to search his whole empire for a woman of the most exquisite
beauty and highest accomplishments. In the midst of this search,
Athenais, a Grecian virgin, accidentally offered herself. Her father,
who was an eminent philosopher of Athens, and had bred her up in all the
learning of that place, at his death left her but a very small portion,
in which also she suffered great hardships from the injustice of her two
brothers.

12. This forced her upon a journey to Constantinople, where she had a
relation who represented her case to Pulcheria, in order to obtain some
redress from the emperor. By this means that religious princess became
acquainted with Athenais; whom she found the most beautiful woman of her
age, and educated under a long course of philosophy, in the strictest
virtue and most unspotted innocence.

13. Pulcheria was charmed with her conversation, and immediately made
her report to the emperor her brother Theodosius. The character she gave
made such an impression on him, that he desired his sister to bring her
away immediately to the lodgings of his friend Paulinus, where he found
her beauty and her conversation beyond the highest idea he had framed of
them.

14. His friend Paulinus converted her to christianity, and gave her the
name of Eudosia; after which the emperor publicly espoused her, and
enjoyed all the happiness in his marriage which he promised himself from
such a virtuous and learned bride. She not only forgave the injuries
which her two brothers had done her, but raised them to great honours;
and by several works of learning, as well as by an exemplary life, made
herself so dear to the whole empire, that she had many statues erected
to her memory, and is celebrated by the fathers of the church as an
ornament of her sex.




_On the Absurdity of Omens_.


SPECTATOR.

1. Going yesterday to dine with an old acquaintance, I had the
misfortune to find the whole family very much dejected. Upon asking him
the occasion of it, he told me that his wife had dreamed a very strange
dream the night before, which they were afraid portended some mischief
to themselves or to their children. At her coming into the room, I
observed a settled melancholy in her countenance, which I should have
been troubled for, had I not heard from whence it proceeded.

2. We were no sooner sat down, but, after having looked upon me a little
while, 'My dear,' says she, turning to her husband, 'you may now see the
stranger that was in the candle last night.' Soon after this, as they
began to talk of family affairs, a little boy at the lower end of the
table told her, that he was to go into joining-hand on
Thursday--'Thursday!' says she, 'no, child, if it please God, you shall
not begin upon Childermas day; tell your writing-master that Friday will
be soon enough.'

3. I was reflecting with myself on the oddness of her fancy, and
wondering that any body would establish it as a rule to lose a day in
every week. In the midst of these my musings, she desired me to reach
her a little salt upon the point of my knife, which I did in such a
trepidation and hurry of obedience, that I let it drop by the way; at
which she immediately startled, and said it fell towards her. Upon which
I looked very blank; and, observing the concern of the whole table,
began to consider myself, with some confusion, as a person that had
brought a disaster upon the family.

4. The lady, however, recovering herself after a little space, said to
her husband with a sigh, 'My dear, misfortunes never come single.' My
friend, I found, acted but an under-part at his table, and being a man
of more good-nature than understanding, thinks himself obliged to fall
in with all the passions and humours of his yoke-fellow: 'Do you
remember, child,' says she, 'that the pigeon-house fell the very
afternoon that our careless wench spilt the salt upon the table?' 'Yes,'
says he, 'my dear, and the next post brought us an account of the battle
of Almanza.'

5. The reader may guess at the figure I made, after having done all this
mischief. I dispatched my dinner as soon as I could, with my usual
taciturnity; when, to my utter confusion, the lady seeing me quitting my
knife and fork, and laying across one another upon my plate, desired me
that I would humour her so far as to take them out of that figure, and
place them side by side.

6. What the absurdity was which I had committed I did not know, but I
suppose there was some traditionary superstition in it; and therefore,
in obedience to the lady of the house, I disposed of my knife and fork
in two parallel lines, which is a figure I shall always lay them in for
the future, though I do not know any reason for it.

7. It is not difficult to a man to see that a person has conceived an
aversion to him. For my own part, I quickly found, by the lady's looks,
that she regarded me as a very odd kind of fellow, with an unfortunate
aspect; for which reason I took my leave immediately after dinner, and
withdrew to my own lodgings.

8. Upon my return home, I fell into a profound contemplation on the
evils that attend these superstitious follies of mankind: how they
subject us to imaginary afflictions and additional sorrows that do not
properly come within our lot. As if the natural calamities of life were
not sufficient for it, we turn the most indifferent circumstances into
misfortunes, and suffer as much from trifling accidents, as from real
evils.

9. I have known the shooting of a star spoil a night's rest; and have
seen a man in love grow pale and lose his appetite, upon the plucking of
a merry-thought. A screech owl at midnight has alarmed a family more
than a band of robbers; nay, the voice of a cricket hath struck more
terror than the roaring of a lion.

10. There is nothing so inconsiderable, which may not appear dreadful to
an imagination that is filled with omens and prognostics. A rusty nail,
or crooked pin, shoot up into prodigies.

11. I remember I was once in a mixt assembly, that was full of noise and
mirth, when on a sudden an old woman unluckily observed there were
thirteen of us in company. This remark struck a panic terror into
several who were present, insomuch that one or two of the ladies were
going to leave the room; but a friend of mine taking notice that one of
our female companions was big with child, affirmed there were fourteen
in the room, and that, instead of portending one of the company should
die, it plainly foretold one of them should be born. Had not my friend
found out this expedient to break the omen, I question not but half the
women in the company would have fallen sick that very night.

12. An old maid, that is troubled with the vapours, produces infinite
disturbances of this kind among her friends and neighbours. I know a
maiden aunt, of a great family, who is one of these antiquated Sibyls,
that forebodes and prophesies from one end of the year to the other. She
is always seeing apparitions, and hearing dead-watches; and was the
other day almost frightened out of her wits by the great house-dog, that
howled in the stable at a time when she lay ill of the tooth-ache.

13. Such an extravagant cast of mind engages multitudes of people not
only in impertinent terrors, but in supernumerary duties of life; and
arises from that fear and ignorance which are natural to the soul of
man.

14. The horror with which we entertain the thoughts of death (or indeed
of any future evil) and the uncertainty of its approach, fill a
melancholy mind with innumerable apprehensions and suspicions, and
consequently dispose it to the observation of such groundless prodigies
and predictions. For as it is the chief concern of wise men, to retrench
the evils of life by the reasonings of philosophy; it is the employment
of fools to multiply them by the sentiments of superstition.

15. For my own part, I should be very much troubled were I endowed with
this divining quality, though it should inform me truly of every thing
that can befal me. I would not anticipate the relish of any happiness,
nor feel the weight of any misery, before it actually arrives.

16. I know but one way of fortifying my soul against these gloomy
presages and terrors of mind; and that is, by securing to myself the
friendship and protection of that Being, who disposes of events and
governs futurity. He sees, at one view, the whole thread of my
existence, not only that part of it which I have already passed through,
but that which runs forward into all the depths of eternity.

17. When I lay me down to sleep, I recommend myself to his care; when I
awake, I give myself up to his direction. Amidst all the evils that
threaten me, I will look up to him for help, and question not but he
will either avert them, or turn them to my advantage. Though I know
neither the time nor the manner of the death I am to die, I am not at
all solicitous about it; because I am sure that he knows them both, and
that he will not fail to comfort and support me under them.




_A good Conscience the best Security against Calumny and Reproach_.

GUARDIAN, No. 135.


1. A good conscience is to the soul what health is to the body; it
preserves a constant ease and serenity within us, and move than
countervails all the calamities and afflictions which can possibly befal
us. I know nothing so hard for a generous mind to get over as calumny
and reproach, and cannot find any method of quieting the soul under
them, besides this single one, of our being conscious to ourselves that
we do not deserve them.

2. I have been always mightily pleased with that passage in Don
Quixotte, where the fantastical knight is represented as loading a
gentleman of good sense with praises and eulogiums. Upon which the
gentleman makes this reflection to himself: how grateful is praise to
human nature!

3. I cannot forbear being secretly pleased with the commendations I
receive, though, I am sensible, it is a madman who bestows them on me.
In the same manner, though we are often sure that the censures which are
passed upon us, are uttered by those who know nothing of us, and have
neither means nor abilities to form a right judgment of us, we cannot
forbear being grieved at what they say.

4. In order to heal this infirmity, which is so natural to the best and
wisest of men, I have taken a particular pleasure in observing the
conduct of the old philosophers, how they bore themselves up against the
malice and detraction of their enemies.

5. The way to silence calumny, says _Bias_, is to be always exercised in
such things as are praise-worthy. _Socrates_, after having received
sentence, told his friends that he had always accustomed himself to
regard truth and not censure, and that he was not troubled at his
condemnation, because he knew himself free from guilt. It was in the
same spirit that he heard the accusations of his two great adversaries,
who had uttered against him the most virulent reproaches.

6. _Anytus_ and _Melitus_, says he, may procure sentence against me, but
they cannot hurt me. This divine philosopher was so well fortified in
his own innocence, that he neglected all the impotence of evil tongues
which were engaged in his destruction. This was properly the support of
a good conscience, that contradicted the reports which had been raised
against him, and cleared him to himself.

7. Others of the philosophers rather chose to retort the injury of a
smart reply, than thus to disarm it with respect to themselves. They
shew that it stung them, though at the same time they had the address to
make their aggressors suffer with them. Of this kind is _Aristotle's_
reply to one who pursued him with long and bitter invectives. You, says
he, who are used to suffer reproaches, utter them with delight; I who
have not been used to utter them, take no pleasure in hearing them.

8. Diogenes was still more severe on one who spoke ill of him: nobody
will believe you when you speak ill of me, any more than they would
believe me when I speak well of you.

In these and many other instances I could produce, the bitterness of the
answer sufficiently testifies the uneasiness of mind the person was
under who made it.

9. I would rather advise my reader, if he has not in this case the
secret consolation, that he deserves no such reproaches as are cast upon
him, to follow the advice of Epictetus: If any one speaks ill of thee,
consider whether he has truth on his side; and if so, reform thyself
that his censures may not affect thee.

10. When Anaximander was told that the very boys laughed at his singing:
Ay, says he, then I must learn to sing better. But of all the sayings of
philosophers which I have gathered together for my own use on this
occasion, there are none which carry in them more candour and good sense
than the two following ones of Plato.

11. Being told that he had many enemies who spoke ill of him; it is no
matter, said he, I will live so that none shall believe them. Hearing at
another time, that an intimate friend of his had spoken detractingly of
him, I am sure he would not do it, says he, if he had not some reason
for it.

12. This is the surest as well as the noblest way of drawing the sting
out of a reproach, and a true method of preparing a man for that great
and only relief against the pains of calumny, 'a good conscience.'

13. I designed in this essay; to shew, that there is no happiness
wanting to him who is possessd of this excellent frame of mind, and that
no one can be miserable who is in the enjoyment of it; but I find this
subject so well treated in one of Dr. Soulh's sermons, that I shall fill
this Saturday's paper with a passage of it, which cannot but make the
man's heart burn within him, who reads it with due attention.

14. That admirable author, having shewn the virtue of a good conscience,
in supporting a man under the greatest trials and difficulties of life,
concludes with representing its force and efficacy in the hour of death.

15. The third and last instance, in which above all others this
confidence towards God does most eminently shew and exert itself, is at
the time of death; which surely gives the grand opportunity of trying
both the strength and worth of every principle.

16. When a man shall be just about to quit the stage of this world, to
put off his mortality, and to deliver up his last accounts to God; at
which sad time his memory shall serve him for little else, but to
terrify him with a frightful review of his past life, and his former
extravagancies stripped of all their pleasure, but retaining their
guilt; what is it then that can promise him a fair passage into the
other world, or a comfortable appearance before his dreadful Judge when
he is there?

17. Not all the friends and interests, all the riches and honours under
heaven can speak so much as a word for him, or one word of comfort to
him in that condition; they may possibly reproach, but they cannot
relieve him.

18. No, at this disconsolate time, when the busy temper shall be more
than usually apt to vex and trouble him, and the pains of a dying body
to hinder and discompose him, and the settlement of worldly affairs to
disturb and confound him; and in a word, all things conspire to make his
sick-bed grievous and uneasy: nothing can then stand up against all
these ruins, and speak life in the midst of death, but a clear
conscience.

19. And the testimony of that shall make the comforts of heaven descend
upon his weary head, like a refreshing dew, or shower upon a parched
ground. It shall give him some lively earnests, and secret anticipations
of his approaching joy. It shall bid his, soul to go out of the body
undauntedly, and lift up his head with confidence before saints and
angels. Surely the comfort, which it conveys at this season, is
something bigger than the capacities of mortality, mighty and
unspeakable, and not to be understood till it comes to be felt.

20. And now who would not quit all the pleasures, and trash, and
trifles, which are apt to captivate the heart of man, and pursue the
great rigours of piety, and austerities of a good life, to purchase to
himself such a conscience, as at the hour of death, when all the
friendship in the world shall bid him adieu, and the whole creation
turns its back upon him, shall dismiss the soul and close his eyes with
that blessed sentence, 'Well done thou good and faithful servant, enter
thou into the joy of thy Lord.'




_On Contentment_.


SPECTATOR, No. 574.

1. I was once engaged in discourse with a Rosicrucian about the _great
secret_. As this kind of men (I mean those of them who are not professed
cheats) are over-run with enthusiasm and philosophy, it was very amusing
to hear this religious adept descanting on his pretended discovery. He
talked of the secret as of a spirit which lived within an emerald, and
converted every thing that was near it to the highest perfection it is
capable of.

2. It gives a lustre, says he, to the sun, and water to the diamond. It
irradiates every metal, and enriches lead with all the properties of
gold. It heightens smoke into flame, flame into light, and light into
glory. He further added, that a single ray of it dissipates pain, and
care, and melancholy, from the person on whom it falls. In short, says
he, its presence naturally changes every place into a kind of heaven.

3. After he had gone on for some time in this unintelligible cant, I
found that he jumbled natural and moral ideas together in the same
discourse, and that his great secret was nothing else but content.

4. This virtue does indeed produce, in some measure, all those effects
which the alchymist usually ascribes to what he calls the philosopher's
stone; and if it does not bring riches, it does the same thing, by
banishing the desire of them. If it cannot remove the disquietudes
arising out of a man's mind, body or fortune, it makes him easy under
them. It has indeed a kindly influence on the soul of man, in respect of
every thing to whom he stands related. It extinguishes all murmur,
repining and ingratitude towards that Being who has allotted him his
part to act in this world. It destroys all inordinate ambition, and
every tendency to corruption, with regard to the community wherein he is
placed. It gives sweetness to his conversation, and a perpetual serenity
to all his thoughts.

5. Among the many methods which might be made use of for the acquiring
of this virtue, I shall only mention the two following: First of all, a
man should always consider how much more unhappy he might be than he
really is.

6. First of all, a man should always consider how much more he has than
he wants. I am wonderfully pleased with the reply which Aristippus made
to one who condoled him upon the loss of a farm: Why, said he, I have
three farms still, and you have but one; so that I ought rather to be
afflicted for you than you for me. On the contrary, foolish men are more
apt to consider what they have lost than what they possess; and to fix
their eyes upon those who are richer than themselves, rather than on
those who are under greater difficulties.

7. All the real pleasures and conveniences of life lie in a narrow
compass; but it is the humour of mankind, to be always looking forward,
and straining after one who has got the start of them in wealth and
honour. For this reason, as there are none can be properly called rich,
who have not more than they want; there are few rich men in any of the
politer nations but among the middle sort of people, who keep their
wishes within their fortunes, and have more wealth than they know how to
enjoy.

8. Persons in a higher rank live in a kind of splendid poverty; and are
perpetually wanting, because, instead of acquiescing in the solid
pleasures of life, they endeavour to outvie one another in shadows and
appearances. Men of sense have at all times beheld with a great deal of
mirth this silly game that is playing over their heads, and by
contracting their desires enjoy all that secret satisfaction which
others are always in quest of.

9. The truth is, this ridiculous chase after imaginary pleasures cannot
be sufficiently exposed, as it is the great source of those evils which
generally undo a nation. Let a man's estate be what it will, he is a
poor man if he does not live within it, and naturally sets himself to
sale to any one that can give him his price.

10. When Pitticus, after the death of his brother, who had left him a
good estate, was offered a greater sum of money by the king of Lydia, he
thanked him for his kindness, but told him he had already more by half
than he knew what to do with. In short, content is equivalent to wealth,
and luxury to poverty; or, to give the thought a more agreeable turn,
'Content is natural wealth,' says Socrates; to which I shall add,
'Luxury is artificial poverty.'

11. I shall therefore recommend to the consideration of those who are
always aiming after superfluous and imaginary enjoyments, and will not
be at the trouble of contracting their desires, an excellent saying of
Bion the philosopher; namely, 'That no man has so much care as he who
endeavours after the most happiness.'

12. In the second place, every one ought to reflect how much more
unhappy he might be than he really is. The former consideration took in
all those who are sufficiently provided with the means to make
themselves easy; this regards such as actually lie under some pressure
or misfortune.

13. These may receive a great alleviation from such a comparison as the
unhappy person may make between himself and others, or between the
misfortunes which he suffers, and greater misfortunes which might have
befallen him.

14. I like the story of the honest Dutchman, who upon breaking his leg
by a fall from the main-mast, told the standers-by, it was a great mercy
that it was not his neck. To which, since I am got into quotations, give
me leave to add the saying of an old philosopher, who, after having
invited some of his friends to dine with him, was ruffled by his wife
that came into the room in a passion and threw down the table that stood
before them; 'Every one, says he, has his calamity, and he is a happy
man that has no greater than this.'

15. We find an instance to the same purpose in the life of Doctor
Hammond, written by Bishop Fell. As this good man was troubled with a
complication of distempers, when he had the gout upon him, he used to
thank God that it was not the stone; and when he had the stone, that he
had not both these distempers on him at the same time.

16. I cannot conclude this essay without observing, that there was never
any system besides that of christianity, which could effectually produce
in the mind of man the virtue I have been hitherto speaking of. In order
to make us content with our present condition, many of the present
philosophers tell us, that our discontent only hurts ourselves, without
being able to make an alteration in our circumstances; others, that
whatever evil befals us, is derived to us by a fatal necessity, to which
the gods themselves are subject; while others very gravely tell the man
who is miserable, that it is necessary he should be so to keep up the
harmony of the universe, and that the _scheme_ of Providence would be
troubled and perverted were he otherwise.

17. These, and the like considerations, rather silence than satisfy a
man. They may shew him that his discontent is unreasonable; but are by
no means sufficient to relieve it. They rather give despair than
consolation. In a word, a man might reply to one of these comforters, as
Augustus did to his friend who advised him not to grieve for the death
of a person whom he loved, because his grief could not fetch him again:
'It is for that very reason, said the emperor, that I grieve.'

18. On the contrary, religion bears a more tender regard to human
nature. It prescribes to a very miserable man the means of bettering his
condition; nay, it shews him that the bearing of his afflictions as he
ought to do, will naturally end in the removal of them: It makes him
easy here, because it can make him happy hereafter.

19. Upon the whole, a contented mind is the greatest blessing a man can
enjoy in this world; and if in the present life his happiness arises
from the subduing his desires, it will arise in the next from the
gratification of them.




_Human Miseries chiefly imaginary._

1. 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
distributed among the whole species, those who now think themselves the
must unhappy, would prefer the share they are already possessed of,
before that which would fall to them by such a division. _Horace_ has
carried this thought a great deal further; who says, that the hardships
or misfortunes we lie under, are more easy to us than those of any other
person would be, in case we should change conditions with him.

2. As I was ruminating-on these two remarks, and seated in my elbow
chair, I insensibly fell asleep; when, on a sudden, methought there was
a proclamation made by _Jupiter_, that, every mortal should bring in his
griefs and calamities, and throw them together in a heap. There was a
large plain appointed 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 into a prodigious mountain that seemed to rise above
the clouds.

3. 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 cloathed in a loose flowing robe, embroidered with several
figures of fiends and spectres, that discovered themselves in a thousand
chimerical shapes, as her garments hovered in the wind; there was
something wild, and districted in her looks.

4. Her name _Fancy_. She led up every mortal to the appointed place,
after having, very officiously 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 burthens, and to
consider that prodigious bulk of human calamities which lay before me.

5. There were, however, several persons who gave me great diversion upon
this occasion. I observed one bringing in a fardel very carefully
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.

6. There were multitudes of lovers saddled with very whimsical burthens,
composed of 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 laden as they came.

7. 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 heaps 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 advancing towards the heap with a
larger cargo than ordinary upon his back, I found, upon his near
approach, that it was only a natural hump, which he disposed of with
great joy of heart, among this collection of human miseries.

8. There were likewise 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 notice of, which was a complication of 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 I was very much astonished, having
concluded within myself, that every one would take this opportunity of
getting rid of his passions, prejudices and frailties.

9. I took notice in particular of a very profligate fellow, who, I did
not question, came laden with his crimes, but, upon searching into his
bundle, I found, that instead of throwing his guilt from him, he had
only laid down his memory. He was followed by another worthless rogue,
who flung away his modesty instead of his ignorance.

10. When the whole race of mankind had thus cast their burthens, the
_phantom_, which had been so busy on this occasion, seeing me an idle
spectator of what passed, approached towards me. I grew uneasy at her
presence, when, on a sudden, she laid her magnifying glass full before
my eyes. I no sooner saw my face in it but was startled at the shortness
of it, which now appeared to me in its utmost aggravation.

11. The immoderate breadth of my features made me very much out of
humour with my own countenance, upon which I threw it from me like a
mask. It happened very luckily, that one who stood by me had just before
thrown down his visage, which, it satins, was too long for him. It was,
indeed, extended to a most shameful length; I believe the very chin was,
modestly speaking, as long as my whole face.

12. We had both of us an opportunity of mending ourselves, and all the
contributions being now brought in, every man was at liberty to exchange
his misfortune for those of another person. But as there arose many new
incidents in the sequel of my vision, I shall pursue this subject
further, as the moral which may be drawn from it, is applicable to
persons of all degrees and stations in life.

13. I gave my reader a sight of that mountain of miseries, which was
made up of those several calamities that afflict the minds of men. I saw
with unspeakable pleasure, the whole species thus delivered from its
sorrows; though, at the same time, as we stood round the heap, and
surveyed the several materials of which it was composed, there was
scarce a mortal, in this vast multitude, who 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 burthens and grievances.

14. As we were regarding very attentively this confusion of miseries,
this chaos of calamity, _Jupiter_ issued out a second proclamation, that
every one was now at liberty to exchange his affliction, and to return
to his habitation with any such other bundle as should be delivered to
him.

15. Upon this, _Fancy_ began again to bestir herself, and parcelling out
the whole heap, with incredible activity, recommended to every one his
particular packet. The hurry and confusion at this time was not to be
expressed. Some observations which I made upon the occasion, I shall
communicate to the reader. A venerable grey-headed man, who had laid
down his cholic, and who, I found, wanted an heir to his estate,
snatched up an undutiful son, that had been thrown into the heap by his
angry father.

16. The graceless youth, in less than a quarter of an hour, pulled the
old gentleman by the beard, and had like to have knocked his brains out;
so that meeting the true father, who came toward 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.

17. 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.

18. 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
cheapening a bad face for a lost reputation: but on all these occasions,
there was not one of them who did not think the new blemish, as soon as
she had got it into her possession, much more disagreeable than the old
one.

19. I made the same observation on every other misfortune or calamity,
which every one in the assembly 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 our being accustomed to it, I shall not
determine.

20. I could not, for my heart, forbear pitying the poor hump-backed
gentleman mentioned in the former paper, who went off a very well-shaped
person, with a stone in his bladder; nor the fine gentleman who had
struck up this bargain with him, that limped through a whole assembly of
ladies who used to admire him, with a pair of shoulders peeping over his
head.

21. I must not omit my own particular adventure. My friend with the long
visage had no sooner taken upon him my short face, but he made 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 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 no great reason to triumph, for as I went to touch my forehead, I
missed the place, and clapped my finger upon my upper lip.

22. Besides, as my nose was exceedingly prominent, I gave it two or
three unlucky knocks as I was playing my hand about my face, and 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 calfs
to them.

23. One of these looked like a man walking upon stilts, and was so
lifted up in the air above his ordinary height, that his head turned
round with It, while the other made such awkward circles, as he
attempted to walk, that he scarce knew how to move forward upon his new
supporters: observing him to be a pleasant kind of fellow, I stuck my
cane in the ground, and I told him I would lay him a bottle of wine,
that he did not march up to it on the line that I drew for him, in a
quarter of an hour.

24. The heap was at last distributed among the two sexes, who made a
most piteous sight, as they wandered up and down under the pressure of
their several burthens. The whole plain was filled with murmurs and
complaints, groans and lamentations. _Jupiter_, at length, taking
compassion on the poor mortals, ordered them a second time to lay down
their loads, with a design to give every one his own again.

25. They discharged themselves with a great deal of pleasure, alter
which the phantom, who had led them into such gross delusions, was
commanded to disappear. There was sent in her stead a goddess of a quite
different figure; her motions were steady and composed, and her aspect
serious, but cheerful. She every now and then cast her eyes towards
heaven, and fixed them upon _Jupiter_.

25. Her name was _Patience_. She had no sooner placed herself by the
mount of sorrow, but, what I thought very remarkable, 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.

27. Besides the several pieces of morality to be drawn out of this
vision, I learned from it, never to repine at my own misfortunes, nor
to envy the happiness of another, since it is impossible 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
complaints, but to regard the sorrows of my fellow-creatures with
sentiments of humanity and compassion.




_A Life of Virtue preferable to a Life of Pleasure, exemplified in the
Choice of Hercules_.


TATLER, No. 97.

1. When Hercules, says the divine Prodicus, was in that part of his
youth, in which it was natural for him to consider what course of life
he ought to pursue, he one day retired into a desert, where the silence
and solitude of the place very much favoured his meditations.

2. As he was musing on his present condition, and very much perplextd in
himself on the state of life he should chuse, he saw two women of a
larger stature than ordinary approaching towards him. One of them had a
very noble air and graceful deportment; her beauty was natural and easy;
her person clean and unspotted; her eyes cast towards the ground, with
an agreeable reserve; her motion and behaviour full of modesty; and her
raiment as white as snow.

3. The other had a great deal of health and florridness in her
countenance, which she had helped with an artificial white and red, and
endeavoured to appear more graceful than ordinary in her mein, by a
mixture of affectation in all her gestures. She had a wonderful
confidence and assurance in her looks, and all the variety of colours in
her dress that she thought were the most proper to shew her complexion
to an advantage. She cast her eyes upon herself, then turned them on
those that were present to see how they liked her, and often looked on
the figure she made in her own shadow.

4. Upon her nearer approach to Hercules, she stepped before the other
lady, who came forward with a regular composed carriage, and running up
to him, accosted him after the following manner:

5. My dear Hercules, says she, I find you are very much divided in your
own thoughts upon the way of life that you ought to chuse: be my friend
and follow me; I will lead you into the possession of pleasure and out
of the reach of pain, and remove you from all the noise and disquietude
of business. The affairs of either war or peace shall have no power to
disturb you. Your whole employment shall be to make your life easy, and
to entertain every sense with its proper gratifications. Sumptuous
tables, beds of roses, clouds of perfumes, concerts of music, crouds of
beauties, are all in readiness to receive you. Come along with me into
this region of delights, this world of pleasure, and bid farewell for
ever to care, to pain, and to business.

6. Hercules hearing the lady talk after this manner, desired to know her
name; to which she answered, my friends, and those who are well
acquainted with me, call me Happiness; but my enemies, and those who
would injure my reputation, have given me the name of Pleasure.

7. By this time the other lady was come up, who addressed herself to the
young hero in a very different manner.

Hercules, says she, I offer myself to you, because I know you are
descended from the gods, and give proofs of that descent by your love to
virtue, and application to the studies proper to your age. This makes me
hope you will gain both for yourself and me an immortal reputation. But
before I invite you into my society and friendship, I will be open and
sincere with you, and must lay down this as an established truth, that
there is nothing truly valuable which can be purchased without pains and
labour.

8. The gods have set a price upon every real and noble pleasure. If you
would gain the favour of the Deity, you must be at the pains of
worshipping him; if the friendship of good men, you must study to oblige
them; if you would be honoured by your country, you must take care to
serve it. In short, if you would be eminent in war or peace, you must
become master of all the qualifications that can make you so. These are
the only terms and conditions upon which I can propose happiness. The
goddess of pleasure here broke in upon her discourse:

9. You see, said she, Hercules, by her own confession, the way to her
pleasure is long and difficult, whereas that which I propose is short
and easy. Alas! said the other lady, whose visage glowed with a passion
made up of scorn and pity, what are the pleasures you propose? To eat
before you are hungry, drink before you are thirsty, sleep before you
are tired, to gratify appetites before they are raised, and raise such
appetites as nature never planted.

10. You never heard the most delicate music, which is the praise of
one's self; nor saw the most beautiful object, which is the work of
one's own hands. Your votaries pass away their youth in a dream of
mistaken pleasures, while they are hoarding up anguish, torment, and
remorse, for old age.

11. As for me, I am a friend of the Gods and of good men, an agreeable
companion to the artisan, a household guardian to the fathers of
families, a patron and protector of servants, and associate in all true
and generous friendships. The banquets of my votaries are never costly,
but always delicious; for none eat or drink at them who are not invited
by hunger and thirst. Their slumbers are sound, and their wakings
cheerful.

12. My young men have the pleasure of hearing themselves praised by
those who are in years, and those who are in years, of being honoured by
those who are young. In a word, my followers are favoured by the gods,
beloved by their acquaintance, esteemed by their country, and after the
close of their labours, honoured by posterity.

13. We know by the life of this memorable hero, to which of these two
ladies he gave up his heart; and I believe, every one who reads this,
will do him the justice to approve his choice.

14. I very much admire the speeches of these ladies, as containing in
them the chief arguments for a life of virtue, or a life of pleasure,
that could enter into the thoughts of an heathen: but am particularly
pleased with the different figures he gives the two goddesses. Our
modern authors have represented pleasure or vice with an alluring face,
but ending in snakes and monsters: here she appears in all the charms of
beauty, though they are all false and borrowed; and by that means
compose a vision entirely natural and pleasing.

15. I have translated this allegory for the benefit of the youth in
general; and particularly of those who are still in the deplorable state
of non-existence, and whom I most earnestly intreat to come into the
world. Let my embryos shew the least inclination to any single virtue,
and I shall allow it to be a struggling towards birth.

16. I do not expect of them that, like the hero in the foregoing story,
they should go about as soon as they are born, with a club in their
hands, and a lion's skin on their shoulders, to root out monsters and
destroy tyrants; but as the finest author of all antiquity has said upon
this very occasion, though a man has not the abilities to distinguish
himself in the most shining parts of a great character, he has certainly
the capacity of being just, faithful, modest, and temperate.




_Virtue rewarded; The History of Amanda_.


SPECTATOR, No. 375.

1. I have more than once had occasion to mention a noble saying of
Seneca the philosopher, that a virtuous person struggling with
misfortunes, and rising above them, is an object on which the gods
themselves may look down with delight. I shall therefore set before my
readers a scene of this kind of distress in private life, for the
speculation of this day.

2. An eminent citizen, who had lived in good fashion and credit, was by
a train of accidents, and by an unavoidable perplexity in his affairs,
reduced to a low condition. There is a modesty usually attending
faultless poverty, which made him rather chuse to reduce his manner of
living to his present circumstances, than solicit his friends, in order
to support the shew of an estate, when the substance was gone.

3. His wife, who was a woman of sense and virtue, behaved herself on
this occasion with uncommon decency, and never appeared so amiable in
his eyes as now. Instead of upbraiding him with the ample fortune she
had brought, or the many great offers she had refused for his sake, she
redoubled all the instances of her affection, while her husband was
continually pouring out his heart to her in complaints, that he had
ruined the best woman in the we world.

4. He sometimes came home at a time when she did not expect him, and
surprised her in tears, which she endeavoured to conceal, and always put
on an air of cheerfulness to receive him. To lessen their expense, their
eldest daughter (whom I shall call Amanda) was sent into the country, to
the house of an honest farmer, who had married a servant of the family:
This young woman was apprehensive of the ruin which was approaching, and
had privately engaged a friend in the neighbourhood to give her an
account of what passed from time to time in her father's affairs.

5. Amanda was in the bloom of her youth and beauty, when the lord of the
manor, who often called in at the farmer's house as he followed his
country sports, fell passionately in love with her. He was a man of
great generosity, but from a loose education had contracted a hearty
aversion to marriage. He therefore entertained a design upon Amanda's
virtue, which at present he thought fit to keep private. The innocent
creature, who never suspected his intentions, was pleased with his
person; and, having observed his growing passion for her, hoped by so
advantageous a match she might quickly be in a capacity of supporting
her impoverished relations.

6. One day as he called to see her, he found her in tears over a letter
she had just received from her friend, which gave an account that her
father had been lately stript of every thing by an execution. The lover,
who with some difficulty found out the cause of her grief, took this
occasion to make her a proposal. It is impossible to express Amanda's
confusion when she found his pretentions were not honourable.

7. She was now deserted of all hopes, and had no power to speak; but
rushing from him in the utmost disturbance, locked herself up in her
chamber. He immediately dispatched a messenger to her father with the
following letter.

8. SIR,

'I have heard of your misfortune, and have offered your daughter, if she
will live with me, to settle on her four hundred pounds a year, and to
lay down the sum for which you are now distressed. I will be so
ingenuous as to tell you, that I do not intend marriage; but if you are
wise, you will use your authority with her not to be too nice, when she
has an opportunity of serving you and your family, and of making herself
happy.

'_I am_, &c.'

9. This letter came to the hands of Amanda's mother: she opened and read
it with great surprise and concern. She did not think it proper to
explain herself to the messenger; but desiring him to call again the
next morning, she wrote to her daughter as follows:

10. _Dearest Child_,

'Your father and I have just now received a letter from a gentleman who
pretends love to you, with a proposal that insults our misfortunes, and
would throw us to a lower degree of misery than any thing which is come
upon us. How could this barbarous man think that the tenderest of
parents would be tempted to supply their wants, by giving up the best of
children to infamy and ruin! It is a mean and cruel artifice to make
this proposal at a time when he thinks our necessities must compel us to
any thing; but we will not eat the bread of shame; and therefore we
charge thee not to think of us, but to avoid the snare which is laid for
thy virtue. Beware of pitying us: it is not so bad as you have perhaps
been told. All things will yet be well, and I shall write my child
better news.

'I have been interrupted. I know not how I was moved to say things would
mend. As I was going on, I was startled by the noise of one that knocked
at the door, and had brought us an unexpected supply of a debt which had
long been owing. Oh! I will now tell thee all. It is some days I have
lived almost without support, having conveyed what little money I could
raise to your poor father. Thou wilt weep to think where he is, yet be
assured he will soon be at liberty. That cruel letter would have broke
his heart, but I have concealed it from him. I have no companion at
present besides little Fanny, who stands watching my looks as I write,
and is crying for her sister; she says she is sure you are not well,
having discovered that my present trouble is about you. But do not think
I would thus repeat my sorrows to grieve thee. No, it is to intreat thee
not to make them insupportable, by adding what would be worse than all.
Let us bear cheerfully an affliction which we have not brought on
ourselves, and remember there is a Power who can better deliver us out
of it, than by the loss of thy innocence. Heaven preserve my dear child.

'_Thy affectionate mother_--.'

11. The messenger, notwithstanding he promised to deliver this letter to
Amanda, carried it first to his master, who, he imagined, would be glad
to have an opportunity of giving it into her hands himself. His master
was impatient to know the success of his proposal, and therefore broke
open the letter privately, to see the contents.

12. He was not a little moved at so true a picture of virtue in
distress: but, at the same time, was infinitely surprised to find his
offers rejected. However, he resolved not to suppress the letter, but
carefully sealed it up again, and carried it to Amanda. All his
endeavours to see her were in vain, till she was assured he brought a
letter from her mother. He would not part with it but upon condition
that she should read it without leaving the room.

13. While she was perusing it, he fixed his eyes on her face with the
deepest attention; her concern gave a new softness to her beauty, and
when she burst into tears, he could no longer refrain from bearing a
part in her sorrow, and telling her, that he too had read the letter,
and was resolved to make reparation for having been the occasion of it.
My reader will not be displeased to see the second epistle which he now
wrote to Amanda's mother.

MADAM,

'I am full of shame, and will never forgive myself if I have not your
pardon for what I lately wrote. It was far from my intention to add
trouble to the afflicted; nor could any thing but my being a stranger to
you, have betrayed me into a fault, for which, if I live, I shall
endeavour to make you amends as a son. You cannot be unhappy while
Amanda is your daughter: nor shall be, if any thing can prevent it,
which is in the power of,

MADAM,

_Your obedient humble servant_--.'

14. This letter he sent by his steward, and soon after went up to town
himself to complete the generous act he had now resolved on. By his
friendship and assistance, Amanda's father was quickly in a condition of
retrieving his perplexed affairs. To conclude, he married Amanda, and
enjoyed the double satisfaction of having restored a worthy family to
their former prosperity, and of making himself happy by an alliance to
their virtues.




_The Story of Abdallah and Balsora._

GUARDIAN, No. 167.

1. The following story is lately translated out of an Arabian
manuscript, which I think has very much the turn of an oriental tale:
and as it has never before been printed, I question not but it will be
highly acceptable to my reader.

2. The name of Helim is still famous through all the eastern parts of
the world. He is called among the Persians, even to this day, Helim the
great physician. He was acquainted with all the powers of simples,
understood all the influence of the stars, and knew the secrets that
were engraved on the seal of Solomon the son of David. Helim was also
governor of the black palace, and chief of the physicians to Alnareschin
the great king of Persia.

3. Alnareschin was the most dreadful tyrant that ever reigned in this
country. He was of a fearful, suspicious and cruel nature, having put to
death, upon very slight jealousies; and surmises, five-and-thirty of his
queens, and above twenty sons whom he suspected to have conspired
against his life. Being at length wearied with the exercise of so many
cruelties in his own family, and fearing lest the whole race of Caliphs
should be entirely lost, he one day sent for Helim, and spoke to him
after this manner.

4. 'Helim,' said he, 'I have long admired thy great wisdom, and retired
way of living. I shall now shew thee the entire confidence which I place
in thee. I have only two sons remaining, who are as yet but infants. It
is my design that thou take them home with thee, and educate them as thy
own. Train them up in the humble unambitious pursuits of knowledge. By
this means shall the line of Caliphs be preserved, and my children
succeed after me, without aspiring to my throne whilst I am yet alive.'

5. The words of my lord the king shall be obeyed, said Helim. After
which he bowed, and went out of the king's presence. He then received
the children into his own house, and from that time bred them up with
him in the studies of knowledge and virtue. The young princes loved and
respected Helim as their father, and made such improvements under him,
that by the age of one-and-twenty they were instructed in all the
learning of the East.

6. The name of the eldest was Ibrahim, and of the youngest Abdallah.
They lived together in such a perfect friendship, that to this day it is
said of intimate friends, that they live together like Ibrahim and
Abdallah. Helim had an only child, who was a girl of a fine soul, and a
most beautiful person. Her father omitted nothing in her education, that
might make her the most accomplished woman of her age.

7. As the young princes were in a manner excluded from the rest of the
world, they frequently conversed with this lovely virgin, who had been
brought up by her father in the same course of knowledge and of virtue.

8. Abdallah, whose mind was of a softer turn than tint of his brother,
grew by degrees so enamoured of her conversation, that he did not think
he lived, when he was not in company with his beloved Balsora, for that
was the name of the maid. The fame of her beauty was so great, that at
length it came to the ears of the king, who, pretending to visit the
young princes his sons, demanded of Helim the sight of Balsora his fair
daughter.

9. The king was so enflamed with her beauty and behaviour, that he sent
for Helim the next morning, and told him it was now his design to
recompence him for all his faithful services; and that in order to it,
he intended to make his daughter queen of Persia.

10. Helim, who knew very well the fate of all those unhappy women who
had been thus advanced, and could not but be privy to the secret love
which Abdallah bore his daughter; 'Far be it,' says he, 'from the king
of Persia to contaminate the blood of the Caliphs, and join himself in
marriage with the daughter of his physcian.'

11. The king, however, was so impatient for such a bride, that without
hearing any excuses, he immediately ordered Balsora to be sent for into
his presence, keeping the father with him in order to make her sensible
of the honour which he designed. Balsora, who was too modest and humble
to think her beauty had made such an impression on the king, was a few
moments after brought into his presence as he had commanded.

12. She appeared in the king's eye as one of the virgins of paradise.
But upon hearing the honour which he intended her, she fainted away, and
fell down as dead at his feet. Helim wept, and after having recovered
her out of the trance into which she was fallen, represented to the king
that so unexpected an honour was too great to have been communicated to
her all at once; but that, if he pleased, he would himself prepare her
for it. The king bid him take his own away and dismissed him.

13. Balsora was conveyed again to her father's house, where the thoughts
of Abdallah renewed her affliction every moment; insomuch that at length
she fell into a raging fever. The king was informed of her condition by
those who saw her. Helim finding no other means of extricating her from
the difficulties she was in, after having composed her mind, and made
her acquainted with his intentions, gave her a certain potion, which he
knew would lay her asleep for many hours; and afterwards in all the
seeming distress of a disconsolate father informed the king she was
dead.

14. The king, who never let any sentiments of humanity come too near his
heart, did not much trouble himself about the matter; however, for his
own reputation, he told the father, that since it was known through the
empire that Balsora died at a time when he designed her for his bride,
it was his intention that she should be honoured as such after her
death, that her body should be laid in the black palace, among those of
his deceased queens.

15. In the meantime Abdallah, who had heard of the king's design, was
not less afflicted than his beloved Balsora. As for the several
circumstances of his distress, as also how the king was informed of an
irrecoverable distemper into which he was fallen, they are to be found
at length in the history of Helim.

16. It shall suffice to acquaint the reader, that Helim, some days after
the supposed death of his daughter, gave the prince a potion of the same
nature with which he had laid asleep Balsora.

17. It is the custom among the Persians, to convey in a private manner
the bodies of all the royal family a little after their death, into the
black palace; which is the repository of all who are descended from the
Caliphs, or any way allied to them. The chief physician is always
governor of the black palace; it being his office to embalm and
preserve the holy family after they are dead, as well as to take care of
them while they are yet living.

18. The black palace is so called from the colour of the building, which
is all of the finest polished black marble. There are always burning in
it five thousand everlasting lamps. It has also an hundred folding doors
of ebony, which are each of them watched day and night by an hundred
negroes, who are to take care that nobody enters besides the governor.

19. Helim, after having conveyed the body of his daughter into this
repository, and at the appointed time received her out of the sleep into
which she was fallen, took care some time after to bring that of
Abdallah into the same place. Balsora, watched over him till such time
as the dose he had taken lost its effect. Abdallah was not acquainted
with Helim's design when he gave him this sleepy potion.

20. It is impossible to describe the surprise, the joy, the transport he
was in at his first awaking. He fancied himself in the retirement of the
blest, and that the spirit of his dear Balsora, who he thought was just
gone before him, was the first who came to congratulate his arrival. She
soon informed him of the place he was in, which notwithstanding all its
horrors, appeared to him more sweet than the bower of Mahomet, in the
company of his Balsora.

21. Helim, who was supposed to be taken up in the embalming of the
bodies, visited the place very frequently. His greatest perplexity was
how to get the lovers out of it, the gates being watched in such a
manner as I have before related. This consideration did not a little
disturb the two interred lovers.

22. At length Helim bethought himself, that the first day of the full
moon of the month Tizpa was near at hand. Now it is a received tradition
among the Persians, that the souls of those of the royal family, who are
in a state of bliss, do, on the first full moon after their decease,
pass through the eastern gate of the black palace, which is therefore
called the Gate of Paradise, in order to take their flight for that
happy place.

23. Helim, therefore, having made due preparation for this night,
dressed each of the lovers in a robe of azure silk, wrought in the
finest looms of Persia, with a long train of linen whiter than snow,
that flowed on the ground behind them. Upon Abdallah's head he fixed a
wreath of the greenest myrtle, and on Balsora's a garland of the
freshest roses. Their garments were scented with the richest perfumes of
Arabia.

24. Having thus prepared every thing, the full moon was no sooner up,
and shining in all its brightness, but he privately opened the Gate of
Paradise, and shut it after the same manner, as soon as they had passed
through it.

25. The band of negroes who were posted at a little distance from the
gate, seeing two such beautiful apparitions, that shewed themselves
to'aclvantage by the light of the full moon, and being ravished with the
odour that flowed from their garments, immediately concluded them to be
the ghosts of the two persons lately deceased.

26. They fell upon their faces as they passed through the midst of them,
and continued prostrate on the earth until such time as they were out of
sight. They reported the next day what they had seen, but this was
looked upon by the king himself and most others, as the compliment that
was usually paid to any of the deceased of his family.

27. Helim had placed two of his own mules about a mile's distance from
the black temple, on the spot which they had agreed upon for their
rendezvous. Here he met them, and conducted them to one of his own
houses, which was situated on mount _Khacan_.

28. The air of this mountain was so very healthful, that Helim had
formerly transported the king thither, in order to recover him out of a
long fit of sickness, which succeeded so well, that the king made him a
present of the whole mountain, with a beautiful house and garden that
were on the top of it.

29. In this retirement lived Abdallah and Balsora. They were both so
fraught with all kinds of knowledge, and possessed with so constant and
mutual a passion for each other, that their solitude never lay heavy on
them.

30. Abdallah applied himself to those arts Which were agreeable to his
manner of living, and the situation of the place; insomuch that in a few
years he converted the whole mountain into a kind of garden, and covered
every part of it with plantations or spots of flowers.

Helim was too good a father to let him want any thing that might conduce
to make his retirement pleasant.

31. In about ten years after their abode in this place, the old king
died, and was succeeded by his son Ibrahim, who upon the supposed death
of his brother, had been called to court, and entertained there as heir
to the Persian empire. Though he was some years inconsolable for the
death of his brother, Helim durst not trust him with the secret, which
he knew would have fatal consequences, should it by any means come to
the knowledge of the old king.

32. Ibrahim was no sooner mounted to the throne, but Helim sought after
a proper opportunity of making a discovery to him, which he knew would
be very agreeable to so good natured and generous a prince. It so
happened, that before Helim found such an opportunity as he desired, the
new king Ibrahim, having been separated from his company in a chase, and
almost fainting with heat and thirst, saw himself at the foot of mount
Khacan. He immediately ascended the hill, and coming to Helim's house,
demanded some refreshments.

33. Helim was very luckily there at that time; and after having set
before the king the choicest of wines and fruits, finding him
wonderfully pleased with so seasonable a treat, told him that the best
part of his entertainment was to come. Upon which he opened to him the
whole history of what had passed. The king was at once astonished and
transported at so strange a relation, and seeing his brother enter the
room with Balsora in his hand, he leaped off from the sofa on which he
sat, and cried out, 'It is he! it is my Abdallah!' Having said this, he
fell upon his neck, and wept.

34. The whole company for some time remained silent, and shedding tears
of joy. The king at length having kindly reproached Helim for depriving
him so long from such a brother, embraced Balsora with the greatest
tenderness, and told her that she should now be a queen indeed, for that
he would immediately make his brother king of all the conquered nations
on the other side the Tigris.

35. He easily discovered in the eyes of our two lovers, that instead of
being transported with the offer, they preferred their present
retirement to empire. At their request, therefore, he changed his
intentions, and made them a present of all the open country as far as
they could sec from the top of mount Khacan.

36. Abdallah continuing to extend his former improvements, beautified
this whole prospect with groves and fountains, gardens and seats of
pleasure, until it became the most delicious spot of ground within the
empire, and is therefore called the garden of Persia.

37. This Caliph, Ibrahim, after a long and happy reign, died without
children, and was succeeded by Abdallah, a son of Abdallah and Balsora.
This was that king Abdallah, who afterwards fixed the imperial residence
upon mount Khacan, which continues at this time to be the favourite
palace of the Persian empire.




_On Rashness and Cowardice._

RAMBLER, No. 25.


1. There are some vices and errors which, though often fatal to those in
whom they are found, have yet, by the universal consent of mankind, been
considered as entitled to some degree of respect, or have at least been
exempted from contemptuous infamy, and condemned by the severest
moralists with pity rather than detestation.

2. A constant and invariable example of this general partiality will be
found in the different regard which has always been shewn to rashness
and cowardice; two vices, of which, though they maybe conceived equally
distant from the middle point, where true fortitude is placed, and may
equally injure any public or private interest, yet the one is never
mentioned without some kind of veneration, and the other always
considered as a topic of unlimited and licentious censure, on which all
the virulence of reproach may he lawfully exerted.

3. The same distinction is made, by the common suffrage, between
profusion and avarice, and perhaps between many other opposite vices;
and, as I have found reason to pay great regard to the voice of the
people, in cases where knowledge has been forced upon them by
experience, without long deductions or deep researches, I am inclined to
believe that this distribution of respect is not without some agreement
with the nature of things; and that in the faults, which are thus
invested with extraordinary privileges, there are generally some latent
principles of merit, some possibilities of future virtue, which may, by
decrees, break from obstruction, and by time and opportunity be brought
into act.

4. It may be laid down as an axiom, that it is more easy to take away
superfluities than to supply defects; and therefore, he that is
culpable, because he has passed the middle point of virtue, is always
accounted a fairer object of hope, than he who fails by falling short.
The one has all that perfection requires, and more, but the excess may
be easily retrenched; the other wants the qualities requisite to
excellence, and who can tell how he shall obtain them?

5. We are certain that the horse may be taught to keep pace with his
fellows, whose fault it is that he leaves them behind. We know that a
few strokes of the axe will lop a cedar; but what arts of cultivation
can elevate a shrub?

6. To walk with circumspection and steadiness in the right path, at an
equal distance between the extremes of error, ought to be the constant
endeavour of every reasonable being; nor can I think those teachers of
moral wisdom much to be honoured as benefactors to mankind, who are
always enlarging upon the difficulty of our duties, and providing rather
excuses for vice, than incentives to virtue.

7. But, since to most it will happen often, and to all sometimes, that
there will be a deviation towards one side or the other, we ought always
to employ our vigilance with most attention, on that enemy from which
there is the greatest danger, and to stray, if we must stray, towards
those parts from whence we may quickly and easily return.

8. Among other opposite qualities of the mind, which may become
dangerous, though in different degrees, I have often had occasion to
consider the contrary effects of presumption and despondency; of steady
confidence, which promises a victory without contest, and heartless
pusilanimity, which shrinks back from the thought of great undertakings,
confounds difficulty with impossibility, and considers all advancement
towards any new attainment, as irreversibly prohibited.

9. Presumption will be easily corrected. Every experiment will teach
caution, and miscarriages will hourly shew, that attempts are not always
rewarded with success. The most precipitate ardour will, in time, be
taught the necessity of methodical gradation, and preparatory measures;
and the most daring confidence be convinced, that neither merit nor
abilities can command events.

10. It is the advantage of vehemence and activity, that they are always
hastening to their own reformation; because they incite us to try
whether our expectations are well grounded; and therefore detect the
deceits which they are apt to occasion. But timidity is a disease of the
mind more obstinate and fatal; for a man once persuaded, that any
impediment is insuperable, has given it, with respect to himself, that
strength and weight which it had not before.

11. He can scarcely strive with vigour and perseverance, when he has no
hope of gaining the victory; and since he will never try his strength,
can never discover the unreasonableness of his fears.

12. There is often to be found in men devoted to literature, a kind of
intellectual cowardice, which whoever converses much among them, may
observe frequently to depress the alacrity of enterprise, and by
consequence to retard the improvement of science.

13. They have annexed to every species of knowledge, some chimerical
character of terror and inhibition, which they transmit, without much
reflection, from one to another; they first fright themselves, and then
propagate the panic to their scholars and acquaintances.

14. One study is inconsistent with a lively imagination, another with a
solid judgment; one is improper in the early parts of life, another
requires so much time, that it is not to be attempted at an advanced
age; one is dry and contracts the sentiments, another is diffuse and
over-burdens the memory; one is insufferable to taste and delicacy, and
another wears out life in the study of words, and is useless to a wise
man, who desires only the knowledge of things.

15. But of all the bugbears by which the _infantes barbati_, boys both
young and old, have been hitherto frighted from digressing into new
tracts of learning, none has been more mischievously efficacious than an
opinion that every kind of knowledge requires a peculiar genius, or
mental constitution, framed for the reception of some ideas and the
exclusion of others; and that to him whose genius is not adapted to the
study which he prosecutes, all labour shall be vain and fruitless; vain
as an endeavour to mingle oil and water, or, in the language of
chemistry, to amalgamate bodies of heterogeneous principles.

16. This opinion we may reasonably suspect to have been propogated, by
vanity, beyond the truth. It is natural for those who have raised a
reputation by any science, to exalt themselves as endowed by heaven with
peculiar powers, or marked out by an extraordinary designation for their
profession: and to fright competitors away by representing the
difficulties with which they must contend, and the necessity of
qualities which are supposed to be not generally conferred, and which no
man can know, but by experience, whether he enjoys.

17. To this discouragement it may possibly be answered, that since a
genius, whatever it may be, is like fire in the flint, only to be
produced by collision with a proper subject, it is the business of every
man to try whether his faculties may not happily co-operate with his
desires; and since they whose proficiency he admires, knew their own
force only by the event, he needs but engage in the same undertaking,
with equal spirit, and may reasonably hope for equal success.

18. There is another species of false intelligence, given by those who
profess to shew the way to the summit of knowledge, of equal tendency to
depress the mind with false distrust of itself, and weaken it by
needless solicitude and dejection. When a scholar whom they desire to
animate, consults them at his entrance on some new study, it is common
to make flattering representations of its pleasantness and facility.

19. Thus they generally attain one of the two ends almost equally
desirable; they either incite his industry by elevating his hopes, or
produce a high opinion of their own abilities, since they are supposed
to relate only what they have found, and to have proceeded with no less
ease than they have promised to their followers.

20. The student, enflamed by this encouragement, sets forward in the new
path, and proceeds a few steps with great alacrity; but he soon finds
asperities and intricacies of which he has not been forewarned, and
imagining that none ever were so entangled or fatigued before him, sinks
suddenly into despair, and desists as from an expedition in which fate
opposes him. Thus his terrors are multiplied by his hopes, and he is
defeated without resistance, because he had no expectation of an enemy.

21. Of these treacherous instructors, the one destroys industry, by
declaring that industry is vain, the other by representing it as
needless: the one cuts away the root of hope, the other raises it only
to be blasted. The one confines his pupil to the shore, by telling him
that his wreck is certain; the other sends him to sea without preparing
him for tempests.

22. False hopes and false terrors, are equally to be avoided. Every man
who proposes to grow eminent by learning, should carry in his mind, at
once, the difficulty of excellence, and the force of industry; and
remember that fame is not conferred but as the recommence of labour, and
that labour, vigorously continued, has not often failed of its reward.




_Fortitude founded upon the fear of God._


GUARDIAN, No. 167.

1. Looking over the late edition of Monsieur _Boileau's_ works, I was
very much pleased with the article which he has added to his notes on
the translation of _Longinus_. He there tells us, that the sublime in
writing rises either from the nobleness of the thought, the magnificence
of the words, or the harmonious and lively turn of the phrase, and that
the perfect sublime rises from all these three in conjunction together.
He produces an instance of this perfect sublime in four verses from the
Athalia of Monsieur _Racine_.

2. When _Abner_, one of the chief officers of the court, represents to
_Joad_ the high priest, that the queen was incensed against him, the
high priest, not in the least terrified at the news, returns this
answer:

    _Celui que met un frein a la fureur des flots,
    Scait aussi des mechans arreter les complots;
    Soumis avecs respect a sa volutte sainte,
    Je crains Dieu, cher Abner, & n'ai point d'autre crainte._

3. 'He who ruleth the raging of the sea, knows also how to check the
designs of the ungodly. I submit myself with reverence to his holy will.
O Abner! I fear my God, and I fear none but him.' Such a thought gives
no less a solemnity to human nature, than it does to good writing.

4. This religious fear, when it is produced by just apprehensions of a
divine power, naturally overlooks all human greatness that stands in
competition with it, and extinguishes every other terror that can settle
itself in the heart of a man: it lessens and contracts the figure of the
most exalted person: it disarms the tyrant and executioner, and
represents to our minds the most enraged and the most powerful as
altogether harmless and impotent.

5. There is no true fortitude which is not founded upon this fear, as
there is no other principle of so settled and fixed a nature. Courage
that grows from constitution, very often forsakes a man when he has
occasion for it; and when it is only a kind of instinct in the soul,
breaks out on all occasions without judgment or discretion. That courage
which proceeds from a sense of our duty, and from a fear of offending
him that made us, acts always in an uniform manner, and according to the
dictates of right reason.

6. What can a man fear who takes care in all his actions to please a
Being that is omnipotent; a Being who is able to crush all his
adversaries; a Being that can divert any misfortune from befalling him,
or turn any such misfortune to his advantage? The person who lives with
this constant and habitual regard to the great superintendant of the
world, is indeed sure that no real evil can come into his lot.

7. Blessings may appear under the shape of pains, losses and
disappointments, but let him have patience, and he will see them in
their proper figures. Dangers may threaten him, but he may rest
satisfied that they will either not reach him, or that if they do, they
will be the instruments of good to him. In short, he may lock upon all
crosses and accidents, sufferings and afflictions, as means which are
made use of to bring him to happiness.

8. This is even the worst of that man's condition whose mind is
possessed with the habitual fear of which I am now speaking. But it very
often happens, that those which appear evils in our own eyes, appear
also as such to him who has human nature under his care, in which case
they are certainly averted from the person who has made himself, by this
virtue, an object of divine favour.

9. Histories are full of instances of this nature, where men of virtue
have had extraordinary escapes out of such dangers as have enclosed
them, and which have seemed inevitable.

10. There is no example of this kind in Pagan history which more pleases
me than that which is recorded in the life of _Timoleon_. This
extraordinary man was famous for referring all his successes to
Providence. _Cornelius Nepos_ acquaints us that he had in his house a
private chapel in which he used to pay his devotions to the goddess who
represented Providence among the heathens. I think no man was ever more
distinguished by the Deity, whom he blindly worshipped, than the great
person I am speaking of, in several occurrences of his life, but
particularly in the following one, which I shall relate out of
_Plutarch_.

11. Three persons had entered into a conspiracy to assassinate
_Timoleon_ as he was offering up his devotions in a certain temple. In
order to it they took their several stands in the most convenient places
for their purpose. As they were waiting for an opportunity to put their
design in execution, a stranger having observed one of the conspirators,
fell upon him and slew him. Upon which the other two, thinking their
plot had been discovered, threw themselves at _Timoleon's_ feet, and
confessed the whole matter.

12. This stranger, upon examination, was found to have understood
nothing of the intended assassination, but having several years before
had a brother killed by the conspirator, whom he here put to death, and
having till now sought in vain for an opportunity of revenge, he chanced
to meet the murderer in the temple, who had planted himself there for
the above-mentioned purpose.

13. _Plutarch_ cannot forbear on this occasion, speaking with a kind of
rapture on the schemes of Providence, which, in this particular, had so
contrived it that the stranger should, for so great a space of time, be
debarred the means of doing justice to his brother, till by the same
blow that revenged the death of one innocent man, he preserved the life
of another.

14. For my own part, I cannot wonder that a man of _Timoleon's_ religion
should have this intrepidity and firmness of mind, or that he should be
distinguished by such a deliverance as I have here related.




_The folly of youthful Extravagance._

RAMBLER, No. 26.


1. It is usual for men, engaged in the same pursuits, to be inquisitive
after the conduct and fortune of each other; and therefore, I suppose it
will not be unpleasing to you to read an account of the various changes
which have appeared in part of a life devoted to literature. My
narrative will not exhibit any great variety of events, or extraordinary
revolutions; but may perhaps be not less useful, because I shall relate
nothing which is not likely to happen to a thousand others.

2. I was born heir to a very small fortune, and left by my father, whom
I cannot remember, to the care of an uncle. He having no children,
always treated me as his son, and finding in me those qualities which
old men easily discover in sprightly children when they happen to love
them, declared that a genius like mine should never be lost for want of
cultivation.

3. He therefore placed me for the usual time at a great school, and then
sent me to the university, with a larger allowance than my own patrimony
would have afforded, that I might not keep mean company, but learn to
become my dignity when I should be made Lord Chancellor, which he often
lamented that the increase of his infirmities was very likely to
preclude him from seeing.

4. This exuberance of money displayed itself in gaiety of appearance,
and wantonness of expence, and introduced me to the acquaintance of
those whom the same superfluity of fortune had betrayed to the same
licence and ostentation: young heirs who pleased themselves with a
remark very frequently in their mouths, that though they were sent by
their fathers to the university, they were not under the necessity of
living by their learning.

5. Among men of this class I easily obtained the reputation of a great
genius, and was persuaded that, with such liveliness of imagination, and
delicacy of sentiment, I should never be able to submit to the drudgery
of the law.

6. I therefore gave myself wholly to the more airy and elegant parts of
learning, and was often so much elated with my superiority to the youths
with whom I conversed, that I began to listen with great attention, to
those who recommended to me a wider and more conspicuous theatre; and
was particularly touched with an observation made by one of my friends,
that it was not by lingering in the university that Prior became
ambassador, or Addison a secretary of state.

7. This desire was hourly increased by the solicitation of my
companions, who removing one by one to London, as the caprice of their
relations allowed them, or the legal dismission from the hands of their
guardian put it in their power, never failed to send an account of the
beauty and felicity of the new world, and to remonstrate how much was
lost by every hour's continuance in a place of retirement and restraint.

8. My uncle, in the mean time, frequently harrassed me with monitory
letters, which I sometimes neglected to open for a week after I received
them, and generally read in a tavern, with such comments as I might show
how much I was superior to instruction or advice. I could not but
wonder, how a man confined to the country and unacquainted with the
present system of things, should imagine himself qualified to instruct a
rising genius, born to give laws to the age, refine its state, and
multiply its pleasures.

9. The postman, however, still continued to bring me new remonstrances;
for my uncle was very little depressed by the ridicule and reproach
which he never heard. But men of parts have quick resentments; it was
impossible to bear his usurpations for ever; and I resolved, once for
all, to make him an example to those who imagine themselves wise because
they are old, and to teach young men, who are too tame under
representation, in what manner grey-bearded insolence ought to be
treated.

10. I therefore one evening took my pen in hand, and after having
animated myself with a catch, wrote a general answer to all his
precepts, with such vivacity of turn, such elegance of irony, and such
asperity of sarcasm, that I convulsed a large company with universal
laughter, disturbing the neighbourhood with vociferations of applause,
and five days afterwards was answered, that I must be content to live
upon my own estate.

11. This contraction of my income gave me no disturbance, for a genius
like mine was out of the reach of want. I had friends that would be
proud to open their purses at my call, and prospects of such advancement
as would soon reconcile my uncle, whom, upon mature deliberation, I
resolved to receive into favour, without insisting on any acknowledgment
of his offence, when the splendor of my condition should induce him to
wish for my countenance.

12. I therefore went up to London before I had shewn the alteration of
my condition, by any abatement of my way of living, and was received by
all my academical acquaintance with triumph and congratulation. I was
immediately introduced among the wits and men of spirit; and, in a short
time, had divested myself of all my scholar's gravity, and obtained the
reputation of a pretty fellow.

13. You will easily believe that I had no great knowledge of the world;
yet I have been hindered by the general disinclination every man feels
to confess poverty, from telling to any one the resolution of my uncle,
and some time subsisted upon the stock of money which I had brought with
me, and contributed my share as before to all our entertainments. But my
pocket was soon emptied, and I was obliged to ask my friends for a small
sum.

14. This was a favour which we had often reciprocally received from one
another, they supposed my wants only accidental, and therefore willingly
supplied them. In a short time, I found a necessity of asking again, and
was again treated with the same civility, but the third time they began
to wonder what that old rogue my uncle could mean by sending a gentleman
to town without money; and when they gave me what I asked for, advised
me to stipulate for more regular remittances.

15. This somewhat disturbed my dream of constant affluence, but I was
three days after completely awaked; for entering the tavern, where we
met every evening, I found the waiters remitted their complaisance, and
instead of contending to light me up stairs, suffered me to wait for
some minutes by the bar.

16. When I came to my company I found them unusually grave and formal,
and one of them took a hint to turn the conversation upon the misconduct
of young men, and enlarged upon the folly of frequenting the company of
men of fortune, without being able to support the expence; an
observation which the rest contributed either to enforce by repetition,
or to illustrate by examples. Only one of them tried to divert the
discourse, and endeavoured to direct my attention to remote questions,
and common topics.

17. A man guilty of poverty easily believes himself suspected. I went,
however, next morning to breakfast with him, who appeared ignorant of
the drift of the conversation, and by a series of enquiries, drawing
still nearer to the point, prevailed on him, not, perhaps, much against
his will, to inform me, that Mr. _Dash_, whose father was a wealthy
attorney near my native place, had the morning before received an
account of my uncle's resentment, and communicated his intelligence with
the utmost industry of groveling insolence.

18. It was no longer practicable to consort with my former friends,
unless I would be content to be used as an inferior guest, who was to
pay for his wine by mirth and flattery; a character which, if I could
not escape it, I resolved to endure only among those who had never known
me in the pride of plenty.

19. I changed my lodgings, and frequented the coffee houses in a
different region of the town; where I was very quickly distinguished by
several young gentlemen of high birth, and large estates, and began
again to amuse my imagination with hopes of preferment, though not quite
so confidently as when I had less experience.

20. The first great conquest which this new scene enabled me to gain
over myself was, when I submitted to confess to a party, who invited me
to an expensive diversion, that my revenues were not equal to such
golden pleasures; they would not suffer me, however, to stay behind, and
with great reluctance I yielded to be treated. I took that opportunity
of recommending myself to some office or employment, which they
unanimously promised to procure me by their joint interest.

21. I had now entered into a state of dependence, and had hopes, or
fears, from almost every man I saw. If it be unhappy to have one patron,
what is his misery who has so many? I was obliged to comply with a
thousand caprices, to concur in a thousand follies, and to countenance a
thousand errors. I endured innumerable mortifications, if not from
cruelty, at least from negligence, which will creep in upon the kindest
and most delicate minds, when they converse without the mutual awe of
equal condition.

22. I found the spirit and vigour of liberty every moment sinking in me,
and a servile fear of displeasing, stealing by degrees upon all my
behaviour, till no word, or look, or action, was my own. As the
solicitude to please increased, the power of pleasing grew less, and I
was always clouded with diffidence where it was most my interest and
wish to shine.

23. My patrons, considering me as belonging to the community, and,
therefore, not the charge of any particular person, made no scruple of
neglecting any opportunity of promoting me, which every one thought more
properly the business of another. An account of my expectations and
disappointments, and the succeeding vicissitudes of my life, I shall
give you in my following letter, which will be, I hope, of use to shew
how ill he forms his schemes, who expects happiness without freedom.

_I am, &c._




_The Misery of depending upon the Great._

RAMBLER, NO. 27.


1. As it is natural for every man to think himself of importance, your
knowledge of the world will incline you to forgive me, if I imagine your
curiosity so much excited by the former part of my narration, as to make
you desire that I should proceed without any unnecessary arts of
connection. I shall, therefore, not keep you longer in such suspence, as
perhaps my performance may not compensate.

2. In the gay company with which I was now united, I found those
allurements and delights, which the friendship of young men always
affords; there was that openness which naturally produced confidence,
and that ardour of profession which excited hope.

3. When our hearts were dilated with merriment, promises were poured out
with unlimited profusion, and life and fortune were but a scanty
sacrifice to friendship; but when the hour came, at which any effort was
to be made, I had generally the vexation to find, that my interest
weighed nothing against the slightest amusement, and that every petty
avocation was found a sufficient plea for continuing me in uncertainty
and want.

4. Their kindness was indeed sincere, when they promised they had no
intention to deceive; but the same juvenile warmth which kindled their
benevolence, gave force in the same proportion to every other passion,
and I was forgotten as soon as any new pleasure seized on their
attention.

5. _Vagrio_ told me one evening, that all my perplexities should soon be
at an end, and desired me, from that instant, to throw upon him all care
of my fortune, for a post of considerable value was that day become
vacant, and he knew his interest sufficient to procure it in the
morning. He desired me to call on him early, that he might be dressed
soon enough to wait upon the minister before any other application
should be made.

6. I came as he appointed, with all the flame of gratitude, and was told
by his servant, that having found at his lodgings, when he came home, an
acquaintance who was going to travel, he had been persuaded to accompany
him to Dover, and that they had taken post-horses two hours before day.

7. I was once very near to preferment by the kindness of _Charinus_;
who, at my request, went to beg a place, which he thought me likely to
fill with great reputation, and in which I should have many
opportunities of promoting his interest in return; and he pleased
himself with imagining the mutual benefits that we should confer, and
the advances that we should make by our united strength.

8. Away, therefore, he went, equally warm with friendship and ambition,
and left me to prepare acknowledgements against his return. At length he
came back, and told me that he had met in his way a party going to
breakfast in the country, that the ladies importuned him too much to be
refused, and that having passed the morning with them, he was come back
to dress himself for a ball, to which he was invited for the evening.

9. I have suffered several disappointments from taylors and
perriwig-makers, who, by neglecting to perform their work, withheld my
patrons from court, and once failed of an establishment for life by the
delay of a servant, sent to a neighbouring shop to replenish a
snuff-box.

10. At last I thought my solicitude at an end, for an office fell into
the gift of _Hippodamus_'s father, who being then in the country, could
not very speedily fill it, and whose fondness would not have suffered
him to refuse his son a less reasonable request. _Hippodamus_ therefore
set forward with great expedition, and I expected every hour an account
of his success.

11. A long time I waited without any intelligence, but at last received
a letter from Newmarket, by which I was informed, that the races were
begun, and I knew the vehemence of his passion too well to imagine that
he could refuse himself his favourite amusement.

12. You will not wonder that I was at last weary of the patronage of
young men, especially as I found them not generally to promise much
greater fidelity as they advanced in life; for I observed that what they
gained in steadiness, they lost in benevolence, and grew colder to my
interest as they became more diligent to promote their own.

13. I was convinced that their liberality was only profuseness, that, as
chance directed, they were equally generous to vice and virtue, that
they were warm, but because they were thoughtless, and counted the
support of a friend only amongst other gratifications of passion.

14. My resolution was now to ingratiate myself with men whose reputation
was established, whose high stations enabled them to prefer me, and
whose age exempted them from sudden changes of inclination; I was
considered as a man of parts, and therefore easily found admission to
the table of _Hilarius_, the celebrated orator, renowned equally for the
extent of his knowledge, the elegance of his diction, and the acuteness
of his wit.

15. _Hilarius_ received me with an appearance of great satisfaction,
produced to me all his friends, and directed to me that part of his
discourse in which he most endeavoured to display his imagination. I had
now learned my own interest enough to supply him with opportunities for
smart remarks and gay sallies, which I never failed to echo and applaud.

16. Thus I was gaining every hour on his affections, till,
unfortunately, when the assembly was more splendid than usual, his
desire of admiration prompted him to turn raillery upon me. I bore it
for some time with great submission, and success encouraged him to
redouble his attacks; at last my vanity prevailed over my prudence; I
retorted his irony with such spirit, that _Hilarius_, unaccustomed to
resistance, was disconcerted, and soon found means of convincing me,
that his purpose was not to encourage a rival, but to foster a parasite.

17. I was then taken into the familiarity of _Argurio_, a nobleman
eminent for judgment and criticism. He had contributed to my reputation,
by the praises which he had often bestowed upon my writings, in which he
owned that there were proofs of a genius that might rise high to degrees
of excellence, when time, or information, had reduced its exuberance.

18. He therefore required me to consult him before the publication of
any new performance, and commonly proposed innumerable alterations,
without, sufficient attention to the general design, or regard to my
form of style, and mode of imagination.

19. But these corrections he never failed to press as indispensably
necessary, and thought the least delay of compliance an act of
rebellion. The pride of an author made this treatment insufferable, and
I thought any tyranny easier to be borne than that which took from me
the use of my understanding.

20. My next patron was _Eutyches_ the statesman, who was wholly engaged
in public affairs, and seemed to have no ambition but to be powerful and
rich. I found his favour more permanent than that of the others, for
there was a certain price at which it might be bought; he allowed
nothing to humour or affection, but was always ready to pay liberally
for the service he required.

21. His demands were, indeed, very often such as virtue could not easily
consent to gratify; but virtue is not to be consulted when men are to
raise their fortunes by favour of the great. His measures were censured;
I wrote in his defence, and was recompensed with a place, of which the
profits were never received by me without the pangs of remembering that
they were the reward of wickedness; a reward which nothing but that
necessity, which the consumption of my little estate in these wild
pursuits had brought upon me, hindered me from throwing back in the face
of my corruptor.

22. At this time my uncle died without a will, and I became heir to a
small fortune. I had resolution to throw off the splendor which
reproached me to myself, and retire to an humbler state, in which I am
now endeavouring to recover the dignity of virtue, and hope to make some
reparation for my crimes and follies, by informing others who may be led
after the same pageants, that they are about to engage in a course of
life, in which they are to purchase, by a thousand miseries, the
privilege of repentance.

_I am_, &c.

EUBULUS.




_What it is to see the World; the Story of Melissa._

RAMBLER, No. 75.


1. The diligence with which you endeavour to cultivate the knowledge of
nature, manners, and life, will perhaps incline you to pay some regard
to the observations of one who has been taught to know mankind by
unwelcome information, and whose opinions are the result, not of
solitary conjectures, but of practice and experience.

2. I was born to a large fortune, and bred to the knowledge of those
arts which are supposed to accomplish the mind, and adorn the person of
a woman. To these attainments, which custom and education almost forced
upon me, I added some voluntary acquisitions by the use of books and the
conversation of that species of men whom the ladies generally mention
with terror and aversion under the name of scholars, but whom I have
found a harmless and inoffensive order of beings, not no much wiser than
ourselves, but that they may receive as well as communicate knowledge,
and more inclined to degrade their own character by cowardly submission,
than to overbear or oppress us with their learning or their wit.

3. From these men, however, if they are by kind treatment encouraged to
talk, something may be gained, which, embelished with elegancy, and
softened by modesty, will always add dignity and value to female
conversation; and from my acquaintance with the bookish part of the
world, I derived many principles of judgment and maxims of prudence, by
which I was enabled to draw upon myself the general regard in every
place of concourse or pleasure.

4. My opinion was the great rule of approbation, my remarks were
remembered by those who desired the second degree of fame, my mein was
studied, my dress imitated, my letters were handed from one family to
another, and read by those who copied them as sent to themselves; my
visits were solicited as honours, and multitudes boasted of an intimacy
with Melissa, who had only seen me by accident, whose familiarity had
never proceeded beyond the exchange of a compliment, or return of a
courtesy.

5. I shall make no scruple of confessing that I was pleased with this
universal veneration, because I always considered it as paid to my
intrinsic qualities and inseparable merit, and very easily persuaded
myself, that fortune had no part in my superiority.

6. When I looked upon my glass, I saw youth and beauty, with health that
might give me reason to hope their continuance: when I examined my mind,
I found some strength of judgment and fertility of fancy, and was told
that every action was grace, and that every accent was persuasion.

7. In this manner my life passed like a continual triumph amidst
acclamations, and envy, and courtship, and caresses: to please Melissa
was the general ambition, and every stratagem of artful flattery was
practised upon me. To be flattered is grateful, even when we know that
our praises are not believed by those who pronounce them: for they prove
at least our power, and shew that our favour is valued, since it is
purchased by the meanness of falsehood.

8. But perhaps the flatterer is not often detected, for an honest mind
is not apt to suspect, and no one exerts the power of discernment with
much vigour when self-love favours the deceit.

9. The number of adorers, and the perpetual distraction of my thoughts
by new schemes of pleasures, prevented me from listening to any of those
who crowd in multitudes to give girls advice, and kept me unmarried and
unengaged to my twenty-seventh year, when, as I was towering in all the
pride of uncontested excellency, with a face yet little impaired, and a
mind hourly improving, the failure of a fund, in which my money was
placed, reduced me to a frugal competency, which allowed a little
beyond neatness and independence.

10. I bore the diminution of my riches without any outrages of sorrow,
or pusillanimity of dejection. Indeed I did not know how much I had
lost, for having always heard and thought more of my wit and beauty,
than of my fortune, it did not suddenly enter my imagination, that
Melissa could sink beneath her established rank, while her form and her
mind continued the same; that she should cease to raise admiration, but
by ceasing to deserve it, or feel any stroke but from the hand of time.

11. It was in my power to have concealed the loss, and to have married,
by continuing the same appearance, with all the credit of my original
fortune; but I was not so far sunk in my esteem, as to submit to the
baseness of fraud, or to desire any other recommendation than sense and
virtue.

12. I therefore dismissed my equipage, sold those ornaments which were
become unsuitable to my new condition, and appeared among those with
whom I used to converse with less glitter, but with equal spirit.

13. I found myself received at every visit with sorrow beyond what is
naturally felt for calamities in which we have no part, and was
entertained with condolence and consolation so frequently repeated, that
my friends plainly consulted rather their own gratification, than my
relief.

14. Some from that time refused my acquaintance, and forebore without
any provocation, to repay my visits; some visited me, but after a longer
interval than usual, and every return was still with more delay; nor did
any of my female acquaintances fail to introduce the mention of my
misfortunes, to compare my present and former condition, to tell me how
much it must trouble me to want that splendor which I became so well; to
look at pleasures, which I had formerly enjoyed, and to sink to a level
with those by whom I had been considered as moving in a higher sphere,
and who had hitherto approached me with reverence and submission, which
I was now no longer to expect.

15. Observations like these are commonly nothing better than covert
insults, which serve to give vent to the flatulence of pride, but they
are now and then imprudently uttered by honesty and benevolence, and
inflict pain where kindness is intended; I will, therefore, so far
maintain my antiquated claim to politeness, as to venture the
establishment of this rule, that no one ought to remind another of
misfortunes of which the sufferer does not complain, and which there are
no means proposed of alleviating.

16. You have no right to excite thoughts which necessarily give pain
whenever they return, and which, perhaps, might not have revived but by
absurd and unseasonable compassion.

17. My endless train of lovers immediately withdrew without raising any
emotions. The greater part had indeed always professed to court, as it
is termed upon the square, had enquired my fortune, and offered
settlements; these undoubtedly had a right to retire without censure,
since they had openly treated for money, as necessary to their
happiness, and who can tell how little they wanted any other portion?

18. I have always thought the clamours of women unreasonable, who
imagine themselves injured, because the men who followed them upon the
supposition of a greater fortune, reject them when they are discovered
to have less. I have never known any lady, who did not think wealth a
title to some stipulations in her favour; and surely what is claimed by
the possession of money, is justly forfeited by its loss.

19. She that has once demanded a settlement, has allowed the importance
of fortune; and when she cannot shew pecuniary merit, why should she
think her cheapner obliged to purchase?

20. My lovers were not all contented with silent desertion. Some of them
revenged the neglect which they had formerly endured by wanton and
superfluous insults, and endeavoured to mortify me, by paying in my
presence those civilities to other ladies, which were once devoted only
to me.

21. But as it had been my rule to treat men according to the rank of
their intellect, I had never suffered any one to waste his life in
suspense who could have employed it to better purpose, and had therefore
no enemies but coxcombs, whose resentment and respect were equally below
my consideration.

22. The only pain which I have felt from degradation, is the loss of
that influence which I have always exerted on the side of virtue, in the
defence of innocence and the assertion of truth. I now find my opinions
slighted, my sentiments criticised, and my arguments opposed by those
that used to listen to me without reply, and struggle to be first in
expressing their conviction.

23. The female disputants have wholly thrown off my authority, and if I
endeavour to enforce my reasons by an appeal to the scholars that happen
to be present, the wretches are certain to pay their court by
sacrificing me and my system to a finer gown; and I am every hour
insulted with contradiction by cowards, who could never find till
lately, that Melissa was liable to error.

24. There are two persons only whom I cannot charge with having changed
their conduct with my change of fortune. One is an old curate, that has
passed his life in the duties of his profession, with great reputation
for his knowledge and piety; the other is a lieutenant of dragoons. The
parson made no difficulty in the height of my elevation, to check me
when I was pert, and instruct me when I blundered; and if there is any
alteration, he is now more timorous lest his freedom should be thought
rudeness.

25. The soldier never paid me any particular addresses, but very rigidly
observed all the rules of politeness, which he is now so far from
relaxing, that whenever he serves the tea, he obstinately carries me the
first dish, in defiance of the frowns and whispers of the table.

26. This, Mr. Rambler, is _to see the world_. It is impossible for those
that have only known affluence and prosperity, to judge rightly of
themselves or others. The rich and the powerful live in a perpetual
masquerade, in which all about them wear borrowed characters; and we
only discover in what estimation we are held, when we can no longer give
hopes or fears.

_I am_, &c. MELISSA.




_On the Omniscience and Omnipresence of the Deity, together with the
Immensity of his Works._


1. I was yesterday about sun-set walking in the open fields, till the
night insensibly fell upon me. I at first amused myself with all the
richness and variety of colours, which appeared in the western parts of
heaven; in proportion as they faded away and went out, several stars and
planets appeared one after another, till the whole firmament was in a
glow. The blueness of the aether was exceedingly heightened and enlivened
by the season of the year, and by the rays of all those luminaries that
passed through it.

2. The _Galaxy_ appeared in its most beautiful white. To complete the
scene, the full moon rose at length in that clouded majesty, which
_Milton_ takes notice of, and opened to the eye a new picture of nature,
which was more finely shaded, and disposed among softer lights, than
that which the sun had before discovered to us.

3. As I was surveying the moon, walking in her brightness, and taking
her progress among the constellations, a thought rose in me which I
believe very often perplexes and disturbs men of serious and
contemplative natures. _David_ himself fell into it in that reflection,
_When I consider the heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and
stars which thou hast ordained; what is man, that thou art mindful of
him, and the son of man, that thou regardest him!_

4. In the same manner, when I consider that infinite host of stars, or,
to speak more philosophically, of suns, who were then shining upon me,
with those innumerable sets of planets or worlds, which were moving
round their respective suns; when I still enlarged the idea, and
supposed another heaven of suns and worlds rising still above this which
he had discovered, and these still enlightened by a superior firmament
of luminaries, which are planted at so great a distance, that they may
appear to the inhabitants of the former as the stars do to us; in short,
while I pursued this thought, I could not but reflect on that little
insignificant figure which I myself bore amidst the immensity of God's
works.

5. Were the sun, which enlightens this part of the creation, with all
the host of planetary worlds that move about him, utterly extinguished
and annihilated, they would not be missed, more than a grain of sand
upon the sea-shore. The space they possess is so exceedingly little in
comparison of the whole, that it would scarce make a blank in the
creation. The chasm would be imperceptible to an eye that could take in
the whole compass of nature, and pass from one end of the creation to
the other; as it is possible there may be such a sense in ourselves
hereafter, or in creatures which are at present more exalted than
ourselves.

6. We see many stars by the help of glasses, which we do not discover
with our naked eyes; and the finer our telescopes are, the more still
are our discoveries. _Huygenius_ carries his thought so far, that he
does not think it impossible there may be stars whose light is not yet
travelled down to us, since their first creation. There is no question
but the universe has certain bounds set to it; but when we consider that
it is the work of infinite power, prompted by infinite goodness, with an
infinite space to exert itself in, how can our imagination set any
bounds to it!

7. To return, therefore, to my first thought, I could not but look upon
myself with secret horror, as a being that was not worth the smallest
regard of one who had so great a work under his care and
superintendency. I was afraid of being overlooked amidst the immensity
of nature, and lost among that infinite variety of creatures, which in
all probability swarm through all these immeasurable regions of matter.

In order to recover myself from this mortifying thought, I consider that
it took its rise from those narrow conceptions which we are apt to
maintain of the divine nature. We ourselves cannot attend to many
different objects at the same time. If we are careful to inspect some
things, we must of course neglect others.

8. This imperfection which we observe in ourselves, is an imperfection
that cleaves in some degree to creatures of the highest capacities, as
they are creatures, that is, beings of finite and limited natures. The
presence of every created being is confined to a certain measure of
space, and consequently his observation is stinted to a certain number
of objects. The sphere in which we move, and act, and understand, is of
a wider circumference to one creature than another, according as we rise
one above another in the scale of existence.

9. But the widest of these our spheres has its circumference. When,
therefore, we reflect on the divine nature, we are so used and
accustomed to this imperfection in ourselves, that we cannot forbear in
some measure ascribing it to him in whom there is no shadow of
imperfection. Our reason indeed ascribes that his attributes are
infinite, but the poorness of our conceptions is such, that it cannot
forbear setting bounds to every thing it contemplates, till our reason
comes again to our succour, and throws down all those little prejudices
which rise in us unawares, and are natural to the mind of man.

10. We shall therefore utterly extinguish this melancholy thought, of
our being overlooked by our Maker in the multiplicity of his works, and
the infinity of those objects among which he seems to be incessantly
employed, if we consider, in the first place, that he is omnipresent,
and in the second, that he is omniscient.

If we consider him in his omnipresence; his being passes through,
actuates and supports the whole frame of nature. His creation, and every
part of it, is full of him.

11. There is nothing he has made, that is either so distant, so little,
or so inconsiderable, which he does not essentially inhabit. His
substance is within the substance of every being, whether material or
immaterial, and is intimately present to it, as that being is to itself.
It would be an imperfection in him, were he able to remove out of one
place into another, or to withdraw himself from any thing he has
created, or from any part of that space which is diffused and spread
abroad to infinity. In short, to speak of him in the language of the old
philosophers, He is a being whose centre is every where, and his
circumference no where.

12. In the second place, he is omniscient as well as omnipresent. His
omniscience, indeed, necessarily and naturally flows from his
omnipresence. He cannot but be conscious of every motion that arises in
the whole material world, which he thus essentially pervades; and of
every thought that is stirring in the intellectual world, to every part
of which he is thus intimately united. Several moralists have considered
the creation as the temple of God, which he has built with his own
hands, and which is filled with his presence.

13. Others have considered infinite space as the receptacle, or rather
the habitation of the Almighty; but the noblest, and most exalted way of
considering this infinite space, is that of Sir _Isaac Newton_, who
calls it the _sensorium_ of the Godhead. Brutes and men have their
_sensoria_, or little _sensoriums_, by which they apprehend the presence
and perceive the actions of a few objects that lie contiguous to them.
Their knowledge and apprehension turn within a very narrow circle. But
as God Almighty cannot but perceive and know every thing in which he
resides, infinite space gives room to infinite knowledge, and is, as it
were, an organ to omniscience.

14. Were the soul separate from the body, and with one glance of thought
should start beyond the bounds of the creation; should it for millions
of years continue its progress through infinite space with the same
activity, it would still find itself within the embraces of its Creator,
and encompassed round with the immensity of the Godhead. While we are in
the body, he is hot less present with us because he is concealed from
us. _Oh that I knew where I might find him_! says Job. _Behold I go
forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive him;
on the left hand, where he does work, but I cannot behold him: he hideth
himself on the right hand, that I cannot see him._ In short, reason as
well as revelation assures us, that he cannot be absent from us,
notwithstanding he is undiscovered by us.

15. In this consideration of God Almighty's omnipresence and
omniscience, every uncomfortable thought vanishes. He cannot but regard
every thing that has beings especially such of his creatures who fear
they are not regarded by him. He is privy to all their thoughts, and to
that anxiety of heart in particular, which is apt to trouble them on
this occasion; for, as it is impossible he should overlook any of his
creatures, so we may be confident that he regards, with an eye of mercy,
those who endeavour to recommend themselves to his notice, and in
unfeigned humility of heart think themselves unworthy that he should be
mindful of them.




_Motives to Piety and Virtue, drawn from the Omniscience and
Omnipresence of the Deity._

SPECTATOR, No. 571.


1. In your paper of Friday the 9th instant, you had occasion to consider
the ubiquity of the Godhead; and at the same time to shew, that as he
is presented every thing, he cannot but be attentive to every thing, and
privy to all the modes and parts of its existence; or, in other words,
that his omniscience and omnipresence are co-existent, and run together
through the whole infinitude of space.

2. This consideration might furnish us with many incentives to devotion,
and motives to morality; but as this subject has been handled by several
excellent writers, I shall consider it in a light wherein I have not
seen it placed by others.

_First_, How disconsolate is the condition of an intellectual being who
is thus present with his Maker, but at the same time receives no
extraordinary benefit or advantage from this his presence!

3. _Secondly_, How deplorable is the condition of an intellectual being,
who feels no other effects from this his presence, but such as proceed
from divine wrath and indignation!

_Thirdly_, How happy is the condition of that intellectual being, who is
sensible of his Maker's presence from the secret effects of his mercy
and loving kindness!

4. _first_, How disconsolate is the condition of an intellectual being
who is thus present with his Maker, but at the same time receives no
extraordinary benefit or advantage from this his presence! Every
particle of matter is actuated by this Almighty Being which passes
through it. The heavens and the earth, the stars and planets, move, and
gravitate by virtue of this great principle within them. All the dead
parts of nature are invigorated by the presence of their Creator, and
made capable of exerting their respective qualities.

5. The several instincts in the brute creation do likewise operate and
work towards the several ends which, are agreeable to them, by this
divine energy. Man only, who does not co-operate with his holy spirit,
and is unattentive to his presence, receives none of these advantages
from it, which are perfective of his nature, and necessary to his
well-being. The divinity is with him, and in him, and every where about
him, but of no advantage to him.

6. It is the same thing to a man without religion, as if there were no
God in the world. It is indeed impossible for an infinite Being to
remove, himself from any of his creatures; but though he cannot
withdraw his essence from us, which would argue an imperfection in him,
he can withdraw from us all the joys and consolations of it. His
presence may, perhaps, be necessary to support us in our existence; but
he may leave this our existence to itself, with regard to our happiness
or misery.

7. For, in this sense, he may cast us away from his presence, and take
his holy spirit from us. This single consideration one would think
sufficient to make us open our hearts to all those infusions of joy and
gladness which are so near at hand, and ready to be poured in upon us;
especially when we consider, _secondly_, the deplorable condition of an
intellectual being who feels no other effects from his Maker's presence,
but such as proceed from divine wrath and indignation!

8. We may assure ourselves, that the great Author of Nature, will not
always be as one who is indifferent to any of his creatures. Those who
will not feel him in his love, will be sure at length to feel him in his
displeasure. And how dreadful is the condition of that creature who is
only sensible of the being of his Creator by what he suffers from him!
He is as essentially present in hell as in heaven; but the inhabitants
of those accursed places behold him only in his wrath, and shrink within
the flames to conceal themselves from him. It is not in the power of
imagination to conceive the fearful effects of Omnipotence incensed.

9. But I shall only consider the wretchedness of an intellectual being,
who, in this life, lies under the displeasure of him, that at all times,
and in all places, is intimately united with him. He is able to disquiet
the soul, and vex it in all its faculties, He can hinder any of the
greatest comforts of life from refreshing us, and give an edge to every
one of its slightest calamities.

10. Who then can bear the thought of being an outcast from his presence,
that is, from the comforts of it, or of feeling it only in its terrors?
how pathetic is that expostulation of _Job_, when for the real trial of
his patience, he was made to look upon himself in this deplorable
condition! _Why hast thou set me as a mark against thee so that I am
become a burden to myself?_ But _thirdly_, how happy is the condition of
that intellectual being, who is sensible of his Maker's presence from
the secret effects of his mercy and loving kindness!

11. The blessed in heaven behold him face to face, that is, are as
sensible of his presence as we are of the presence of any person whom we
look upon with our eyes. There is doubtless a faculty in spirits, by
which they apprehend one another, as our senses do material objects; and
there is no question but our souls, when they are disembodied, or placed
in glorified bodies, will by this faculty, in whatever space they
reside, be always sensible of the divine presence.

12. We who have this veil of flesh standing between us and the world of
spirits, must be content to know the spirit of God is present with us,
by the effects which he produceth in us. Our outward senses are too
gross to apprehend him; we may however taste and see how gracious he is,
by his influence upon our minds, by those virtuous thoughts which he
awakens in us, by those secret comforts and refreshments which he
conveys into our souls, and by those ravishing joys and inward
satisfactions which are perpetually springing up, and diffusing
themselves among all the thoughts of good men.

13. He is lodged in our very essence, and is as a soul within the soul
to irradiate its understanding, rectify its will, purify its passions,
and enliven all the powers of man. How happy therefore is an
intellectual being, who by prayer and meditation, by virtue and good
works, opens this communication between God and his own soul! Though the
whole creation frowns upon him, and all nature looks black about him, he
has his light and support within him, that are able to cheer his mind,
and bear him up in the midst of all those horrors which encompass him.

14. He knows that his helper is at hand, and is always nearer to him
than any thing else can be, which is capable of annoying or terrifying
him. In the midst of calumny or contempt, he attends to that Being who
whispers better things within his soul, and whom he looks upon as his
defender, his glory and the lifter up of his head. In his deepest
solitude and retirement, he knows that he is in company with the
greatest of beings: and perceives within himself such real sensations of
his presence, as are more delightful than any thing that can be met with
in the conversations of his creatures.

15. Even in the hour of death, he considers the pains of his
dissolution to be nothing else but the breaking down of that partition,
which stands betwixt his soul and the sight of that Being who is always
present with him, and is about to manifest itself to him in fulness of
Joy.

16. If we would be thus happy and thus sensible of our Maker's presence,
from the secret effects of his mercy and goodness, we must keep such a
watch over all our thoughts, that, in the language of the scripture, His
soul may have pleasure in us. We must take care not to grieve his holy
spirit, and endeavour to make the meditations of our hearts always
acceptable in his sight, that he may delight thus to reside and dwell in
us.

17. The light of nature could direct _Seneca_ to this doctrine in a very
remarkable passage among his epistles; _Sacer inest in nobis spiritus,
bonorum malorumque custos et observator; et quemadmodum nos illum
tractamus, ita et ille nos_. 'There is a holy spirit residing in us, who
watches and observes both good and evil men, and will treat us after the
same manner that we treat him.' But I shall conclude this discourse with
those more emphatical words in divine revelation: _If a man love me, he
will keep my words; and my father will love him, and we will come unto
him, and make our abode with him_.




_Reflections on the third Heaven_.

SPECTATOR, No. 580.


1. I considered in my two last letters, that awful and tremendous
subject, the ubiquity or Omnipresence of the Divine Being. I have shewn
that he is equally present in all places throughout the whole extent of
infinite space. This doctrine is so agreeable to reason, that we meet
with it in the writings of the enlightened heathens, as I might shew at
large, were it not already done by other hands. But though the Deity be
thus essentially present through all the immensity of space, there is
one part of it in which he discovers himself in a most transcendant and
visible glory.

2. This is that place which is marked out in scripture under the
different appellations of _Paradise, the third Heaven, the throne of
God, and the habitation of his glory_. It is here where the glorified
body of our Saviour resides, and where all the celestial hierarchies,
and innumerable hosts of angels, are represented as perpetually
surrounding the seat of God with hallelujahs and hymns of praise. This
is that presence of God which some of the divines call his glorious, and
others his majestic presence.

3. He is indeed as essentially present in all other places as in this;
but it is here where he resides in a sensible magnificence, and in the
midst of all these splendors which can affect the imagination of created
beings.

It is very remarkable that this opinion of God Almighty's presence in
heaven, whether discovered by the light of nature, or by a general
tradition from our first parents, prevails among all the nations of the
world, whatsoever different notions they entertain of the Godhead.

4. If you look into _Homer_, that is, the most ancient of the _Greek_
writers, you see the Supreme power seated in the heavens, and
encompassed with inferior deities, among whom the muses are represented
as singing incessantly about his throne. Who does not here see the main
strokes and outlines of this great truth we are speaking of?

5. The same doctrine is shadowed out in many other heathen authors,
though at the same time, like several other revealed truths, dashed and
adulterated with a mixture of fables and human inventions. But to pass
over the notions of the _Greeks_ and _Romans_, those more enlightened
parts of the pagan world, we find there is scarce a people among the
late discovered nations who are not trained up in an opinion that heaven
is the habitation of the divinity whom they worship.

6. As in _Solomon's_ temple there was the _Sanctum Sanctorum_, in which
a visible glory appeared among the figures of the cherubims, and into
which none but the high-priest himself was permitted to enter, after
having made an atonement for the sins of the people; so, if we consider
this whole creation as one great temple, there is in it the Holy of
Holies, into which the high-priest of our salvation entered, and took
his place among angels and archangels, after having made a propitiation
for the sins of mankind.

7. With how much skill must the throne of God be erected? With what
glorious designs is that habitation beautified, which is contrived and
built by him who inspired _Hiram_ with wisdom? How great must be the
majesty of that place, where the whole art of creation has been
employed, and where God has chosen to shew himself in the most
magnificent manner? What must be the architecture of infinite power
under the direction of divine wisdom? A spirit cannot but be transported
after an ineffable manner with the sight of those objects, which were
made to affect him by that being who knows the inward frame of a soul,
and how to please and ravish it in all its most secret powers and
faculties.

8. It is to this majestic presence of God we may apply those beautiful
expressions in holy writ: _Behold even to the moon, and it shineth not;
yea, the stars are not pure in his sight_. The light of the sun, and all
the glories of the world in which we live, are but as weak and sickly
glimmerings, or rather darkness itself, in comparison of those splendors
which encompass the throne of God.

9. As the glory of this place is transcendent beyond imagination, so
probably is the extent of it. There is light behind light, and glory
within glory. How far that space may reach, in which God thus appears in
perfect majesty, we cannot possibly conceive. Though it is not infinite,
it may be indefinite; and though not immeasurable in itself, it may be
so with regard to any created eye or imagination. If he has made these
lower regions of matter so inconceivably wide and magnificent for the
habitation of mortal and perishable beings, how great may we suppose the
courts of his house to be, where he makes his residence in a more
especial manner, and displays himself in the fulness of his glory, among
an innumerable company of angels, and spirits of just men made perfect!

10. This is certain, that our imaginations cannot be raised too high,
when we think on a place where omnipotence and omniscience have so
signally exerted themselves, because that they are able to produce a
scene infinitely more great and glorious than what we are able to
imagine.

11. It is not impossible but at the consummation of all things, these
outward apartments of nature, which are now suited to those beings who
inhabit them, may be taken in and added to that glorious place of which
I am here speaking; and by that means made a proper habitation for
beings who are exempt from mortality, and cleared of their
imperfections: for so the scripture seems to intimate, when it speaks of
new heavens and of a new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness.

12. I have only considered this glorious place with regard to the sight
and imagination, though it is highly probable, that our other senses may
here likewise enjoy then highest gratifications. There is nothing which
more ravishes and transports the soul, than harmony; and we have great
reason to believe, from the description of this place in Holy scripture,
that this is one of the entertainments of it.

13. And if the soul of man can be so wonderfully affected with those
strains of music, which human art is capable of producing, how much more
will it be raised and elevated by those, in which is exerted the whole
power of harmony! The senses are faculties of the human soul, though
they cannot be employed, during this our vital union, without proper
instruments in the body.

14. Why therefore should we exclude the satisfaction of these faculties,
which we find by experience are inlets of great pleasure to the soul,
from among these entertainments which are to make our happiness
hereafter? Why should we suppose that our hearing and seeing will not be
gratified by those objects which are most agreeable to them, and which
they cannot meet with in those lower regions of nature; objects, _which
neither eye hath seen, nor ear heard, nor can it enter into the heart of
man to conceive_!

15. _I knew a man in Christ_ (says St. Paul, speaking of himself) _above
fourteen years ago_ (_whether in the body, I cannot tell; or whether out
of the body, I cannot tell: God knoweth_) _such a one caught up to the
third heaven. And I knew such a man_ (_whether in the body or out of the
body, I cannot tell: God knoweth_) _how that he was caught up into
Paradise, and heard unspeakable words which it is not possible for a man
to utter_.

16. By this is meant that what he heard was so infinitely different from
any thing which he had heard in this world, that it was impossible to
express it in such words as might convey a notion of it to his hearers.

It is very natural for us to take delight in inquiries concerning any
foreign country, where we are some time or other to make our abode; and
as we all hope to be admitted into this glorious place, it is both a
laudable and useful curiosity, to get what information we can of it,
while we make use of revelation for our guide.

17. When these everlasting doors shall be opened to us, we may be sure
that the pleasures and beauties of this place will infinitely transcend
our present hopes and expectations, and that the glorious appearance of
the throne of God will rise infinitely beyond whatever we are able to
conceive of it. We might here entertain ourselves with many other
speculations on this subject from those several hints which we find of
it in the holy scriptures: as whether there may not be different
mansions and apartments of glory, to beings of different natures;
whether, as they: excel one another in perfection, they are not admitted
nearer to the throne of the Almighty, and enjoy greater manifestations
of his presence.

18. Whether there are not solemn times and occasions, when all the
multitude of heaven celebrate the presence of their Maker, in more
extraordinary forms of praise and adoration; as _Adam_, though he had
continued in a state of innocence, would, in the opinion of our divines,
have kept holy the _Sabbath day_, in a more particular manner than any
other of the seven. These, and the like speculations, we may very
innocently indulge, so long as we make use of them to inspire us with a
desire of becoming inhabitants of this delightful place.

19. I have in this, and in two foregoing letters, treated on the most
serious subject that can employ the mind of man, the omnipresence of the
Deity; a subject which, if possible, should never depart from our
meditations. We have considered the Divine Being, as he inhabits
infinitude, as he dwells among his works, as he is present to the mind
of man, and as he discovers himself in a more glorious manner among the
regions of the blest. Such a consideration should be kept awake in us at
all times, and in all places, and possess our minds with a perpetual awe
and reverence.

20. It should be interwoven with all our thoughts and perceptions, and
become one with the consciousness of our own being. It is not to be
reflected on in the coldness of philosophy, but ought to sink us into
the lowest prostration before him, who is so astonishingly, great,
wonderful, and holy.




_The present Life to be considered only as it may conduce to the
Happiness of a future one_.

SPECTATOR; No. 575.


1. A lewd young fellow seeing an aged hermit go by him barefoot,
_Father_, says he, _you are in a very miserable condition, if there is
not another world. True son_, said the hermit; _but what is thy
condition if there is_? Man is a creature designed for two different
states of being, or rather, for two different lives. His first life is
short and transient; his second permanent and lasting.

2. The question we are all concerned in is this, in which of these two
lives is our chief interest to make ourselves happy? or in other words,
whether we should endeavour to secure to ourselves the pleasure and
gratification of a life which is uncertain and precarious, and at its
utmost length of a very inconsiderable duration; or to secure to
ourselves the pleasure of a life that is fixed and settled, and will
never end? Every man, upon the first hearing of this question, knows
very well which side of it he ought to close with.

3. But however right we are in theory, it is plain that in practice we
adhere to the wrong side of the question. We make provisions for this
life as though it were never to have an end, and for the other life as
though it were never to have a beginning.

Should a spirit of superior rank, who is a stranger to human nature,
accidentally alight upon the earth, and take a survey of its
inhabitants, what would his notions of us be?

4. Would not he think that we were a species of beings made for quite
different ends and purposes than what we really are? Must not he imagine
that we were placed in this world to get riches and honours? Would he
not think that it was our duty to toil after wealth, and station, and
title? Nay, would not he believe we were forbidden poverty by threats of
eternal punishment, and enjoined to pursue our pleasures under pain of
damnation? He would certainly imagine that we were influenced by a
scheme of duties quite opposite to those which are indeed prescribed to
us.

5. And truly, according to such an imagination, be must conclude that we
are a species of the most obedient creatures in the universe; that we
are constant to our duty; and that we keep a steady eye on the end for
which we were sent hither.

But how great would be his astonishment, when he learnt that we were
beings not designed to exist in this world above threescore and ten
years; and that the greatest part of this busy species fall short even
of that age?

6. How would he be lost in horror and admiration, when he should know
that this set of creatures, who lay out all their endeavours for this
life, which scarce deserves the name of existence, when, I say, he
should know that this set of creatures are to exist to all eternity in
another life, for winch they make no preparations?

7. Nothing can be a greater disgrace to reason than that men, who are
persuaded of these two different states of being, should be perpetually
employed in providing for a life of threescore and ten years, and
neglecting to make provision for that which, after many myriads of
years, will be still new, and still beginning; especially when we
consider that our endeavours for making ourselves great, or rich, or
honourable, or whatever else we place our happiness in, may, after all,
prove unsuccessful; whereas if we constantly and sincerely endeavour to
make ourselves happy in the other life, we are sure that our endeavours
will succeed, and that we shall not be disappointed of our hope.

8. The following question is started by one of the school-men: Supposing
the whole body of the earth were a great ball or mass of the finest
sand, and that a single grain or particle of this sand should be
annihilated every thousand years. Supposing then that you had it in your
choice to be happy all the while this prodigious mass of sand was
consuming by this slow method till there was not a grain, of it left, on
condition you were to be miserable for ever after; or supposing that you
might be happy for ever after, on condition you would be miserable till
the whole mass of sand were thus annihilated at the rate of one sand in
a thousand years: which of these two cases would you make your choice?

9. It must be confessed in this case, so many thousands of years are to
the imagination as a kind of eternity, though in reality they do not
bear so great a proportion to that duration which is to follow them, as
an unit does to the greatest number which you can put together in
figures, or as one of those sands to the supposed heap. Reason therefore
tells us, without any manner of hesitation, which would be the better
part in this choice.

10. However, as I have before intimated, our reason might in such a case
be so overset by the imagination, as to dispose some persons to sink
under the consideration of the great length of the first part of this
duration, and of the great distance of that second duration, which is to
succeed it. The mind, I say, might give itself up to that happiness
which is at hand, considering that it is so very near, and that it would
last so very long.

11. But when the choice we actually have before us, is this, whether we
will chuse to be happy for the space of only threescore and ten, nay,
perhaps of only twenty or ten years, I might say of only a day or an
hour, and miserable to all eternity; or, on the contrary, miserable for
this short term of years, and happy for a whole eternity; what words are
sufficient to express that folly and want of consideration which in such
a case makes a wrong choice?

12. I here put the case even at the worst, by supposing (what seldom
happens) that a course of virtue makes us miserable in this life: but if
we suppose (as it generally happens) that virtue will make us more happy
even in this life than a contrary course of vice; how can we
sufficiently admire the stupidity or madness of those persons who are
capable of making so absurd a choice?

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




_On the Immortality of the Soul_.

SPECTATOR, No. 111.


1. I was yesterday walking alone in one of my friend's woods, and lost
myself in it very agreeably, as I was running over in my mind the
several arguments that establish this great point, which is the basis of
morality, and the source of all the pleasing hopes and secret joys that
can arise in the heart of a reasonable creature.

2. I considered those several proofs drawn: _First_, From the nature of
the soul itself, and particualrly its immateriality; which, though not
absolutely necessary to the eternity of its duration, has, I think, been
evinced to almost a demonstration.

_Secondly_, From its passions and sentiments, as particularly from, its
love of existence; its horror of annihilation, and its hopes of
immortality, with that secret satisfaction which it finds in the
practice of virtue, and that uneasiness which follows in it upon the
commission of vice.

3. _Thirdly_, From the nature of the Supreme Being, whose justice,
goodness, wisdom and veraveracity, are all concerned in this point.

But among these and other excellent arguments for the immortality of the
soul, there is one drawn from the perpetual progress of the soul to its
perfection, without a possibility of ever arriving at it; which is a
hint that I do not remember to have seen opened and improved by others
who have written on this subject, though it seeras to me to carry a very
great weight with it.

4. How can it enter into the thoughts of man, that the soul which is
capable of such immense perfection, and of receiving new improvements to
all eternity, shall fall away into nothing almost as soon as it is
created? are such abilities made for no purpose? A brute arrives at a
point of perfection that he can never pass: in a few years he has all
the endowments he is capable of; and were he to live ten thousand more,
would be the same thing he is at present.

5. Were a human soul thus at a stand in her accomplishments, were her
faculties to be full blown, and incapable of further enlargements, I
could imagine it might fall away insensibly; and drop at once into a
state of annihilation.

6. But can we believe a thinking being; that is in a perpetual progress
of improvements, and travelling on from perfection to perfection, after
having just looked abroad into the works of its Creator, and made a few
discoveries of his infinite goodness, wisdom and power, must perish at
her first setting out, and in the very beginning of her enquiries?

A man considered in his present state, seems only sent into the world to
propagate his kind. He provides himself with a successor, and
immediately quits his post to make room for him.


                               ----_Haeres.
Haeredem alterius velut unda supervenit undam._

                               HOR. Ep. 2. 1. 2. v. 175

----Heir crowds heir, as in a rolling flood
Wave urges wave.
                               CREECH.

7. He does net seem born to enjoy life, but to deliver it down to
others. This is not surprising to consider in animals, which are formed
for our use, and can finish their business in a short life. The
silk-worm, after having spun her task, lays her eggs and dies. But a man
can never have taken in his full measure of knowledge, has not time to
subdue his passions, establish his soul in virtue, and come up to the
perfection of his nature, before he is hurried off the stage.

8. Would an infinitely wise Being make such glorious creatures for so
mean a purpose? Can he delight in the production of such abortive
intelligences, such short-lived reasonable beings? Would he give us
talents that are not to be exerted? capacities that are never to be
gratified? How can we find that wisdom which shines through all his
works, in the formation of man, without looking on this world as only a
nursery for the next, and believing that the several generations of
rational creatures, which rise up and disappear in such quick
successions, are only to receive the first rudiments of existence here,
and afterwards to be transplanted into a more friendly climate, where
they may spread and flourish to all eternity.

9. There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and triumphant
consideration in religion than this of the perpetual progress which the
soul makes towards the perfection of its nature, without ever arriving
at a period in it. To look upon the soul as going on from strength to
strength, to consider that she is to shine for ever with new accessions
of glory, and brighten to all eternity; that she will be still adding
virtue to virtue, and knowledge to knowledge; carries in it something
wonderfully agreeable to that ambition which is natural to the mind of
man. Nay, it must be a prospect pleasing to God himself, to see his
creation of ever beautifying his eyes, and drawing nearer to him, by
greater degrees of resemblance.

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

11. With what astonishment and veneration may we look into our own soul,
where there are such hidden stores of virtue and knowledge, such
inexhausted sources of perfection! We know not yet what we shall be, nor
will it ever enter into the heart of man to conceive the glory that will
be always in reserve for him. The soul considered with its Creator, is
like one of those mathematical lines that may draw nearer to another for
all eternity, without a possibility of touching it: and can there be a
thought so transporting, as to consider ourselves in these perpetual
approaches to him, who is not only the standard of perfection, but of
happiness!




_On the Animal World, and the Scale of Beings_.

SPECTATOR, No. 519.


1. Though there is a great deal of pleasure in contemplating the
material world, by which I mean that system of bodies into which nature
has so curiously wrought the mass of dead matter, with the several
relations which, those bodies bear to one another; there is still,
methinks, something more wonderful and surprising in contemplations on
the world of life, by which I mean all those animals with which every
part of the universe is furnished.

The material world, is only the shell of the universe: the world of life
are its inhabitants.

2. If we consider those parts of the material world which lie the
nearest to us, and are therefore subject to our observations and
inquiries, it is amazing to consider the infinity of animals with which
it is stocked. Every part of matter is peopled: every green leaf swarms
with inhabitants. There is scarce a single humour of the body of a man,
or of any other animal, in which our glasses do not discover myriads of
living creatures.

3. The surface of animals, is also covered with other animals, which are
in the same manner the basis of other animals that live upon it: nay, we
find in the most solid bodies, as in marble itself, innumerable cells
and cavities, that are crowded with such imperceptible inhabitants, as
are too little for the naked eye to discover. On the other hand, if we
look into the more bulky parts of nature, we see the seas, lakes, and
rivers teeming with numberless kinds of living creatures; we find every
mountain and marsh, wilderness and wood plentifully stocked with birds
and beasts, and every part of matter affording proper necessaries and
conveniences for the livelihood of multitudes which, inhabit it.

4. The author of the _Plurality of Worlds_ draws a very good argument
from this consideration, for the _peopling_ of every planet: as indeed
it seems very probable, from the analogy of reason, that if no part of
matter, which we are acquainted with, lies waste and useless, those
great bodies; which are at such a distance from us, should not be desert
and unpeopled, but rather that they should be furnished with beings
adapted to their respective situations.

5. Existence is a blessing to those beings only which are endowed with
perception, and is in a manner thrown away upon dead matter, any further
than it is subservient to beings which are conscious of their existence.
Accordingly we find, from the bodies which lie under our observation,
that matter is only made as the basis and support of animals, and that
there is no more of the one, than what is necessary for the existence of
the other.

6. Infinite goodness is of so communicative a nature, that it seems to
delight in the conferring of existence upon every degree of perceptive
being. As this is a speculation, which I have often pursued with great
pleasure to myself, I shall enlarge further upon it, by considering that
part of the scale of beings which comes within our knowledge.

7. There are some living creatures which are raised but just above dead
matter. To mention only that species of shell-fish, which are formed in
the fashion of a cone, that grow to the surface of several rocks and
immediately die upon their being severed from the place where they grow:
there are many other creatures but one remove from these, which have no
other sense besides that of feeling and taste. Others have still an
additional one of hearing; others of smell; and others of sight.

3. It is wonderful, to observe, by what a gradual progress the world of
life advances through a prodigious variety of species, before a creature
is formed that is complete in all its senses: and even among these there
is such a different degree of perfection in the sense which one animal
enjoys beyond what appears in another, though the sense in different
animals is distinguished by the same common denomination; it seems
almost of a different nature.

10. The exuberant and overflowing; goodness of the Supreme Being, whose
mercy extends to all his works, is plainly seen, as I have before
hinted; from his having made so very little matter, at least what fall
within our knowledge, that does not swarm with life: nor is his goodness
less seen in the diversity, than in the multitude of living creatures.
Had he only made one species animals, none of the rest could have
enjoyed the happiness of existence; he has therefore _specified_ in his
creation every degree of life, every capacity of being.

11. The whole chasm of nature, from a plant to a man, is filled up with
divers kinds of creatures, rising one over another, by such a gentle and
easy ascent, that the little transitions and deviations from one species
to another, are almost insensible. This intermediate space is so well
husbanded and managed, that there is scarce a degree of perception which
does not appear in some one part of the world of life. Is the goodness,
or wisdom, of the Divine Being, more manifested in this his proceeding?

12. There is a consequence, besides those I have already mentioned,
which seems very naturally deducible from the foregoing considerations.
If the scale of being rises by such a regular progress, so high as man,
we may by a parity of reason suppose that it still proceeds gradually
through those beings which are of a superior nature to him; since there
is an infinitely greater space and room for different degrees of
perfection between the Supreme Being and man, than between man and the
most despicable insect.

13. The consequence of so great a variety of beings which are superior
to us, from that variety which is inferior to us is made by Mr. _Locke_,
in a passage which I shall here set down, after having premised that
notwithstanding there is still infinite room between man and his Maker
for the creative power to exert itself in, it is impossible that it
should ever be filled up, since there will be still an infinite gap or
distance between the highest created being, and the power which produced
him.

14. _That there should be more_ species _of intelligent creatures above
us, than there are of sensible and material below us, is probable to me
from hence; that in all the visible corporeal world, we see no chasms or
no gaps. All quite down from us, the descent is by easy steps, and a
continued series of things that in each remove, differ very little one
from the other. There are fishes that have wings, and are not strangers
to the airy region; and there are some birds, that are inhabitants of
the water, whose blood is as cold as fishes, and their flesh so like in
taste, that the scrupulous, are allowed them on fish-days_.

15. _There are animals so near of kin both to birds and beasts, that
they are in the middle between both; amphibious animals, link the
terrestrial and aquatic together: seals live on land and at sea, and
porpoises have the warm blood and entrails of a hog. Not to mention what
is confidently reported of mermaids or sea-men, them are same brutes,
that seem to have as much knowledge and reason, as some that are called
men; and the animal and vegetable kingdoms are so nearly joined, that if
you will take the lowest of one, and the highest of the other, there
will scarce be perceived any great difference between them; and so on
till we come to the lowest and the most most inorganical parts of
matter, we shall find every where that the several_ species _are linked
together, and differ but, in almost insensible degrees_.

16. _And when we consider the infinite power and wisdom of the Maker, we
have reason to think that it is suitable to the magnificent harmony of
the universe, that the great design and infinite goodness of the
architect, that the_ species _of creatures should also, by gentle
degrees, ascend upwards from us toward his infinite perfection as we see
they gradually descend from us downward: which if it be probable, we
have reason then to be persuaded; that there are far more_ species _of
creatures above us than there are beneath; we being in degrees of
perfection much more remote from the infinite Being of God, than we are
from the lowest state of being, and that which approaches nearest to
nothing. And yet of all those distinct species, we have no clear
distinct ideas._

17. In this system of being, there is no creature so wonderful in its
nature, and which so much deserves our particular attention, as man, who
fills up the middle space between the animal and intellectual nature,
the visible and invisible world, and is that link in the chain of being,
which has been often termed the _Nexus utriusque mundi_. So that he who
in one respect is associated with angels and archangels, may look upon a
Being of infinite perfection as his father, and the highest order of
spirits as his brethren; may in another respect say to _corruption, Thou
art my father, and to the worm, thou art my mother and my sister_.




_Providence proved from Animal Instinct._

SPECTATOR, No. 120.


1. I must confess I am infinitely delighted with those speculations of
nature which are to be made in a country-life; and as my reading has
very much lain among books of natural history, I cannot forbear
recollecting, upon this occasion, the several remarks which I have met
with in authors, and comparing them with what falls under my own
observation; the arguments for Providence drawn from the natural history
of animals, being, in my opinion, demonstrative.

2. The make of every kind of animal is different from that of every
other kind; and there is not the least turn in the muscles or twist in
the fibres of any one, which does not render them more proper for that
particular animal's way of life, than any other cast or texture of them
would have been.

The most violent appetites in all creatures are _lust_ and _hunger_; the
first is a perpetual call upon them to propagate their kind; the latter
to preserve themselves.

3. It is astonishing to consider the different degrees of care that
descend from the parent to the young, so far as is absolutely necessary
for the leaving a posterity. Some creatures cast their eggs as chance
directs them, and think of them no further, as insects, and several
kinds of fish; others, of a nicer frame, find out proper beds to
deposit them in, and there leave them, as the serpent, the crocodile,
and ostrich; others hatch their eggs and tend the birth till it is able
to shift for itself.

4. What can we call the principle which directs every different kind of
bird to observe a particular plan in the structure of the nest, and
directs all of the same species to work after the same model! It cannot
be _imitation_; for though you hatch a crow under a hen, and never let
it see any of the works of its own kind, the nest it makes shall be the
same to the laying of a stick, with all the other nests of the same
species. It cannot be _reason_; for were animals endued with it to as
great a degree as man, their buildings would be as different as ours,
according to the different conveniences that they would propose to
themselves.

5. Is it not remarkable, that the same temper of weather, which raises
this general warmth in animals, should cover the trees with leaves, and
the fields with grass, for their security and concealment, and produce
such infinite swarms of insects for the support and sustenance of their
respective broods?

Is it not wonderful that the love of the parent should be so violent
while it lasts, and that it should last no longer than is necessary for
the preservation of the young?

6. With what caution does the hen provide herself a nest in places
unfrequented, and free from noise and disturbances? When she has laid
her eggs in such a manner that she can cover them, what care does she
take in turning them frequently, that all parts may partake of the vital
warmth? When she leaves them, to provide for her necessary sustenance,
how punctually does she return before they have time to cool, and become
incapable of producing an animal? In the summer, you see her giving
herself greater freedoms, and quitting her care for above two hours
together; but, in winter, when the rigour of the season would chill the
principles of life, and destroy the young one, she grows more assiduous
in her attendance, and stays away but half the time.

7. When the birth approaches, with how much nicety and attention does
she help the chick to break its prison? Not to take notice of her
covering it from the injuries of the weather, providing it proper
nourishment, and teaching it to help itself; nor to mention her
forsaking the nest, if after the usual time of reckoning the young one
does not make its appearance. A chymical operation could not be followed
with greater art or diligence, than is seen in the hatching of a chick;
though there are many more birds that show an infinitely greater
sagacity in all the fore mentioned particulars.

8. But at the same time the hen, that has all this seeming ingenuity
(which is indeed absolutely necessary for the propagation of the
species) considered in other respects, is without the least glimmerings
of thought or common sense. She mistakes a piece of chalk for an egg,
and sits upon it in the same manner: she is insensible of any increase
or diminution in the number of those she lays: she does not distinguish
between her own and those off another species; and when the birth
appears of ever so different a bird, will cherish it for her own. In all
these circumstances, which do not carry an immediate regard to the
subsistence of herself or her species, she is a very idiot.

9. There is not, in my opinion, any thing more mysterious in nature than
this instinct in animals, which thus, rises above reason, and falls
infinitely short of it. It cannot be accounted for by any properties of
matter, and at the same time works after so odd a manner, that one
cannot think it the faculty of an intellectual being. For my own part, I
look upon it as upon the principle of gravitation in bodies, which is
not to be explained by any known qualities inherent in the bodies
themselves, nor from any laws in mechanism; but, according to the best
notions of the greatest philosophers, is an immediate impression from
the first mover, and the divine energy acting in the creature.




_Good-Breeding._


1. Complaisance renders a superior amiable, an equal agreeable, and an
inferior acceptable. It smoothes distinction, sweetens conversation, and
makes every one in the company pleased with himself. It produces good
nature and mutual benevolence, encourages the timorous, soothes the
turbulent; humanizes the fierce, and distinguishes a society of
civilized persons from a confusion of savages. In a word, complaisance
is a virtue that blends all orders of men together in a friendly
intercourse of words and actions, and is suited to that equality in
human nature which every one ought to consider, so far as is consistent
with the order and economy of the world.

2. If we could look into the secret anguish and affliction of every
man's heart, we should often find, that more of it arises from little
imaginary distresses, such as checks, frowns, contradictions,
expressions of contempt, and (what _Shakspeare_ reckons among other
evils under the sun)

    "--The poor man's contumely, The insolence of office, and the spurns
    That patient merit of the unworthy takes,"

than from the more real pains and calamities of life. The only method to
remove these imaginary distresses as much as possible out of human life,
would be the universal practice of such an ingenious complaisance as I
have been here describing, which, as it is a virtue, may be defined to
be a "constant endeavour to please those whom we converse with, so far
as we may do it innocently."

3. Good-breeding necessarily implies civility; but civility does not
reciprocally imply good-breeding. The former has its intrinsic weight
and value, which the latter always adorns, and often doubles by its
workmanship.

To sacrifice one's own self-love to other people's, is a short, but, I
believe, a true definition of civility: to do it with ease, propriety
and grace, is good-breeding. The one is the result of good-nature; the
other of good-sense, joined to experience, observation and attention.

4. A ploughman will be civil, if he is good-natured, but cannot be well
bred. A courtier will be well bred though perhaps without good-nature,
if he has but good sense. Flattery is the disgrace of good-breeding, as
brutality often is of truth and sincerity. Good-breeding is the middle
point between those two odious extremes.

Ceremony is the superstition of good-breeding, as well as of religion:
but yet, being an out-work to both, should not be absolutely demolished.
It is always, to a certain degree, to be complied with, though despised
by those who think, because admired and respected by those who do not.

5. The most perfect degree of good-breeding, as I have already hinted,
is only to be acquired by great knowledge of the world, and keeping the
best company. It is not the object of mere speculation, and cannot be
exactly defined, as it consists in a fitness, a propriety of words,
actions, and even looks, adapted to the infinite variety and
combinations of persons, places, and things. It is a mode, not a
substance; for what is good-breeding at St. _James's_, would pass for
foppery or banter in a remote village; and the homespun civility of that
village would be considered as brutality at court.

6. A cloistered pedant may form true notions of civility; but if amidst
the cobwebs of his cell he pretends to spin a speculative system of
good-breeding, he will not be less absurd than his predecessor, who
judiciously undertook to instruct _Hannibal_, in the art of war. The
most ridiculous and most aukward of men are, therefore, the
speculatively well bred monks of all religions and all professions.

7. Good-breeding, like charity, not only covers a multitude of faults,
but, to a certain degree, supplies the want of some virtues. In the
common intercourse of life, it nets good-nature, and often does what
good-nature will not always do; it keeps both wits and fools within
those bounds of decency, which the former are too apt to transgress, and
which the latter never know. Courts are unquestionably the seats of
good-breeding and must necessarily be so; otherwise they would be the
seats of violence and desolation. There all the passions are in their
highest state of fermentation.

8. All pursue what but few can obtain, and many seek what but one can
enjoy. Good-breeding alone restrains their excesses. There, if enemies
did not embrace they would stab. There, smiles are often put on to
conceal tears. There, mutual services are professed, while mutual
injuries are intended; and there, the guile of the serpent stimulates
the gentleness of the dove: all this, it is true, at the expense of
sincerity; but upon the whole, to the advantage of social intercourse in
general.

9. I would not be misapprehended, and supposed to recommend
good-breeding, thus prophaned and prostituted to the purposes of guilt
and perfidy; but I think I may justly infer from it, to what a degree
the accomplishment of good-breeding must adorn and enforce virtue and
truth, when it can thus soften the outrages and deformity of vice and
falsehood. I am sorry to be obliged to confess, that my native country
is not perhaps the seat of the most perfect good-breeding, though I
really believe, that it yields to none in hearty and sincere civility,
as far as civility is (and to a certain degree it is) an inferior moral
duty of doing as one would be done by.

10. If _France_ exceeds us in that particular, the incomparable author
of _L'Esprit des Loix_ accounts for it very impartially, and I believe
very truly. "If my countrymen," says he, "are the best bred people in
the world, it is only because they are the vainest." It is certain that
their good-breeding and attention, by flattering the vanity and
self-love of others, repay their own with interest. It is a general
commerce, usefully carried on by a barter of attentions, and often
without one grain of solid merit, by way of medium, to make up the
balance.

11. It were to be wished that good-breeding were in general thought a
more essential part in the education of our youth, especially of
distinction, than at present it seems to be. It might even be
substituted in the room of some academical studies, that take up a great
deal of time to very little purpose; or, at least, it might usefully
share some of those many hours, that are so frequently employed upon a
coach-box, or in stables. Surely those, who by their rank and fortune
are called to adorn courts, ought at least not to disgrace, them by
their manners.

12. But I observe with concern, that it is the fashion for our youth of
both sexes to brand good-breeding with the name of ceremony and
formality. As such they ridicule and explode it, and adopt in its stead,
an offensive carelessness and inattention, to the diminution, I will
venture to say, even of their own pleasures, if they know what true
pleasures are. Love and friendship necessarily produce, and justly
authorize familiarity; but then good-breeding must mark out its bounds,
and say, thus far shalt thou go, and no farther; for I have known many a
passion and many a friendship, degraded, weakened, and at last (if I may
use the expression) wholly flattened away, by an unguarded and illiberal
familiarity.

13. Nor is good-breeding less the ornament and cement of common social
life: it connects, it endears, and at the same time that it indulges the
just liberty, restrains that indecent licentiousness of conversation,
which alienates and provokes. Great talents make a man famous, great
merit makes him respected, and great learning makes him esteemed; but
good breeding alone can make him beloved.

14. I recommend it in a more particular manner to my countrywomen, as
the greatest ornament to such of them as have beauty, and the safest
refuge for those who have not. It facilitates the victories, decorates
the triumphs, and secures the conquests of beauty; or in some degree
atones for the want of it. It almost deifies a fine woman, and procures
respect at least to those who have not charms enough to be admired. Upon
the whole, though good-breeding cannot, strictly speaking, be called a
virtue, yet it is productive of so many good effects, that, in my
opinion, it may be justly reckoned more than a mere accomplishment.


WORLD, No. 143.

_Further Remarks, taken from Lord Chesterfield's Letters to his Son._

15. Good-Breeding has been very justly defined to be "the result of much
good-sense, some good nature and a little self-denial for the sake of
others, and with a view to obtain the same indulgence from them."

Good-breeding alone can prepossess people in our favour at first sight;
more time being necessary to discover greater talents. Good-breeding,
however, does not consist in low bows, and formal ceremony; but in an
easy civil, and respectful behaviour.

16. Indeed, good-sense, in many cases, must determine good-breeding; for
what would be civil at one time, and to one person, would be rude at
another time, and to another person: there are, however, some general
rules of good-breeding. As for example; to answer only yes, or no, to
any person, without adding sir, my lord, or madam, (as it may happen) is
always extremely rude; and it is equally so not to give proper attention
and a civil answer, when spoken to: such behaviour convinces the person
who is speaking to us, that we despise him, and do not think him worthy
of our attention or answer.

17. A well-bred person will take care to answer with complaisance when
he is spoken to; will place himself at the lower end of the table,
unless bid to go higher; will first drink to the lady of the house, and
then to the master; he will not eat aukwardly or dirtily, nor sit when
others stand; and he will do all this with an air of complaisance, and
not with a grave ill-natured look, as if he did it all unwillingly.

18. There is nothing more difficult to attain, or so necessary to
possess, as perfect good-breeding; which is equally inconsistent with a
stiff formality, an impertinent forwardness, and an aukward bashfulness.
A little ceremony is sometimes necessary; a certain degree of firmness
is absolutely so; and an outward modesty is extremely becoming.

19. Virtue and learning, like gold, have their intrinsic value; but, if
they are not polished, they certainly lose a great deal of their lustre:
and even polished brass will pass upon more people than rough gold. What
a number of sins does the cheerful, easy, good-breeding of the _French_
frequently cover!

My Lord _Bacon_ says, that "a pleasing figure is a perpetual letter of
recommendation." It is certainly an agreeable fore-runner of merit and
smooths the way for it.

20. A man of good-breeding should be acquainted with the forms and
particular customs of courts. At _Vienna_ men always make courtesies,
instead of bows, to the emperor; in _France_ nobody bows to the king, or
kisses his hand; but in _Spain_ and _England_ bows are made and hands
are kissed. Thus every court has some peculiarity, which those who visit
them ought previously to inform themselves of, to avoid blunders and
aukwardness.

21. Very few, scarce any, are wanting in the respect which they should
shew to those whom they acknowledge to be infinitely their superiors.
The man of fashion, and of the world, expresses it in its fullest
extent; but naturally, easily, and without concern: whereas a man, who
is not used to keep good company, expresses it aukwardly; one sees that
he is not used to it, and that it costs him a great deal: but I never
saw the worst bred man living, guilty of lolling, whistling, scratching
his head, and such-like indecencies, in company that he respected. In
such companies, therefore, the only point to be attended to is, to shew
that respect, which every body means to shew, in an easy, unembarrassed
and graceful manner.

22. In mixed companies, whoever is admitted to make part of them, is,
for the time at least, supposed to be upon a footing of equality with
the rest; and consequently, every one claims, and very justly, every
mark of civility and good-breeding. Ease is allowed, but carelessness
and negligence are strictly forbidden. If a man accosts you, and talks
to you ever so dully or frivolously, it is worse than rudeness, it is
brutality, to shew him, by a manifest inattention to what he says, that
you think him a fool or a blockhead, and not worth hearing.

23. It is much more so with regard to women; who, of whatever rank they
are, are entitled, in consideration of their sex, not only to an
attentive, but an officious good-breeding from men. Their little wants,
likings, dislikes, preferences, antipathies, fancies, whims, and even
impertinences, must be officiously attended to, flattered, and, if
possible, guessed at and anticipated, by a well-bred man. You must never
usurp to yourself those conveniences and _agremens_ which are of common
right; such as the best places, the best dishes, &c. but, on the
contrary, always decline themself yourself, and offer them to others;
who, in their turns, will offer them to you: so that, upon the whole,
you will, in your turn, enjoy your share of common right.

24. The third sort of good-breeding is local; and is variously modified,
in not only different countries, but in different towns in the same
country. But it must be founded upon the two former sorts: they are the
matter; to which, in this case, fashion and custom only give the
different shapes and impressions. Whoever has the two first sorts, will
easily acquire this third sort of good-breeding, which depends singly
upon attention and observation. It is properly the polish, the lustre,
the last finishing strokes of good-breeding. A man of sense, therefore,
carefully attends to the local manners of the respective places where he
is, and takes for his models those persons, whom he observes to be at
the head of the fashion and good-breeding.

25. He watches how they address themselves to their superiors, how they
accost their equals, and how they treat their inferiors: and lets none
of those little niceties escape him; which are to good-breeding, what
the last delicate and masterly touches are to a good picture, and which
the vulgar have no notion of, but by which good judges distinguish the
master. He attends even to their airs, dress, and motions, and imitates
them liberally, and not servilely; he copies, but does not mimic. These
personal graces are of very great consequence. They anticipate the
sentiments, before merit can engage the understanding: they captivate
the heart, and give rise, I believe, to the extravagant notions of
charms and philtres. Their effects were so surprising, that they were
reckoned supernatural.

26. In short, as it is necessary to possess learning, honor and virtue,
to gain the esteem and admiration of mankind, so politeness and
good-breeding are equally necessary to render us agreeable in
conversation and common life. Great talents are above the generality of
the world; who neither possess them themselves, nor are competent judges
of them in others; but all are judges of the lesser talents, such, as
civility, affability, and an agreeable address and manner; because they
feel the good effects of them, as making society easy and agreeable.

To conclude: be assured that the profoundest learning, without
good-breeding, is unwelcome and tiresome pedantry; that a man who is not
perfectly well-bred, is unfit for company, and unwelcome in it; and that
a man, who is not well-bred, is full as unfit for business as for
company.

Make, then, good-breeding the great object of your thoughts and actions.
Observe carefully the behaviour and manners of those who are
distinguished by their good-breeding; imitate, nay, endeavour to excel,
that you may at least reach them; and be convinced that good-breeding is
to all worldly qualifications, what charity is to all christian virtues.
Observe how it adorns merit, and how often it covers the want of it.




_Genteel Carriage._


1. Next to good-breeding is a genteel manner and carriage, wholly free
from those ill habits and aukward actions, which many very worthy
persons are addicted to.

2. A genteel manner of behaviour, how trifling soever it may seem, is of
the utmost consequence in private life. Men of very inferior parts have
been esteemed, merely for their genteel carriage and good-breeding,
while sensible men have given disgust for want of it. There is something
or other that prepossesses us at first sight in favor of a well-bred
man, and makes us wish to like him.

3. When an aukward fellow first comes into a room, he attempts to bow,
and his sword, if he wears one, gets between his legs, and nearly throws
him down. Confused, and ashamed, he stumbles to the upper end of the
room and seats himself in the very chair he should not. He there begins
playing with his hat, which he presently drops; and recovering his hat,
he lets fall his cane; and in picking up his cane, down goes his hat
again: thus 'tis a considerable time before he is adjusted.

4. When his tea or coffee is handed to him, he spreads his handkerchief
upon his knee, scalds his mouth, drops either the cup or the saucer, and
spills the tea or coffee in his lap. At dinner he is more uncommonly
aukward: there he tucks his napkin through a button-hole, which tickles
his chin, and occasions him to make a variety of wry faces; he seats
himself on the edge of the chair, at so great a distance from the table,
that he frequently drops his meat between his plate and his mouth; he
holds his knife, fork and spoon different from other people; eats with
his knife, to the manifest danger of his mouth; picks his teeth with his
fork, rakes his mouth with his finger, and puts his spoon, which has
been in his throat a dozen times, into the dish again.

5. If he is to carve he cannot hit the joint, but in labouring to cut
through the bone, splashes the sauce over every body's clothes. He
generally daubs himself all over, his elbows are in the next person's
plate, and he is up to the knuckles in soup and grease. If he drinks, it
is with his mouth full, interrupting the whole company with, "to your
good health, Sir," and "my service to you;" perhaps coughs in his glass,
and besprinkles the whole table. Further, he has perhaps a number of
disagreeable tricks; he snuffs up his nose, picks it with his fingers,
blows it; and looks in his handkerchief, crams his hands first in his
bosom, and next in his breeches.

6. In short, he neither dresses nor acts like any other but is
particularly aukward in every thing he does. All this, I own, has
nothing in it criminal; but it is such an offence to good manners and
good-breeding that it is universally despised; it makes a man ridiculous
in every company, and, of course, ought carefully to be avoided by every
one who would wish to please.

7. From this picture of the ill-bred man, you will easily discover that
of the well-bred; for you may readily judge what you ought to do, when
you are told what you ought not to do; a little attention to the manners
of those who have seen the world, will make a proper behaviour habitual
and familiar to you.

8. Actions, that would otherwise be pleasing, frequently become
ridiculous by your manner of doing-them. If a lady drops her fan in
company, the worst bred man would immediately pick it up, and give it to
her; the best bred man can do no more; but then he does it in a graceful
manner, which is sure to please; whereas the other would do it so
aukwardly as to be laughed at.

9. You may also know a well-bred person by his manner of sitting.
Ashamed and confused, the aukward man sits in his chair stiff and bolt
upright, whereas the man of fashion is easy in every position; instead
of lolling or lounging as he sits, he leans with elegance, and by
varying his attitudes, shews that he has been used to good company. Let
it be one part of your study, then, to learn to set genteely in
different companies, to loll gracefully, where you are authorised to
take that liberty, and to set up respectfully, where that freedom is not
allowable.

10. In short, you cannot conceive how advantageous a graceful carriage
and a pleasing address are, upon all occasions; they ensnare the
affections, steal a prepossession in our favour, and play about the
heart till they engage it.

Now to acquire a graceful air, you must attend to your dancing; no one
can either sit, stand, or walk well unless he dances well. And in
learning to dance be particularly attentive to the motion of your arms,
for a stiffness in the wrist will make any man look aukward. If a man
walks well, presents himself well in company, wears his hat well, moves
his head properly and his arms gracefully, it is almost all that is
necessary.

11. There is also an aukwardness in speech, that naturally falls under
this head, and ought to, and may be guarded against; such as forgetting
names and mistaking one name for another; to speak of Mr. What-d'ye-call
him, or, You-know-who, Mrs. Thingum, What's-her-name, or, How-d'ye-call
her, is exceedingly aukward and vulgar. 'Tis the same to address people
by improper titles, as _sir_ for _my lord_; to begin a story without
being able to finish it, and break off in the middle, with "I have
forgot the rest."

12. Our voice and manner of speaking, too, should likewise be attended
to. Some will mumble over their words, so as not to be intelligible, and
others will speak so fast as not to be understood, and in doing this,
will sputter and spit in your face; some will bawl as if they were
speaking to the deaf: others will speak so low as scarcely to be heard;
and many will put their faces so close to your's as to offend you with
their breath.

13. All these habits are horrid and disgustful, but may easily be got
the better of with care. They are the vulgar characteristics of a
low-bred man, or are proofs that very little pains have been bestowed in
his education. In short, an attention to these little matters is of
greater importance than you are aware of; many a sensible man having
lost ground for want of these little graces, and many a one possessed of
these perfections alone, having made his way through life, that
otherwise would not have been noticed.


_Cleanliness of Person._

14. But as no one can please in company, however graceful his air,
unless he be clean and neat in his person, this qualification comes next
to be considered.

15. Negligence of one's person not only implies an unsufferable
indolence, but an indifference whether we please or not. In others, it
betrays an insolence and affectation, arising from a presumption that
they are sure of pleasing, without having recourse to those means by
which many are obliged to use.

16. He who is not thoroughly clean in his person, will be offensive to
all he converses with. A particular regard to the cleanness of your
mouth, teeth, hands and nails, is but common decency. A foul mouth and
unclean hands are certain marks of vulgarity; the first is the cause of
an offensive breath, which nobody can bear, and the last is declaratory
of dirty work; one may always know a gentleman by the state of his hands
and nails. The flesh at the roots should be kept back, so as to shew the
semicircles at the bottom of the nails; the edges of the nails should
never be cut down below the ends of the fingers; nor should they be
suffered to grow longer than the fingers.

17. When the nails are cut down to the quick, it is a shrewd sign that
the man is a mechanic, to whom long nails would be troublesome, or that
he gets his bread by fiddling; and if they are longer than his fingers
ends, and encircled with a black rim, it foretells he has been
laboriously and meanly employed, and too fatigued to clean himself: a
good apology for want of cleanliness in a mechanic, but the greatest
disgrace that can attend a gentleman.

18. These things may appear too significant to be mentioned; but when it
is considered that a thousand little nameless things, which every one
feels but no one can describe, conspire to form that _whole_ of
pleasing, I hope you will not call them trifling. Besides a clean shirt
and a clean person are as necessary to health, as not to offend other
people. It is a maxim with me, which I have lived to see verified, that
he who is negligent at twenty years of age, will be a sloven at forty,
and intolerable at fifty.


_Dress_.

19. Neatness of person I observed was as necessary as cleanliness; of
course some attention must be paid to your dress.

Such is the absurdity of the times, that to pass well with the world, we
must adopt some of its customs, be they ridiculous or not.

20. In the first place, to neglect one's dress is to affront all the
female part of our acquaintance. The women in particular pay an
attention to their dress; to neglect, therefore, your's, will displease
them, as it would be tacitly taxing them with vanity, and declaring that
you thought them not worth the respect which every body else does. And,
as I have mentioned before, as it is the women who stamp a young man's
credit in the fashionable world, if you do not make yourself agreeable
to the women, you will assuredly lose ground among the men.

21. Dress, as trifling as it may appear to a man of understanding,
prepossesses on the first appearance, which is frequently decisive; and
indeed we may form some opinion of a man's sense and character from his
dress. Any exceeding of the fashion, or any affectation in dress
whatever, argues a weakness of understanding, and nine times out of ten
it will be found so.

22. There are few young fellows but what display some character or other
in this shape. Some would be thought fearless and brave: these wear a
black cravat, a short coat and waistcoat, an uncommon long sword hanging
to their knees, a large hat fiercely cocked, and are _flash_ all over.
Others affect to be country squires; these will go about in buckskin
breeches, brawn frocks, and great oaken cudgels in their hands, slouched
hats, with their hair undressed and tucked up behind them to an enormous
size, and imitate grooms and country boobies so well externally, that
there is not the least doubt of their resembling them as well
internally.

23. Others, again, paint and powder themselves so much, and dress so
finically, as leads us to suppose they are only women in boy's clothes.
Now a sensible man carefully avoids all this, or any other affectation.
He dresses as fashionable and well as persons of the best families and
best sense; if he exceeds them, he is a coxcomb; if he dresses worse, he
is unpardonable.

24. Dress yourself fine, then, if possible, or plain, agreeable to the
company you are in; that is, conform to the dress of others, and avoid
the appearance of being tumbled. Imitate those reasonable people of your
own age, whose dress is neither remarked as too neglected or too much
studied. Take care to have your clothes well made, in the fashion, and
to fit you, or you will, after all, appear aukward. When once dressed,
think no more of it; shew no fear of discomposing your dress, but let
all your motions be as easy and unembarrassed, as if you was at home in
your dishabille.


_Elegance of Expression._

25. Having mentioned elegance of person, I will proceed to elegance of
expression.

It is not one or two qualifications alone that will complete the
gentleman; it must be an union of many; and graceful speaking is as
essential as gracefulness of person. Every man cannot be an harmonious
speaker; a roughness or coarseness of voice may prevent it; but if there
are no natural imperfections, if a man does not stammer or lisp, or has
not lost his teeth, he may speak gracefully; nor will all these defects,
if he has a mind to it, prevent him from speaking correctly.

26. Nobody can attend with pleasure to a bad speaker. One who tells his
story ill, be it ever so important, will tire even the most patient. If
you have been present at the performance of a good tragedy, you have
doubtless been sensible of the good effects of a speech well delivered;
how much it has interested and affected you; and on the contrary, how
much an ill-spoken one has disgusted you.

27. 'Tis the same in common conversation; he who speaks deliberately,
distinctly and correctly; he who makes use of the best words to express
himself, and varies his voice according to the nature of the subject,
will always please, while the thick or hasty speaker, he who mumbles out
a set of ill-chosen words, utters them ungrammatically, or with a dull
monotony, will tire and disgust. Be assured then, the air, the gesture,
the looks of a speaker, a proper accent, a just emphasis, and tuneful
cadence, are full as necessary, to please and to be attended to, as the
subject matter itself.

28. People may talk what they will of solid reasoning and sound sense;
without the graces and ornaments of language, they will neither please
nor persuade. In common discourse, even trifles elegantly expressed,
will be better received, than the best of arguments homespun and
unadorned.

29. A good way to acquire a graceful utterance, is to read aloud to some
friend every day, and beg of him to set you right, in case you read too
fast, do not observe the proper stops, lay wrong emphasis, or utter your
words indistinctly. You may even read aloud to yourself where such a
friend is not at hand, and you will find your own ear a good corrector.
Take care to open your teeth when you read or speak, and articulate
every word distinctly; which last cannot be done but by sounding the
final letter. But above all, endeavour to vary your voice according to
the matter, and avoid a monotony. By a daily attention to this, it will
in a little time become easy and habitual to you.

30. Pay an attention also to your looks and your gesture, when talking
even on the most trifling subjects: things appear very different
according as they are expressed, looked and delivered.

Now, if it is necessary to attend so particularly to our _manner_ of
speaking, it is much more so with regard to the _matter_. Fine turns of
expression, a genteel and correct style, are ornaments as requisite to
common sense, as polite behaviour and an elegant address are to common
good manners; they are great assistants in the point of pleasing. A
gentleman, 'tis true, may be known in the meanest garb, but it admits
not of a doubt, that he would be better received into good company
genteely and fashionably dressed, than was he to appear in dirt and
tatters.

31. Be careful, then, of your style upon all occasions; whether you
write or speak, study for the best words and best expressions, even in
common conversation and the most familiar letters. This will prevent
your speaking in a hurry, than which nothing is more vulgar; though you
may be a little embarrassed at first, time and use will render it easy.
It is no such difficult thing to express ourselves well on subjects we
are thoroughly acquainted with, if we think before we speak; and no one
should presume to do otherwise.

32. When you have said a thing, if you did not reflect before, be sure
to do it after wards: consider with yourself whether you could not have
expressed yourself better; and if you are in doubt of the propriety or
elegancy of any word, search for it in some dictionary, or some good
author, while you remember it; never be sparing of your trouble while
you wish to improve, and my word for it, a very little time will make
this matter habitual.

33. In order to speak grammatically, and to express yourself pleasingly,
I would recommend it to you to translate often, any language you are
acquainted with, into English, and to correct such translation till the
words, their order, and the periods, are agreeable to your own ear.

Vulgarism in language is another distinguishing mark of bad company and
education. Expressions may be correct in themselves and yet be vulgar,
owing to their not being fashionable; for language as manners are both
established for the usage of people of fashion.

34. The conversation of a low-bred man is filled up with proverbs and
hackneyed sayings; instead of observing that tastes are different, and
that most men have one peculiar to themselves, he will give you--"What
is one man's meat is another man's poison;" or, "Every one to their
liking, as the old woman said, when she kissed her cow." He has ever
some favourite word, which he lugs in upon all occasions, right or
wrong; such as _vastly_ angry, _vastly_ kind; _devilish_ ugly,
_devilish_ handsome; _immensely_ great, _immensely_ little.

35. Even his pronunciation carries the mark of vulgarity along with it;
he calls the earth _yearth_; finan' ces, _fin' ances_, he goes _to
wards_, and not towards such a place. He affects to use hard words, to
give him the appearance of a man of learning, but frequently mistakes
their meaning, and seldom, if ever, pronounces them properly.

All this must be avoided, if you would not be supposed to have kept
company with foot-men and house-maids. Never have recourse to proverbial
or vulgar sayings; use neither favourite nor hard words, but seek for
the most elegant; be careful in the management of them, and depend on it
your labour will not be lost; for nothing is more engaging than a
fashionable and polite address.


_Small-Talk_.

36. In all good company we meet with a certain manner, phraseology and
general conversation, that distinguishes the man of fashion. This can
only be acquired by frequenting good company, and being particularly
attentive to all that passes there.

37. When invited to dine or sup at the house of any well-bred man,
observe how he does the honours of his table, and mark his manner of
treating his company.

Attend to the compliments of congratulation or condolence that he pays;
and take notice of his address to his superiors, his equals, and his
inferiors; nay, his very looks and tone of voice are worth your
attention, for we cannot please without an union of them all.

38. There is a certain distinguishing diction that marks the man of
fashion, a certain language of conversation that every gentleman should
be master of. Saying to a man just married, "I wish you joy," or to one
who has lost his wife, "I am sorry for your loss," and both perhaps with
an unmeaning countenance, may be civil, but it is nevertheless vulgar. A
man of fashion will express the same thing more elegantly, and with a
look of sincerity, that shall attract the esteem of the person he speaks
to. He will advance to the one, with warmth and cheerfulness, and
perhaps squeezing him by the hand, will say, "Believe me, my dear sir, I
have scarce words to express the joy I feel, upon your happy alliance
with such or such a family, &c." To the other in affliction he will
advance slowly, and with a peculiar composure of voice and countenance,
begin his compliments of condolence with, "I hope, sir, you will do me
the justice to be persuaded, that I am not insensible of your
unhappiness, that I take part in your distress, and shall ever be
affected where _you_ are so."

39. Your first address to, and indeed all your conversation with your
superiors, should be open, cheerful, and respectful; with your equals,
warm, and animated; with your inferiors, hearty, free, and unreserved.

40. There is a fashionable kind of small-talk, which, however trifling
it may be thought, has its use in mixed companies; of course you should
endeavour to acquire it. By small-talk, I mean a good deal to say on
unimportant matters: for example, foods, the flavour and growth of
wines, and the chit-chat of the day. Such conversation will serve to
keep off serious subjects, that might some time create disputes. This
chit-chat is chiefly to be learned by frequenting the company of the
ladies.




_Observation_.


1. As the art of pleasing is to be learnt only by frequenting the best
companies, we must endeavour to pick it up in such companies, by
observation; for, it is not sense and knowledge alone that will acquire
esteem; these certainly are the first and necessary foundations for
pleasing, but they will by no means do, unless attended with manners and
attention.

There have been people who have frequented the first companies till
their life-time, and yet have never got rid of their natural stiffness
and aukwardness; but have continued as vulgar as if they were never out
of a servant's hall: this has been owing to carelessness, and a want of
attention to the manners and behaviour of others.

2. There are a great many people likewise who busy themselves the whole
day, and who in fact do nothing. They have possibly taken up a book for
two or three hours, but from a certain inattention that grows upon them
the more it is indulged, know no more of the contents than if they had
not looked into it; nay, it is impossible for any one to retain what he
reads, unless he reflects and reasons upon it as he goes on. When they
have thus lounged away an hour or two, they will saunter into company,
without attending to any thing that passes there; but, if they think at
all, are thinking of some trifling matter that ought not to occupy their
attention; thence perhaps they go to the play, where they stare at the
company and the lights, without attending to the piece, the very thing
they went to see.

3. In this manner they wear away their hours, that might otherwise he
employed to their improvement and advantage. This silly suspension of
thought they would have pass _absence of mind_--Ridiculous!--Wherever
you are, let me recommend it to you to pay attention to all that passes;
observe the characters of the persons you are with, and the subjects of
their conversation; listen to every thing that is said, see every thing
that is done, and (according to the vulgar saying) have your eyes and
your ears about you.

4. A continual inattention to matters that occur, is the characteristic
of a weak mind; the man who gives way to it, is little else than a
trifler, a blank in society, which every sensible person overlooks;
surely what is worth doing is worth doing well, and nothing can be done
well if not properly attended to. When I hear a man say, on being asked
about any thing that was said or done in his presence, "that truly he
did not mind it," I am ready to knock the fool down. _Why_ did he not
mind it?--What had he else to do?--A man of sense and fashion never
makes use of this paltry plea; he never complains of a treacherous
memory, but attends to and remembers every thing that is said or done.

5. Whenever, then, you go into good company, that is, the company of
people of fashion, observe carefully their behaviour, their address, and
their manner; imitate it as far as in your power. Your attention, if
possible, should be so ready as to observe every person in the room at
once, their motions, their looks, and their turns of expression, and
that without staring or seeming to be an observer. This kind of
observation may be acquired by care and practice, and will be found of
the utmost advantage to you, in the course of life.




_Absence of Mind_.


1. Having mentioned absence of mind, let me be more particular
concerning it.

What the world calls an absent man is generally either a very affected
one or a very weak one; but whether weak or affected, he is, in company,
a very disagreeable man. Lost in thought, or possibly in no thought at
all, he is a stranger to every one present, and to every thing that
passes; he knows not his best friends, is deficient in every act of good
manners, unobservant of the actions of the company, and insensible to
his own.

2. His answers are quite the reverse of what they ought to be; talk to
him of one thing, he replies, as of another. He forgets what he said
last, leaves his hat in one room, his cane in another, and his sword in
a third; nay, if it was not for his buckles, he would even leave his
shoes behind him. Neither his arms nor his legs seem to be a part of his
body, and his head is never in a right position. He joins not in the
general conversation, except it be by fits and starts, as if awaking
from a dream; I attribute this either to weakness or affectation.

3. His shallow mind is possibly not able to attend to more than one
thing at a time, or he would be supposed wrapt up in the investigation
of some very important matter. Such men as Sir _Isaac Newton_ or Mr.
_Locke_, might occasionally have some excuse for absence of mind; it
might proceed from that intenseness of thought that was necessary at all
times for the scientific subjects they were studying; but, for a young
man, and a man of the world, who has no such plea to make, absence of
mind is a rudeness to the company, and deserves the severest censure.

4. However insignificant a company may be; however trifling their
conversation; while you are with them, do not shew them by any
inattention that you think them trifling; that can never be the way to
please; but rather fall in with their weakness than otherwise, for to
mortify, or shew the least contempt to those we are in company with, is
the greatest rudeness we can be guilty of; and what few can forgive.

5. I never yet found a man inattentive to the person he feared, or the
woman he loved; which convinces me that absence of mind is to be got the
better of, if we think proper to make the trial; and believe me, it is
always worth the attempt.

Absence of mind is a tacit declaration, that those we are in company
with are not worth attending to; and what can be a greater
affront?--Besides, can an absent man improve by what is said or done in
his presence?--No; he may frequent the best companies for years
together, and all to no purpose. In short, a man is neither fit for
business nor conversation, unless he can attend to the object before
him, be that object what it will.




_Knowledge of the World._


1. A knowledge of the world, by our own experience and observation, is
so necessary, that without it we shall act very absurdly, and frequently
give offence when we do not mean it. All the learning and parts in the
world will not secure us from it. Without an acquaintance with life, a
man may say very good things, but time them so ill, and address them so
improperly, that he had much better be silent. Full of himself and his
own business, and inattentive to the circumstances and situations of
those he converses with, he vents it without the least discretion, says
things that he ought not to say, confutes some, shocks others, and puts
the whole company in pain, lest what he utters next should prove worse
than the last. The best direction I can give you in this matter, is,
rather to fall in with the conversation of others, than start a subject
of your own: rather strive to put them more in conceit with themselves,
than to draw their attention to you.

2. A novice in life, he who knows little of mankind, but what he
collects from books, lays it down as a maxim, that most men love
flattery; in order therefore to please, he will flatter: but, how?
Without regard either to circumstances or occasions. Instead of those
delicate touches, those soft tints, that serve to heighten the piece, he
lays on his colours with a heavy hand, and daubs where he means to
adorn: in other words, he will flatter so unseasonably, and, at the same
time, so grossly, that while he wishes to please he puts out of
countenance and is sure to offend. On the contrary, a man of the world,
one who has made life his study, knows the power of flattery as well as
he; but then he knows how to apply it; he watches the opportunity, and
does it indirectly, by inference, comparison and hint.

3. Man is made up of such a variety of matter, that, to search him
thoroughly, requires time and attention; for, though we are all made of
the same materials, and have all the same passions, yet, from a
difference in their proportion and combination, we vary in our
dispositions; what is agreeable to one is disagreeable to another, and
what one shall approve, another shall condemn. Reason is given us to
controul these passions, but seldom does it. Application therefore to
the reason of any man will frequently prove ineffectual, unless we
endeavour at the same time to gain his heart.

4. Wherever then you are, search into the characters of men; find out,
if possible, their foible, their governing; passion, or their particular
merit; take them on their weak side, and you will generally succeed:
their prevailing vanity you may readily discover, by observing; their
favourite topic of conversation, for every one talks most of what he
would be thought most to excel in.

5. The time should also be judiciously made choice of. Every man has his
particular times when he may be applied to with success, the _mollia
tempora fandi_: but these times are not all the day long; they must be
found out, watched, and taken advantage of. You could not hope for
success in applying to a man about one business, when he was taken up
with another, or when his mind was affected with excess of grief, anger,
or the like.

6. You cannot judge of other men's minds better than by studying your
own; for, though some men have one foible, and another has another, yet
men, in general, are very much alike. Whatever pleases or offends you,
will in similar circumstances, please or offend others; if you find
yourself hurt when another, makes you feel his superiority, you will
certainly, upon the common rule of right, _do as you would be done by_,
take care not to let another feel your superiority, if you have it,
especially if you wish to gain his interest or esteem.

7. If disagreeable insinuations, open contradictions, or oblique sneers
vex and anger you, would you use them where you wished to please?
certainly not. Observe then with care the operations of your own mind;
and you may in a great measure read all mankind.

_I_ will allow that one bred up in a cloister or college, may reason
well on the structure of the human mind; he may investigate the nature
of man, and give a tolerable account of his head, his heart, his
passions; and his sentiments: but at the same time he may know nothing
of him; he has not lived with him, and of course can know but little how
those sentiments or those passions will work; he must be ignorant of the
various prejudices, propensities and antipathies, that always bias him
and frequently determine him.

8. His knowledge is acquired only from theory, which differs widely from
practice; and if, he forms his judgment from that alone, he must be
often deceived; whereas a man of the world, one who collects his
knowledge from his own experience and observation, is seldom wrong; he
is well acquainted with the operations of the human mind, prys into the
heart of man, reads his-words before they are utttered, sees his actions
before they are performed, knows what will please, and what will
displease; and foresees the event of most things.

9. Labour then to require this intuitive knowledge; attend carefully to
the address, the arts and manners of those acquainted with life, and
endeavour to imitate them. Observe the means they take to gain the
favour, and conciliate the affections of those they associate with;
pursue those means, and you will soon gain the esteem of all that know
you.

How often have we seen men governed by persons very much their inferiors
in point of understanding, and even without their knowing it? A proof
that some men have more worldly dexterity than others; they find out the
weak and unguarded part, make their attack there, and the man
surrenders.

10. Now from a knowledge of mankind we shall learn the advantage of two
things, the command of our temper and our countenance: a trifling,
disagreeable incident shall perhaps anger one unacquainted withlife, or
confound him with same; shall make him rave like a madman, or look like
a fool: but a man of the world will never understand what he cannot or
ought not to resent. If he should chance to make a slip himself, he will
stifle his confusion, and turn it off with a jest; recovering it with
coolness.

11. Many people have sense enough to keep their own secrets; but from
being unused to a variety of company, have unfortunately such a
tell-tale countenance, as involuntarily declares what they would wish to
conceal. This is a great unhappiness; and should as soon as possible be
got the better of.

That coolness of mind and evenness of countenance, which prevents a
discovery of our sentiments, by our words, our actions, or our looks, is
too necessary to pass unnoticed.

12. A man who cannot hear displeasing things, without visible marks of
anger or uneasiness; or pleasing ones, without a sudden burst of joy, a
cheerful eye, or an expanded face, is at the mercy of every knave: for
either they will designedly please or provoke you themselves, to catch
your unguarded looks; or they will seize the opportunity thus to read
your very heart, when any other shall do it. You may possibly tell me,
that this coolness must be natural, for if not, you can never acquire
it.

13. I will admit the force of constitution, but people are very apt to
blame that for many things they might readily avoid. Care, with a little
reflection, will soon give you this mastery of your temper and your
countenance. If you find yourself subject to sudden starts of passion,
determine with yourself not to utter a single word till your reason has
recovered itself; and resolve to keep your countenance as unmoved as
possible.

14. As a man who at a card-table can preserve a serenity in his looks,
under good or bad luck, has considerably the advantage of one who
appears elated with success, or cast down with ill fortune, from our
being able to read his cards in his face; so the man of the world,
having to deal with one of these babbling countenances, will take care
to profit by the circumstance, let the consequence, to him with whom he
deals, be as injurious as it may.

15. In the course of life, we shall find it necessary very often to put
on a pleasing countenance when, we are exceedingly displeased; we must
frequently seem friendly when we are quite otherwise. I am sensible it
is difficult to accost a man with smiles whom we know to be our enemy:
but what is to be done? On receiving an affront if you cannot be
justified in knocking the offender down, you must not notice the
offence; for in the eye of the world, taking an affront calmly is
considered as cowardice.

16. If fools should at any time attempt to be witty upon you, the best
way is not to know their witticisms are levelled at you, but to conceal
any uneasiness it may give you: but, should they be so plain that you
cannot be thought ignorant of their meaning, I would recommend, rather
than quarrel with the company, joining even in the laugh against
yourself: allow the jest to be a good one, and take it in seeming good
humour. Never attempt to retaliate the same way, as that would imply you
were hurt. Should what is said wound your honour or your moral
character, there is but one proper reply, which I hope you will never be
obliged to have recourse to.

17. Remember there are but two alternatives for a gentleman; extreme
politeness, or the sword. If a man openly and designedly affronts you,
call him oat; but if it does not amount to an open insult, be outwardly
civil; if this does not make him ashamed of his behaviour, it will
prejudice every by-stander in your favour, and instead of being
disgraced, you will come off with honour. Politeness to those we do not
respect, is no more a breach of faith than _your humble servant_ at the
bottom of a challenge; they are universally understood to be things of
course.

18. Wrangling and quarreling are characteristics of a weak mind: leave
that to the women, be _you_ always above it. Enter into no sharp
contest, and pride yourself in shewing, if possible, more civility to
your antagonist than to any other in the company; this will infallibly
bring over all the laughter to your side, and the person you are
contending with will be very likely to confess you have behaved very
handsomely throughout the whole affair.

19. Experience will teach us that though all men consist principally of
the same materials, as I before took notice, yet from a difference in
their proportion, no two men are uniformly the same: we differ from one
another, and we often differ from ourselves, that is, we sometimes do
things utterly inconsistent with the general tenor of our characters.
The wisest man will occasionally do a weak thing: the most honest man, a
wrong thing; the proudest man, a mean thing; and the worst of men will
sometimes do a good thing.

20. On this account, our study of mankind should not be general; we
should take a frequent view of individuals, and though we may upon the
whole form a judgment of the man from his prevailing passion or his
general character, yet it will be prudent not to determine, till we have
waited to see the operation of his subordinate appetites and humours.

21. For example; a man's general character maybe that of strictly
honest; I would not dispute it, because I would not be thought envious
or malevolent; but I would not rely upon this general character, so as
to entrust him with my fortune or my life. Should this honest man, as is
not common, be my rival in power, interest, or love, he may possibly do
things that in other circumstances he would abhor; and power, interest,
and love, let me tell you, will often put honesty to the severest trial,
and frequently overpower it. I would then ransack this honest man to the
bottom, if I wished to trust him, and as I found him, would place my
confidence accordingly.

22. One of the great compositions in our nature is vanity, to which, all
men, more or less, give way. Women have an intolerable share of it. So
flattery, no adulation is too gross for them; those who flatter them
most please them best, and they are most in love with him who pretends
to be most in love with them; and the least slight or contempt of them
is never forgotten. It is in some measure the same with men; they will
sooner pardon an injury than an insult, and are more hurt by contempt
than by ill-usage. Though all men do not boast of superior talents,
though they pretend not to the abilities of a _Pope_, a _Newton_, or a
_Bollingbroke_, every one pretends to have common sense, and to
discharge his office in life with common decency; to arraign therefore,
in any shape, his abilities or integrity in the department he holds, is
an insult he will not readily forgive.

23. As I would not have you trust too implicitly to a man, because the
world gives him a good character; so I must particularly caution you
against those who speak well of themselves. In general, suspect those
who boast of or affect to have any one virtue above all others, for they
are commonly impostors. There are exceptions, however, to this rule, for
we hear of prudes that have been made chaste, bullies that have been
brave, and saints that have been religious. Confide only where your own
observation shall direct you; observe not only what is said, but how it
is said, and if you have penetration, you may find out the truth better
by your eyes than your ears; in short, never take a character upon
common report, but enquire into it yourself; for common report, though
it is right in general, may be wrong in particulars.

24. Beware of those who, on a slight acquaintance, make a tender of
their friendship, and seem to place a confidence in you; 'tis ten to one
but they deceive and betray you: however, do not rudely reject them upon
such a supposition; you may be civil to them, though you do not entrust
them. Silly men are apt to solicit your friendship, and unbosom
themselves upon the first acquaintance: such friends cannot be worth
hearing, their friendship being as slender as their understanding; and
if they proffer their friendship with a design to make a property of
you, they are dangerous acquaintance indeed.

25. Not but the little friendships of the weak may be of some use to
you, if you do not return the compliment; and it may not be amiss to
seem to accept those of designing men, keeping them, as it were, in
play, that they may not be openly your enemies; for their enmity is the
next dangerous thing to their friendship. We may certainly hold their
vices in abhorrence, without being marked out as their personal enemy.
The general rule is to have a real reserve with almost every one, and a
seeming reserve with almost no one; for it is very disgusting to seem
reserved, and very dangerous not to be so. Few observe the true medium.
Many are ridiculously misterious upon trifles and many indiscreetly
communicative of all they know.

36. There is a kind of short-lived friendship that takes place among
young men, from a connection in their pleasures only; a friendship too
often attended with bad consequences. This companion of your pleasures,
young and unexperienced, will probably, in the heat of convivial mirth,
vow a perpetual friendship, and unfold himself to you without the least
reserve; but new associations, change of fortune, or change of place,
may soon break this ill-timed connection, and an improper use may be
made of it.

27. Be one, if you will, in young companies, and bear your part like
others in the social festivity of youth; nay, trust them with your
innocent frolics, but keep your serious matters to yourself; and if you
must at any time make _them_ known, let it be to some tried friend of
great experience; and that nothing may tempt him to become your rival,
let that friend be in a different walk of life from yourself.

Were I to hear a man making strong protestations, and swearing to the
truth of a thing, that is in itself probable, and very likely to be, I
shall doubt his veracity; for when he takes such pains to make me
believe it, it cannot be with a good design.

28. There is a certain easiness or false modesty in most young people,
that either makes them unwilling, or ashamed to refuse any thing that is
asked of them. There is also an unguarded openness about them, that
makes them the ready prey of the artful and designing. They are easily
led away by the feigned friendships of a knave or a fool, and too rashly
place a confidence in them, that terminates in their loss, and
frequently in their ruin. Beware, therefore, as I said before, of these
proffered friendships; repay them with compliments, but not with
confidence. Never let your vanity make you suppose that people become
your friends upon a slight acquaintance: for good offices must be shewn
on both sides to create a friendship; it will not thrive, unless its
love be mutual; and it requires time to ripen it.

29. There is still among young people another kind of friendship merely
nominal, warm indeed for the time, but fortunately of no long
continuance. This friendship takes its rise from their pursuing the same
course of riot and debauchery; their purses are open to each other,
they tell one another all they know, they embark in the same quarrels,
and stand by each other on all occasions. I should rather call this a
confederacy against good morals and good manners, and think it deserves
the severest lash of the law; but they have the impudence to call it
friendship. However, it is often as suddenly dissolved as it is hastily
contracted; some accident disperses them, and they presently forget each
other, except it is to betray and laugh at their own egregious folly.

In short, the sum of the whole is, to make a wide difference between
companions and friend; for a very agreeable companion has often proved a
very dangerous friend.





_Choice of Company._


1. The next thing to the choice of friends is the choice of your
company.

Endeavour as much as you can to keep good company, and the company of
your superiors: for you will be held in estimation according to the
company you keep. By superiors I do not mean so much with regard to
birth, as merit and the light in which they are considered by the world.

2. There are two sorts of good company; the one consists of persons of
birth, rank, and fashion; the other of those who are distinguished by
some peculiar merit, in any liberal art or science; as men of letters,
&c. and a mixture of these is what I would have understood by good
company; for it is not what particular sets of people shall call
themselves, but what the people in general acknowledge to be so, and are
the accredited good company of the place.

3. Now and then, persons without either birth, rank, or character, will
creep into good company, under the protection of some considerable
personage; but, in general, none are admitted of mean degree, or
infamous moral character.

In this fashionable good company alone, can you learn the best manners
and the best language, for, as there is no legal standard to form them
by, 'tis here they are established.

It may possibly be questioned whether a man has it always in his power
to get into good company: undoubtedly, by deserving it, he has; provided
he is in circumstances which enable him to live and appear in the style
of a gentleman. Knowledge, modesty, and good-breeding, will endear him
to all that see him; for without politeness, the scholar is no better
than a pedant, the philosopher than a cynic, the soldier than a brute,
nor any man than a clown.

4. Though the company of men of learning and genius is highly to be
valued, and occasionally coveted, I would by no means have you always
found in such company. As they do not live in the world, they cannot
have that easy manner and address which I would wish you to acquire. If
you can bear a part in such company, it is certainly adviseable to be in
it sometimes, and you will be the more esteemed in other company by
being so; but let it not engross you, lest you be considered as one of
the _literati_, which, however respectable in name, is not the way to
rise or shine in the fashionable world.

5. But the company, which, of all others, you should carefully avoid, is
that, which, in every sense of the word, may be called _low_; low in
birth, low in rank, low in parts, and low in manners; that company, who,
insignificant and contemptible in themselves, think it an honour to be
seen with _you_, and who will flatter your follies, nay, your very
vices, to keep you with them.

6. Though _you_ may think such a caution unnecessary, _I_ do not; for
many a young gentleman of sense and rank has been led by his vanity to
keep such company, till he has been degraded, villified and undone.

The vanity I mean, is that of being the first of the company. This
pride, though too common, is idle to the last degree. Nothing in the
world lets a man down so much. For the sake of dictating, being
applauded and admired by this low company, he is disgraced and
disqualified for better. Depend upon it, in the estimation of mankind
you will sink or rise to the level of the company you keep.

7. Be it then your ambition to get into the best company; and, when
there, imitate their virtues, but not their vices. You have no doubt,
often heard of genteel and fashionable vices. These are whoring,
drinking, and gaming. It has happened that some men even with these
vices, have been admired and esteemed. Understand this matter rightly;
it is not their vices for which they are admired; but for some
accomplishments they at the same time possess; for their parts, their
learning, or their good-breeding. Be assured, were they free from their
vices, they would be much more esteemed. In these mixed characters, the
bad part is overlooked, for the sake of the good.

8. Should you be unfortunate enough to have any vices of your own, add
not to their number by adopting the vices of others. Vices of adoption
are of all others the most unpardonable, for they have not inadvertency
to plead. If people had no vices but their own, few would have so many
as they have.

Imitate, then, only the perfections you meet with; copy the politeness,
the address, the easy manners of well-bred people; and remember, let
them shine ever so bright, if they have any vices, they are so many
blemishes, which it would be as ridiculous to imitate, as it would to
make an artificial wart on one's face, because some very handsome man
had the misfortune to have a natural one upon his.





_Laughter._


1. Let us now descend to minuter matters, which, tho' not so important
as those we have mentioned, are still far from inconsiderable. Of these
laughter is one.

Frequent and loud laughter is a sure sign of a weak mind, and no less
characteristic of a low education. It is the manner in which low-bred
men express their silly joy, at silly things, and they call it being
merry.

2. I do not recommend upon all occasions a solemn countenance. A man may
smile; but if he would be thought a gentleman and a man of sense, he
would by no means laugh. True wit never yet made a man of fashion laugh;
he is above it. It may create a smile; but as loud laughter shews that a
man has not the command of himself, every one who would with to appear
sensible, must abhor it.

A man's going to set down, on a supposition that he has a chair behind
him, and falling for want of one, occasions a general laugh, when the
best piece of wit would not do it: a sufficient proof how low and
unbecoming laughter is.

3. Besides, could the immoderate laugher hear his own noise, or see the
face he makes, he would despise himself for his folly. Laughter being
generally supposed to be the effect of gaity, its absurdity is not
properly attended to; but a little reflection will easily restrain it,
and when you are told it is a mark of low-breeding, I persuade myself
you will endeavour to avoid it.

4. Some people have a silly trick of laughing whenever they speak, so
that they are always on the grin, and their faces are ever distorted.
This and a thousand other tricks, such as scratching their heads,
twirling their hats, fumbling with their button, playing with their
fingers, &c. are acquired from a false modesty at their first out-set in
life. Being shame-faced in company, they try a variety of ways to keep
themselves in countenance; thus, they fall into those awkward habits I
have mentioned, which grow upon them, and in time become habitual.

Nothing is more repugnant likewise to good-breeding than horse-play of
any sort, romping, throwing things at one another's heads, and so on.
They may pass well enough with the mob; but they lessen and degrade the
gentleman.




_Sundry little Accomplishments._


1. I have had reason to observe before, that various little matters,
apparently trifling in themselves, conspire to form the _whole_ of
pleasing, as in a well-finished portrait, a variety of colours combine
to complete the piece. It not being necessary to dwell much upon them, I
shall content myself with just mentioning them as they occur.

2. To do the honours of a table gracefully, is one of the outlines of a
well-bred man; and to carve well, is an article, little as it may seem,
that is useful twice every day, and the doing of which ill is not only
troublesome to one's self, but renders us disagreeable and ridiculous to
others. We are always in pain for a man who, instead of cutting up a
fowl genteelly, is hacking for half an hour across the bone, greasing
himself, and bespattering the company with the sauce. Use, with a little
attention, is all that is requisite to acquit yourself well in this
particular.

3. To be well received, you must also pay some attention to your
behaviour at table, where it is exceedingly rude to scratch any part of
your body; to spit, or blow your nose, if you can possibly avoid it, to
eat greedily, to lean your elbows on the table, to pick your teeth
before the dishes are removed, or to leave the table before grace is
said.

4. Drinking of healths is now growing out of fashion, and is very
unpolite in good company. Custom once had made it universal, but the
improved manners of the age now render it vulgar. What can be more rude
or ridiculous, than to interrupt persons at their meals with an
unnecessary compliment? Abstain then from this silly custom, where you
find it out of use; and use it only at those tables where it continues
general.

5. A polite manner of refusing to comply with the solicitations of a
company, is also very necessary to be learnt, for a young man who seems
to have no will of his own, but does every thing that is asked of him,
may be a very good-natured fellow, but he is a very silly one. If you
are invited to drink at any man's house, more than you think is
wholesome, you may say, "you wish you could, but that so little makes
you both drunk and sick, that you shall only be bad company by doing it:
of course beg to be excused."

6. If desired to play at cards deeper than you would, refuse it
ludicrously; tell them, "If you were sure to lose, you might possibly
sit down; but that as fortune may be favourable, you dread the thought
of having too much money, ever since you found what an incumbrance it
was to poor Harlequin, and therefore you are resolved never to put
yourself in the way of winning more than such and such a sum a day."
This light way of declining invitations to vice and folly, is more
becoming a young man, than philosophical or sententious refusals, which
would only be laughed at.

7. Now I am on the subject of cards, I must not omit mentioning the
necessity of playing them well and genteelly, if you would be thought to
have kept good company. I would by no means recommend playing at cards
as a part of your study, lest you should grow too fond of it, and the
consequences prove bad. It were better not to know a diamond from a
club, than to become a gambler; but, as custom has introduced innocent
card playing at most friendly meetings, it marks the gentleman to handle
them genteelly, and play them well; and as I hope you will play only
for small sums, should you lose your money pray lose it with temper: or
win, receive your winnings without either elation or greediness.

8. To write well and correct, and in a pleasing style, is another part
of polite education. Every man who has the use of his eyes and his right
hand, can write whatever hand he pleases. Nothing is so illiberal as a
school-boy's scrawl. I would not have you learn a stiff formal
hand-writing, like that of a school-master, but a genteel, legible, and
liberal hand, and to be able to write quick. As to the correctness and
elegancy of your writing, attention to grammar does the one, and to the
best authors, the other. Epistolary correspondence should not be carried
on in a studied or affected style, but the language should flow from the
pen, as naturally and as easily as it would from the mouth. In short, a
letter should be penned in the same style as you would talk to your
friend, if he was present.

9. If writing well shews the gentleman, much more so does spelling well.
It is so essentially necessary for a gentleman, or a man of letters,
that one false spelling may fix a ridicule on him for the remainder of
his life. Words in books are generally well spelled, according to the
orthography of the age; reading, therefore, with attention, will teach
every one to spell right. It sometimes happens, that words shall be
spelled differently by different authors; but, if you spell them upon
the authority of one in estimation of the public, you will escape
ridicule. Where there is but one way of spelling a word, by your
spelling it wrong, you will be sure to be laughed at. For a _woman_ of a
tolerable education would laugh at and despise her lover, if he wrote to
her, and the words were ill-spelled. Be particularly attentive, then, to
your spelling.

10. There is nothing that a man at his first appearance in life ought
more to dread than having any ridicule fixed on him. In the estimation
even of the most rational men, it will not only lessen him, but ruin him
with all the rest. Many a man has been undone by a ridiculous nick-name.
The causes of nick-names among well-bred men, are generally the little
defects in manner, air, or address. To have the appellation of ill-bred,
aukward, muttering, left-legged, or any other tacked always to your
name, would injure you more than you are aware of; avoid then these
little defects (and they are easily avoided) and you need never fear a
nick-name.

11. Some young men are apt to think, that they cannot be complete
gentlemen, without becoming men of pleasure. A rake is made up of the
meanest and most disgraceful vices. They all combine to degrade his
character, and ruin his health, and fortune. A man of pleasure will
refine upon the enjoyments of the age, attend them with decency, and
partake of them becomingly.

12. Indeed he is too often less scrupulous than he should be, and
frequently has cause to repent it. A man of pleasure, at best, is but a
dissipated being, and what the rational part of mankind most abhor; I
mention it, however, lest, in taking, up the man of pleasure, you should
fall into the rake; for, of two evils, always chuse the least. A
dissolute flagitious footman may make as good a rake as a man of the
first quality. Few man can be men of pleasure; every man may be a rake.

13. There is a certain dignity that should be preserved in all our
pleasures; in love, a man may lose his heart, without losing his nose;
at table a man may have a distinguished palate, without being a glutton;
he may love wine without being a drunkard; he may game without being a
gambler, and so on.

14. Every virtue has its kindred vice, and every pleasure its
neighbouring disgrace. Temperance and moderation mark the gentleman, but
excess the blackguard. Attend carefully, then, to the line that divides
them; and remember, stop rather a yard short, than step an inch beyond
it. Weigh the present enjoyment of your pleasures against the necessary
consequences of them, and I will leave you to your own determination.

15. A gentleman has ever some regard also to the _choice_ of his
amusements. If at cards, he will not be seen at cribbage, all-fours, or
putt; or, in sports of exercise, at skittles, foot-ball, leap-frog,
cricket, driving of coaches, &c. but will preserve a propriety in every
part of his conduct; knowing, that any imitation of the manners of the
mob, will unavoidably stamp him with vulgarity. There is another
amusement too, which I cannot help calling illiberal, that is, playing
upon any musical instrument.

16. Music is commonly reckoned one of the liberal arts, and undoubtedly
is so; but to be piping or fiddling at a concert, is degrading to a man
of fashion. If you love music, hear it; pay fiddlers to play to you, but
never fiddle yourself. It makes a gentleman appear frivolous and
contemptible, leads him frequently into bad company, and wastes that
time which might otherwise be well employed.

17. Secrecy is another characteristic of good-breeding. Be careful not
to tell in one company, what you see or hear in another; much less to
divert the present company at the expense of the last. Things apparently
indifferent may, when often repeated and told abroad, have much more
serious consequences than imagined. In conversation there is generally a
tacit reliance, that what is said will not be repeated; and a man,
though not enjoined to secrecy, will be excluded company, if found to be
a tattler; besides, he will draw himself into a thousand scrapes, and
every one will be afraid to speak before him.

18. Pulling out your watch in company unasked, either at home or abroad,
is a mark of ill-breeding; if at home, it appears as if you were tired
of your company, and wished them to be gone; if abroad, as if the hours
drag heavily, and you wished to be gone yourself. If you want to know
the time, withdraw; besides, as the taking what is called a French leave
was introduced, that on one person's leaving the company the rest might
not be disturbed, looking at your watch does what that piece of
politeness was designed to prevent: it is a kind of dictating to all
present, and telling them it is time, or almost time, to break up.

19. Among other things, let me caution you against ever being in a
hurry; a man of sense may be in haste, but he is never in a hurry;
convinced, that hurry is the surest way to make him do what he
undertakes ill. To be in a hurry, is a proof that the business we embark
in is too great for us; of course, it is the mark of little minds, that
are puzzled and perplexed when they should be cool and deliberate; they
wish to do every thing at once, and are thus able to do nothing. Be
steady, then, in all your engagements; look round you before you begin;
and remember, that you had better do half of them well, and leave the
rest undone, than to do the whole indifferently.

20. From a kind of false modesty, most young men are apt to consider
familiarity as unbecoming. Forwardness I allow is so; but there is a
decent familiarity that is necessary in the course of life. Mere formal
visits, upon formal invitations, are not the thing; they create no
connection, nor will they prove of service to you; it is the careless
and easy ingress and egress, at all hours, that secures an acquaintance
to our interest, and this is acquired by a respectful familiarity
entered into, without forfeiting your consequence.

21. In acquiring new acquaintance, be careful not to neglect your old,
for a slight of this kind is seldom forgiven. If you cannot be with your
former acquaintance so often as you used to be, while you had no others,
take care not to give them cause to think you neglect them; call upon
them frequently though you cannot stay long with them; tell them you are
sorry to leave them so soon, and nothing should take you away but
certain engagements which good manners obliged you to attend to; for it
will be your interest to make all the friends you can, and as few
enemies as possible.

22. By friends, I would not be understood to mean confidential ones; but
persons who speak of you respectfully, and who, consistent with their
own interest, would wish to be of service to you, and would rather do
you good than harm.

Another thing I must recommend to you, as characteristic of a polite
education, and of having kept good company, is a graceful manner of
conferring favours. The most obliging things may be done so aukwardly as
to offend, while the most disagreeable things may be done so agreeable
as to please.

23. A few more articles of general advice, and I have done; the first is
on the subject of vanity. It is the common failing of youth, and as such
ought to be carefully guarded against. The vanity I mean, is that which,
if given way to, stamps a man a coxcomb, a character he will find a
difficulty to get rid of, perhaps as long as he lives. Now this vanity
shews itself in a variety of shapes; one man shall pride himself in
taking the lead in all conversations, and peremptorily deciding upon
every subject; another, desirous of appearing successful among the
women, shall insinuate the encouragement he has met with, the conquests
he makes, and perhaps boasts of favours he never received; if he speaks
the truth, he is ungenerous; if false, he is a villain; but whether true
or false, he defeats his own purposes, overthrows the reputation he
wishes to erect, and draws upon himself contempt in the room of respect.

24. Some men are vain enough to think they acquire consequence by
alliance, or by an acquaintance with persons of distinguished character
or abilities: hence they are eternally taking of their grand-father,
Lord such-a-one; their kinsman, Sir William such-a-one; or their
intimate friend, Dr. such-a-one, with whom, perhaps, they are scarce
acquainted. If they are ever found out (and that they are sure to be one
time or other) they become ridiculous and contemptible; but even
admitting what they say to be true, what then? A man's intrinsic merit
does not arise from an ennobled alliance, or a reputable acquaintance.

25. A rich man never borrows. When angling for praise, modesty is the
surest bait. If we would wish to shine in any particular character, we
must never affect that character. An affectation of courage will make a
man pass for a bully; an affectation of wit, for a coxcomb; and an
affectation of sense, for a fool. Not that I would recommend bashfulness
or timidity; no: I would have every one know his own value, yet not
discover that he knows it, but leave his merit to be found out by
others.

26. Another thing worth your attention is, if in company with an
inferior, not to let him feel his inferiority; if he discovers it
himself without your endeavours, the fault is not yours, and he will not
blame you; but if you take pains to mortify him, or to make him feel
himself inferior to you in abilities, fortune, or rank, it is an insult
that will not readily be forgiven. In point of abilities, it would be
unjust, as they are out of his power; in point of rank or fortune, it is
ill-natured and ill-bred.

27. This rule is never more necessary than at table, where there cannot
be a greater insult than to help an inferior to a part he dislikes, or a
part that may be worse than ordinary, and to take the best to yourself.
If you at any time invite an inferior to your table, you put him during
the time he is there upon an equality with you, and it is an act of the
highest rudeness to treat him in any respect slightingly. I would
rather double my attention to such a person, and treat him with
additional respect, lest he should even suppose himself neglected.

28. There cannot be a greater savageness or cruelty, or any thing more
degrading to a man of fashion, than to put upon, or take unbecoming
liberties with him, whose modesty, humility, or respect, will not suffer
him to retaliate. True politeness consists in making every body happy
about you; and as to mortify is to render unhappy, it can be nothing but
the worst of breeding. Make it a rule, rather to flatter a person's
vanity than otherwise; make him, if possible, more in love with himself,
and you will be certain to gain his esteem; never tell him any thing he
may not like to hear, nor say things that will put him out of
countenance, but let it be your study on all occasions to please: this
will be making friends instead of enemies; and be a means of serving
yourself in the end.

29. Never be witty at the expense of any one present, to gratify that
idle inclination which is too strong in most young men, I mean, laughing
at, or ridiculing the weaknesses or infirmities of others, by way of
diverting the company, or displaying your own superiority. Most people
have their weaknesses, their peculiar likings and aversions. Some cannot
bear the sight of a cat; others the smell of cheese, and so on; was you
to laugh at those men for their antipathies, or by design or inattention
to bring them in their way, you could not insult them more.

30. You may possibly thus gain the laugh on your side for the present,
but it will make the person, perhaps, at whose expense you are merry,
your enemy for ever after; and even those who laugh with you, will, on a
little reflection, fear you, and probably despise you: whereas to
procure what _one_ likes, and to remove what the _other_ hates, would
shew them that they were objects of your attention, and possibly make
them more your friends than much greater services would have done.

31. If you have wit, use it to please, but not to hurt. You may shine,
but take care not to scorch. In short, never seem to see the faults of
others. Though among the mass of men there are, doubtless, numbers of
fools and knaves, yet were we to tell every one of these we meet with
that we knew them to be so, we should be in perpetual war. I would
detest the knave and pity the fool, wherever I found him, but I would
let neither of them know unnecessarily that I did so; as I would not be
industrious to make myself enemies. As one must please others then, in
order to be pleased one's self, consider what is agreeable to you must
be agreeable to them, and conduct yourself accordingly.

32. Whispering in company is another act of ill-breeding; it seems to
insinuate either that the persons whom we would not wish should hear,
are unworthy of our confidence, or it may lead them to suppose we are
speaking improperly of them; on both accounts, therefore, abstain from
it.

So pulling out one letter after another, and reading them in company, or
cutting or pairing one's nails, is unpolite and rude. It seems to say,
we are weary of the conversation, and are in want of some amusement to
pass away the time.

33. Humming a tune to ourselves, drumming with our fingers on the table,
making a noise with our feet, and such like, are all breaches of good
manners, and indications of our contempt for the persons present;
therefore they should hot be indulged.

Walking fast in the streets is a mark of vulgarity, implying hurry of
business; it may appear well in a mechanic or tradesman, but suits ill
with the character of a gentleman or a man of fashion.

Staring any person you meet, full in the face, is an act also of
ill-breeding; it looks as if you saw something wonderful in his
appearance, and is, therefore, a tacit reprehension.

34. Eating quick, or very slow, at meals, is characteristic of the
vulgar; the first infers poverty, that you have not had a good meal for
some time; the last, if abroad, that you dislike your entertainment; if
at home, that you are rude enough to set before your friends, what you
cannot eat yourself. So again, eating your soups with your nose in the
plate, is vulgar; it has the appearance of being used to hard work; and
of course an unsteady hand.




_Dignity of Manners_.


1. A certain dignity of manners is absolutely necessary, to make even
the most-valuable character either respected or respectable in the
world.

Horse-play, romping, frequent and loud fits of laughter, jokes, waggery,
and indiscriminate familiarity, will sink both merit and knowledge into
a degree of contempt. They compose at most a merry fellow, and a merry
fellow was never yet a respectable man. Indiscriminate familiarity
either offends your superiors, or else dubs you their dependent and led
captain. It gives your inferiors just, but troublesome and improper
claims to equality. A joker is near a-kin to a buffoon; and neither of
them is the least related to wit.

2. Mimicry, the favorite amusement of little minds, has been ever the
contempt of great ones. Never give way to it yourself, nor ever
encourage it in others; it is the most illiberal of all buffoonery; it
is an insult on the person you mimic; and insults, I have often told
you, are seldom forgiven.

As to a mimic or a wag, he is little else than a buffoon, who will
distort his mouth and his eyes to make people laugh. Be assured, no one
person ever demeaned himself to please the rest, unless he wished to be
thought the Merry-Andrew of the company, and whether this character is
respectable, I will leave you to judge.

3. If a man's company is coveted on any other account than his
knowledge, his good sense, or his manners, he is seldom respected by
those who invite him, but made use of only to entertain--"Let's have
such a one, for he sings a good song, for he is always joking or
laughing;" or, "let's send for such a one, for he is a good bottle
companion;" these are degrading distinctions, that preclude all respect
and esteem. Whoever is _had_ (as the phrase is) for the sake of any
qualification, singly, is merely that thing he is _had_ for, is never
considered in any other light, and, of course, never properly respected,
let his intrinsic merits be what they will.

4. You may possibly suppose this dignity of manners to border upon
pride; but it differs as much from pride, as true courage from
blustering.

To flatter a person right or wrong, is abject flattery, and to consent
readily to every thing proposed by a company, be it silly or criminal,
is full as degrading, as to dispute warmly upon every subject, and to
contradict, upon all occasions. To preserve dignity, we should modestly
assert our own sentiments, though we politely acquiesce in those of
others.

So again, to support dignity of character, we should neither be
frivolously curious about trifles, nor be laboriously intent on little
objects that deserve not a moment's attention; for this implies an
incapacity in matters of greater importance.

A great deal likewise depends upon our air, address, and expressions; an
aukward address and vulgar expressions, infer either a low turn of mind,
or a low education.

5. Insolent contempt, or low envy, is incompatible also with dignity of
manners. Low-bred persons, fortunately lifted in the world, in fine
clothes and fine equipages, will insolently look down on all those who
cannot afford to make as good an appearance; and they openly envy those
who perhaps make a better. They also dread the being slighted; of course
are suspicious and captious; are uneasy themselves, and make every body
else so about them.

6. A certain degree of outward seriousness in looks and actions, gives
dignity, while a constant smirk upon the face (with that insipid silly
smile fools have when they would be civil) and whiffling motions, are
strong marks of futility.

But above all, a dignity of character is to be acquired best by a
certain firmness in all our actions. A mean, timid, and passive
complaisance, lets a man down more than he is aware of: but still his
firmness or resolution should not extend to brutality, but be
accompanied with a peculiar and engaging softness, or mildness.

7. If you discover any hastiness in your temper, and find it apt to
break out into rough and unguarded expressions, watch it narrowly, and
endeavour to curb it; but let no complaisance, no weak desire of
pleasing, no weedling, urge you to do that which discretion forbids; but
persist and persevere in all that is right. In your connections and
friendships, you will find this rule of use to you. Invite and preserve
attachments by your firmness; but labour to keep clear of enemies by a
mildness of behaviour. Disarm those enemies you may unfortunately have
(and few are without them) by a gentleness of manner, but make them feel
the steadiness of your just resentment; for there is a wide difference
between bearing malice and a determined self-defence; the one is
imperious, but the other is prudent and justifiable.

8. In directing your servants, or any person you have a right to
command, if you deliver your orders mildly and in that engaging manner
which every gentleman should study to do, you will be cheerfully, and,
consequently, well obeyed: but if tyrannically, you would be very
unwillingly served, if served at all. A cool, steady determination
should shew that you _will_ be obeyed, but a gentleness in the manner of
enforcing that obedience should make service a cheerful one. Thus will
you be loved without being despised, and feared without being hated.

9. I hope I need not mention vices. A man who has patiently been kicked
out of company, may have as good a pretence to courage, as one rendered
infamous by his vices, may to dignity of any kind; however, of such
consequence are appearances, that an outward decency, and an affected
dignity of manners, will even keep such a man the longer from sinking.
If, therefore, you should unfortunately have no intrinsic merit of your
own, keep up, if possible, the appearance of it; and the world will
possibly give you credit for the rest. A versatility of manner is as
necessary in social life, as a versatility of parts in political. This
is no way blameable, if not used with an ill design. We must, like the
cameleon, then, put on the hue of the persons we wish to be well with;
and it surely can never be blameable, to endeavour to gain the good will
or affection of any one, if, when obtained, we do not mean to abuse it.




_Rules for Conversation._


1. Jack Lizard was about fifteen when he was first entered in the
university, and being a youth of a great deal of fire, and a more than
ordinary application to his studies; it gave his conversation a very
particular turn. He had too much spirit to hold his tongue in company;
but at the same time so little acquaintance with the world, that he did
not know how to talk like other people.

2. After a year and a half's stay at the university, he came down among
us to pass away a month or two in the country. The first night after his
arrival, as we were at supper, we were all of us very much improved by
_Jack's_ table-talk. He told us, upon the appearance of a dish of
wild-fowl, that according to the opinion of some natural philosophers,
they might be lately come from the moon.

3. Upon which the _Sparkler_ bursting out into a laugh, he insulted her
with several questions, relating to the bigness and distance of the moon
and stars; and after every interrogatory would be winking upon me, and
smiling at his sister's ignorance. _Jack_ gained his point; for the
mother was pleased, and all the servants stared at the learning of their
young master. _Jack_ was so encouraged at this success, that for the
first week he dealt wholly in paradoxes. It was a common jest with him
to pinch one of his sister's lap-dogs, and afterwards prove he could not
feel it.

4. When the girls were sorting a set of knots, he would demonstrate to
them that all the ribbons were of the same colour; or rather, says
_Jack_, of no colour at all. My Lady _Lizard_ herself, though she was
not a little pleased with her son's improvements, was one day almost
angry with him; for, having accidentally burnt her fingers as she was
lighting her lamp for her tea-pot, in the midst of her anguish, _Jack_
laid hold of the opportunity to instruct her that there was no such
thing as heat in fire. In short, no day passed over our heads, in which
_Jack_ did not imagine he made the whole family wiser than they were
before.

5. That part of his conversation which gave me the most pain, was what
passed among those country gentlemen that came to visit us. On such
occasions _Jack_ usually took upon him to be the mouth of the company;
and thinking himself obliged to be very merry, would entertain us with a
great many odd sayings and absurdities of their college cook. I found
this fellow had made a very strong impression upon _Jack's_ imagination,
which he never considered was not the case of the rest of the company,
till after many repeated trials he found that his stories seldom any
body laugh but himself.

6. I all this while looked upon _Jack_ as a young tree shooting out
into blossoms before its time; the redundancy of which, though it was a
little unseasonably, seemed to foretell an uncommon fruitfulness.

In order to wear out the vein of pedantry, which ran through his
conversation, I took him out with me one evening, and first of all
insinuated to him this rule, which I had myself learned from a very
great author, "To think with the wise, but talk with the vulgar,"
_Jack's_, good sense soon made him reflect that he had exposed himself
to the laughter of the ignorant by a contrary behaviour; upon which he
told me, that he would take care for the future to keep his notions to
himself, and converse in the common received sentiments of mankind.

7. He at the same time desired me to give him any other rules of
conversation, which I thought might he for his improvement. I told him I
would think of it; and accordingly, as I have a particular affection for
the young man, I gave him the next morning the following rules in
writing, which may, perhaps, have contributed to make him the agreeable
man he now is.

8. The faculty of interchanging our thoughts with one another, or what
we express by the word conversation, has always been represented by
moral writers, as one of the noblest privileges of reason, and which
more particularly sets mankind above the brute part of the creation.

Though nothing so much gains upon the affections as this extempore
eloquence, which we have constantly occasion for, and are obliged to
practice every day, we very rarely meet with any who excel in it.

9. The conversation of most men is disagreeable, not so much for want of
wit and learning, as of good-breeding and discretion.

It is not in every man's power, perhaps, to have fine parts, say witty
things, or tell a story agreeably; but every man may be polite if he
pleases, at least to a certain degree. Politeness has infinitely more
power to make us esteemed, and our company sought after, than the most
extraordinary parts or attainments we can be master of. These seldom
fail to create envy, and envy has always some ill will in it.

10. If you resolve to please never speak to gratify any particular
vanity or passion of your own, but always with a design either to divert
or inform the company. A man who only aims at one of these, is always
easy in his discourse. He is never out of humour at being interrupted,
because he considers that those who hear him are the best judges whether
what he was saying would either divert or inform him.

A modest person seldom fails to gain the good will of those he converses
with, because nobody envies a man who does not appear to be pleased with
himself.

11. We should talk extremely little of ourselves. Indeed what can we
say? It would be as imprudent to discover faults, as ridiculous to count
over our fancied virtues. Our private and domestic affairs are no less
improper to be introduced in conversation. What does it concern the
company how many horses you keep in your stables? or whether your
servant is most knave or fool?

12. A man may equally affront the company he is in, by engrossing all
the talk, or observing a contemptuous silence.

Conform yourself to the taste, character, and present humours of the
persons you converse with; not but a person must follow his talent in
conversation. Do not force nature; no one ever did it with success.

If you have not a talent for humour, or raillery, or story-telling,
never attempt them.

13. Contain yourself also within the bounds of what you know; and never
talk of things you are ignorant of, unless it be with a view to inform
yourself. A person cannot fail in the observance of this rule, without
making himself ridiculous; and yet how often do we see it transgressed!
Some, who on war or politics could talk very well, will be perpetually
haranguing on works of genius and the belles letters; others who are
capable of reasoning, and would make a figure in grave discourse, will
yet constantly aim at humour and pleasantry, though with the worst grace
imaginable. Hence it is, that we see a man of merit sometimes appear
like a coxcomb, and hear a man of genius talk like a fool.

14. Before you tell a story, it may be generally not amiss to draw a
short character, and give the company a true idea of the principal
persons concerned in it; the beauty of most things consisting not so
much in their being said or done, as in their being said or done by
such a particular person; or on such a particular occasion.

15. Notwithstanding all the advantages of youth, few young people please
in conversation: the reason is, that want of experience makes them
positive, and what they say, is rather with a design to please
themselves, than any one else.

It is certain that age itself shall make many things pass well enough,
which would have been laughed at in the mouth of one much younger.

16. Nothing, however, is more insupportable to men of sense, than an
empty formal man who speaks in proverbs, and decides all controversies
with a short sentence. This piece of stupidity is the more insufferable,
as it puts on the air of wisdom.

Great talents for conversation requires to be accompanied with great
politeness. He who eclipses others, owes them great civilities; and
whatever a mistaken vanity may tell us, it is better to please in
conversation, than to shine in it.

17. A prudent man will avoid talking much of any particular science, for
which he is remarkably famous. There is not, methinks, an handsomer
thing said of Mr. _Cowley_ in his whole life, than, that none but his
intimate friends ever discovered he was a great poet by his discourse.
Besides the decency of this rule, it is certainly founded in good
policy. A man who talks of any thing he is already famous for, has
little to get, but a great deal to lose.

18. I might add, that he who is sometimes silent on a subject, where
everyone is satisfied he would speak well, will often be thought no less
knowing in any other matters where, perhaps, he is wholly ignorant.

Women are frightened at the name of argument, and are sooner convinced
by an happy turn, or, witty expression, than by demonstration.

19. Whenever you commend, add your reasons for so doing; it is this
which distinguishes the approbation of a man of sense, from the flattery
of sycophants, and admiration of fools.

Raillery is no longer agreeable, than while the whole company is pleased
with it. I would least of all be understood to except the person
raillied.

20. Though good-humour, sense, and discretion, can seldom fail to make
a man agreeable, it may be no ill policy sometimes to prepare yourself
in a particular manner for conversation, by looking a little farther
than your neighbours into whatever is become a reigning subject. If our
armies are besieging a place of importance abroad, or our House of
Commons debating a bill of consequence at home, you can hardly fail of
being heard with pleasure, if you have nicely informed yourself of the
strength, situation and history of the first, or of the reasons for and
against the latter.

21. It will have the same effect if, when any single person begins to
make a noise in the world, you can learn some of the smallest accidents
in his life or conversation, which, though they are too fine for the
observation of the vulgar, give more satisfaction to men of sense, (as
they are the best openings to a real character) than the recital of his
most glaring actions. I know but one ill consequence to be feared from
this method, namely, that coming full charged into company, you should
resolve to unload, whether an handsome opportunity offers itself or no.

22. The liberal arts, though they may possibly have less effect on our
external mein and behaviour, make so deep an impression on the mind, as
is very apt to bend it wholly one way.

The mathematician will take little less than demonstration in the most
common discourse; and the schoolman is as great a friend to definitions
and syllogisms. The physician and divine are often heard to dictate in
private companies with the same authority which they exercise over their
patients and disciples; while the lawyer is putting cases, and raising
matter for disputation, out of every thing that occurs.

23. Though the asking of questions may plead for itself the spacious
name of modesty, and a desire of information, it affords little pleasure
to the rest of the company, who are not troubled with the same doubts;
besides which, he who asks a question would do well to consider that he
lies wholly at the mercy of another before he receives an answer.

24. Nothing is more silly than the pleasure some people take in what
they call speaking their minds. A man of this make will say a rude thing
for the mere pleasure of saying, it, when an opposite behaviour, full
as, innocent, might have preserved his friend, or made his fortune.

It is not impossible for a man to form to himself as exquisite a
pleasure in complying with the humour and sentiments of others, as of
bringing others over to his own; since 'tis the certain sign of a
superior genius, that can take and become whatever dress it pleases.

25. Avoid disputes as much as possible, in order to appear easy and
well-bred, in conversation. You may assure yourself, that it requires
more wit, as well as more good-humour, to improve than to contradict the
notions of another; but if you are at any time obliged to enter on an
argument, give your reasons with the inmost coolness and modesty, two
things which scarce ever fail of making an impression on the hearers.
Besides, if you are neither dogmatical, nor shew either by your actions
or words, that you are full of yourself, all will the more heartily
rejoice at your victory; nay, should, you be pinched in your argument,
you may make your retreat with a very good graces you were never
positive, and are now glad to be better informed.

26. This hath made some approve the socratical way of reasoning, where,
while you scarce affirm any thing, you can hardly be caught in an
absurdity; and though possibly you are endeavouring to bring over
another to your opinion, which is firmly fixed, you seem only to desire
information from him.

27. In order to keep that temper, which is so difficult and yet so
necessary to preserve, you may please to consider, that nothing can be
more unjust or ridiculous, than to be angry with another because he is
not of your opinion. The interests, education, and means, by which men
attain their knowledge, are so very different, that it is impossible
they should all think alike; and he has at least us much reason to be
angry with you, as you with him.

28. Sometimes to keep yourself cool, it may be of service to ask
yourself fairly, what might have been your opinion, had you all the
biases of education and interest your adversary may possibly have? But
if you contend for the honour of victory alone, you may lay down this as
an infallible maxim, That you cannot make a more false step, or give
your antagonists a greater advantage over you, than by falling into a
passion.

29. When an argument is over, how many weighty reasons does a man
recollect, which his heat and violence made him utterly forget?

It is yet more absurd to be angry with a man, because he does not
apprehend the force of your reasons, or give weak ones of his own. If
you argue for reputation, this makes your victory the easier; he is
certainly in all respects an object of your pity, rather than anger; and
if he cannot comprehend what you do, you ought to thank nature for her
favours, who has given you so much the clearer understanding.

30. You may please to add this consideration, that among your equals no
one values your anger, which only preys upon its master; and perhaps you
may find it not very consistent, either with prudence or your ease, to
punish yourself whenever you meet with a fool or a knave.

31. Lastly, if you propose to yourself the true end of argument, which
is information, it may be a seasonable check to your passion; for if you
search purely after truth, it will be almost indifferent to you where
you find it. I cannot in this place omit an observation which I have
often made, namely, that nothing procures a man more esteem and less
envy from the whole company, than if he chooses the part of moderator,
without engaging directly on either side in a dispute.

32. This gives him the character of impartial, furnishes him an
opportunity of sifting things to the bottom, shewing his judgment, and
of sometimes making handsome compliments to each of the contending
parties.

When you have gained a victory, do not push it too far; it is sufficient
to let the company and your adversary see it is in your power, but that
you are too generous to make use of it.

33. I shall only add, that besides what I have here said, there is
something which can never be learnt but in the company of the polite.
The virtues of men are catching as well as their vices, and your own
observations added to these, will soon discover what it is that commands
attention in one man, and makes you tired and displeased with the
discourse of another.

_Further Remarks taken from Lord Chesterfield's Letters to his Son._

34. Having now given you full and sufficient instructions for making you
well received in the best of companies; nothing remains but that I lay
before you some few rules for your conduct in such company. Many things
on this subject I have mentioned before; but some few matters remain to
be mentioned now.

Talk, then, frequently, but not long together, lest you tire the persons
you are speaking to; for few persons talk so well upon a subject, as to
keep up the attention of their hearers for any length of time.

35. Avoid telling stories in company, unless they are very short indeed,
and very applicable to the subject you are upon; in this case relate
them in as few words as possible, without the least digression, and with
some apology; as, that you hate the telling of stories, but the
shortness of it induced you. And if your story has any wit in it, be
particularly careful not to laugh at it yourself. Nothing is more
tiresome and disagreeable than a long tedious narrative; it betrays a
gossiping disposition, and great want of imagination; and nothing is
more ridiculous than to express an approbation of your own story by a
laugh.

36. In relating any thing, keep clear of repetitions, or very hackneyed
expressions, such as, _says he_, or _says she_. Some people will use
these so often, as to take off the hearers' attention from the story; as
in an organ out of tune, one pipe shall perhaps sound the whole time we
are playing, and confuse the piece so as not to be understood.

37. Digressions, likewise, should be guarded against. A story is always
more agreeable without them. Of this kind are, "_the gentleman I am
telling you of, is the son of Sir Thomas ----, who lives in
Harley-street;--you must know him--his brother had a horse that won the
sweepstakes at the last Newmarket meeting.--Zounds! if you don't know
him you know nothing_." Or, "_He was an upright tall old gentleman, who
wore his own long hair; don't you recollect him_?"--All this is
unnecessary, is very tiresome and provoking, and would he an excuse for
a man's behaviour, if he was to leave us in the midst of our narrative.

38. Some people have a trick of holding the persons they are speaking
to by the button, or the hands in order to be heard out; conscious, I
suppose, that their tale is tiresome. Pray, never do this; if the person
you speak to is not as willing to hear your story as you are to tell it,
you had much better break off in the middle: for if you tire them once,
they will be afraid to listen to you a second time.

39. Others have a way of punching the person they are talking to in the
side, and at the end of every sentence, asking him some questions as the
following--"Wasn't I right in that?"--"You know, I told you
so."--"What's your opinion?" and the like; or, perhaps, they will be
thrusting him, or jogging him with their elbow. For mercy's sake, never
give way to this: it will make your company dreaded.

40. Long talkers are frequently apt to single out some unfortunate man
present; generally the most silent one of the company, or probably him
who sits next them. To this man, in a kind of half whisper, they will
run on for half an hour together. Nothing can be more ill-bred. But, if
one of these unmerciful talkers should attack you, if you wish to oblige
him, I would recommend the hearing with patience: seem to do so at
least, for you could not hurt him more than to leave him in the middle
of his story, or discover any impatience in the course of it.

41. Incessant talkers are very disagreeable companions. Nothing can be
more rude than to engross the conversation to yourself, or to take the
words, as it were, out of another man's mouth. Every man in company has
an equal claim to bear his part in the conversation, and to deprive him
of it, is not only unjust, but a tacit declaration that he cannot speak
so well upon the subject as yourself: you will therefore take it up.
And, what can be more rude? I would as soon forgive a man that should
stop my mouth when I was gaping, as take my words as it were, me while I
was speaking them. Now, if this be unpardonable.

42. It cannot be less so to help out or forestall the slow speaker, as
if you alone were rich in expressions, and he were poor. You may take it
for granted, every one is vain enough to think he can talk well, though
he may modestly deny it; helping a person out, therefore, in his
expressions, is a correction that will stamp the corrector with
impudence and ill-manners.

43. Those who contradict others upon all occasions, and make every
assertion a matter of dispute, betray by this behaviour an
unacquaintance with good-breeding. He, therefore, who wishes to appear
amiable, with those he converses with, will be cautious of such
expressions as these, "That can't be true, sir." "The affair is as I
say." "That must be false, sir." "If what you say is true, &c." You may
as well tell a man he lies at once, as thus indirectly impeach his
veracity. It is equally as rude to be proving every trifling assertion
with a bet or a wager--"I'll bet you fifty of it," and so on. Make it
then a constant rule, in matters of no great importance, complaisantly
to submit your opinion to that of others; for a victory of this kind
often costs a man the loss of a friend.

44. Giving advice unasked, is another piece of rudeness: it is, in
effect, declaring ourselves wiser than those to whom we give it;
reproaching them with ignorance and inexperience. It is a freedom that
ought not to be taken with any common acquaintance, and yet there are
these who will be offended, if their advice is not taken. "Such-a-one,"
say they, "is above being advised. He scorns to listen to my advice;" as
if it were not a mark of greater arrogance to expect every one to submit
to their opinion, than for a man sometimes to follow his own.

45. There is nothing so unpardonably rude, as a seeming inattention to
the person who is speaking to you; tho' you may meet with it in others,
by all means avoid it yourself. Some ill-bred people, while others are
speaking to them, will, instead of looking at or attending to them,
perhaps fix their eyes on the ceiling, or some picture in the room, look
out of the window, play with a dog, their watch-chain, or their cane, or
probably pick their nails or their noses. Nothing betrays a more
trifling mind than this; nor can any thing be a greater affront to the
person speaking; it being a tacit declaration, that what he is saying is
not worth your attention. Consider with yourself how you would like such
treatment, and, I am persuaded, you will never shew it to others.

46. Surliness or moroseness is incompatible also with politeness. Such
as, should any one say "he was desired to present Mr. such-a-one's
respects to you," to reply, "What the devil have I to do with his
respects?"--"My Lord enquired after you lately, and asked how you did,"
to answer, "if he wishes to know, let him come and feel my pulse," and
the like. A good deal of this often is affected; but whether affected or
natural, it is always offensive. A man of this stamp will occasionally
be laughed at as an oddity; but in the end will be despised.

47. I should suppose it unnecessary to advise you to adapt your
conversation to the company you are in. You would not surely start the
same subject, and discourse of it in the same manner, with the old and
with the young, with an officer, a clergyman, a philosopher, and a
woman? no; your good sense will undoubtedly teach you to be serious with
the serious, gay with the gay, and to trifle with the triflers.

48. There are certain expressions which are exceedingly rude, and yet
there are people of liberal education that sometimes use them; as, "You
don't understand me, sir." "Is it not so?" "You mistake." "You know
nothing of the matter," &c. Is it not better to say, "I believe I do not
express myself so as to be understood." "Let us consider it again,
whether we take it right or not." It is much more polite and amiable to
make some excuse for another, even in cases where he might justly be
blamed, and to represent the mistake as common to both, rather than
charge him with insensibility or incomprehension.

49. If any one should have promised you any thing, and not have
fulfilled that promise, it would be very impolite to tell him he has
forfeited his word; or if the same person should have disappointed you,
upon any occasion, would it not be better to say, "You were probably so
much engaged, that you forgot my affair;" or, "perhaps it slipped your
memory;" rather than, "you thought no more about it:" or, "you pay very
little regard to your word." For expressions of this kind leave a sting
behind them--They are a kind of provocation and affront, and very often
bring on lasting quarrels.

50. Be careful not to appear dark and mysterious, lest you should be
thought suspicious; than which, there cannot be a more unamiable
character. If you appear mysterious and reserved, others will be truly
so with you: and in this case, there is an end to improvement, for you
will gather no information. Be reserved, but never seem so.

51. There is a fault extremely common with some people, which I would
have you avoid. When their opinion is asked upon any subject, they will
give it with so apparent a diffidence and timidity, that one cannot,
without the utmost pain, listen to them; especially if they are known to
be men of universal knowledge. "Your Lordship will pardon me," says one
of this stamp, "if I should not be able to speak to the case in hand, so
well as it might be wished."--"I'll venture to speak of this matter to
the best of my poor abilities and dullness of apprehension."--"I fear I
shall expose myself, but in obedience to your Lordship's commands,"--and
while they are making these apologies, they interrupt the business and
tire the company.

52. Always look people in the face when you speak to them, otherwise you
will be thought conscious of some guilt; besides, you lose the
opportunity of reading their countenances; from which you will much
better learn the impression your discourse makes upon them, than you can
possibly do from their words; for words are at the will of every one,
but the countenance is frequently involuntary.

53. If, in speaking to a person, you are not heard, and should be
desired to repeat what you said, do not raise your voice in the
repetition, lest you should be thought angry, on being obliged to repeat
what you had said before; it was probably owing to the hearer's
inattention.

54. One word only, as to swearing. Those who addict themselves to it,
and interlard their discourse with oaths, can never be considered as
gentlemen; they are generally people of low education, and are unwelcome
in what is called good company. It is a vice that has no temptation to
plead, but is, in every respect, as vulgar as it is wicked.

55. Never accustom yourself to scandal, nor listen to it; for though it
may gratify the malevolence of some people, nine times out of ten it is
attended with great disadvantages. The very person you tell it to, will,
on reflection, entertain a mean opinion of you, and it will often bring
you into a very disagreeable situation. And as there would be no
evil-speakers, if there were no evil-hearers; it is in scandal as in
robbery; the receiver is as bad as the thief. Besides, it will lead
people to shun your company, supposing that you would speak ill of them
to the next acquaintance you meet.

56. Carefully avoid talking either of your own or other people's
domestic concerns. By doing the one you will be thought vain; by
entering into the other, you will be considered as officious. Talking of
yourself is an impertinence to the company; your affairs are nothing to
them; besides, they cannot be kept too secret. And as to the affairs of
others, what are they to you? In talking of matters that no way concern
you, you are liable to commit blunders, and, should you touch any one in
a sore part, you may possibly lose his esteem. Let your conversation,
then, in mixed companies, always be general.

57. Jokes, _bon-mots_, or the little pleasantries of one company, will
not often bear to be told in another; they are frequently local, and
take their rise from certain circumstances; a second company may not be
acquainted with these circumstances, and of course your story may not be
understood, or want explaining; and if, after you have prefaced it with,
"I will tell you a good thing," the sting should not be immediately
perceived, you will appear exceedingly ridiculous, and wish you had not
told it. Never, then, repeat in one place what you hear in another.

58. In most debates, take up the favourable side of the question;
however, let me caution you against being clamorous; that is, never
maintain an argument with heat though you know yourself right; but offer
your sentiments modestly and coolly; and, if this does not prevail, give
it up, and try to change the subject, by saying something to this
effect, "I find we shall hardly convince one another, neither is there
any necessity to attempt it; so let us talk of something else."

59. Not that I would have you give up your opinion always; no, assert
your own sentiments, and oppose those of others when wrong, but let your
manner and voice be gentle and engaging, and yet no ways affected. If
you contradict, do it with, _I may be wrong, but--I won't be positive,
but I really think--I should rather suppose--If I may be permitted to
say_--and close your dispute with good humour, to shew you are neither
displeased yourself, nor meant to displease the person you dispute with.

60. Acquaint yourself with the character and situation of the company
you go into, before you give a loose to your tongue; for should you
enlarge on some virtue, which anyone present may notoriously want: or
should you condemn some vices which any of the company may be
particularly addicted to, they will he apt to think your reflections
pointed and personal, and you will be sure to give offence. This
consideration will naturally lead you, not to suppose things said in
general to be levelled at you.

61. Low-bred people, when they happen occasionally to be in good
company, imagine themselves to be the subject of every separate
conversation. If any part of the company whispers, it is about them; if
they laugh, it is at them; and if any thing is said, which they do not
comprehend, they immediately suppose it is meant of them.--This mistake
is admirably ridiculed in one of our celebrated comedies, "_I am sure_,
says Scrub, _they were talking of me, for they laughed consumedly_."

62. Now, a well-bred person never thinks himself disesteemed by the
company, or laughed at, unless their reflections are so gross, that he
cannot be supposed to mistake them, and his honour obliges him to resent
it in a proper manner; however, be assured, gentlemen never laugh at or
ridicule one another, unless they are in joke, or on a footing of the
greatest intimacy. If such a thing should happen once in an age, from
some pert coxcomb, or some flippant woman, it is better not to seem to
know it, than to make the least reply.

63. It is a piece of politeness not to interrupt a person in a story,
whether you have heard it before or not. Nay, if a well-bred man is
asked whether he has heard it, he will answer no, and let the person go
on, though he knows it already. Some are fond of telling a story,
because they think they tell it well; others pride themselves in being
the first teller of it, and others are pleased at being thought
entrusted with it. Now, all these persons you would disappoint by
answering yes; and, as I have told you before, as the greatest proof of
politeness is to make every body happy about you, I would never deprive
a person of any secret satisfaction of this sort, when I could gratify
by a minute's attention.

64. Be not ashamed of asking questions, if such questions lead to
information: always accompany them with some excuse, and you will never
be reckoned impertinent. But, abrupt questions, without some apology, by
all means avoid, as they imply design. There is a way of fishing for
facts, which, if done judiciously, will answer every purpose, such as
taking things you wish to know for granted: this will, perhaps, lead
some officious person to set you right. So again, by saying, you have
heard so and so, and sometimes seeming to know more than you do, you
will often get an information, which you would lose by direct questions,
as these would put people upon their guard, and frequently defeat the
very end you aim at.

65. Make it a rule never to reflect on any body of people, for by this
means you will create a number of enemies. There are good and bad of all
professions, lawyers, soldiers, parsons or citizens. They are all men,
subject to the same passions, differing only in their manner according
to the way they have been bred up in. For this reason, it is unjust, as
well as indiscreet, to attack them as a _corps_ collectively. Many a
young man has thought himself extremely clever in abusing the clergy.
What are the clergy more than other men? Can you suppose a black gown
can make any alteration in his nature? Fie, fie, think seriously, and I
am convinced you will never do it.

66. But above all, let no example, no fashion, no witticism, no foolish
desire of rising above what knaves call prejudices, tempt you to excuse,
extenuate or ridicule the least breach of morality, but upon every
occasion shew the greatest abhorrence of such proceedings, and hold
virtue and religion in the highest veneration.

It is a great piece of ill-manners to interrupt any one while speaking,
by speaking yourself, or calling off the attention of the company to any
foreign matter. But this every child knows.

67. The last thing I shall mention, is that of concealing your learning,
except on particular occasions. Reserve this for learned men, and let
them rather extort it from you, than you be too willing to display it.
Hence you will be thought modest, and to have more knowledge than you
really have. Never seem more wise or learned than the company you are
in. He who affects to shew his learning, will be frequently questioned;
and if found superficial, will be sneered at; if otherwise, he will be
deemed a pedant. Real merit will always shew itself, and nothing can
lessen it in the opinion of the world, but a man's exhibiting it
himself.

For God's sake, revolve all these things seriously in your mind, before
you go abroad into life. Recollect the observations you have yourself
occasionally made upon men and things; compare them with my
instructions, and act wisely and consequentially, as they shall teach
you.




_Entrance upon the World_.


1. Curino was a young man brought up to a reputable trade; the term of
his apprenticeship was almost expired, and he was contriving how he
might venture into the world with safety, and pursue business with
innocence and success.

2. Among his near kindred, Serenus was one, a gentleman of considerable
character in the sacred profession; and after he had consulted with his
father, who was a merchant of great esteem and experience, he also
thought fit to seek a word of advice from the divine.

3. Serenus had such a respect for his young kinsman, that he set his
thought at work on this subject, and with some tender expressions, which
melted the youth into tears, he put into his hand a paper of his best
counsels. Curino entered upon business, pursued his employment with
uncommon advantage, and, under the blessing of Heaven, advanced himself
to a considerable estate.

4. He lived with honour in the world, and gave a lustre to the religion
which he professed; and after a long life of piety and usefulness, he
died with a sacred composure of soul, under the influences of the
Christian hope.

5. Some of his neighbours wondered at his felicity in this world, joined
with so much innocence, and such severe virtue; but after his death this
paper was found in his closet, which was drawn up by his kinsman in holy
orders, and was supposed to have a large share in procuring his
happiness.




_Advice to a young Man._


1. I presume you desire to be happy here and hereafter; you know there
are a thousand difficulties which attend this pursuit; some of them
perhaps you foresee, but there are multitudes which you could never
think of. Never trust therefore to your own understanding in the things
of this world, where you can have the advice of a wise and faithful
friend; nor dare venture the more important concerns of your soul, and
your eternal interests in the world to come, upon the mere light of
nature, and the dictates of your own reason; since the word of God, and
the advice of Heaven, lies in your hands. Vain and thoughtless indeed
are those children of pride, who chuse to turn heathens in America; who
live upon the mere religion of nature and their own stock, when they
have been trained up among all these superior advantages of
Christianity, and the blessings of divine revelation and grace!

2. Whatsoever your circumstances may be in this world, still value your
bible as your best treasure; and whatsoever be your employment here,
still look upon religion as your best business. Your bible contains
eternal life in it, and all the riches of the upper world; and religion
is the only way to become the possessor of them.

3. To direct your carriage towards God, converse particularly with the
book of Psalms; David was a man of sincere and eminent devotion. To
behave aright among men, acquaint yourself with the whole book of
Proverbs: Solomon was a man of large experience and wisdom. And to
perfect your directions in both these, read the Gospels and Epistles;
you will find the best of rules and the best of examples there, and
those more immediately suited to the Christian life.

4. As a man, maintain strict temperance and sobriety, by a wise
government of your appetites and passions; as a neighbour, influence and
engage all around you to be your friends, by a temper and carriage made
up of prudence and goodness; and let the poor have a certain share in
all your yearly profits; as a trader, keep that golden sentence of our
Saviour's ever before you. Whatsoever you "would that men should do unto
you, do you also unto them."

5. While you make the precepts of scripture the constant rule of your
duty, you may with courage rest upon the promises of scripture as the
springs of your encouragement; all divine assistances and divine
recompenses are contained in them. The spirit of light and grace is
promised to assist them that ask it. Heaven and glory are promised to
reward the faithful and the obedient.

6. In every affair of life, begin with God; consult him in every thing
that concerns you; view him as the author of all your blessings, and all
your hopes, as your best friend, and your eternal portion. Meditate on
him in this view, with a continual renewal of your trust in him, and a
daily surrender of yourself to him, till you feel that you love him most
entirely, that you serve him with sincere delight, and that you cannot
live a day without God in the world.

7. You know yourself to be a man, an indigent creature and a sinner, and
you profess to be a Christian, a disciple of the blessed Jesus, but
never think you know Christ or yourself as you ought till you find a
daily need of him for righteousness and strength, for pardon and
sanctification; and let him be your constant introducer to the great
God, though he sits upon a throne of grace. Remember his own words,
_John_ xiv 6. "No man cometh to the father but by me."

8. Make prayer a pleasure, and not a task, and then you will not forget
nor omit it. If ever you have lived in a praying family, never let it be
your fault if you do not live in one always. Believe that day, that
hour, or those minutes to be wasted and lost, which any worldly
pretences would tempt you to save out of the public worship of the
church, the certain and constant duties of the closet, or any necessary
services for God and godliness; beware lest a blast attend it, and not a
blessing. If God had not reserved one day in seven to himself, I fear
religion would have been lost out of the world; and every day of the
week is exposed to a curse which has no morning religion.

9. See that you watch and labour, as well as pray; diligence and
dependence must he united in the practice of every Christian. It is the
same wise man acquaints us, that the hand of the diligent, and the
blessing of the Lord, join together to make us rich, _Prov_. x. 4. 22.
Rich in the treasures of body or mind, of time or eternity.

It is your duty indeed, under a sense of your own weakness, to pray
daily against sin; but if you would effectually avoid it, you must also
avoid temptation, and every dangerous opportunity. Set a double guard
wheresoever you feel or suspect an enemy at hand. The world without, and
the heart within, have so much flattery and deceit in them, that we must
keep a sharp eye upon both, lest we are trapt into mischief between
them.

10. Honour, profit, and pleasure, have been sometimes called the world's
Trinity; they are its three chief idols; each of them is sufficient to
draw a soul off from God, and ruin it for ever. Beware of them,
therefore, and of all their subtle insinuations, if you would be
innocent or happy.

Remember that the honour which comes from God, the approbation of
Heaven, and your own conscience, are infinitely more valuable than all
the esteem or applause of men. Dare not venture one step out of the road
of Heaven, for fear of being laughed at for walking strictly in it, it
is a poor religion that cannot stand against a jest.

Sell not your hopes of heavenly treasures, nor any thing that belongs to
your eternal interest, for any of the advantages of the present life;
"What shall it profit a man to gain the world and lose his own soul."

Remember also the words of the wise man, "He that loveth pleasure shall
be a poor man;" he that indulges himself in "wine and oil," that is, in
drinking, in feasting, and in sensual gratifications, "shall not be
rich." It is one of St. Paul's characters of a most degenerate age, when
"men become lovers of pleasure more than lovers of God." And that
"fleshly lusts war against the soul," is St. Peter's caveat to the
Christians of his time.

11. Preserve your conscience always soft and sensible; if but one sin
force its way into that tender part of the soul, and dwell easy there,
the road is paved for a thousand; iniquities.

And take heed that under any scruple, doubt, or temptation whatsoever,
you never let any reasonings satisfy your conscience, which will not be
a sufficient answer of apology to the great Judge at the last day.

12. Keep this thought ever in your mind. It is a world of vanity and
vexation in which you live; the flatteries and promises of it are vain
and deceitful; prepare, therefore, to meet disappointments. Many of its
occurrences are teazing and vexatious. In every ruffling storm without,
possess your spirit in patience, and let all be calm and serene within.
Clouds and tempests are only found in the lower skies; the heavens above
are ever bright and clear. Let your heart and hope dwell much in these
serene regions; live as a stranger here on earth, but as a citizen of
heaven, if you will maintain a soul at ease.

13. Since in many things we offend all, and there is not a day passes
which is perfectly free from sin, let "repentance towards God, and faith
in our Lord Jesus Christ," be your daily work. A frequent renewal of
these exercises which make a Christian at first, will be a constant
evidence of your sincere Christianity, and give you peace in life, and
hope in death.

14. Ever carry about with you such a sense of the uncertainty of every
thing in this life, and of life itself, as to put nothing off till
to-morrow, which you can conveniently do to-day. Dilatory persons are
frequently exposed to surprise and hurry in every thing that belongs to
them; the time is come, and they are unprepared. Let the concerns of
your soul and your shop, your trade and your religion, lie always in
such order, as far as possible, that death, at a short warning, may be
no occasion of a disquieting tumult in your spirit, and that you may
escape the anguish of a bitter repentance in a dying hour. Farewel.

Phronimus, a considerable East-land merchant, happened upon a copy of
these advices, about the time when he permitted his son to commence a
partnership with him in his trade; he transcribed them with his own
hand, and made a present of them to the youth, together with the
articles of partnership. Here, young man, said he, is a paper of more
worth than these articles. Read it over once a month, till it is wrought
in your very soul and temper. Walk by these rules, and I can trust my
estate in your hands. Copy out these counsels in your life, and you will
make me and yourself easy and happy.




_The Vision of Mirza, exhibiting a Picture of Human Life._


1. On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my
forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself, and
offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in
order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was
here airing myself on the tops 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.

2. Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock
that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a
shepherd, with a little 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 exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were
inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from any thing I had
ever heard: they put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played
to the departed souls of good men upon their first arrival in Paradise,
to wear out the impressions of the last agonies, and qualify them for
the pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted away in secret
raptures.

3. I had often been told that the rock before me was the haunt of a
genius; and that several had been entertained with that music, who had
passed by it, but never heard that the musician had 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 looked 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.

4. I drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior nature;
and as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating strains I had
heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The genius smiled on me with a
look of compassion and affability, that familiarized him to my
imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with
which I approached 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.

5. He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me on
the top of it, cast thy eyes 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 then seest, said, he, is the vale of misery and the
tide of water that thou seest, is part of the great tide of eternity.

6. What is the reason, said I, that the tide I see rises out of a thick
mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other?
What thou seest, said he, is that 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
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.

7. 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 of about an hundred.
As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that this bridge
consisted at the 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.

8. As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers
dropping through the bridge, into the great, tide that flowed underneath
it; and upon further examination, perceived there were innumerable
trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no
sooner trod upon, but they fell through them into the tide, and
immediately disappeared. These hidden pitfalls were set very thick at
the entrance of the bridge, so 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.

9. There were indeed some persons, but their number was 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.

10. I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure;
and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was
filled with a deep melancholy, to see several dropping unexpectedly in
the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at every thing that stood
by them to save themselves. Some were looking up towards the heavens in
a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation, stumbled and
fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles,
that glittered in their eyes and danced before them; but often, when
they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed,
and down they sunk.

11. In this confusion of objects, I observed some with scymitars in
their hands, and others with urinals, 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 been
thus forced upon them.

12. The genius, seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy prospect,
told me I had dwelt long enough upon it: take thine eyes off the bridge,
says he, and tell me if thou seest any thing thou dost not comprehend.
Upon looking up, what mean, said I, those great flights of birds that
are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling upon it from
time to time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and, among
many other feathered creatures, 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.

13. 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, being moved with compassion towards
me, bid me quit so 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.

14. I directed my sight as I was ordered, and (whether or no the good
genius strengthened it with any supernatural force, or dissipated part
of the mist that was before too thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw
the valley opening; at the farther end, and spreading forth into an
immense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant running through the
midst 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 me a vast ocean, planted with innumerable
islands, that were covered with fruits and flowers; and interwoven with
a thousand little shining seas that ran among them.

15. 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, human voices, and musical
instruments. Gladness grew in me at the discovery of so delightful a
scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to
those happy seats; 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.

16. The islands, said he, that are so fresh and 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 sand on the sea-shore; there are
myriads of islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching
further than thine eye, or even thine imagination can extend itself.
These are the mansions of good men after death, who, according to the
degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among
these 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 paradise, accommodated to its
respective inhabitants.

17. Are not these, O Mirza, habitations worth contending for? Does life
appear miserable, that gives thee opportunities of earning such a
reward? Is death to be feared, that will convey thee to so happy an
existence? Think not man was made in vain, who has such an eternity
reserved for him. I gazed, with inexpressible pleasure, on these happy
islands. At length, said I, shew me 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.

18. 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 Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, and camels
grazing upon the sides of it.




_Riches not productive of Happiness: The Story of Ortogrul of Basra._

IDLER, No. 99.


1. As Ortogrul of Basra was one day wandering along the streets of
Bagdat, musing on the varieties of merchandize which the shops altered
to his view, and observing the different occupations which busied the
multitude on every side, he was awakened from the tranquillity of
meditation by a crowd that obstructed his passage. He raised his eyes,
and saw the Chief Vizier, who, having returned from the Divan, was
entering his palace.

2. Ortogrul mingled with the attendants, and being supposed to have some
petiton for the Vizier, was permitted to enter. He surveyed the
spaciousness of the apartments, admired the walls hung with golden
tapestry, and the floors covered with silken carpets, and despised the
simple neatness of his own little habitation.

3. Surely, said he to himself, this palace is the seat of happiness,
where pleasure succeeds to pleasure, and discontent and sorrow can have
no admission. Whatever nature has provided for the delight of sense, is
here spread forth to be enjoyed. What can mortals hope or imagine, which
the master of this palace has not obtained? The dishes of luxury cover
his table, the voice of harmony lulls him in his bowers; he breathes the
fragrance of the groves of Java, and sleeps upon the down of the cygnets
of Ganges. He speaks, and his mandate is obeyed; he wishes, and his wish
is gratified! all whom he sees obey him, and all whom he hears flatter
him.

4. How different, Ortogrul, is thy condition, who art doomed to the
perpetual torments of unsatisfied desire, and who hast no amusement in
thy power that can withhold thee from thy own reflections! They tell
thee that thou art wise, but what does wisdom avail with poverty? None
will flatter the poor, and the wise have very little power of
flattering themselves. That man is surely the most wretched of the sons
of wretchedness, who lives with his own faults and follies always before
him, and who has none to reconcile him to himself by praise and
veneration. I have long sought content, and have not found it; I will
from this moment endeavour to be rich.

5. Full of his new resolution, he shut himself in his chamber for six
months, to deliberate how he should grow rich; he sometimes proposed to
offer himself as a counsellor to one of the kings of India, and
sometimes resolved to dig for diamonds in the mines of Golconda. One
day, after some hours passed in violent fluctuation of opinion, sleep
insensibly seized him in his chair; he dreamed that he was ranging a
desert country in search of some one that might teach him to grow rich;
and as he stood on the top of a hill shaded with cypress, in doubt
whither to direct his steps, his father appeared on a sudden, standing
before him.

6. Ortogrul, said the old man, I know thy perplexity; listen to thy
father; turn thine eye on the opposite mountain. Ortogrul looked, and
saw a torrent tumbling down the rocks, roaring with the noise of
thunder, and scattering, its foam on the impending woods. Now, said his
father, behold the valley that lies between the hills.

7. Ortogrul looked, and espied a little well, out of which issued a
small rivulet. Tell me now, said his father, dost thou wish for sudden
affluence, that may pour upon thee like the mountain torrent, or for a
slow and gradual increase, resembling the rill gliding from the well?
Let me be quickly rich, said Ortogrul; let the golden stream be quick
and violent.

8. Look round thee, said his father, once again. Ortogrul looked, and
perceived the channel of the torrent dry and dusty; but following the
rivulet from the well, he traced it to a wide lake, which the supply,
slow and constant, kept always full. He waked, and determined to grow
rich by silent profit, and persevering industry.

9. Having sold his patrimony, he engaged in merchandise, and in twenty
years purchased lands, on which he raised a house equal in sumptuousness
to that of the Vizier, to which he invited all the ministers of
pleasure, expecting to enjoy all the felicity which he had imagined
riches able to afford. Leisure soon made him weary of himself, and he
longed to be persuaded that he was great and happy. He was courteous and
liberal; he gave all that approached him hopes of pleasing him, and all
who should please him, hopes of being rewarded. Every art of praise was
tried, and every source of adulatory fiction was exhausted.

10, Ortogrul heard his flatterers without delight, because he found
himself unable to believe them. His own heart told him its frailties.
His own understanding reproached him with his faults. How long, said he,
with a deep sigh, have I been labouring in vain to amass wealth, which
at last is useless? Let no man hereafter wish to be rich, who is already
too wise to be flattered.




_Of the Scriptures, as the Rule of Life._


1. As you advance in years and under standing, I hope you, will be able
to examine for yourself the evidence of the Christian religion, and that
you will be convinced, on rational grounds, of its divine authority. At
present, such enquiries would demand more study, and greater powers of
reasoning, than your age admits of. It is your part, therefore, till you
are capable of understanding the proofs, to believe your parents and
teachers, that the holy scriptures are writings inspired by God,
containing a true history of facts, in which we are deeply concerned--a
true recital of the laws given by God to Moses, and of the precepts of
our blessed Lord and Saviour, delivered from his own mouth to his
disciples, and repeated and enlarged upon in the edifying epistles of
his Apostles; who were men chosen from amongst those who had the
advantage of conversing with our Lord, to bear witness of his miracles
and resurrection--and who, after his ascension, were assisted and
inspired by the Holy Ghost.

2. This sacred volume must be the rule of your life. In it you will find
all truths necessary to be believed; and plain and easy directions for
the practice of every duty. Your bible, then, must be your chief study
and delight; but, as it contains many various kinds of writing--some
parts obscure and difficult of interpretation, others plain and
intelligible to the meanest capacity--I would chiefly recommend to your
frequent perusal, such parts of the sacred writings as are most adapted
to your understanding, and most necessary for your instruction.

3. Our Saviour's precepts were spoken to the common people amongst the
Jews; and were therefore given in a manner easy to be understood, and
equally striking and instructive to the learned and unlearned; for the
most ignorant may comprehend them, whilst the wisest must be charmed and
awed by the beautiful and majestic simplicity with, which they are
expressed. Of the same kind are the Ten Commandments, delivered by God
to Moses; which, as they were designed for universal laws, are worded in
the most concise and simple manner, yet with a majesty which commands
our utmost reverence.

4. I think you will receive great pleasure, as well as improvement, from
the historical books of the Old Testament; provided you read them as an
history in a regular course, and keep the thread of it in your mind as
you go on. I know of none, true or fictitious, that is equally
wonderful, interesting, or affecting; or that is told in so short and
simple a manner as this, which is of all histories the most, authentic.

5. I shall give you some brief directions, concerning the method and
course I wish you to pursue, in reading the Holy Scriptures. May you be
enabled to make the best use of this most precious gift of God--this
sacred treasure of knowledge!--May you read the bible, not as a task,
nor as the dull employment of that day only in which you are forbidden
more lively entertainments--but, with a sincere and ardent desire of
instruction; with that love and delight in God's word, which the holy
Psalmist so pathetically felt and described, and which is the natural
consequence of loving God and virtue.

6. Though I speak this of the bible in general, I would not be
understood to mean, that every part of the volume is equally
interesting. I have already said, that it consists of various matter,
and various kinds of books, which must be read with different views and
sentiments.

7. The having some general notion of what you are to expect from each
book, may possibly help you to understand them. I shall treat you as if
you were perfectly new to the whole; for so I wish you to consider
yourself; because the time and manner in which children usually read
the bible, are very ill-calculated to make them really acquainted with
it; and too many people who have read it thus, without understanding it
in their youth, satisfy themselves that they know enough of it, and
never afterwards study it with attention when they come to a mature age.

8. If the feelings of your heart, whilst you read, correspond with those
of mine whilst I write, I shall not be without the advantage of your
partial affection, to give weight to my advice; for, believe me, my
heart and eyes overflow with tenderness, when I tell you how warm and
earnest my prayers are for your happiness here and hereafter.


_Of Genesis._

9. I now proceed to give you some short sketches of the matter contained
in the different books of the Bible, and of the course in which they
ought to be read.

10. The first book, Genesis, contains the most grand, and, to us, the
most interesting events, that ever happened in the universe: The
creation of the world, and of man; the deplorable fall of man, from his
first state of excellence and bliss, to the distressed condition in
which we see all his descendants continue: The sentence of death
pronounced on Adam and on all his race; with the reviving promise of
that deliverance, which has since been wrought for us by our blessed
Saviour: The account of the early state of the world; of the universal
deluge: The division of mankind into different nations and languages:
The story of Abraham, the founder of the Jewish people, whose unshaken
faith and obedience, under the severest trial human nature could
sustain, obtained such favour in the sight of God, that he vouchsafed to
stile him his friend, and promised to make of his posterity a great
nation; and that in his seed--that is, in one of his descendants--all
the kingdoms of the earth should be blessed. This, you will easily see,
refers to the Messiah, who was to be the blessing and deliverance of all
nations.

11. It is amazing that the Jews, possessing this prophecy among many
others, should have been so blinded by prejudice, as to have expected
from, this great personage, only a temporal deliverance of their own
nation from the subjection to which they were reduced under the Romans:
It is equally amazing, that some Christians should, even now, confine
the blessed effects of his appearance upon earth, to this or that
particular sect or profession, when he is so clearly and emphatically
described as the Saviour of the whole world.

12. The story of Abraham's proceeding to sacrifice his only son, at the
command of God, is affecting in the highest degree, and sets forth a
pattern of unlimited resignation, that every one ought to imitate in
those trials of obedience under temptation, or of acquiescence under
afflicting dispensations, which fall to their lot: of this we may be
assured, that our trials will be always proportioned to the powers
afforded us. If we have not Abraham's strength of mind, neither shall we
be called upon to lift the bloody knife against the bosom of an only
child; but, if the almighty arm should be lifted up against him, we must
be ready to resign him, and all we hold dear, to the divine will.

13. This action of Abraham has been censured by some who do not attend
to the distinction between obedience to a specified command, and the
detestably cruel sacrifices of the heathens, who sometimes voluntarily,
and without any divine injunctions, offered up their own children, under
the notion of appeasing the anger of their gods. An absolute command
from God himself--as in the case of Abraham--entirely alters the moral
nature of the action; since he, and he only, has a perfect sight over
the lives of his creatures, and may appoint whom he will, either angel
or man, to be his instrument of destruction.

14. That it was really the voice of God which pronounced the command,
and not a delusion, might be made certain to Abraham's mind, by means we
do not comprehend, but which we know to be within the power of him who
made our souls as well as bodies, and who can control and direct every
faculty of the human mind: and we may be assured, that if he was pleased
to reveal himself so miraculously, he would not leave a possibility of
doubting whether it was a real or an imaginary revelation: thus the
sacrifice of Abraham appears to be clear of all superstition, and,
remains the noblest instance of religious faith and submission, that
was ever given by a mere man: we cannot wonder that the blessings
bestowed on him for it, should have been extended to his posterity.

15. This book proceeds with the history of Isaac, which becomes very
interesting to us, from the touching scene I have mentioned--and, still
more so, if we consider him as the type of our Saviour: it recounts his
marriage with Rebecca--the birth and history of his two sons,
Jacob,--the father of the twelve tribes, and Esau, the father of the
Edomites or Idumeans--the exquisitively affecting story of Joseph and
his brethren--and of his transplanting the Israelites into Egypt, who
there multiplied to a great nation.


_Of Exodus._

16. In Exodus, you read of a series of wonders, wrought by the Almighty
to rescue the oppressed Israelites from the cruel tyranny of the
Egyptians, who having first received them as guests, by degrees reduced
them to a state of slavery. By the most peculiar mercies and exertion in
their favour, God prepared his chosen people to receive, with reverent
and obedient hearts, the solemn restitution of those primitive laws,
which probably he had revealed to Adam and his immediate descendants; or
which, at least, he had made known by the dictates of conscience, but
which time, and the degeneracy of mankind, had much obscured.

17. This important revelation was made to them in the wilderness of
Sinai; there, assembled before the burning mountain, surrounded with
"blackness, and darkness, and tempest," they heard the awful voice of
God pronounce the eternal law, impressing it on their hearts with
circumstances of terror, but without those encouragements and those
excellent promises, which were afterwards offered to mankind by Jesus
Christ. Thus were the great laws of morality restored to the Jews, and
through them transmitted to other nations; and by that means a great
restraint was opposed to the torrent of vice and impiety which began to
prevail over the world.

18. To these moral precepts; which are of perpetual and universal
obligation, were superadded, by the ministration of Moses, many peculiar
institutions, wisely adapted to different ends--either to fix the
memory of those past deliverances, which were figurative of a future and
far greater salvation--to place inviolable barriers between the Jews and
the idolatrous nations, by whom they were surrounded--or, to be the
civil law by which the community was to be governed.

19. To conduct this series of events, and to establish these laws with
his people, God raised up that great prophet Moses, whose faith and
piety enabled him to undertake and execute the most arduous enterprizes,
and to pursue, with unabated zeal, the welfare of his countrymen; even
in the hour of death, this generous ardour still prevailed; his last
moments were employed in fervent prayers for their prosperity, and, in
rapturous gratitude, for the glimpse vouchsafed him of a Saviour, far
greater than himself, whom God would one day raise up to his people.

20. Thus did Moses, by the excellency of his faith, obtain a glorious
pre-eminence among the saints and prophets in heaven; while on earth he
will be for ever revered as the first of those benefactors to mankind,
whose labours for the public good have endeared their memory to all
ages.


_Of Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy._

21. The next book is Leviticus, which contains little besides the laws
for the peculiar ritual observance of the Jews, and therefore affords no
great instruction to us now; you may pass it over entirely; and for the
same reason you may omit the first eight chapters of Numbers. The rest
of Numbers is chiefly a continuation of the history, with some ritual
laws.

22. In Deuteronomy, Moses makes a recapitulation of the foregoing
history, with zealous exhortations to the people, faithfully to worship
and obey that God who had worked such amazing wonders for them: he
promises them the noblest temporal blessings, if they prove obedient,
and adds the most awful and striking denunciations against them, if they
rebel, or forsake the true God.

23. I have before observed, that the sanctions of the Mosaic law, were
temporal rewards and punishments; those of the New Testament are
eternal. These last, as they are so infinitely more forcible than the
first, were reserved for the last, best gift to mankind--and were
revealed by the Messiah, in the fullest and clearest manner. Moses, in
this book, directs the method in which the Israelites were to deal with
the seven nations, whom they were appointed to punish for their
profligacy and idolatry; and whose land they were to possess, when they
had driven out the old inhabitants. He gives them excellent laws, civil
as well as religious, which were after the standing municipal laws of
that people. This book concludes with Moses' song and death.


_Of Joshua._

24. The book of Joshua contains the conquests of the Israelites over the
seven nations, and their establishment in the promised land. Their
treatment of these conquered nations must appear to you very cruel and
unjust, if you consider it as their own act, unauthorised by a positive
command; but they had the most absolute injunctions not to spare these
corrupt people--"to make no covenant with them, nor shew mercy to them,
but utterly to destroy them:"--and the reason is given, "lest they
should turn away the Israelites from following the Lord, that they might
serve other gods." The children of Israel are to be considered as
instruments in the hand of the Lord, to punish those whose idolatry and
wickedness had deservedly brought destruction on them: this example,
therefore, cannot be pleaded in behalf of cruelty, or bring any
imputation on the character of the Jews.

25. With regard to other cities, which did not belong to these seven
nations, they were directed to deal with them, according to the common
law of arms at that time. If the city submitted, it became tributary,
and the people were spared; if it resisted, the men were to be slain,
but the women and children saved.

26. Yet, though the crime of cruelty cannot be justly laid to their
charge on this occasion, you will observe in the course of their
history, many things recorded of them very different from what you would
expect from the chosen people of God, if you supposed them selected on
account of their own merit; their national character was by no means
amiable; and we are repeatedly told, that they were not chosen for their
superior righteousness--"for they were a stiff-necked people, and
provoked the Lord with their rebellions from the day they left
Egypt."--"You have been rebellious against the Lord (says Moses) from
the day that I knew you." And he vehemently exhorts them, not to flatter
themselves that their success was, in any degree, owing to their own
merits.

27. They were appointed to be the scourge of other nations, whose crimes
rendered them fit objects of divine chastisement. For the sake of
righteous Abraham, their founder, and perhaps for many other wise
reasons, undiscovered to us, they were selected from a world over-run
with idolatry, to preserve upon earth the pure worship of the one only
God, and to be honoured with the birth of the Messiah amongst them. For
this end, they were precluded, by divine command, from mixing with any
other people, and defended, by a great number of peculiar rites and
observances, from falling into the corrupt worship practised by their
neighbours.


_Of Judges, Samuel, and Kings._

28. The book of Judges, in which you will find the affecting stories of
Sampson and Jeptha, carries on the history from the death of Joshua,
about two hundred and fifty years; but, the facts are not told in the
times in which they happened, which makes some confusion; and it will be
necessary to consult the marginal dates and notes, as well as the index,
in order to get any clear idea of the succession of events during that
period.

29. The history then proceeds regularly through the two books of Samuel,
and those of Kings: nothing can be more interesting and entertaining
than the reigns of Saul, David, and Solomon: but, after the death of
Solomon, when ten tribes revolted from his son Rehoboam, and became a
separate kingdom, you will find some difficulty in understanding
distinctly the histories of the two kingdoms of Israel and Judah, which
are blended together, and by the likeness of the names, and other
particulars, will be apt to confound your mind, without great attention
to the different threads thus carried on together: The index here will
be of great use to you. The second book of Kings concludes with the
Babylonish captivity, 588 years before Christ--'till which time the
kingdom of Judah had descended uninterruptedly in the line of David.


_Of Chronicles, Ezra, Nehemiah, and Esther._

30. The first book of Chronicles begins with a genealogy from Adam,
through all the tribes of Israel and Judah; and the remainder is the
same history which is contained in the books of Kings, with little or no
variation, till the separation of the ten tribes: From that period it
proceeds with the history of the kingdom of Judah alone, and gives,
therefore, a more regular and clear account of the affairs of Judah,
than the book of Kings. You may pass over the first book of Chronicles,
and the nine first chapters of the second book: but, by all means, read
the remaining chapters, as they will give you more clear and distinct
ideas of the history of Judah, than that you read in the second book of
Kings. The second of Chronicles ends, like the second of Kings, with the
Babylonish captivity.

31. You must pursue the history in the book of Ezra, which gives the
account of the return of some of the Jews on the edict of Cyrus, and of
the re-building the Lord's temple.

32. Nehemiah carries on the history for about twelve years, when he
himself was governor of Jerusalem, with authority to re-build the walls,
&c.

33. The story of Esther is prior in time to that of Ezra and Nehemiah;
us you will see by the marginal dates; however, as it happened during
the seventy years captivity, and is a kind of episode, it may be read in
its own place.

34. This is the last of the canonical books that is properly historical;
and I would therefore advise, that you pass over what follows, till you
have continued the history through the Apocryphal Books.


_Of Job._

35. The history of Job is probably very ancient, though that is a point
upon which learned men have differed: It is dated, however, 1520 years
before Christ: I believe it is uncertain by whom it was written: many
parts of it are obscure, but it is well worth studying, for the extreme
beauty of the poetry, and for the noble and sublime devotion it
contains.

36. The subject of the dispute between Job and his pretended friends,
seems to be, whether the Providence of God distributes the rewards and
punishments of this life; in exact proportion to the merit or demerit of
each individual. His antagonists suppose that it does; and therefore
infer from Job's uncommon calamities, that, notwithstanding his apparent
righteousness, he was in reality a grievous sinner: They aggravate his
supposed guilt, by the imputation of hypocrisy, and call upon him to
confess it, and to acknowledge the justice of his punishment.

37. Job asserts his own innocence and virtue in the most pathetic
manner, yet does not presume to accuse the Supreme Being of injustice.
Elihu attempts to arbitrate the matter, by alledging the impossibility
that so frail and ignorant a creature as man should comprehend the ways
of the Almighty, and therefore condemns the unjust and cruel inference
the three friends had drawn from the sufferings of Job. He also blames
Job for the presumption of acquitting himself of all iniquity, since the
best of men are not pure in the sight of God--but all have something to
repent of; and he advises him to make this use of his afflictions.

38. At last, by a bold figure of poetry, the Supreme Being himself is
introduced, speaking from the whirlwind, and silencing them all by the
most sublime display of his own power, magnificence, and wisdom, and of
the comparative littleness and ignorance of men.--This, indeed, is the
only conclusion of the argument, which could be drawn at a time when
life and immortality were not yet brought to light: a future retribution
is the only satisfactory solution of the difficulty arising from the
sufferings of good people in this life.


_Of the Psalms._

39. Next follow the Psalms, with which you cannot be too conversant. If
you have any taste, either for poetry or devotion, they will be your
delight, and will afford you a continual feast. The Bible translation is
far better than that used in the common prayer-book, and will often give
you the sense, when the other is obscure. In this, as well as in all
other parts of the scripture, you must be careful always to consult the
margin, which gives you the corrections made since the last translation,
and it is generally preferable to the words of the text.

40. I would wish you to select some of the Psalms that please you best,
and get them by heart; or, at least, make yourself master of the
sentiments contained in them: Dr. Delaney's life of David, will shew you
the occasions on which several of them were composed, which add much to
their beauty and propriety; and by comparing them with the events of
David's life, you will greatly enhance your pleasure in them.

41. Never did the spirit of true piety breathe more strongly than in
these divine songs; which being added to a rich vein of poetry, makes
them more captivating to my heart and imagination, than any thing I ever
read. You will consider how great disadvantages any poem must sustain
from being rendered literally into prose, and then imagine how beautiful
these must be in the original.--May you be enabled by reading them
frequently, to transfuse into your own breast that holy flame which
inspired the writer!--To delight in the Lord, and in his laws, like the
Psalmist--to rejoice in him always, and to think "one day in his courts
better than a thousand!"--But may you escape the heart-piercing sorrow
of such repentance as that of David--by avoiding sin, which humbled this
unhappy king to the dust--and which cost him such bitter anguish, as it
is impossible to read of without being moved.

42. Not all the pleasures of the most prosperous sinners, could
counterbalance the hundredth part of those sensations described in his
penitential psalms--and which must be the portion of every man, who has
fallen from a religious state into such crimes, when once he recovers a
sense of religion and virtue, and is brought to a real hatred of sin.
However, available such repentance may be to the safety and happiness of
the soul after death, it is a state of such exquisite suffering here,
that one cannot be enough surprised at the folly of those who indulge
sin, with the hope of living to make their peace with God by repentance.

43. Happy are they who preserve their innocence unsullied by any great
or wilful crimes, and who have only the common failings of humanity to
repent of, these are suffiently mortifying to a heart deeply smitten
with the love of virtue, and with the desire of perfection.

44. There are many very striking prophecies of the Messiah in these
divine songs, particularly in psalm xxii. Such may be found scattered up
and down almost throughout the Old Testament. To bear testimony to
_him_, is the great and ultimate end for which the spirit of prophecy
was bestowed on the sacred writers;--but, this will appear more plainly
to you when you enter on the study of prophecy, which you are now much
too young to undertake.


_Of the Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Solomon's Song, the Prophecies, and
Apocrypha._

45. The Proverbs and Ecclesiastes are rich stores of wisdom; from which
I wish you to adopt such maxims as may be of infinite use, both to your
temporal and eternal interest. But, detached sentences are a kind of
reading not proper to be continued long at a time; a few of them, well
chosen and digested, will do you much more service, than to read half a
dozen chapters together: in this respect, they are directly opposite to
the historical books, which, if not read in continuation, can hardly be
understood, or retained to any purpose.

46. The Song of Solomon is a fine poem--but its mystical reference to
religion lies too deep for a common understanding: if you read it,
therefore, it will be rather as matter of curiosity than of edification.

47. Next follow the Prophecies; which, though highly deserving the
greatest attention and study, I think you had better omit for some
years, and then read them with a good Exposition, as they are much too
difficult for you to understand without assistance. Dr. Newton on the
prophecies, will help you much, whenever you undertake this study; which
you should by all means do when your understanding is ripe enough;
because one of the main proofs of our religion rests on the testimony of
the prophecies; and they are very frequently quoted, and referred to, in
the New Testament: besides, the sublimity of the language and
sentiments, through all the disadvantages of a antiquity and
translation, must, in very many passages, strike every person of taste;
and the excellent moral and religious precepts found in them, must be
useful to all.

48. Though I have spoken of these books in the order in which they
stand, I repeat, that they are not to be read in that order--but that
the thread of the history is to be pursued, from Nehemiah to the first
book of the Maccabees, in the Apocrypha; taking care to observe the
chronology regularly, by referring to the index, which supplies the
deficiencies of this history from Josephus's Antiquities of the Jews.
The first of Maccabees carries on the story till within 195 years of our
Lord's circumcision: the second book is the same narrative, written by a
different hand, and does not bring the history so forward as the first;
so that it may be entirely omitted, unless you have the curiosity to
read some particulars of the heroic constancy of the Jews, under the
tortures inflicted by their heathen conquerors, with a few other things
not mentioned in the first book.

49. You must then connect the history by the help of the index, which
will give you brief heads of the changes that happened in the state of
the Jews, from this time till the birth of the Messiah.

50. The other books of the Apocrypha, though not admitted as of sacred
authority, have many things well worth your attention; particularly the
admirable book called Ecclesiasticus, and the book of Wisdom. But, in
the course of reading which I advise, these must be omitted till after
you have gone through the Gospels and Acts, that you may not lose the
historical thread.


_Of the New Testament, which is constantly to be referred to as the Rule
and Direction of our moral Conduct._

51. We come now to that part of scripture, which is the most important
of all, and which you must make your constant study, not only till you
are thoroughly acquainted with but all your life long; because, how
often soever repeated, it is impossible to read the life and death of
our blessed Saviour, without renewing and increasing in our hearts that
love and reverence, and gratitude towards him, which is so justly due
for all he did and suffered for us! Every word that fell from his lips
is more precious than all the treasures of the earth; for his "are the
words of eternal life!" They must therefore be laid up in your heart,
and constantly referred to on all occasions, as the rule and directions
of all your actions; particularly those very comprehensive moral
precepts he has graciously left with us, which can never fail to direct
us aright, if fairly and honestly applied: such as, "whatsoever you
would that men should do unto you, even so do unto them." There is no
occasion, great or small, on which you may not safely apply this rule
for the direction of your conduct; and, whilst your heart honestly
adheres to it, you can never be guilty of any sort of injustice or
unkindness.

52. The two great commandments, which contain the summary of our duty to
God and man, are no less easily retained, and made a standard by which
to judge our own hearts--"To love the Lord our God, with all our own
hearts, with all our minds, with all our strength; and our neighbour (or
fellow-creature) as ourselves."--"Love worketh no ill to his neighbour."
Therefore, if you have true benevolence, you will never do any thing
injurious to individuals, or to society.

53. Now, all crimes whatever, are (in their remoter consequences at
least, if not immediately and apparently) injurious to the society in
which we live. It is impossible to love God without desiring to please
him, and, as far as we are able, to resemble him: therefore the love of
God must lead to every virtue in the highest degree; and, we may be sure
we do not truly love him, if we content ourselves with avoiding flagrant
sins, and do not strive, in good earnest, to reach the greatest degree
of perfection we are capable of. Thus do these few words direct as to
the highest Christian virtue. Indeed; the whole tenor of the Gospel, is
to offer us every help, direction, and motive, that can enable us to
attain that degree of perfection on which depends our eternal good.


_Of the Example set by our Saviour, and his Character._

54. What an example is set before us in our blessed master! How is his
whole life, from earliest youth, dedicated to the pursuits of true
wisdom, and to the practice of the most exalted virtue! When you see
him, at twelve years of age, in the temple amongst the doctors, hearing
them, and asking them questions on the subject of religion, and
astonishing them all with his understanding and answers--you will say,
perhaps, "Well might the Son of God, even at those years, be far wiser
than the aged; but, can a mortal child emulate such heavenly wisdom! Can
such a pattern be proposed to my imitation?"--Yes, certainly;--remember
that he has bequeathed to you his heavenly wisdom, as far as concerns
your own good. He has left you such declarations of his will, and of the
consequences of your actions, as you are, even now, fully able to
understand, if you will but attend to them. If, then, you will imitate
his zeal for knowledge, if you will delight in gaining information and
improvement, you may even now become "wise unto salvation."

55. Unmoved by the praise he acquired amongst these learned men, you see
him meekly return to the subjection of a child, under those who appeared
to be his parents, though he was in reality their Lord; you see him
return to live with them, to work for them, and to be the joy and solace
of their lives; till the time came, when he was to enter on that scene
of public action, for which his heavenly Father had sent him from his
own right hand, to take upon him the form of a poor carpenter's son.

56. What a lesson of humility is this, and of obedience to
parents!--When, having received the glorious testimony from heaven, of
his being the beloved Son of the most High, he enters on his public
ministry, what an example does he give us, of the most extensive and
constant benevolence!--how are all his hours spent in doing good to the
souls and bodies of men!--not the meanest sinner is below his
notice:--To reclaim and save them, he condescends to converse familiarly
with the most corrupt as well as the most abject. All his miracles are
wrought to benefit mankind; not one to punish and afflict them. Instead
of using the almighty power which accompanied him, to the purpose of
exalting himself, and treading down his enemies, he makes no other use
of it than to heal and to save.

57. When you come to read of his sufferings and death, the ignominy and
reproach, the sorrow of mind, and torment of body, which he submitted
to--when you consider, that it was all for our sakes--"that by his
stripes we are healed,"--and by his death we are raised from destruction
to everlasting life--what can I say that can add any thing to the
sensations you must then feel? No power of language can make the scene
more touching than it appears in the plain and simple narrations of the
Evangelists. The heart that is unmoved by it, can be scarcely human; but
the emotions of tenderness and compunction; which almost every one
feels in reading this account, will be of no avail, unless applied to
the true end--unless it inspires you with a sincere and warm affection
towards your blessed Lord--with a firm resolution to obey his
commands--to be his faithful disciple--and ever renounce and abhor those
sins, which brought mankind under divine condemnation, and from which we
have been redeemed at so clear a rate.

58. Remember that the title of Christian, or follower of Christ, implies
a more than ordinary degree of holiness and goodness. As our motives to
virtue are stronger than those which are afforded to the rest of
mankind, our guilt will be proportionally greater if we depart from it.

59. Our Saviour appears to have had three great purposes in descending
from his glory, and dwelling amongst men. The first, to teach them true
virtue, both by his example and precepts: the second, to give them the
most forcible motives to the practice of it, by "bringing life and
immortality to light;" by shewing them the certainty of a resurrection
and judgment, and the absolute necessity of obedience to God's laws. The
third, to sacrifice himself for us, to obtain by his death the remission
of our sins, upon our repentance and reformation, and the power of
bestowing on his sincere followers, the inestimable gift of immortal
happiness.


_A Comparative View of the Blessed and Cursed at the Last Day, and the
Inference to be drawn from it._

60. What a tremendous scene of the last day does the gospel place before
our eyes!--of that day, when you and every one of us shall awake from
the grave, and behold the Son of God, on his glorious tribunal, attended
by millions of celestial beings, of whose superior excellence we can now
form no adequate idea--When, in presence of all mankind, of those holy
angels, and of the great Judge himself, you must give an account of your
past life, and hear your final doom, from which there can be no appeal,
and which must determine your fate to all eternity: then think--if for a
moment you can hear the thought--what will be the desolation, shame, and
anguish of those wretched souls, who shall hear these dreadful
words--"Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for
the devil and his angels."--Oh!--I cannot support even the idea of your
becoming one of those undone, lost creatures! I trust in God's mercy,
that you will make a better use of that knowledge of his will, which he
has vouchsafed you, and of those amiable dispositions he has given you.

61. Let us, therefore, turn from this horrid, this insupportable
view--and rather endeavour to imagine, as far as is possible, what will
be the sensations of your soul, if you shall hear our heavenly Judge
address you in these transporting words--"Come thou blessed of my
Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the
world."--Think, what it must be, to become an object of the esteem and
applause--not only of all mankind assembled together--but of all the
host of heaven, of our blessed Lord himself--nay, of his and our
Almighty Father:--to find your frail flesh changed in a moment into a
glorious celestial body, endowed with perfect beauty, health, and
agility;--to find your soul cleansed from all its faults and
infirmities; exalted to the purest and noblest affections; overflowing
with divine love and rapturous gratitude!--to have your understanding
enlightened and refined; your heart enlarged and purified; and every
power, and disposition of mind and body, adapted to the highest relish
of virtue and happiness!--Thus accomplished, to be admitted into the
society of amiable and happy beings, all united in the most perfect
peace and friendship, all breathing nothing but love to God, and to each
other;--with them to dwell in scenes more delightful than the richest
imagination can paint--free from every pain and care, and from all
possibility of change or satiety:--but, above all, to enjoy the more
immediate presence of God himself--to be able to comprehend and admire
his adorable perfections in a high degree, though still far short of
their infinity--to be conscious, of his love and favour, and to rejoice
in the light of his countenance!

62. But here all imagination fails:--we can form no idea of that bliss
which may be communicated to us by such a near approach to the source of
all beauty and all good:--we must content ourselves with believing,
"that it is what mortal eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath
it entered into the heart of man to conceive." The crown of all our joys
will be, to know that we are secure of possessing them for ever--what a
transporting idea!

63. Can you reflect on all these things, and not feel the most earnest
longings after immortality? Do not all other views and desires seem mean
and trifling, when compared with this?--And does not your inmost heart
resolve, that this shall be the chief and constant object of its wishes
and pursuit, through the whole course of your life?

64. If you are not insensible to that desire of happiness which seems
woven into our nature, you cannot surely be unmoved by the prospect of
such a transcendant degree of it; and that--continued to all
eternity--perhaps continually increasing. You cannot but dread the
forfeiture of such an inheritance as the most insupportable
evil!--Remember then--remember the conditions on which alone it can be
obtained. God will not give to vice, to carelessness, or sloth, the
prize he has proposed to virtue. You have every help that can animate
your endeavours: You have written laws to direct you--the example of
Christ and his disciples to encourage you--the most awakening motives to
engage you--and you have, besides, the comfortable promise of constant
assistance from the Holy Spirit, if you diligently and sincerely pray
for it. O! let not all this mercy be lost upon you--but give your
attention to this your only important concern, and accept, with profound
gratitude, the inestimable advantages that are thus affectionately
offered you.

65. Though the four Gospels are each of them a narration of the life,
sayings, and death of Christ; yet as they are not exactly alike, but
some circumstances and sayings omitted in one, are recorded in another,
you must make yourself perfectly master of them all.

66. The Acts of the Holy Apostles, endowed with the Holy Ghost, and
authorised by their Divine Master, come next in order to be read.
Nothing can be more interesting and edifying, than the history of their
actions--of the piety, zeal, and courage, with which they preached the
glad tidings of salvation, and of the various exertions of the wonderful
powers conferred on them by the Holy Spirit for the confirmation of
their mission.


_Character of St. Paul._

67. The character of St. Paul, and his miraculous conversion, demand
your particular attention: most of the Apostles were men of low birth
and education; but St. Paul was a Roman citizen; that is, he possessed
the privileges annexed to the freedom of the city of Rome, which was
considered as a high distinction in those countries that had been
conquered by the Romans. He was educated amongst the most learned sect
of the Jews, and by one of their principal doctors. He was a man of
extraordinary eloquence, as appears not only in his writings, but in
several speeches in his own defence, pronounced before governors and
courts of justice, when he was called to account for the doctrines he
taught.

68. He seems to have been of an uncommonly warm temper, and zealous in
whatever religion he professed: his zeal, before his conversion, shewed
itself in the most unjustifiable actions, by furiously persecuting the
innocent Christians: but, though his actions were bad, we may be sure
his intentions were good; otherwise we should not have seen a miracle
employed to convince him of his mistake, and to bring him into the right
way.

69. This example may assure us of the mercy of God towards mistaken
consciences, and ought to inspire us with the most enlarged charity and
good will towards those whose erroneous principles mislead their
conduct: instead of resentment and hatred against their persons, we
ought only to feel an active wish of assisting them to find the truth,
since we know not whether, if convinced, they might not prove, like St.
Paul, chosen vessels to promote the honour of God, and of true religion.

70. It is not now my intention to enter with you into any of the
arguments for the truth of Christianity, otherwise it would be
impossible wholly to pass over that which arises from this remarkable
conversion, and which has been so admirably illustrated by a nobler
writer, whose tract on this subject is in everybody's hands.


_Of the Epistles._

71. Next follow the Epistles, which make a very important part of the
New Testament; and you cannot be too much employed in reading them. They
contain the most excellent precepts and admonitions; and are of
particular use in explaining more at large several doctrines of
Christianity, which we could not so fully comprehend without them.

72. There are indeed, in the Epistles of St. Paul, many passages hard to
be understood: such in particular are the first eleven chapters to the
Romans; the greater part of his Epistles to the Corinthians and
Galatians; and several chapters of that to the Hebrews. Instead of
perplexing yourself with these more obscure passages of scripture, I
would wish you to employ your attention chiefly on those that are plain;
and to judge of the doctrines taught in the other parts, by comparing
them with what you find in these. It is through the neglect of this
rule, that many have been led to draw the most absurd doctrines from the
Holy Scriptures.

73. Let me particularly recommend to your careful perusal, the xii,
xiii, xiv, and xv chapters of the Epistle to the Romans. In the xiv
chapter, St. Paul has in view the difference between the Jewish and
Gentile (or Heathen) converts at that time; the former were disposed to
look with horror on the latter, for their impiety in not paying the same
regard to the distinctions of days and meats that they did; and the
latter, on the contrary, were inclined to look with contempt on the
former, for their weakness and superstition.

74. Excellent is the advice which the Apostle gives to both parties: he
exhorts the Jewish converts not to judge and the Gentiles not to
despise; remembering that the kingdom of Heaven is not meat and drink,
but righteousness and peace, and joy in the Holy Ghost.

75. Endeavour to conform yourself to this advice; to acquire a temper of
universal candour and benevolence; and learn neither to despise nor
condemn any persons on account of their particular modes of faith and
worship: remembering always, that goodness is confined to no party, that
there are wise and worthy men among all the sects of Christians, and
that to his own master every one must stand or fall.

76. I will enter no farther into the several points discussed by St.
Paul in his various epistles; most of them are too intricate for your
understanding at present, and many of them beyond my abilities to state
clearly. I will only again recommend to you, to read those passages
frequently, which, with, so much fervor and energy, excite you to the
practice of the most exalted piety and benevolence. If the effusions of
a heart, warmed with the tenderest affection for the whole human race;
if precept, warning, encouragement, example, urged by an eloquence which
such affection only could inspire, are capable of influencing your mind;
you cannot fail to find, in such parts of his epistles as are adapted to
your understanding, the strongest persuasives to every virtue that can
adorn and improve your nature.


_The Epistle of St. James._

77. The Epistle of St. James is entirely practical, and exceedingly
fine; you cannot study it too much. It seems particularly designed to
guard Christians against misunderstanding some things in St. Paul's
writings, which have been fatally perverted to the encouragement of a
dependence on faith alone, without good works. But, the more rational
commentators will tell you, that by the works of the law, which the
Apostle asserts to be incapable of justifying us, he means not the works
of moral righteousness, but the ceremonial works of the Mosaic law; on
which the Jews laid the greatest stress as necessary to salvation. But,
St. James tells us, "that if any man among us seem to be religious, and
bridleth not his tongue, but deceiveth his own heart, that man's
religion is vain;"--and that "pure religion, and undefiled before God
and the Father, is this, to visit the fatherless and widow in their
affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world." Faith in
Christ, if it produce not these effects, he declareth is dead, or of no
power.


_Epistles of St. Peter, and the first of St. John._

78. The Epistles of St. Peter are also full of the best instructions and
admonitions, concerning the relative duties of life; amongst which are
set forth the duties of women in general, and of wives in particular.
Some part of his second Epistle is prophetical; warning the church of
false teachers and false doctrines, which undermine morality, and
disgrace the cause of Christianity.

79. The first of St. John is written in a highly figurative stile, which
makes it in some parts hard to be understood: but the spirit of divine
love which it so fervently expresses, renders it highly edifying and
delightful.--That love of God and of Man, which this beloved apostle so
pathetically recommends, is in truth the essence of religion as our
Saviour himself informs us.


_Of the Revelations._

80. The book of Revelations contains a prophetical account of most of
the greater events relating to the Christian church, which were to
happen from the time of the writer, St. John, to the end of the world.
Many learned men have taken a great deal of pains to explain it; and
they have done this in many instances very successfully; but, I think,
it is yet too soon for you to study this part of scripture: some years
hence, perhaps, there may be no objection to your attempting it, and
taking into your hands the best Expositions to assist you in reading
such of the most difficult parts of the New Testament as you cannot now
be supposed to understand.--May heaven direct you in studying this
sacred volume, and render it the means of making you wise unto
salvation!---May you love and reverence, as it deserves, this blessed
and valuable book, which contains the best rule of life, the clearest
declaration of the will and laws of the Deity, the reviving assurance of
favour to true penitants, and the unspeakable joyful tidings of eternal
life and happiness to all the truly virtuous, through Jesus Christ, the
Saviour and Deliverer of the world.




_True Devotion productive of the truest Pleasure_.


1. You see that true devotion is not a melancholy sentiment, that
depresses the spirits and excludes the ideas, of pleasure, which youth
is so fond of: on the contrary, there is nothing so friendly to joy, so
productive of true pleasure, so peculiarly suited to the warmth and
innocence of a youthful heart. Do not, therefore, think it too soon to
turn your mind to God; but offer him, the first fruits of your
understanding and affections: and, be assured, that the more you
increase in love to him, and delight in his laws, the more you will
increase in happiness, in excellence, and honour:--that, in proportion
as you improve in true piety, you will become dear and amiable to your
fellow creatures; contented and peaceable in yourself, and qualified to
enjoy the best blessings of this life, as well as to inherit the
glorious promise of immortality.

2. Thus far I have spoken of the first principles of all religion:
namely, belief in God, worthy notions of his attributes, and suitable
affections towards him--which will naturally excite a sincere desire of
obedience. But, before you can obey his will, you must know what that
will is; you must enquire in what manner he has declared it, and where
you may find those laws, which must be the rule of your actions.

3. The great laws of morality are indeed written in our hearts, and may
be discovered by reason; but our reason is of slow growth, very
unequally dispensed to different persons; liable to error, and confined
within very narrow limits in all. If, therefore, God has vouchsafed to
grant a particular revelation of his will--if he has been so unspeakably
gracious as to send his Son into the world, to reclaim mankind from
error and wickedness--to die for our sins--and to teach us the way to
eternal life--surely it becomes us to receive his precepts with the
deepest reverence; to love and prize them above all things; and to study
them constantly, with an earnest desire to conform our thoughts, our
words and actions, to them.


_A Morning Prayer for a young Student at School, or for the common Use
of a School._

Father of all! we return thee most humble and hearty thanks for thy
protection of us in the night season, and for the refreshment of our
souls and bodies, in the sweet repose of sleep. Accept also our
unfeigned gratitude for all thy mercies during the helpless age of
infancy.

Continue, we beseech thee, to guard us under the shadow of thy wing. Our
age is tender, and our nature frail, and without the influence of thy
grace, we shall surely fall.

Let that influence descend into our hearts, and teach us to love thee
and truth above all things. O guard our hearts from the temptations to
deceit, and grant, that we may abhor a lie as a sin and as a disgrace.

Inspire us also with an abhorrence of the loathsomeness of vice, and the
pollutions of sensual pleasure. Grant at the same time, that we may
early feel the delight of conscious purity, and wash our hands in
innocency, from the united motives of inclination and of duty.

Give us, O thou Parent of all knowledge, a love of learning, and a
taste for the pure and sublime pleasures of the understanding. Improve
our memory, quicken our apprehension, and grant that we may lay up such
a store of learning, as may fit us for the station to which it shall
please thee to call us, and enable us to make great advances in virtue
and religion, and shine as lights in the world, by the influence of a
good example.

Give us grace to be diligent in our studies, and that whatever we read
we may strongly mark, and inwardly digest it.

Bless our parents, guardians, and instructors; and grant that we may
make them the best return in our power, for giving us opportunities of
improvement, and for all their care and attention to our welfare. They
ask no return, but that we should make use of those opportunities, and
co-operate with their endeavours--O grant that we may never disappoint
their anxious expectations.

Assist us mercifully, O Lord, that we may immediately engage in the
studies and duties of the day, and go through them cheerfully,
diligently and successfully.

Accept our endeavours, and pardon our defects through the merits of our
blessed Saviour, Jesus Christ our Lord. _Amen._


_An Evening Prayer._

O almighty God! again we approach thy mercy-seat, to offer unto thee our
thanks and praises for the blessings and protection afforded us this
day; and humbly to implore thy pardon for our manifold transgressions.

Grant that the words of various instruction which we have heard or read
this day, may be so inwardly grafted in our hearts and memories, as to
bring forth the fruits of learning and virtue.

Grant that as we recline on our pillows, we may call to mind the
transactions of the day, condemn those things of which our conscience
accuses us, and make and keep resolutions of amendment.

Grant that thy holy angels may watch over us this night, and guard us
from temptation, excluding all improper thoughts, and filling our
breasts with the purest sentiments of piety. Like as the heart panteth
for the water-brook, so let our souls thirst for thee, O Lord, and for
whatever is excellent and beautiful in learning and behaviour.

Correct, by the sweet influence of Christian charity, the
irregularities of our temper, and restrain every tendency to
ingratitude; and to ill usage of our parents, teachers, pastors, and
masters. Teach us to know the value of a good education, and to be
thankful to those who labour in the improvement of our minds and morals.
Give us grace to be reverent to our superiors, gentle to our equals or
inferiors, and benevolent to all mankind. Elevate and enlarge our
sentiments, and let all our conduct be regulated by right reason, by
Christian charity, and attended with that peculiar generosity of mind,
which becomes a liberal scholar and a sincere Christian.

O Lord, bestow upon us whatever may be good for us, even though we
should omit to pray for it; and avert whatever is hurtful, though in the
blindness of our hearts we should wish for it.

Into thy hands, then, we resign ourselves, as we retire to rest, hoping
by thy mercy to rise again with renewed spirits, to go through the
business of the morrow, and to prepare ourselves for this life, and for
a blessed immortality; which we ardently hope to attain, through the
merits and intercession of thy Son our Saviour, Jesus Christ our Lord.
_Amen._




_APPENDIX._

_Of Columbus, and the Discovery of America._


1. It is to the discoveries of the Portuguese in the old world, that we
are indebted for the new, if we may call the conquest of America an
obligation, which proved so fatal to its inhabitants, and at times to
the conquerors themselves.

2. This was doubtless the most important event that ever happened on our
globe, one half of which had been hitherto strangers to the other.
Whatever had been esteemed most great or noble before, seemed absorbed
in this kind of new creation. We still mention, with respectful
admiration, the names of the Argonauts, who did not perform the
hundredth part of what was done by the sailors under Gama and
Albuquerque. How many altars would have been raised by the ancients to a
Greek who had discovered America! and yet Bartholomew and Christopher
Columbus were not thus rewarded.

3. Columbus, struck with the wonderful expeditions of the Portuguese,
imagined that something greater might be done; and from a bare
inspection of the map of our world, concluded that there must be another
which might be found by sailing always west. He had courage equal to his
genius, or indeed superior, seeing he had to struggle with the
prejudices of his cotemporaries, and the repulses of several princes to
whom he had tendered his services.

4. Genoa, which was his native country, treated his schemes as
visionary, and by that means lost the only opportunity that could have
offered of aggrandizing her power. Henry VII. king of England, who was
too greedy of money, to hazard any on this noble attempt, would not
listen to the proposals made by Columbus's brother; and Columbus himself
was rejected by John II. of Portugal, whose attention was wholly
employed upon the coast of Africa. He had no prospect of success in
applying to the French, whose marine lay totally neglected, and their
affairs more confused than ever, daring the Minority of Charles VIII.
The emperor Maximilian, had neither ports for shipping, money to fit out
a fleet, nor sufficient courage to engage in a scheme of this nature.
The Venetians, indeed, might have undertaken it; but whether the natural
aversion of the Genoese to these people, would not suffer Columbus to
apply to the rivals of his country, or that the Venetians had no idea of
any thing more important than the trade they carried on from Alexandria
and in the Levant, Columbus at length fixed all his hopes on the court
of Spain.

5. Ferdinand, king of Arragon, and Isabella, queen of Castile, had by
their marriage united all Spain under one dominion, excepting only the
kingdom of Granada, which was still in the possession of the Moors; but
which Ferdinand soon after took from them. The union of these two
princes had prepared the way for the greatness of Spain, which was
afterwards begun by Columbus; he was however obliged to undergo eight
years of incessant application, before Isabella's court would consent to
accept of the inestimable benefit this great man offered it. The bane of
all great objects is the want of money. The Spanish court was poor; and
the prior, Perez, and two merchants, named Pinzono, were obliged to
advance seventeen thousand ducats towards fitting out the armament.
Columbus procured a patent from the court, and at length set sail from
the port of Palos, in Andalusia, with three ships, on August 23, in the
year 1492.

6. It was not above a month after his departure from the Canary Islands,
where he had come to an anchor to get refreshment, when Columbus
discovered the first island in America; and during this short run, he
suffered more from the murmurings and discontent of the people of his
fleet, than he had done even from the refusals of the princes he had
applied to. This island, which he discovered and named St. Salvador,
lies about a thousand leagues from the Canaries. Presently after he
likewise discovered the Lucayan islands, together with those of Cuba and
Hispaniola, now called St. Domingo.

7. Ferdinand and Isabella were in the utmost surprise to see him return
at the end of nine months, with some of the American natives of
Hispaniola, several rarities from that country, and a quantity of gold,
with which he presented their majesties.

8. The king and queen made him sit down in their presence, covered like
a grandee of Spain, and created him high admiral and viceroy of the new
world. Columbus was now every where looked upon as an extraordinary
person sent from heaven. Everyone was vying who should be foremost in
assisting him in his undertakings, and embarking under his command. He
soon set sail again, with a fleet of seventeen ships. He now made the
discovery of several other new islands, particularly the Caribees and
Jamaica. Doubt had been changed into admiration on his first voyage; in
this, admiration was turned into envy.

9. He was admiral and viceroy, and to these titles might have been added
that of the benefactor of Ferdinand and Isabella. Nevertheless, he was
brought home prisoner to Spain, by judges who had been purposely sent
out on board to observe his conduct. As soon as it was known that
Columbus was arrived, the people ran in shoals to meet him, as the
guardian genius of Spain. Columbus was brought from the ship, and
appeared on shore chained hands and feet.

10. He had been thus treated by the orders of Fonseca, Bishop of Burgos,
the intendant of the expedition, whose ingratitude was as great as the
other's services. Isabella was ashamed of what she saw, and did all in
her power to make Columbus amends for the injuries done to him: however
he was not suffered to depart for four years, either because they feared
that he would seize upon what he had discovered for himself, or that
they were willing to have time to observe his behaviour. At length he
was sent on another voyage to the new world; and now it was that he
discovered the continent, at six degrees distance from the equator, and
saw that part of the coast on which Carthagena has been since built.

11. At the time that Columbus first promised a new hemisphere, it was
insisted upon that no such hemisphere could exist; and after he had made
the actual discovery of it, it was pretended that it had been known long
before.

12. I shall not mention one Martin Behem, of Nuremberg, who, it is said,
went from that city to the Straits of Magellan, in 1460, with a patent
from the Duchess of Burgundy, who, as she was not alive at that time,
could not issue patents. Nor shall I take notice of the pretended charts
of this Martin Behem, which are still shewn; nor of the evident
contradictions which discredit this story: but, in short, it was not
pretended that Martin Behem had peopled America; the honour was given to
the Carthaginians, and a book of Aristotle was quoted on the occasion,
which he never wrote. Some found out a conformity between some words in
the Caribee and Hebrew languages, and did not fail to follow so fine an
opening. Others were positive that the children of Noah, after settling
in Siberia, passed from thence over to Canada on the ice, and that their
descendants, afterwards born in Canada, had gone and peopled Peru.
According to others again, the Chinese and Japanese sent colonies into
America, and carried over lions with them for their diversion, though
there are no lions either in China or Japan.

13. In this manner have many learned men argued upon the discoveries
made by men of genius. If it should be asked, how men first came upon
the continent of America? Is it not easily answered, that they were
placed there by the same power who causes trees and grass to grow?

14. The reply which Columbus made to some of those who envied him the
high reputation he had gained, is still famous. These people pretended
that nothing could be more easy than the discoveries he had made; upon
which he proposed to them to set an egg upright on one of its ends; but
when they had tried in vain to do it, he broke one end of the egg, and
set it upright with ease. They told him any one could do that: How comes
it then, replied Columbus, that not one among you thought of it? This
story is related of Brunelleschi, who improved architecture at Florence
many years before Columbus was born. Most bon-mots are only the
repetition of things that have been said before.

15. The ashes of Columbus cannot be affected by the reputation he gained
while living, in having doubled for us the works of the creation. But
mankind delight to do justice to the illustrious dead, either from a
vain hope that they enhance thereby the merit of the living, or that
they are naturally fond of truth.

16. Americo Vespucci, whom we call Americus Vespusius, a merchant of
Florence, had the honour of giving his name to this new half of the
globe, in which he did not possess one acre of land, and pretended to be
the first who discovered the continent. But supposing it true, that he
was the first discoverer, the glory was certainly due to him who had the
penetration and courage to undertake and perform the first voyage:
Honour, as Newton says in his dispute with Leibnitz, is due only to the
first inventor; and those that follow after are only his scholars.

17. Columbus had made three voyages as admiral and viceroy, five years
before Americas Vespusius had made one as a geographer, under the
command of admiral Ojeda; but the latter, writing to his friends at
Florence, that he had discovered a new world, they believed him on his
word, and the citizens of Florence decreed, that a grand illumination
should be made before the door of his house every three years, on the
feast of All Saints. And yet, could this man be said to deserve any
honours, for happening to be on board a fleet that, in 1489; sailed
along the coast of Brazil, when Columbus had, five years before, pointed
out the way to the rest of the world?

18. There has lately appeared at Florence, a life of this Americus
Vespusius, which seems to be written with very little regard to truth,
and without any conclusive reasoning. Several French authors are there
complained of, who have done justice to Columbus's merit; but the writer
should not have fallen upon the French authors, but on the Spanish, who
were the first that did this justice. This writer says, "that he will
confound the vanity of the French nation, who have always attacked with
impunity the honour and success of the Italian nation."

19. What vanity can there be in saying, that it was a Genoese that first
discovered America? or how is the honour of the Italian nation injured
in owning, that it was to an Italian born in Genoa, that we are indebted
for the new world? I purposely remark this want of equity, good
breeding, and good sense, as we have too many examples of it; and I must
say, that the good French writers have in general been the least guilty
of this insufferable fault; and one great reason of their being so
universally read throughout Europe, is their doing justice to all
nations.

20. The inhabitants of these islands, and of the continent, were a new
race of men. They were all without beards, and were as much astonished
at the faces of the Spaniards, as they were at their ships and
artillery: they at first looked upon these new visitors as monsters or
gods, who had come out of the sky or the sea.

21. These voyages, and those of the Portuguese, had now taught us how
inconsiderable a spot of the globe our Europe was, and what an
astonishing variety reigns in the world. Indostan was known to be
inhabited by a race of men whose complexions were yellow. In Africa and
Asia, at some distance from the equator, there had been found several
kinds of black men; and after travellers had penetrated into America, as
far as the line, they met with a race of people who were tolerably
white. The natives of Brazil are of the colour of bronze. The Chinese
still appear to differ entirely from the rest of mankind, in the make of
their eyes and noses. But what is still to be remarked is, that into
whatsoever regions these various races are transplanted, their
complexions never change, unless they mingle with the natives of the
country. The mucous membrane of the negroes, which is known to be of a
black colour, is a manifest proof, that there is a differential
principle in each species of men, as well as plants.

22. Dependent upon this principle, nature has formed the different
degrees of genius, and the characters of nations, which are seldom known
to change. Hence the negroes are slaves to other men, and are purchased
on the coast of Africa like beasts, for a sum of money; and the vast
multitudes of negroes transplanted into our American colonies, serve as
slaves under a very inconsiderable number of Europeans. Experience has
likewise taught us how great a superiority the Europeans have over the
Americans, who are every where easily overcome, and have not dared to
attempt a revolution, though a thousand to one superior in numbers.

23. This part of America was also remarkable on account of its animals
and plants, which are not to be found in the other three parts of the
world, and which are of so great use to us. Horses, corn of all kinds,
and iron, were not wanting in Mexico and Peru, and among the many
valuable commodities unknown to the old world, cochineal was the
principal, and was brought us from this country. Its use in dying has
now made us forget the scarlet, which for time immemorial had been the
only thing known for giving a fine red colour.

24. The importation of cochineal was soon succeeded by that of indigo,
cocoa, vanille, and those woods which serve for ornament and medicinal
purposes, particularly the quinquina, or Jesuit's bark, which is the
only specific against intermitting fevers. Nature has placed this remedy
in the mountains of Peru, whilst she had dispersed the disease it cured
through all the rest of the world. This new continent likewise furnished
pearls; coloured stones, and diamonds.

25. It is certain, that America at present furnishes the meanest citizen
of Europe with his conveniences and pleasures. The gold and silver
mines, at their first discovery, were of service only to the kings of
Spain and the merchants; the rest of the world was impoverished by them;
for the great multitudes who did not follow business, found themselves
possessed of a very small quantity of specie, in comparison with the
immense sums accumulated by those who had the advantage of the first
discoveries. But, by degrees, the great quantity of gold and silver
which was sent from America, was dispersed throughout all Europe, and by
passing into a number of hands, the distribution is become more equal.
The price of commodities is likewise increased in Europe, in proportion
to the increase of specie.

26. To comprehend how the treasures of America passed from the
possession of the Spaniards into that of other nations, it will be
sufficient to consider these two things: The use which Charles V. and
Philip II. made of their money; and the manner in which other nations
acquired a share in the mines of Peru.

37. The emperor Charles V. who was always travelling, and always at war,
necessarily dispersed a great quantity of that specie which he received
from Mexico and Peru, through Germany and Italy. When he sent his son
Philip over to England, to marry queen Mary, and take upon bun the title
of king of England, that prince deposited in the tower of London,
twenty-seven large chests of silver, in bars, and an hundred
horse-loads of gold and silver coin. The troubles in Flanders, and the
intrigues of the league in France, cost this Philip, according to his
own confession, above three thousand millions of livres of our money.

28. The manner in which the gold and silver of Peru is distributed
amongst all the people of Europe, and from thence is sent to the
East-Indies, is a surprising, though well-known circumstance. By a
strict law enacted by Ferdinand and Isabella, and afterwards confirmed
by Charles V. and all the kings of Spain, all other nations were not
only excluded the entrance into any of the ports in Spanish America, but
likewise from having the least share, directly or indirectly, in the
trade of that part of the world. One would have imagined, that this law
would have enabled the Spaniards to subdue all Europe; and yet Spain
subsists only by the continual violation of this very law. It can hardly
furnish exports for America to the value of four millions; whereas the
rest of Europe sometimes send over merchandize to the amount of near
fifty millions.

29. This prodigious trade of the nations at enmity, or at alliance with
Spain, is carried on by the Spaniards themselves, who are always
faithful in their dealings with individuals, and always cheating their
king. The Spaniards gave no security to foreign merchants for the
performance of their contracts; a mutual credit, without which there
never could have been any commerce, supplies the place of other
obligations.

30. The manner in which the Spaniards for a long time consigned the gold
and silver to foreigners, which was brought home by their galleons, was
still more surprising. The Spaniard, who at Cadiz is properly factor for
the foreigner, delivered the bullion he received to the care of certain
bravoes, called Meteors: these, armed with pistols at their belt, and a
long sword, carried the bullion in parcels, properly marked, to the
ramparts, and flung them over to other meteors, who waited below, and
carried them to the boats which were to receive them, and these boats
carried them on board the ships in the road. These meteors and the
factors, together with the commissaries and the guards; who never
disturbed them, had each a stated fee, and the foreign merchant was
never cheated. The king, who received a duty upon this money at the
arrival of the galleons, was likewise a gainer; so that properly
speaking, the law only was cheated; a law which would be absolutely
useless if not eluded, and which, nevertheless, cannot yet be abrogated,
because old prejudices are always the most difficult to be overcome
amongst men.

31. The greatest instance of the violation of this law, and of the
fidelity of the Spaniards, was in the year 1684, when war was declared
between France and Spain. His Catholic majesty endeavoured to seize upon
the effects of all the French in his kingdom; but he in vain issued
edicts and admonitions, enquiries and excommunications, not a single
Spanish factor would betray his French correspondent. This fidelity,
which does so much honour to the Spanish nation, plainly shews, that men
only willingly obey those laws which they themselves have made for this
good of society, and that those which are the mere effects of a
sovereign's will, always meet with opposition.

32. As the discovery of America was at first the source of much good to
the Spaniards, it afterwards occasioned them many and considerable
evils. One has been, the depriving that kingdom of its subjects, by the
great numbers necessarily required to people the colonies: another was,
the infecting the world with a disease, which was before unknown only in
the new world and particularly in the island of Hispaniola. Several of
the companions of Christopher Columbus returned home infected with this
contagion, which afterwards spread over Europe. It is certain that this
poison, which taints the springs of life, was peculiar to America, as
the plague and small-pox, were diseases originally endemial to the
southern parts of Numidia.

33. We are not to believe, that the eating of human flesh, practised by
some of the American savages, occasions this disorder. There were no
cannibals on the island of Hispaniola, where it was most frequent and
inveterate; neither are we to suppose, with some, that it proceeded from
too great an excess of sensual pleasures. Nature had never punished
excesses of this kind with such disorders in the world; and even to this
day, we find that a momentary indulgence, which has been passed for
eight or ten years, may bring this cruel and shameful scourge upon the
chastest union.

34. The great Columbus, after having built several houses on these
islands, and discovered the continent, returned to Spain, where he
enjoyed a reputation unsullied by rapine or cruelty, and died at
Validolid in 1506. But the Governors of Cuba and Hispaniola, who
succeeded him, being persuaded that these provinces furnished gold,
resolved to make the discovery at the price of the lives of the
inhabitants. In short, whether they thought the natives had conceived an
implacable hatred to them, or that they were apprehensive of their
superior numbers; or that the rage of slaughter when once begun, knows
no bounds, they in the space of a few years entirely depopulated
Hispaniola and Cuba, the former of which contained three millions of
inhabitants, and the latter above six hundred thousand.

35. Bartholomew de la Cases, bishop of Chiapa, who was an eye-witness to
these desolations, relates that they hunted down the natives with dogs.
These wretched savages, almost naked and without arms, were pursued like
wild beasts in the forest, devoured alive by dogs, shot to death, or
surprised and burnt in their habitations.

36. He further declares, from occular testimony, that they frequently
caused a number of these miserable wretches to be summoned by a priest
to come in, and submit to the Christian religion, and to the king of
Spain; and that after this ceremony, which was only an additional act of
injustice, they put them to death without the least remorse.--I believe
that De la Cases has exaggerated in many parts of his relation; but,
allowing him to have said ten times more than is truth, there remains
enough to make us shudder with horror.

37. It may seem surprizing, that this massacre of a whole race of men,
could have been carried on in the sight, and under the administration of
several religieuse of the order of St. Jerome; for we know that cardinal
Ximenes, who was prime minister at Castile before the time of Charles V.
sent over four monks of this order, in quality of presidents of the
royal council of the island. Doubtless they were not able to resist the
torrent, and the hatred of the natives to their new masters being with
just reason become implacable, rendered their destruction unhappily
necessary.




Romulus _the founder of Rome, after building the city, resolved to
submit the form of its government to the choice of the people; and
therefore, calling the citizens together, he harangued them thus_:

If all the strength of cities lay in the height of their ramparts, or
the depth of their ditches, we should have great reason to be in fear
for that which we have now built. Are there in reality any walls too
high to be scaled by a valiant enemy? And of what use are ramparts in
intestine divisions? They may serve for a defence against sudden
incursions from abroad; but it is by courage and prudence chiefly, that
the invasions of foreign enemies are repelled; and by unanimity,
sobriety, and justice, that domestic seditions are prevented. Cities
fortified by the strongest bulwarks, have been often seen to yield to
force from without, or to tumults from within. An exact military
discipline, and a steady observance of civil polity, are the surest
barriers against these evils. But there is still another point of great
importance to be considered. The prosperity of some rising colonies, and
the speedy ruin of others, have in a great measure been owing to the
form of government. Was there but one manner of ruling states and cities
that could make you happy, the choice would not be difficult; but I have
learnt, that of the various forms of government among the Greeks and
Barbarians, there are three which are highly extolled by those who have
experienced them; and yet, that no one in those is in all respects
perfect; but each of them has some innate and incurable defect. Chuse
you then in what manner this city shall be governed. Shall it be by one
man? Shall it be by a select number of the wisest among us? or shall the
legislative power be in the people? As for me, I shall submit to
whatever form of administration you shall please to establish. As I
think myself not unworthy to command, so neither am I unwilling to obey.
Your having chosen me to be the leader of this colony, and your calling
the city after my name, are honours sufficient to content me; honours of
which, I or dead, I can never be deprived.




_While_ Quinctius Capitolinus _and_ Agrippa Furius _were Consuls at_
Rome, _the differences betwixt the Senate and people ran so high, that
the_ AEqui _and_ Volsci, _taking advantage of their intestine disorders
ravaged the country to the very gates of_ Rome, _and the Tribunes of the
people forbad the necessary levies of troops to oppose them_. Quinctius,
_a Senator, of great reputation, well beloved, and now in his fourth
consulate, got the better of this opposition, by the following speech._

Though I am not conscious, O Romans, of any crime by me committed, it is
yet with the utmost shame and confusion that I appear in your assembly.
You have seen it--posterity will know it. In the fourth consulship of
Titus Quinctius, the AEqui and Volsci, (scarce a match for the Hernici
alone) came in arms to the very gates of Rome, and went away
unchastised! The course of our manners, indeed, and the state of our
affairs, have long been such, that I had no reason to presage much good:
But could I have imagined that so great an ignominy would have befallen
me this year, I would by death; or banishment (if all other means had
failed) have avoided the station I am now in. What! might Rome then have
been taken, if those men who were at our gates had not wanted courage
for the attempt!--Rome taken while I was consul--Of honours I had
sufficient,--of life enough--more than enough.--I should have died in my
third consulate. But who are they that our dastardly enemies thus
despise? The consuls, or you Romans? If we are in the fault, depose us,
or punish us yet more severely. If _you_ are to blame, may neither God
nor man punish your faults! only may you repent. No, Romans, the
confidence of our enemies is not owing to their courage, or to the
belief of your cowardice. They have been too often vanquished, not to
know both themselves and you. Discord, discord is the ruin of this city.
The eternal disputes between the senate and the people, are the sole
cause of our misfortunes. While we set no bounds to our dominion, nor
you to your liberty: While you patiently endure Patrician magistrates,
and we Plebeian, our enemies take heart, grow elated and presumptuous.
In the name of the immortal gods, what is it, Romans, you would have?
You desired tribunes; for the sake of peace we granted them. You were
eager to have decemvirs; we consented to their creation. You grew weary
of these decemvirs; we obliged them to abdicate. Your hatred pursued
them when reduced to private men; and we suffered you to put to death,
or banish, Patricians of the first rank in the republic. You insisted
upon the restoration of the tribuneship; we yielded; we quietly saw
consuls of your faction elected. You have the protection of your
tribunes, and the privilege of appeal: the Patricians are subjected to
the decrees of the commons. Under pretence of equal and impartial laws,
you have invaded our rights, and we have suffered it, and we still
suffer it. When shall we see an end of discord? When shall we have one
interest and one common country? Victorious and triumphant, you shew
less temper than we under defeat. When you are to contend with _us_, you
seize the Aventine hill, you can possess yourselves of the Mons Sacer.

The enemy is at our gates, the AEsquiline is near being taken, and nobody
stirs to hinder it. But against _us_ you are valiant, against _us_ you
can arm with diligence. Come on, then, besiege the senate house, make a
camp of the forum, fill the jails with our nobles, and when you have
achieved these glorious exploits, _then_ at last sally out at the
AEsquiline gate, with the same fierce spirits against the enemy. Does
your resolution fail you for this? Go, then, and behold from your walls,
your lands ravaged, your houses plundered and in flames, the whole
country laid waste with fire and sword. Have you any thing here to
repair these damages? Will the tribunes make up your losses to you?
They'll give you as many words as you please: Bring impeachments in
abundance against the prime men of the state: Heap laws upon laws;
assemblies you shall have without end. But will any of you return the
richer from these assemblies? Extinguish, O Romans, those fatal
divisions; generously break this cursed enchantment, which keeps you
buried in a scandalous inaction. Open your eyes, and consider the
management of these ambitious men, who, to make themselves powerful in
their party, study nothing but how they may foment divisions in the
commonwealth.

If you can but summon up your former courage; if you will now march out
of Rome with your consuls, there is no punishment you can inflict, which
I will not submit to, if I do not in a few days drive these pillagers
out of our territory. This terror of war (with which you seem so
grievously struck) shall quickly be removed from Rome to their own
cities.




CAIUS MARIUS _to the_ ROMANS.

It is but too common, my countrymen, to observe a material difference
between the behaviour of those who stand candidates, for places of power
and trust, before and after their obtaining them. They solicit them in
one manner, and execute them in another. They set out with a great
appearance of activity, humility, and moderation; and they quickly fall
into sloth, pride, and avarice.--It is undoubtedly, no easy matter to
discharge, to the general satisfaction, the duty of a supreme commander
in troublesome times. I am, I hope, duly sensible of the importance of
the office I propose to take upon me, for the service of my country. To
carry on, with effect, an expensive war, and yet be frugal of the public
money; to oblige those to serve, whom it may be delicate to offend; to
conduct, at the same time, a complicated variety of operations; to
concert measures at home, answerable to the state of things abroad; and
to gain every valuable end, in spite of opposition from the envious, the
factious, and the disaffected; to do all this, my countrymen, is more
difficult than is generally thought.

But, besides the disadvantages which are common to me, with all others
in eminent stations, my case is, in this respect, peculiarly hard; that
whereas a commander of Patrician rank, if he is guilty of a neglect, or
breach of duty, has his great connection, the antiquity of his family,
the important services of his ancestors, and the multitudes he has, by
power, engaged in his interest, to screen him from condign punishment;
my whole safety depends upon myself; which renders it the more
indispensibly necessary for me, to take care that my conduct be clear
and unexceptionable. Besides, I am well aware, my country men, that the
eye of the public is upon me; and that, though the impartial, who prefer
the real advantage of the commonwealth to all other considerations,
favour my pretensions, the Patricians want nothing so much as an
occasion against me. It is, therefore, my fixed resolution, to use my
best endeavours, that you may not be disappointed in me, and that their
indirect designs against me may be defeated.

I have, from my youth, been familiar with toils, and with dangers. I was
faithful to your interests, my countrymen, when I served you for no
reward, but that of honour. It is not my design to betray you, now that
you have conferred upon me a place of profit. You have committed to my
conduct, the war against Jugurtha. The Patricians are offended at this.
But, where would be the wisdom of giving such a command to one of their
honourable body? a person of illustrious birth, of ancient family, of
innumerable statues, but--of no experience! What service would his long
line of dead ancestors, or his multitude of motionless statues, do his
country in the day of battle? What could such a general do, but, in his
trepidation and inexperience, have recourse to some inferior commander,
for direction in difficulties to which he was not himself equal? Thus,
your Patrician general would, in fact have a general over him; so that
the acting commander would still be a Plebeian. So true is this, my
countrymen, that I have myself known those, who have been chosen
consuls, begin then to read the history of their own country, of which,
till that time, they were totally ignorant: that is, they first obtained
the employment, and then bethought themselves of the qualifications
necessary for the proper discharge of it.

I submit to your judgment, Romans, on which side the advantage lies,
when a comparison is made between Patrician haughtiness and Plebeian
experience. The very actions, which they have only read, I have partly
seen, and partly myself achieved. What they know by reading, I know by
action. They are pleased to slight my mean birth. I despise their mean
characters. Want of birth and fortune is the objection against me: want
of personal merit against them. But are not all men of the same species?
What can make a difference between one man and another but the
endowments of the mind? For my part, I shall always look upon the
bravest man as the noblest man. Suppose it were enquired of the fathers
of such Patricians as Albinus and Bessia, whether, if they had their
choice, they would desire sons of their character, or of mine: what
would they answer, but that they should wish the worthiest to be their
sons. If the Patricians have reason to despise me, let them likewise
despise their ancestors, whose nobility was the fruit of their virtue.
Do they envy the honours bestowed upon me? let them envy, likewise, my
labours, my abstinence, and the dangers I have undergone for my country,
by which I have acquired them. But those worthless men lend such a life
of inactivity, as if they despised any honours you can bestow; whilst
they aspire to honours, as if they had deserved them by the most
industrious virtue. They lay claim to the rewards of activity, for their
having enjoyed the pleasures of luxury. Yet none can be more lavish than
they are in praise of their ancestors: and they imagine they honour
themselves by celebrating their forefathers. Whereas, they do the very
contrary: for, as much as their ancestors were distinguished for their
virtues, so much are they disgraced by their vices.

Observe now, my countrymen, the injustice of the Patricians. They
arrogate to themselves honours, on account of the exploits done by their
forefathers; whilst they will not allow me the due praise, for
performing the very same sort of actions in my own person. He has no
statues, they cry, of his family. He can trace no venerable line of
ancestors. What then! Is it matter of more praise to disgrace one's
illustrious ancestors, than to become illustrious by one's own good
behaviour? What if I can shew no statues of my family: I can shew the
standards, the armour, and the trappings, which I have taken myself from
the vanquished: I can shew the scars of those wounds which I have
received by facing the enemies of my country. These are my statues;
these are the honours I boast of. Not left me by inheritance as theirs;
but earned by toil, by abstinence, by valour; amidst clouds of dust, and
seas of blood: scenes of action, where those effeminate Patricians, who
endeavour, by indirect means, to depreciate me in your esteem, have
never dared to shew their faces.




DEMOSTHENES _to the_ ATHENIANS.

When I compare, Athenians, the speeches of some amongst us, with their
actions, I am at a loss to reconcile what I see, with what I hear. Their
protestations are full of zeal against the public enemy; but their
measures are so inconsistent that all their professions become
suspected. By confounding you with a variety of projects, they perplex
your resolutions, and lead you from executing what is in your power, by
engaging you in schemes not reducible to practice.

'Tis true, there was a time, when we were powerful enough, not only to
defend our own borders, and protect our allies, but even to invade
Philip in his own dominions. Yes, Athenians, there was such a juncture;
I remember it well. But, by neglect of proper opportunities, we are no
longer in a situation to be invaders: it will be well for us, if we can
procure for our own defence, and our allies. Never did any conjuncture
require so much prudence as this. However, I should not despair of
seasonable remedies, had I the art to prevail with you to be unanimous
in right measures. The opportunities, which have so often escaped us
have not been lost; through ignorance, or want of judgment; but through
negligence or treachery.--If I assume, at this time, more than ordinary
liberty of speech, I conjure you to suffer, patiently, those truths,
which have no other end, but your own good. You have too many reasons to
be sensible how much you have suffered, by hearkening to sycophants. I
shall, therefore, be plain, in laying before you the grounds of past
miscarriages, in order to correct you in your future conducts.

You may remember, it is not above three or four years since we had the
news of Philip's laying siege to the fortress of Juno, in Thrace. It
was, as I think, in October we received this intelligence. We voted an
immediate supply of threescore talents; forty men of war were ordered to
sea: and so zealous we were, that preferring the necessities of state to
our very laws, our citizens above the age of five and forty years, were
commanded to serve. What followed?--A whole year was spent idly, without
any thing done; and it was but the third month of the following year, a
little after the celebration of the feast of Ceres, that Charedemus set
sail, furnished with no more than five talents, and ten galleys, not
half manned.

A rumour was spread that Philip was sick. That rumour was followed by
another, that Philip was dead. And, then, as if all danger died with
him, you dropped your preparations: whereas then, then was your time to
push, and be active; then was your time to secure yourselves, and
confound him at once. Had your resolutions, taken with so much heat,
been as warmly seconded by action, you had then been as terrible to
Philip, as Philip, recovered, is now to you. "To what purpose, at this
time, these reflections! What is done cannot be undone." But, by your
leave, Athenians; though past moments are not to be recalled, past
errors may be repeated. Have we not now, a fresh provocation to war? Let
the memory of oversights, by which you have suffered so much, instruct
you to be more vigilant in the present danger. If the Olynthians are not
instantly succoured, and with your utmost efforts, you become assistants
to Philip, and serve him more effectually than he can help himself.

It is not, surely, necessary to warn you, that votes alone can be of no
consequence. Had your resolutions, of themselves, the virtue to compass
what you intend, we should not see them multiply every day, as they do,
and upon every occasion, with so little effect: nor would Philip be in a
condition to brave and affront us in this manner.--Proceed, then,
Athenians, to support your deliberations with vigour. You have heads
capable of advising what is best; you have judgment and experience, to
discern what is right; and you have power and opportunity to execute
what you determine. What time so proper for action! What occasion so
happy? And when can you hope for such another, if this be neglected? Has
not Philip, contrary to all treaties, insulted you in Thrace? Does he
not, at this instant, straiten and invade your confederates, whom you
have solemnly sworn to protect? Is he not an implacable enemy? a
faithless ally? the usurper of provinces, to which he has no title nor
pretence? a stranger, a barbarian, a tyrant? and indeed, what is he not?

Observe, I beseech you, men of Athens, how different your conduct
appears from the practices of your ancestors. They were friends to truth
and plain dealing, and detested flattery and servile compliance. By
unanimous consent they continued arbiters of all Greece for the space
of forty-five years, without interruption; a public fund, of no less
than ten thousand talents, were ready for any emergency: they exercised
over the kings of Macedon that authority which is due to Barbarians;
obtained, both by sea and land, in their own persons frequent and signal
victories and by their noble exploits, transmitted to posterity an
immortal memory of their virtue, superior to the reach of malice and
detraction. It is to them we owe that great number of public edifices,
by which the city of Athens exceeds all the rest of the world, in beauty
and magnificence. It is to them we owe so many stately temples, so
richly embellished; but, above all, adorned with the spoils of
vanquished enemies--But, visit their own private habitations; visit the
houses of Aristides, Militiades, or any other of those patriots of
antiquity; you will find nothing, not the least mark of ornament, to
distinguish them from their neighbours. They took part in the
government, not to enrich themselves, but the public; they had no
schemes or ambition, but for the public nor knew any interest, but the
public. It was by a close and steady application to the general good of
their country; by an exemplary piety toward the immortal gods; by a
strict faith, and religious honesty, betwixt man and man; and a
moderation, always uniform, and of apiece; they established that
reputation, which remains to this day, and will last to utmost
posterity.

Such, O men of Athens! were your ancestors; so glorious in the eye of
the world; so bountiful and munificent to their country; so sparing, so
modest, so self-denying to themselves. What resemblance can we find in
the present generation, of these great men? At a time, when your ancient
competitors have left you a clear stage; when the Lacedemonians are
disabled; the Thebans employed in troubles of their own; when no other
state whatever is in a condition to rival or molest you: in short, when
you are at full liberty; when you have the opportunity and the power to
become once more the sole arbiters of Greece; you permit, patiently,
whole provinces to be arrested from you; you lavish the public money to
scandalous and obscure uses; you suffer your allies to perish in time of
peace, whom you preserved in time of war; and, to sum up all, you
yourselves, by your mercenary court, and servile resignation to the will
and pleasure of designing, insidious leaders, abet, encourage, and
strengthen the most dangerous and formidable of your enemies. Yes,
Athenians, I repeat it, you yourselves are the contrivers of your own
ruin. Lives there a man who has confidence enough to deny it? let him
arise, and assign, if he can, any other cause of the success and
prosperity of Philip. "But," you reply, "what Athens may have lost in
reputation abroad, she has gained in splendor at home. Was there ever a
greater appearance of prosperity! a greater face of plenty? Is not the
city enlarged? Are not the streets better paved? houses repaired and
beautified?"--Away with such trifles! Shall I be paid with counters? An
old square new vamped up! a fountain! an aqueduct! Are these
acquisitions to brag of? Cast your eye upon the magistrate, under whose
ministry you boast these precious improvements. Behold the despicable
creature, raised, all at once, from dirt to opulence; from the lowest
obscurity to the highest honours. Have not some of these upstarts built
private houses and seats, vying with the most sumptuous of our public
palaces? And how have their fortunes and their power increased, but as
the commonwealth has been ruined and impoverished!

To what are we to impute these disorders? and to what cause assign the
decay of a state, so powerful and flourishing in past time?--The reason
is plain. The servant is now become the master. The magistrate was then
subservient to the people: punishments and rewards were properties of
the people: all honours, dignities, and preferments were disposed by the
voice and favour of the people. But the magistrate, now, has usurped the
right of the people, and exercises an arbitrary authority over his
ancient and natural lord. You miserable people! the mean while, without
money, without friends; from being the ruler, are become the servant;
from being the master, the dependant: happy that these governors, into
whose hands you have thus resigned your own power, are so good, and so
gracious, as to continue your poor allowance to see plays.

Believe me, Athenians, if recovering from this lethargy, you would
assume the ancient freedom and spirit of your fathers; if you would be
your own soldiers, and your own commanders, confiding no longer your
affairs in foreign or mercenary hands; if you would charge yourselves
with your own defence, employing abroad, for the public, what you waste
in unprofitable pleasures at home, the world might, once more, behold
you making a figure worthy of Athenians. "You would have us then (you
say) do service in our armies, in our own persons; and for so doing, you
would have the pensions we receive in time of peace, accepted as pay in
time of war. Is it thus we are to understand you?"--Yes, Athenians, 'tis
my plain meaning. I would make it a standing rule, that no person, great
or little, should be the better for the public money, who should grudge
to employ it for the public service. Are we in peace? the public is
charged with your subsistence. Are we in war, or under a necessity, as
at this time, to enter into a war? let your gratitude oblige you to
accept, as pay, in defence of your benefactors, what you receive, in
peace, as mere bounty.--Thus, without any innovation, without altering
or abolishing any thing, but pernicious novelties, introduced for the
encouragement of sloth and idleness; by converting only for the future
the same funds for the use of the serviceable, which are spent, at
present, upon the unprofitable; you may be well served in your armies;
your troops regularly paid; justice duly administered; the public
revenues reformed and increased; and every member of the commonwealth
rendered useful to his country, according to his age and ability,
without any further burden to the state.

This, O men of Athens! is what my duty prompted me to represent to you
upon this occasion.--May the gods inspire you to determine upon such
measures as may be most expedient for the particular and general good of
our country!




THE PERFECT SPEAKER.


Imagine to yourselves a Demosthenes addressing the most illustrious
assembly in the world, upon a point whereon the fate of the most
illustrious of nations depended.--How awful such a meeting! How vast the
subject! Is man possessed of talents adequate to the great occasion?
Adequate--yes, superior. By the power of his eloquence; the augustness
of the assembly is lost in the dignity of the orator; and the importance
of the subject for a while superceded by the admiration of his talents.
With what strength of argument, with what powers of the fancy, with what
emotions of the heart, does he assault and subjugate the whole man, and,
at once, captivate his reason, his imagination, and his passions!--To
effect this, must be the utmost effort of the most improved state of
human nature. Not a faculty that he possesses, is here unemployed: not a
faculty that he possesses, but is here exerted to its highest pitch. All
his internal powers are at work: all his external testify their
energies. Within, the memory, the fancy, the judgment, the passions are
all busy: without, every muscle, every nerve is exerted; not a feature,
not a limb, but speaks. The organs of the body attuned to the exertions
of the mind, through the kindred organs of the hearers, instantaneously,
and, as it were, with an electrical spirit, vibrate those energies from
soul to soul. Notwithstanding the diversity of minds in such a
multitude, by the lightning of eloquence, they are melted into one
mass--the whole assembly actuated in one and the same way, become, as it
were, but one man, and have but one voice. The universal cry is--LET US
MARCH AGAINST PHILIP--LET US FIGHT FOR OUR LIBERTIES--LET US CONQUER--OR
DIE!




_On the duties of School-Boys, from the pious and judicious_

ROLLIN.


Quintillian says, that he has included almost all the duty of scholars
in this one piece of advice which he gives them, to love those who teach
them, as they love the science which they learn of them; and to look
upon them as fathers, from whom they derive not the life of the body,
but that instruction which is in a manner the life of the soul. Indeed
this sentiment of affection, and respect suffices to make them apt to
learn during the time of their studies, and full of gratitude all the
rest of their lives. It seems to me to include a great part of what is
to be expected from them.

Docility, which consists in submitting to directions, in readily
receiving the instructions of their masters; and reducing them to
practice, is properly the virtue of scholars, as that of masters is to
teach well. The one can do nothing without the other; and as it is not
sufficient for a labourer to sow the seed, unless the earth, after
having opened its bosom to receive it, in a manner hatches, warms, and
moistens it; so likewise the whole fruit of instruction depends upon a
good correspondence between the masters and the scholars.

Gratitude for those who have laboured in our education, is the character
of an honest man, and the mark of a good heart. Who is there among us,
says Cicero, that has been instructed with any care, that is not highly
delighted with the sight, or even the bare remembrance of his
preceptors, masters, and the place where he was taught and brought up?
Seneca exhorts young men to preserve always a great respect for their
masters, to whose care they are indebted for the amendment of their
faults, and for having imbibed sentiments of honour and probity. Their
exactness and severity displease sometimes, at an age when we are not in
a condition to judge of the obligations we owe to them; but when years
have ripened our understanding and judgment, we then discern that what
made us dislike them, I mean admonitions, reprimands, and a severe
exactness in restraining the passions of an imprudent and inconsiderate
age, is expressly the very thing which should make us esteem and love
them. Thus we see that Marcus Aurelius, one of the wisest and most
illustrious emperors that Rome ever had, thanked the gods for two things
especially--for his having had excellent tutors himself, and that he had
found the like for his children.

Quintillian, after having noted the different characters of the mind in
children, draws, in a few words, the image of what he judged to be a
perfect scholar; and certainly it is a very amiable one: "For my part,"
says he, "I like a child who is encouraged by commendation, is animated
by a sense of glory, and weeps when he is outdone. A noble emulation
will always keep him in exercise, a reprimand will touch him to the
quick, and honour will serve instead of a spur. We need not fear that
such a scholar will ever give himself up to sullenness." _Mihi ille
detur puer, quem laus excitet, quem gloria juvet, qui virtus fleut. Hic
erit alendus ambitu: hunc mordebit objurgetio; hunc honor excitabit; in
hoc desidium nunquam verebor._

How great a value soever Quintillian sets upon the talents of the mind,
he esteems those of the heart far beyond them, and looks upon the others
as of no value without them. In the same chapter from whence I took the
preceding words, he declares, he should never have a good opinion of a
child, who placed his study in occasioning laughter, by mimicking the
behaviour, mien, and faults of others; and he presently gives an
admirable reason for it: "A child," says he, "cannot be truly ingenuous,
in my opinion, unless he be good and virtuous; otherwise, I should
rather choose to have him dull and heavy, than of a bad disposition."
_Non dubit spem bonoe indolis, qui hoc initandi studio petit, ut
rideatur. Nam probus quoque imprimus erit ille vere ingeniosus:
alioquinon pejus duxerim tardi esse ingenii, quam mali._

He displays to us all these talents in the eldest of his two children,
whose character he draws, and whose death he laments in so eloquent and
pathetic a strain, in the beautiful preface to his sixth book. I shall
beg leave to insert here a small extract of it, which will not be
useless to the boys, as they will find it a model which suits well with
their age and condition.

Alter having mentioned his younger son, who died at five years old, and
described the graces and beauties of his countenance, the prettiness of
his expression, the vivacity of his understanding, which began to shine
through the veil of childhood: "I had still left me," says he, "my son
Quintillian, in whom I placed all my pleasure and all my hopes, and
comfort enough I might have found in him; for, having now entered into
his tenth year, he did not produce only blossoms like his younger
brother, but fruits already formed, and beyond the power of
disappointment.--I have much experience; but I never saw in any child, I
do not say only so many excellent dispositions for the sciences, nor so
much taste, as his masters know, but so much probity, sweetness, good
nature, gentleness, and inclination to please and oblige, as I discerned
in him."

"Besides this, he had all the advantages of nature, a charming voice, a
pleasing countenance, and a surprising facility in pronouncing well the
two languages, as if he had been equally born for both of them.

"But all this was no more than hopes. I set a greater value upon his
admirable virtues, his equality of temper, his resolution, the courage
with which he bore up against fear and pain; for, how were his
physicians astonished at his patience under a distemper of eight months
continuance, when at the point of death he comforted me himself, and
bade me not to weep for him! and delirious as he sometimes was at his
last moments, his tongue ran on nothing else but learning and the
sciences: O vain and deceitful hopes!" &c.

Are there many boys amongst us, of whom we can truly say so much to
their advantage, as Quintillian says here of his son? What a shame would
it be for them, if born and brought up in a Christian country, they had
not even the virtues of Pagan children! I make no scruple to repeat them
here again--docility, obedience, respect for their masters, or rather a
degree of affection, and the source of an eternal gratitude; zeal for
study, and a wonderful thirst after the sciences, joined to an
abhorrence of vice and irregularity; an admirable fund of probity,
goodness, gentleness, civility, and liberality; as also patience,
courage, and greatness of soul in the course of a long sickness.--What
then was wanting to all these virtues?--That which alone could render
them truly worthy the name, and must be in a manner the soul of them,
and constitute their whole value, the precious gift of faith and piety;
the saving knowledge of a Mediator; a sincere desire of pleasing God,
and referring all our actions to him.




_COLUMBIA._

_BY THE REVEREND DR. DWIGHT._


    Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise,
    The queen of the world, and child of the skies!
    Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold,
    While ages on ages thy splendors unfold.
    Thy reign is the last, and the noblest of time,
    Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime;
    Let the crimes of the east ne'er encrimson thy name,
    Be Freedom, and Science, and Virtue, thy fame.

    To conquest, and slaughter, let Europe aspire;
    Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire;
    Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend,
    And triumph pursue them, and glory attend.
    A world is thy realm: for a world be thy laws,
    Enlarg'd as thine empire, and just as thy cause;
    On Freedom's broad basis, that empire shall rise;
    Extend with the main and dissolve with the skies.

    Fair Science her gates to thy sons shall unbar,
    And the east see thy morn hide the beams of her star,
    New bards, and new sages, unrival'd shall soar
    To fame, unextinguish'd, when time is no more;
    To thee, the last refuge of virtue design'd,
    Shall fly from all nations, the best of mankind;
    Here, grateful to Heaven, with transports shall bring
    Their incense, more fragrant than odours of spring.

    Nor less, shall thy fair ones to glory ascend,
    And Genius and Beauty in harmony blend;
    The graces of form shall awake pure desire,
    And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire;
    Their sweetness unmingled, their manners refin'd,
    And virtue's bright image, instamp'd on the mind,
    With peace, and soft rapture, shall teach life to glow,
    And light up a smile in the aspect of woe.

    Thy fleets to all regions thy pow'r shall display,
    The nations admire, and the ocean obey;
    Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold,
    And the east and the south yield their spices and gold.
    As the day-spring unbounded, thy splendor shall flow,
    And earth's little kingdoms before thee shall bow;
    While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurl'd,
    Hush the tumult of war, and give peace to the world.

    Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o'erspread,
    From war's dread confusion, I pensively stray'd--
    The gloom from the face of fair heav'n retir'd;
    The winds ceas'd to murmur; the thunders expir'd;
    Perfumes, as of Eden, flow'd sweetly along,
    And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung:
    "Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise,
    The queen of the world, and the child of the skies"




THE CHOICE OF A RURAL LIFE.

_A POEM_,

Written by W.L. Esq. Gov. of N.J.


_THE ARGUMENT_.

_The subject proposed. Situation of the author's house. His frugality in
his furniture. The beauties of the country. His love of retirement, and
choice of his friends. A description of the morning. Hymn to the sun.
Contemplation of the Heavens. The existence of God inferred from a view
of the beauty and harmony of the creation. Morning and evening devotion.
The vanity of riches and grandeur. The choice of his books. Praise of
the marriage state. A knot of modern ladies described. The author's
exit._


PHILOSOPHIC SOLITUDE, &c.

    Let ardent heroes seek renown in arms,
    Pant after fame, and rush to war's alarms;
    To shining palaces let fools resort,
    And dunces cringe to be esteem'd at court:
    Mine be the pleasure of a _rural_ life,
    From noise remote, and ignorant of strife;
    Far from the painted belle, and white-glov'd beau,
    The lawless masquerade and midnight show;
    From ladies, lap-dogs, courtiers, garters, stars,
    Fops, fiddlers, tyrants, emperors, and czars.

    Full in the centre of some shady grove,
    By nature form'd for solitude and love;
    On banks array'd with ever-blooming flow'rs,
    Near beaut'ous landscapes, or by roseate bow'rs,
    My neat, but simple mansion I would raise,
    Unlike the sumptuous domes of modern days;
    Devoid of pomp, with rural plainness form'd,
    With savage game, and glossy shells adorn'd.

    No costly furniture should grace my hall;
    But curling vines ascend against the wall,
    Whose pliant branches shou'd luxuriant twine,
    While purple clusters swell'd with future wine
    To slake my thirst a liquid lapse distill,
    From craggy rocks, and spread a limpid rill.
    Along my mansion spiry firs should grow,
    And gloomy yews extend the shady row;

    The cedars flourish, and the poplars rise
    Sublimely tall, and shoot into the skies:
    Among the leaves refreshing zephyrs play,
    And crouding trees exclude the noon-tide ray;
    Whereon the birds their downy nests should form,
    Securely shelter'd from the batt'ring storm;
    And to melodious notes their choir apply,
    Soon as Aurora blush'd along the sky:
    While all around the enchanting music rings,
    And every vocal grove reponsive sings.

    Me to sequester'd scenes, ye muses guide,
    Where nature wanton's in her virgin pride,
    To mossy banks, edg'd round with op'ning flow'rs,
    Elysian fields and amaranthian bow'rs;
    T' ambrosial founts, and sleep-inspiring rills,
    To herbag'd vales, gay lawns, and funny hills.

    Welcome ye shades! all hail, ye vernal blooms
    Ye bow'ry thickets, and prophetic glooms!
    Ye forests hail! ye solitary woods!
    Love-whispering groves and silver-streaming floods!
    Ye meads, that aromatic sweets exhale!
    Ye birds, and all ye sylvan beauties hail!
    Oh how I long with you to spend my days,
    Invoke the muse, and try the rural lays!

    No trumpets there with martial clangor found,
    No prostrate heroes strew the crimson'd ground;
    No groves of lances glitter in the air,
    Nor thund'ring drums provoke the sanguine war;
    but white-rob'd peace, and universal love
    Smile in the field, and brighten, ev'ry grove,
    There all the beauties of the circling year,
    In native ornamental pride appear;
    Gay rosy-bosom'd SPRING, and _April_ show'rs;
    Wake from the womb of earth the rising flow'rs:
    In deeper verdure SUMMER clothes the plain,
    And AUTUMN bends beneath the golden grain;
    The trees weep amber, and the whispering gales
    Breeze o'er the lawn, or murmur through the vales:
    The flow'ry tribes in gay confusion bloom,
    Profuse of sweets, and fragrant with perfume;
    On blossoms blossoms, fruits on fruits arise.
    And varied prospects glad the wand'ring eyes.
    In these fair seats I'd pass the joyous day,
    Where meadows flourish and where fields look gay;
    From bliss to bliss with endless pleasure rove,
    Seek crystal streams, or haunt the vernal grove,
    Woods, fountains, lakes, the fertile fields, or shades
    Aerial mountains, or subjacent glades.

    There from the polish'd fetters of the great,
    Triumphal piles, and gilded rooms of state;
    Prime ministers, and sycophantic knaves;
    Illustrious villains, and illustrious slaves;
    From all the vain formality of fools,
    An odious task of arbitrary rules;
    The ruffling cares which the vex'd soul annoy,
    The wealth the rich possess, but not enjoy,
    The visionary bliss the world can lend,
    The insidious foe, and false designing friend,
    The seven-fold fury of _Xantippe_'s soul,
    And _S----_'s rage that burns without controul;
    I'd live retir'd, contented, and serene,
    Forgot, unknown, unenvied and unseen.

    Yet not a real hermitage I'd chuse,
    Nor wish to live from all the world recluse;
    But with a friend sometimes unbend the soul,
    In social converse, o'er the sprightly bowl.
    With cheerful _W----_, serene and wisely gay,
    I'd often pass the dancing hours away;
    He skill'd alike to profit and to please,
    Politely talks with unaffected ease;
    Sage in debate, and faithful to his trust,
    Mature in science, and severely just;
    Of soul diffusive, vast and unconfin'd,
    Breathing benevolence to all mankind;
    Cautious to censure, ready to commend,
    A firm, unshaken, uncorrupted friend:
    In early youth fair wisdom's paths he trod,
    In early youth a minister of God:
    Each pupil lov'd him when at _Yale_ he shone,
    And ev'ry bleeding bosom weeps him gone.
    Dear _A----_, too, should grace my rural seat,
    Forever welcome to the green retreat:
    Heav'n for the cause of righteousness design'd
    His florid genius, and capacious mind:
    Oft have I heard, amidst th' adoring throng,
    Celestial truths devolving from his tongue;
    High o'er the list'ning audience seen him stand,
    Divinely speak, and graceful stretch his hand:
    With such becoming grace and pompous sound,
    With long-rob'd senators encircled round,
    Before the Roman bar, while _Rome_ was free,
    Nor bow'd to _Caesar's_ throne the servile knee;
    Immortal _Tully_ pleads the patriot cause,
    While ev'ry tongue resounded his applause.
    Next round my board should candid _S----_ appear,
    Of manners gentle, and a friend sincere,
    Averse to discord party-rage and strife,
    He sails serenely down the stream of life.
    With these _three friends_ beneath a spreading shade,
    Where silver fountains murmur thro' the glade;
    Or in cool grots, perfum'd with native flow'rs,
    In harmless mirth I'd spend the circling hours;
    Or gravely talk, or innocently sing,
    Or, in harmonious concert, strike the trembling string.

    Amid sequester'd bow'rs near gliding streams,
    _Druids_ and _Bards_ enjoy'd serenest dreams.
    Such was the seat where courtly _Horace_ sung:
    And his bold harp immortal _Maro_ strung:
    Where tuneful _Orpheus_' unresisted lay,
    Made rapid tygers bear their rage away;
    While groves attentive to th' extatic sound
    Burst from their roots, and raptur'd, danc'd around.
    Such feats the venerable _Seers_ of old
    (When blissful years in golden circles roll'd)
    Chose and admir'd: e'en Goddesses and Gods
    (As poets feign) were fond of such abodes:
    Th' imperial consort of fictitious _Jove_,
    For fount full _Ida_ forsook the realms above.
    Oft to _Idalia_ on a golden cloud,
    Veil'd in a mist of fragrance, _Venus_ rode;
    The num'rous altars to the queen were rear'd,
    And love-sick youths there am'rous-vows prefer'd,
    While fair-hair'd damsels (a lascivious train)
    With wanton rites ador'd her gentle reign.
    The silver-shafted _Huntress_ of the woods,
    Sought pendant shades, and bath'd in cooling floods.
    In palmy _Delos_, by _Scamander_'s side,
    Or when _Cajister_ roll'd his silver tide,
    Melodious _Phoebus_ sang; the _Muses round_
    Alternate warb'ling to the heav'nly sound.
    E'en the feign'd MONARCH of heav'n's bright abode,
    High thron'd in gold, of Gods the sov'reign God,
    Oft time prefer'd the shade of _Ida_'s grove
    To all th'ambrosial feast's, and nectar'd cups above.

    Behold, the rosy-finger'd morning dawn,
    In saffron rob'd, and blushing o'er the lawn!
    Reflected from the clouds, a radiant stream,
    Tips with etherial dew the mountain's brim.
    Th' unfolding roses, and the op'ning flow'rs
    Imbibe the dew, and strew the varied bow'rs,
    Diffuse nectarious sweets around, and glow
    With all the colours of the show'ry bow
    The industrious bees their balmy toil renew,
    Buzz o'er the field, and sip the rosy dew.
    But yonder comes th'illustrious God of day,
    Invests the east, and gilds the etherial way;
    The groves rejoice, the feather'd nations sing,
    Echo the mountains and the vallies ring.

    Hail Orb! array'd with majesty and fire,
    That bids each sable shade of night retire!
    Fountain of light! with burning glory crown'd,
    Darting a deluge of effulgence round!
    Wak'd by thy genial and praline ray,
    Nature resumes her verdure, and looks gay;
    Fresh blooms the rose, the dropping plants revive,
    The groves reflourish, and forests live.
    Deep in the teeming earth, the rip'ning ore
    Confesses thy consolidating pow'r:
    Hence labour draws her tools, and artists mould
    The fusile silver and the ductile gold:
    Hence war is furnish'd, and the regal shield
    Like lightning flashes o'er th' illumin'd field.
    If thou so fair with delegated light,
    That all heav'n's splendors vanish at thy sight;
    With what effulgence must the ocean glow!
    From which thy borrow'd beams incessant flow!
    Th' exhaustless force whose single smiles supplies,
    Th' unnumber'd orbs that gild the spangled skies!

    Oft would I view, in admiration lost,
    Heav'n's sumptuous canopy, and starry host;
    With level'd tube and astronomic eye,
    Pursue the planets whirling thro' the sky:
    Immeasurable vaults! where thunders roll,
    And forked lightnings flash from pole to pole.
    Say, railing infidel! canst thou survey
    Yon globe of fire, that gives the golden day,
    Th' harmonious structure of this vast machine,
    And not confess its Architect divine?
    Then go, vain wretch; tho' deathless be thy soul,
    Go, swell the riot, and exhaust the bowl;
    Plunge into vice, humanity resign,
    Go, fill the stie, and bristle into swine?

    None but a pow'r omnipotent and wise
    Could frame this earth, or spread the boundless skies
    He made the whole; at his omnific call,          }
    From formless chaos rose this spacious ball,     }
    And one ALMIGHTY GOD is seen in all.             }
    By him our cup is crown'd, our table spread
    With luscious wine, and life-sustaining bread.
    What countless wonders doth the earth contain!
    What countless wonders the unfathom'd main!
    Bedrop'd with gold, their scaly nations shine,
    Haunt coral groves, or lash the foaming brine.
    JEHOVAH's glories blaze all nature round.
    In heaven, on earth, and in the deeps profound;
    Ambitious of his name, the warblers sing,
    And praise their Maker while they hail the spring:
    The zephyrs breathe it, and the thunders roar,
    While surge to surge, and shore resounds to shore.
    But MAN, endu'd with an immortal mind,
    His Maker's Image, and for heaven design'd;
    To loftier notes his raptur'd voice should raise,
    And chaunt sublimer hymns to his Creator's praise.

    When rising _Phoebus_ ushers in the morn,
    And golden beams th' impurpled skies adorn:
    Wak'd by the gentle murmur of the floods,
    Or the soft music of the waving woods;
    Rising from sleep with the melodious quire,
    To solemn sounds I'd tune the hallow'd lyre.
    Thy name, O GOD! should tremble on my tongue,
    Till ev'ry grove prov'd vocal to my song:
    (Delightful task! with dawning light to sing,
    Triumphant hymns to heav'n's eternal king.)
    Some courteous angel should my breast inspire,
    Attune my lips, and guide the warbled wire,
    While sportive echoes catch the sacred sound,
    Swell ev'ry note, and bear the music round;
    While mazy streams meand'ring to the main
    Hang in suspence to hear the heav'nly strain;
    And hush'd to silence, all the feather'd throng,
    Attentive listen to the tuneful song.

    Father of _Light_! exhaustless source of good!
    Supreme, eternal, self-existent God!
    Before the beamy sun dispens'd a ray,
    Flam'd in the azure vault, and gave the day;
    Before the glimm'ring Moon with borrow'd light,
    Shone queen amid the silver host of night;
    High in the Heav'ns, thou reign'dst superior Lord,
    By suppliant angels worship'd and ador'd.
    With the celestial choir then let me join,
    In cheerful praises to the pow'r Divine.
    To sing thy praise, do thou, O GOD! inspire,
    A mortal breast with more than mortal fire;
    In dreadful majesty thou sit'st enthron'd,
    With light encircled, and with glory crown'd;
    Thro' all infinitude extends thy reign,
    For thee, nor heav'n, nor heav'n of heav'ns contain;
    But tho' thy throne is fix'd above the sky,
    Thy _Omnipresence_ fills immensity.
    Saints rob'd in white, to thee their anthems bring,
    And radient Martyrs hallelujahs sing:
    Heav'n's universal host their voices raise,
    In one _eternal chorus_, to thy praise;
    And round thy awful throne, with one accord,
    Sing, Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord.
    At thy creative voice, from ancient night,
    Sprang smiling beauty, and yon' worlds of light:
    Thou spak'st--the planetary Chorus roll'd
    And all th' expanse was starr'd with beamy gold;
    _Let there be light_, said GOD--Light instant shone,
    And from the orient, burst the golden Sun;
    Heav'n's gazing hierarchies, with glad surprise,
    Saw the first morn invest the skies,
    And straight th' exulting troops thy throne surround,
    With thousand thousand harps of heav'nly sound:
    Thrones, powers, dominions, (ever shining trains!)
    Shouted thy praises in triumphant strains:
    _Great are thy works_, they sing, and, all around,
    _Great are thy works_, the echoing heav'n's resound.
    The effulgent sun, insufferably bright,
    Is but a beam of thy o'erflowing light;
    The tempest is thy breath; the thunder hurl'd,
    Tremendous roars thy vengeance o'er the world;
    Thou bow'st the heav'ns the smoaking mountains nod;
    Rocks fall to dust, and nature owns her God;
    Pale tyrants shrink, the atheist stands aghast,
    And impious kings in horror breath their last.
    To this great God alternately I'd pay,
    The evening anthem, and the morning lay.

    For sov'reign _Gold_ I never would repine,
    Nor wish the glitt'ring dust of monarchs mine.
    What tho' high columns heave into the skies,
    Gay ceilings shine, and vaulted arches rise;
    Tho' fretted gold the sculptur'd roof adorn,
    The rubies redden, and the jaspers burn!
    Or what, alas! avails the gay attire,
    To wretched man, who breathes but to expire!
    Oft on the vilest, riches are bestow'd,
    To shew their meanness in the sight of God.
    High from a dung-hill, see a _Dives_ rise,
    And, _Titan_-like, insult th' avenging skies:
    The crowd, in adulation, calls him Lord,
    By thousands courted, flatter'd, and ador'd:
    In riot plung'd, and drunk with earthly joys,
    No higher thought his grov'ling foul employs:
    The poor he scourges with an iron rod,
    And from his bosom banishes his God.
    But oft in height of wealth, and beauty's bloom,
    Deluded man is fated to the tomb!
    For, lo! he sickens, swift his colour flies,
    And rising mists obscure his swimming eyes:
    Around his bed his weeping friends bemoan,
    Extort th' unwilling tear, and wish him gone;
    His sorrowing heir augments the tender show'r,
    Deplores his death--yet hails the dying hour.
    Ah bitter comfort! Sad relief, to die!
    Tho' sunk in down, beneath the canopy!
    His eyes no more shall see the cheerful light,
    Weigh'd down by death in everlasting night:
    "And when with age thy head is silver'd o'er,
    "And cold in death thy bosom beats no more,
    "Thy foul exulting shall desert its clay,
    "And mount, triumphant, to eternal day."
    But to improve the intellectual mind,
    Reading should be to contemplation join'd.
    First I'd collect from the Parnassian spring,
    What muses dictate, and what poets sing.--
    _Virgil_, as Prince, shou'd wear the laurel'd crown,
    And other bards pay homage to his throne;
    The blood of heroes now effus'd so long,
    Will run forever purple thro' his song.
    See! how he mounts toward the blest abodes,
    On planets rides, and talks with demi-gods!
    How do our ravish'd spirits melt away,
    When in his song _Sicilian_ shepherds play!
    But what a splendor strikes the dazzled eye,
    When _Dido_ shines in awful majesty!
    Embroider'd purple clad the _Tyrian_ queen,
    Her motion graceful, and august her mein;
    A golden zone her royal limbs embrac'd,
    A golden quiver rattled by her waist.
    See her proud steed majestically prance,
    Contemn the trumpet, and deride the lance!
    In crimson trappings, glorious to behold,
    Confus'dly gay with interwoven gold!
    He champs the bitt, and throws the foam around,
    Impatient paws, and tears the solid ground.
    How stern _AEneas_ thunders thro' the field!
    With tow'ring helmet, and refulgent shield!
    Coursers o'erturn'd, and mighty warriors slain,
    Deform'd with gore, lie welt'ring on the plain.
    Struck thro' with wounds, ill-fated chieftains lie,
    Frown e'en in death, and threaten as they die.
    Thro' the thick squadrons see the Hero bound,
    (His helmet flashes, and his arms resound!)
    All grim with rage, he frowns o'er _Turnus'_ head,
    (Re-kindled ire! for blooming _Pallas_ dead)
    Then, in his bosom plung'd the shining blade--
    The soul indignant sought the Stygian shade!

    The far-fam'd bards that grac'd _Britannia's_ isle,
    Should next compose the venerable pile.
    Great _Milton_ first, for tow'ring thought renown'd,
    Parent of song, and fam'd the world around!
    His glowing breast divine _Urania_ fir'd,
    Or GOD himself th' immortal Bard inspir'd.
    Borne on triumphant wings he take this flight,
    Explores all heaven, and treads the realms of light:
    In martial pomp he clothes th' angelic train,
    While warring myriads shake th' etherial plain.
    First _Michael_ stalks, high tow'ring o'er the rest;
    With heav'nly plumage nodding on his crest:
    Impenetrable arms his limbs unfold,
    Eternal adamant, and burning gold!
    Sparkling in fiery mail, with dire delight,
    Rebellious _Satan_ animates the fight:
    Armipotent they sink in rolling smoke,
    All heav'n resounding, to its centre shook,
    To crush his foes, and quell the dire alarms,
    _Messiah_ sparkled in refulgent arms;
    In radient panoply divinely bright,
    His limbs incas'd, he slash'd devouring light,
    On burning wheels, o'er heav'n's crystalline road
    Thunder'd the chariot of thy _Filial_ God;
    The burning wheels on golden axles turn'd,
    With flaming gems the golden axles burn'd.
    Lo! the apostate host, with terror struck,
    Roll back by millions! Th' Empyrean shook!
    Sceptres, and orbid shields, and crowns of gold,
    Cherubs and Seraphs in confusion roll'd;
    Till, from his hand, the triple thunder hurl'd,
    Compell'd them headlong, to th' Infernal world.

    Then tuneful _Pope_, whom all the nine inspire,
    With _saphic_ sweetness, and _pindaric_ fire.
    Father of verse! melodious and divine!
    Next peerless _Milton_ should distinguish'd shine.
    Smooth flow his numbers when he paints the grove,
    Th' enraptur'd virgins list'ning into love.
    But when the night and hoarse resounding storm,
    Rush on the deep, and _Neptune's_ face deform,
    Rough runs the verse, the son'rous numbers roar
    Like the hoarse surge that thunders on the shore.
    But when he sings th' exhilerated swains,
    Th' embow'ring groves, and _Windsor's_ blissful plains,
    Our eyes are ravish'd with the sylvan scene,
    Embroider'd fields, and groves in living green:
    His lays the verdure of the meads prolong,
    And wither'd forests blossom in his song;
    _Thames'_ silver streams his flowing verse admire,
    And cease to murmur while he tunes his lyre.

    Next shou'd appear great _Dryden's_ lofty muse,
    For who would _Dryden's_ polish'd verse refuse?
    His lips were moisten'd in _Parnassus'_ spring,
    And _Phoebus_ taught his _laureat_ son to sing.
    How long did _Virgil_ untranslated moan,
    His beauties fading, and his flights unknown;
    Till _Dryden_ rose, and, in exalted strain,
    Re-sang the fortune of the god-like man?
    Again the _Trojan_ prince with dire delight,
    Dreadful in arms, demands the ling'ring fight:
    Again _Camilla_ glows with martial fire,
    Drives armies back, and makes all _Troy_ retire.
    With more than native lustre _Virgil_ shines,
    And gains sublimer heights in _Dryden's_ lines.

    The gentle _Watts_, who strings his silver lyre
    To sacred odes, and heav'n's all-ruling fire;
    Who scorns th' applause of the licentious stage,
    And mounts yon sparkling worlds with hallow'd rage,
    Compels my thoughts to wing the heav'nly road,
    And wafts my soul, exulting, to my God;
    No fabled _Nine_ harmonious bard! inspire
    Thy raptur'd breast with such seraphic fire;
    But prompting _Angels_ warm thy boundless rage,
    Direct thy thoughts, and animate thy page.
    Blest man! for spotless sanctity rever'd,
    Lov'd by the good, and by the guilty fear'd;
    Blest man! from gay delusive scenes remov'd,
    Thy Maker loving, by thy Maker lov'd;
    To God thou tun'st thy consecrated lays,
    Nor meanly blush to sing _Jehovah's_ praise.
    Oh! did, like thee, each laurel'd bard delight,
    To paint _Religion_ in her native light,
    Not then with _Plays_ the lab'ring' press would groan,
    Nor _Vice_ defy the _Pulpit_ and the _Throne_;
    No impious rhymer charm a vicious age,
    Nor prostrate _Virtue_ groan beneath their rage:
    But themes divine in lofty numbers rise,
    Fill the wide earth, and echo through the skies.

    These for _Delight_;--for _Profit_ I would read,
    The labour'd volumes of the learned dead:
    Sagacious _Locke_, by Providence design'd
    T' exalt, instruct, and rectify the mind.
    Th' unconquerable _Sage_,[A] whom virtue fir'd,
    And from the tyrant's lawless rage retir'd,
    When victor _Caesar_ freed unhappy _Rome_,
    From _Pompey's_ chains, to substitute his own.
    _Longinius_, _Livy_, fam'd _Thucydides_,
    _Quintillian_, _Plato_ and _Demosthenes_,
    Persuasive _Tully_, and _Corduba's Sage_,[B]
    Who fell by _Nero's_ unrelenting rage;
    _Him_[C] whom ungrateful _Athens_ doom'd to bleed,
    Despis'd when living, and deplor'd when dead.
    _Raleigh_ I'd read with ever fresh delight,
    While ages past rise present to my fight:
    Ah man unblest! he foreign realms explor'd,
    Then fell a victim to his country's sword!
    Nor should great _Derham_ pass neglected by,      }
    Observant sage! to whose deep piercing eye        }
    Nature's stupendous works expanded lie.           }

    Nor he, _Britannia_, thy unmatch'd renown!
    (Adjudg'd to wear the philosophic crown)
    Who on the solar orb uplifted rode,
    And scan'd th' unfathomable works of God,
    Who bound the silver planets to their spheres,
    And trac'd th' elliptic curve of blazing stars!
    _Immortal Newton_; whole illustrious name
    Will shine on records of eternal fame.

    [Footnote A: Cato.]

    [Footnote B: Seneca.]

    [Footnote C: Socrates.]

    By love directed, I wou'd choose a wife,
    T' improve my bliss and ease the load of life.
    Hail _Wedlock!_ hail, inviolable tye!
    Perpetual fountain of domestic joy!
    Love, friendship, honour, truth, and pure delight,
    Harmonious mingle in the nuptial rite.
    In _Eden_ first the holy state begun,
    When perfect innocence distinguish'd man;
    The human pair, th' Almighty Pontiff led,
    Gay as the morning to the bridal bed;
    A dread solemnity th' espousals grac'd,
    _Angels_ the _Witnesses_, and GOD the PRIEST!
    All earth exulted on the nuptial hour,
    And voluntary roses deck'd the bow'r!
    The joyous birds, on ev'ry blossom'd spray,
    Sung _Hymenians_ to th' important day,
    While _Philomela_ swell'd the sponsal song,
    And Paradise with gratulations rung.

    Relate, inspiring muse! where shall I find
    A blooming virgin with an angel mind,
    Unblemish'd as the white-rob'd virgin quire
    That fed, _O Rome!_ thy consecrated fire;
    By reason aw'd, ambitious to be good,
    Averse to vice, and zealous for her God?
    Relate, in what blest region can I find
    Such bright perfections in a female mind?
    What _Phoenix_-woman breathes the vital air,
    So greatly greatly good, and so divinely fair?
    Sure, not the gay and fashionable train,
    Licentious, proud, immoral and prophane;
    Who spend their golden hours in antic dress,
    Malicious whispers, and inglorious ease.--

    Lo! round the board a shining train appears,
    In rosy beauty, and in prime of years!
    _This_ hates a flounce, and _this_ a flounce approves,
    _This_ shews the trophies of her former loves;
    _Polly_ avers that _Sylvia_ dress in green,
    When last at church the gaudy Nymph was seen;
    _Chloe_ condemns her optics, and will lay
    'Twas azure sattin, interstreak'd with grey;
    _Lucy_ invested with judicial pow'r,
    Awards 'twas neither--and the strife is o'er.

    Then parrots, lap-dogs, monkeys, squirrels, beaus,
    Fans, ribbands, tuckers, patches, furbaloes,
    In quick succession, thro' their fancies run,
    And dance incessant on the flippant tongue.
    And when fatigued with ev'ry other sport,
    The belles prepare to grace the sacred court,
    They marshal all their forces in array,
    To kill with glances and destroy in play.
    Two skilful _maids_, with reverential fear,
    In wanton wreaths collect their silken hair;
    Two paint their cheeks, and round their temples pour
    The fragrant unguent, and the ambrosial show'r;
    One pulls the shape-creating stays, and one
    Encircles round her waist the golden zone:
    Not with more toil t' improve immortal charms,
    Strove _Juno_, _Venus_, and the _Queen of Arms_,
    When _Priam's_ Son adjudg'd the golden prize
    To the resistless beauty of the skies.
    At length equip'd in love's enticing arms,
    With all that glitters and with all that charms,
    Th' ideal goddesses to church repair,
    Peep thro' the fan and mutter o'er a pray'r,
    Or listen to the organ's pompous sound,
    Or eye the gilded images around;
    Or, deeply studied in coquetish rules,
    Aim wily glances at unthinking fools;
    Or shew the lilly hand with graceful air,
    Or wound the fopling with a lock of hair:
    And when the hated discipline is o'er,
    And _Misses_ tortur'd with _Repent_ no more,
    They mount the pictur'd coach, and to the play
    The celebrated idols hie away.

    Not so the _Lass_ that shou'd my joys improve,
    With solid friendship, and connubial love:
    A native bloom, with intermingled white,
    Should set features in a pleasing light;
    Like _Helen_ flushing with unrival'd charms.
    When raptur'd _Paris_ darted in her arms.
    But what, alas! avails a ruby cheek,
    A downy bosom, or a snowy neck!
    Charms ill supply the want of innocence,
    Nor beauty forms intrinsic excellence:
    But in her breast let moral beauties shine,
    Supernal grace and purity divine:
    Sublime her reason, and her native wit
    Unstrain'd with pedantry and low conceit;
    Her fancy lively, and her judgment free,
    From female prejudice and bigotry:
    Averse to idle pomp, and outward show,
    The flatt'ring coxcomb, and fantastic beau.

    The fop's impertinence she should despise,
    Tho' _sorely wounded by her radient eyes_;
    But pay due rev'rence to the exalted mind
    By learning polish'd, and by wit refin'd,
    Who all her virtues, without guile, commends,
    And all her faults as freely reprehends.
    Soft _Hymen's_ rites her passion should approve,
    And in her bosom glow the flames of love:
    To me her foul, by sacred friendship turn,
    And I, for her, with equal friendship burn;
    In ev'ry stage of life afford relief,
    Partake my joys, and sympathize my grief;
    Unshaken, walk in virtue's peaceful road,
    Nor bribe her reason to pursue the mode;
    Mild as the saint whose errors are forgiv'n,
    Calm as a vestal, and compos'd as heav'n.
    This be the partner, this the lovely wife
    That should embellish and prolong my life;
    A nymph! who might a second fall inspire,
    And fill a glowing _Cherub_ with desire!
    With her I'd spend the pleasurable day,
    While fleeting minutes gaily danc'd away:
    With her I'd walk, delighted, o'er the green,
    Thro' ev'ry blooming mead, and rural scene,
    Or sit in open fields damask'd with flow'rs,
    Or where cool shades imbrown the noon-tide bow'rs,
    Imparadis'd within my eager arms,
    I'd reign the happy monarch of her charms:
    Oft on her panting bosom would I lay,
    And, in dissolving raptures, melt away;
    Then lull'd, by nightingales, to balmy rest,
    My blooming fair should slumber at my breast.

    And when decrepid age (frail mortals doom!)
    Should bend my wither'd body to the tomb,
    No warbling _Syrens_ should retard my flight,
    To heav'nly mansions of unclouded light;
    Tho' death, with his imperial horrors crown'd,
    Terrific grinn'd, and formidably frown'd,
    Offences pardon'd, and remitted sin,
    Should form a calm serenity within:
    Blessing my _natal_ and my _mortal_ hour,
    (My soul committed to th' eternal pow'r)
    Inexorable death should smile, for I,
    Who _knew_ to LIVE, would never _fear_ to DIE.




HYMNS


HYMN I.

    Begin the high celestial strain,
      My ravish'd soul, and sing,
    A solemn hymn of grateful praise
      To heav'n's Almighty King.
    Ye curling fountains, as ye roll
      Your silver waves along,
    Whisper to all your verdant shores
      The subject of my song.
    Retain it long y' echoing rocks,
      The sacred sound retain,
    And from your hollow winding caves
      Return it oft again.
    Bear it, ye winds, on all your wings,
      To distant climes away,
    And round the wide extended world
      My lofty theme convey.
    Take the glad burden of his name,
      Ye clouds, as you arise,
    Whether to deck the golden morn,
      Or shade the ev'ning skies.
    Let harmless thunders roll along
      The smooth etherial plain,
    And answer from the crystal vault
      To ev'ry flying strain.
    Long let it warble round the spheres,
      And echo through the sky,
    Till Angels, with immortal skill,
      Improve the harmony.
    While I, with sacred rapture fir'd,
      The blest Creator sing,
    And warble consecrated lays
      To heav'n's Almighty King.


HYMN II--ON HEAVEN.

    Hail sacred Salem! plac'd on high,
      Seat of the mighty King!
    What thought can grasp thy boundless bliss,
      What tongue thy glories sing?
    Thy crystal tow'rs and palaces
      Magnificently rise,
    And dart their beaut'ous lustre round
      The empyrean skies.
    The voice of triumph in thy streets
      And acclamations found,
    Gay banquets in thy splendid courts
      And purest joys abound.
    Bright smiles on ev'ry face appear,
      Rapture in ev'ry eye;
    From ev'ry mouth glad anthems flow,
      And charming harmony.
    Illustrious day for ever there,
      Streams from the face divine;
    No pale-fac'd moon e'er glimmers forth,
      Nor stars nor sun decline.
    No scorching heats, no piercing colds,
      The changing seasons bring;
    But o'er the fields mild breezes there
      Breathe an eternal spring.
    The flow'rs with lasting beauty shine,
      And deck the smiling ground,
    While flowing streams of pleasures all
      The happy plains surround.


HYMN III.--THE CREATION.

    Now let the spacious world arise,
      Said the creator Lord:
    At once th' obedient earth and skies
      Rose at his sov'reign word.
    Dark was the deep, the waters lay
      Confus'd, and drown'd the land;
    He call'd the light, the new-born day
      Attends on his command.
    He bids the clouds ascend on high;
      The clouds ascend, and bear
    A wat'ry treasure to the sky,
      And float on softer air.
    The liquid element below,
      Was gather'd by his hand;
    The rolling seas together flow,
      And leave a solid land:
    With herbs and plants (a flow'ry birth)
      The naked globe he crown'd,
    Ere there was rain to bless the earth,
      Or sun to warm the ground.
    Then he adorn'd the upper skies,
      Behold the sun appears,
    The moon and stars in order rise,
      To mark our months and years.
    Out of the deep th' Almighty King
      Did vital beings frame,
    And painted fowls of ev'ry wing,
      And fish of ev'ry name,
    He gave the lion and the worm
      At once their wond'rous birth;
    And grazing beasts of various form
      Rose from the teeming earth.
    Adam was form'd of equal clay,
      The sov'reign of the rest;
    Design'd for nobler ends than they,
      With God's own image blest.
    Thus glorious in the Maker's eye,
      The young Creation stood;
    He saw the building from on high,
      His word pronounc'd it good.


THE LORD'S PRAYER.

    Father of all! we bow to thee,
      Who dwells in heav'n ador'd;
    But present still thro' all thy works,
      The universal Lord.
    All hallow'd be thy sacred name,
      O'er all the nations known;
    Advance the kingdom of thy grace,
      And let thy glory come.
    A grateful homage may we yield,
      With hearts resigned to thee;
    And as in heav'n thy will is done,
      On earth so let it be.
    From day to day we humbly own
      The hand that feeds us still;
    Give us our bread, and we may rest
      Contented in thy will.
    Our sins and trespasses we own;
      O may they be forgiv'n!
    That mercy we to others shew,
      We pray the like from Heav'n.
    Our life let still thy grace direct,
      From evil guard our way,
    And in temptation's fatal path
      Permit us not to stray.
    For thine the pow'r, the kingdom thine,
      All glory's due to thee:
    Thine from eternity they were,
      And thine shall ever be.


THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.--_BY MR. POPE_.

    Father of all, in ev'ry age,
      In ev'ry clime ador'd;
    By saint, by savage, and by sage,
      Jehovah, Jove, or Lord.
    Thou great First Cause, least understood;
      Who all my sense confin'd,
    To know but this, that thou art good,
      And that myself am blind:
    Yet gave me in this dark estate,
      To see the good from ill;
    And binding Nature fast in fate,
      Left free the human Will.
    What conscience dictates to be done,
      Or warns me not to do,
    This, teach me more than hell to shun,
      That, more than heav'n pursue.
    What blessings thy free bounty gives;
      Let me not cast away;
    For God is paid when man receives,
      T' enjoy is to obey.
    Yet not to earth's contracted span
      Thy goodness let me bound,
    Or think thee Lord alone of Man,
      When thousand worlds are round:
    Let not this weak unknowing hand
      Presume thy bolts to throw,
    And deal damnation round the land,
      On each I judge thy foe.
    If I am right, thy grace impart,
      Still in the right to stay;
    If I am wrong, O teach my heart
      To find that better way.
    Save me alike from foolish pride,
      Or impious discontent,
    At aught thy wisdom has deny'd,
      Or aught thy goodness lent.
    Teach me to feel another's woe,
      To hide the fault I see;
    That mercy I to others shew,
      That mercy show to me.
    Mean though I am, not wholly so,
      Since quicken'd by thy breath;
    Oh lead me wheresoe'er I go,
      Through this day's life or death.
    This day be bread and peace my lot:
      All else beneath the sun,
    Thou knowst if best bestow'd or not,
      And let thy will be done.
    To thee, whose temple is all space,
      Whose altar, earth, sea, skies!
    One chorus let all being raise!
      All nature's incense rise!




CHARACTER OF MAN.

    Know then thyself; presume not God to scan
    The proper study of mankind, is man.
    Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state,
    A being darkly wise, and rudely great;
    With too much knowledge for the sceptic side,
    With too much weakness for the stoic's pride,
    He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest;
    In doubt, to deem himself a God, or beast;
    In doubt, his mind or body to prefer;
    Born, but to die; and reas'ning, but to err:
    Alike in ignorance, his reason such,
    Whether he thinks too little or too much:
    Chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd;
    Still by himself abus'd, or disabus'd:
    Created, half to rise, and half to fall;
    Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all:
    Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd;
    The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!




WINTER.

    See! Winter comes, to rule the varied year,
    Sullen and sad, with all his rising train,
    Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme;
    These, that exalt the soul to solemn thought,
    And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms!
    Congenial horrors, hail! With frequent foot,
    Pleas'd, have I, in my cheerful morn of life,
    When, nurs'd by careless solitude, I liv'd,
    And sung of nature with unceasing joy.
    Pleas'd, have I wand'red through your rough domain;
    Trod the pure virgin snows, myself as pure;
    Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst;
    Or seen the deep fermenting tempest brew'd
    In the grim evening sky. Thus pass the time,
    Till, through the lucid chambers of the south,
    Look'd out the joyous spring, look'd out, and smil'd.




DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.

    My name is Norval. On the Grampian Hills
    My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,
    Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
    And keep his only son, myself, at home.
    For I had heard of battles, and I long'd
    To follow to the field some warlike lord:
    And heav'n soon granted what my sire deny'd.
    This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield,
    Had not yet fill'd her horns, when by her light,
    A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills
    Rush'd, like a torrent, down upon the vale,
    Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled
    For safety and for succour. I alone,
    With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
    Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd
    The road he took; then hasted to my friends;
    Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
    I met advancing. The pursuit I led,
    Till we o'ertook the spoil encumber'd foe.
    We fought--and conquer'd. Ere a sword was drawn,
    An arrow, from my bow, had pierc'd their chief,
    Who wore, that day, the arms which now I wear.
    Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd
    The shepherd's slothful life: and having heard
    That our good king had summon'd his bold peers,
    To lead their warriors to the Carron side,
    I left my father's house, and took with me
    A chosen servant to conduct my steps--
    Yon trembling coward who forsook his master.
    Journeying with this intent, I pass'd these towers;
    And, heaven directed, came this day, to do
    The happy deed, that gilds my humble name.




DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF THE MANNER IN WHICH HE LEARNED THE ART OF WAR.

    Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote
    And inaccessible by shepherds trod,
    In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand,
    A hermit liv'd; a melancholy man,
    Who was the wonder of our wand'ring swains,
    Austere and lonely, cruel to himself,
    Did they report him; the cold earth his bed,
    Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms.
    I went to see him, and my heart was touch'd
    With rev'rence and with pity. Mild he spake,
    And, entering on discourse, such stories told,
    As made me oft revisit his sad cell.
    For he had been a soldier in his youth,
    And fought in famous battles, when the peers
    Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led,
    Against th' usurping infidel display'd
    The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land.
    Pleas'd with my admiration, and the fire
    His speech struck from me; the old man would shake
    His years away, and act his young encounters.
    Then having shewn his wounds; he'd sit him down.
    And all the live long day, discourse of war.
    To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf
    He cut the figures of the marshall'd hosts:
    Describ'd the motions, and explain'd the use
    Of the deep column and lengthen'd line,
    The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm;
    For, all that Saracen or Christian knew
    Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known.
                                  Unhappy man!
    Returning homeward by Messina's port,
    Loaded with wealth and honours bravely won,
    A rude and boist'rous captain of the sea
    Fasten'd a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought;
    The stranger fell, and with his dying breath,
    Declar'd his name and lineage! Mighty God!
    The soldier cry'd, my brother! Oh! my brother!
                          They exchanged forgiveness:
    And happy, in my mind, was he that died;
    For many deaths has the survivor suffer'd,
    In the wild desart on a rock he sits,
    Or on some nameless stream's untrodden banks,
    And ruminates all day his dreadful fate.
    At times, alas! not in his perfect mind!
    Hold's dialogues with his lov'd brother's ghost;
    And oft each night forsakes his sullen couch,
    To make sad orisons for him he slew.




BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.

    In ancient times, as story tells,
    The saints would often leave their cells,
    And stroll about; but hide their quality,
    To try good people's hospitality.

    It happened, on a winter night,
    As authors on the legend write,
    Two brother hermits, saints by trade;
    Taking their tour in masquerade,
    Disguis'd in tattered habits, went
    To a small village down in Kent;
    Where, in the stroller's canting strain,
    They begg'd from door to door, in-vain;
    Tri'd every tone might pity win,
    But not a soul would let them in.

    Our wandering saints, in woeful state,
    Treated at this ungodly rate,
    Having through all the village pass'd,
    To a small cottage came at last,
    Where dwelt a good old honest yoeman,
    Call'd in the neighbourhood, Philemon;
    Who kindly did these saints invite
    In his poor hut to pass the night;
    And, then, the hospitable sire
    Bid goody Baucis mend the fire;
    While he, from out the chimney, took
    A flitch of bacon off the hook,
    And, freely from the fattest side,
    Cut out large slices to be fry'd:
    Then stept aside, to fetch them drink,
    Fill'd a large jug up to the brink;
    Then saw it fairly twice go round;
    Yet (what is wonderful) they found,
    'Twas still replenish'd to the top,
    As if they had not touch'd a drop.

    The good old couple were amaz'd,
    And often on each other gaz'd;
    For both were frighten'd to the heart,
    And just began to cry--What art!
    Then softly turn'd aside to view,
    Whether the lights were turning blue,
    The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,
    Told them their calling and their errand;
    "Good folks you need not be afraid;
    "We are but saints," the hermit said;
    "No hurt shall come to you or yours;
    "But for that pack of churlish boors,
    "Not fit to live on Christian ground,
    "They, and their houses shall be drown'd;
    "While you see your cottage rise,
    "And grow a church before your eyes."

    They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft,
    The roof began to move aloft;
    Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
    The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.
    The chimney widen'd, and grew higher,
    Became a steeple with a spire.
    The kettle to the top was hoist;
    With upside down, doom'd there to dwell,
    'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
    A wooden jack, which had almost
    Lost, by disuse, the art to roast,
    A sudden alteration feels,
    Increas'd by new intestine wheels;
    And strait against the steeple rear'd,
    Became a clock, and still adher'd;
    And, now, in love to household cares,
    By a shrill voice the hour declares,
    Warning the housemaid not to burn
    The roast-meat which it cannot turn.
    The easy chair began to crawl,
    Like a huge snail along the wall;
    There, stuck aloft in public view,
    And, with small change, a pulpit grew.
    A bed-stead of the antique mode,
    Made up of timber many a load,
    Such as our ancestors did use,
    Was metamorphos'd into pews:
    Which still their ancient nature keep,
    By lodging folks dispos'd to sleep.

    The cottage by such feats as these,
    Grown to a church by just degrees,
    The hermits then desir'd their host
    Old goodman Dobson of the green,
    Remembers, he the trees has seen;
    He'll talk of them from morn to night,
    And goes with folks to shew the sight.
    On Sundays, after ev'ning prayer,
    He gathers all the parish there;
    Points out the place of either yew:
    "Here Baucis, there Philemon grew;
    "Till, once, a parson of our town,
    "To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
    "At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd;
    "How much the other tree was griev'd;
    "Grew scrubby, died a-top, was stunted;
    "So the next parson stubb'd, and burnt it."




ON HAPPINESS.

    Oh happiness! our being's end and aim;
    Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate'er they name,
    That something still which prompts the eternal sigh,
    For which we bear to live, or dare to die:
    Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies,
    O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool, and wise:
    Plant of celestial seed! if drop'd below,
    Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow:
    Fair op'ning to some court's propitious shrine;
    Or deep with di'monds in the flaming mine?
    Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield,
    Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field?
    Where grows? where grows it not? If vain our toil,
    We ought to blame the culture, not the soil.
    Fix'd to no spot is happiness sincere?
    'Tis no where to be found, or every where.

    Order is heaven's first law: and this confest,
    Some are, and must be, greater than the rest;
    More rich, more wise. But, who infers from hence
    That such are happier, shocks all common sense;
    Heaven to mankind impartial we confess,
    If all are equal in their happiness.
    But mutual wants this happiness increase;
    All natures difference keeps all natures peace.
    Condition, circumstance, is not the thing;
    Bliss is the same, in subject, or in king;
    In who obtain defence, or who defend;
    In him who is, or him who finds a friend.

    Fortune her gifts may variously dispose,
    And these be happy call'd, unhappy those;
    But heaven's just balance equal will appear,
    While those are plac'd in hope, and these in fear;
    Nor present good or ill, the joy or curse,
    But future views of better, or of worse.

    Oh sons of earth! attempt ye still to rise,
    By mountains pil'd on, mountains, to the skies?
    Heaven still, with laughter, the vain toil surveys,
    And buries madmen in the heaps they raise.

    Know, all the good that individuals find,
    Or God and nature meant to mere mankind,
    Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense,
    Lie in three words--Health, Peace, and Competence.




SPEECH OF ADAM TO EVE.

    Now morn, her rosy steps in th' eastern clime
    Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl,
    When Adam wak'd; so custom'd; for his sleep
    Was airy light, from pure digestion bred,
    And temperate vapours bland, which the only found
    Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan,
    Lightly dispers'd, and the thrill matin song
    Of birds on ev'ry bough. So much the more
    His wonder was to find unwaken'd Eve
    With tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek.
    As through unquiet rest. He, on his side
    Leaning half rais'd, with looks of cordial love,
    Hung over her enamour'd; and beheld
    Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep,
    Shot forth peculiar graces. Then, with voice
    Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,
    Her hand soft touching, whispered thus; "Awake,
    "My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found:
    "Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight,
    "Awake!--The morning shines, and the fresh field
    "Calls us. We lose the prime; to mark how spring
    "Our tended plants; how blows the citron grove:
    "What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed;
    "How nature paints her colours; how the bee
    "Sits on the bloom, extracting liquid sweet."




SOLILOQUY AND PRAYER OF EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF
POICTIERS.

    The hour advances, the decisive hour,
    That lifts me to the summit of renown,
    Or leaves me on the earth a breathless corse,
    The buzz and bustle of the field before me;
    The twang of bow-strings, and the clash of spears:
    With every circumstance of preparation;
    Strike with an awful horror!--Shouts are echo'd,
    To drown dismay, and blow up resolution
    Even to its utmost swell.--From hearts so firm,
    Whom dangers fortify, and toils inspire,
    What has a leader not to hope! And, yet,
    The weight of apprehension sinks me down--
    "O, soul of Nature! great eternal cause,
    "Who gave, and govern's all that's here below!
    "'Tis by the aid of thy almighty arm
    "The weak exist, the virtuous are secure.
    "If, to your sacred laws obedient ever
    "My sword, my soul, have own'd no other guide,
    "Oh! if your honour, if the rights of men,
    "My country's happiness, my king's renown,
    "Were motives worthy of a warrior's zeal,
    "Crown your poor servant with success this day:
    "And be the praise and glory all thy own."




INVOCATION TO PARADISE LOST.

    Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit
    Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
    Brought death into the world, and all our woe,
    With loss of Eden, till one greater man
    Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,
    Sing heav'nly muse! that on the sacred top
    Of Oreb, or of Sinai, did'st inspire
    That shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed,
    In the beginning, how the heav'ns and earth
    Rose out of chaos: or, if Sion hill
    Delight thee more, and Silo's book that flow'd.
    Fast by the oracle of God; I thence
    Invoke thy aid to my advent'rous song,
    That, with no middle flight, intends to soar
    Above th' Aonian mount, while it pursues
    Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme
    And chiefly thou, O Spirit! that dost prefer
    Before all temples, th' upright heart and pure,
    Instruct me, for thou know'st; thou, from the first,
    Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread,
    Dove-like sat'st brooding o'er the vast abyss,
    And mad'st it pregnant; what in me is dark,
    Illumine: what is low, raise and support;
    That, to the height of this great argument,
    I may assert eternal providence,
    And justify the ways of God to men.




MORNING HYMN.

    These are thy glorious works, Parent of good!
    Almighty! thine this universal frame,
    Thus wond'rous fair: thyself, how wond'rous, then,
    Unspeakable! who fit'st above these heav'ns,
    To us invisible, or dimly seen
    In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
    Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine--
    Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
    Angels!--for ye behold him, and, with songs
    And choral symphonies, day without night,
    Circle his throne, rejoicing. Ye in heav'n!--
    On earth, join all ye creatures, to extol
    Him first, him last, him midst, and without end,
    Fairest of stars! last in the train of night,
    If better then, belong not to the dawn,
    Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
    With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
    While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
    Thou fun! of this great world both eye and foul,
    Acknowledge him thy greater: found his praise
    In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
    And when high noon has gain'd, and when thou fall'st,
    Moon! that now meet'st the orient fun, now fly'st
    With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies;
    And ye five other wand'ring fires! that move
    In mystic dance, not without song; resound
    His praise, who out of darkness, call'd up light.
    Air, and ye elements! the eldest birth
    Of nature's womb, that, in quaternion, run
    Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix
    And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
    Vary, to our great Maker, still new praise,
    Ye mists and exhalations! that now rise
    From hill or streaming lake, dusky or grey,
    Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
    In honour to the world's great Author, rise;
    Whether to deck with clouds, th' uncolour'd sky,
    Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs,
    Rising, or falling, still advance his praise.
    His praise, ye winds! that from four quarters blow,
    Breathe soft or loud! and wave your tops, ye pines!
    With ev'ry plant, in sign of worship, wave,
    Fountains! and ye that warble, as ye flow,
    Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praise.---
    Join voices, all ye living souls. Ye birds,
    That, singing, up to heaven-gate ascend,
    Bear, on your wings, and in your notes, his praise.--
    Ye, that in waters glide! and ye, that walk
    The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep!
    Witness, if I be silent, morn or ev'n,
    To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade,
    Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.--
    Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still,
    To give us only good: and, if the night
    Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd--
    Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.




THE HERMIT.--_BY DR. BEATIE_.

    At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
    And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove;
    When nought, but the torrent, is heard on the hill;
    And nought, but the, nightingale's song, in the grove;
    'Twas then, by the cave of the fountain afar;
    A hermit his song of the night thus began;
    No more with himself, or with nature at war,
    He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man.

    'Ah! why thus abandon'd to darkness and woe?
    'Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain?
    'For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
    'And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.
    'Yet, if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay;
    'Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn;
    'Oh! soothe him, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away,
    'Full quickly they pass--but they never return.

    'Now, gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
    'The moon, half extinguish'd, her crescent displays;
    'But lately I mark'd; when majestic: on high
    'She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
    'Roll on, thou fair orb! and with; gladness pursue
    'The path that conducts thee to splendor again--
    'But man's faded glory no change shall renew:
    'Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain.

    ''Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
    'I mourn; but ye woodlands! I mourn not for you:
    'For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
    'Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew.
    'Nor, yet, for the ravage of winter I mourn;
    'Kind nature the embryo blossom will save--
    'But, when shall spring visit the mould'ring urn?
    'O! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!'

    'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betray'd,
    That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind;
    My thoughts want to roam, from shade onward to shade,
    Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.
    'O! pity, great father of light!' then I cry'd,
    'Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee;
    Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:
    From doubt, and from darkness, thou only canst free.'

    And darkness, and doubt, are now flying away,
    No longer I roam, in conjecture forlorn,
    So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray,
    The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
    See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending,
    And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
    On the cold cheek of death, smiles and roses are blending,
    And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb,




COMPASSION.

    Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
    Whole trembling limbs have borne him to your door;
    Whole days are dwindled to the shortest span,
    Oh! give relief and heav'n will bless your store,
    These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
    Those hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
    And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
    Has been the channel to a flood of tears.
    You house erected on the rising ground,
    With tempting aspect, drew me from my road,
    For plenty there a residence has found,
    And grandeur a magnificent abode.
    Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
    Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread,
    A pamper'd menial drove me from the door,
    To seek a shelter in an humbler shed.
    Oh! take me to your hospitable dome;
    Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold:
    Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
    For I am poor and miserably old.
    Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
    If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast,
    Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
    And tears of pity would not be represt.
    Heav'n sends misfortunes; why should we repine?
    'Tis heav'n has brought me to the state you see;
    And your condition may be soon like mine,
    The child of sorrow and of misery.
    A little farm was my paternal lot,
    Then like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn:
    But, ah! oppression forc'd me from my cot,
    My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
    My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
    Lur'd by a villain from her native home,
    Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage,
    And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.
    My tender wife, sweet soother of my care,
    Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
    Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair,
    And left the world to wretchedness and me.

    Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
    Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door;
    Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
    Oh! give relief, and heav'n will bless your store.




ADVANTAGES OF PEACE.

    Oh, first of human blessings and supreme,
    Fair Peace! how lovely, how delightful, thou!
    By whose wide tie, the kindred sons of men,
    brothers live, in amity combin'd,
    And unsuspicious faith: while honest toil
    Gives ev'ry joy; and, to those joys, a right,
    Which idle barbarous rapine but usurps.
    Pure is thy reign; when, unaccurs'd by blood,
    Nought, save the sweetness of indulgent show'rs,
    Trickling, distils into the vernant glebe;
    Instead of mangled carcases, sad scene!
    When the blythe sheaves lie scatter'd o'er the field;
    When only shining shares, the crooked knife,
    And hooks imprint the vegetable wound;
    When the land blushes with the rose alone,
    The falling fruitage, and the bleeding vine.
    Oh! peace! then source and soul of social life!
    Beneath whose calm inspiring influence,
    Science his views enlarges, art refines,
    And swelling commerce opens all her ports--
    Bless'd be the man divine, who gives us thee!
    Who bids the trumpet hush its horrid clang,
    Nor blow the giddy nations into rage;
    Who sheathes the murd'rous blade; the deadly gun
    Into the well-pil'd armory returns;
    And, ev'ry vigour from the work of death
    To grateful industry converting, makes
    The country flourish, and the city smile!
    Unviolated, him the virgin sings;
    And him, the smiling mother, to her train.
    Of him, the Shepherd, in the peaceful dale,
    Chaunts; and the treasures of his labour sure,
    The husbandman, of him, as at the plough,
    Or team, he toils. With him, the Tailor soothes,
    Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave;
    And the full city, warm, from street to street,
    And shop to shop, responsive rings of him.
    Nor joys one land alone: his praise extends,
    Far as the sun rolls the diffusive day;
    Far as the breeze can bear the gifts of peace;
    Till all the happy nations catch the song.




PROGRESS OF LIFE.

    All the world's a stage,
    And all the men and women merely players:
    They have their exits and their entrances;
    And one man in his time plays many parts;
    His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
    Mewling and puking in his nurse's arms;
    And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
    And shining morning face, creeping like snail
    Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover,
    Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
    Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then, a soldier
    Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
    Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
    Seeking the bubble reputation,
    Ev'n in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice,
    In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd;
    With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
    Full of wise saws and modern instances,
    And so he plays his part. The sixth age foists
    Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
    With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side.
    His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide
    For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice
    Turning again towards childish treble, pipes.
    And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all
    That ends this strange eventful history,
    Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
    Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.




_SPEECHES IN THE ROMAN SENATE_.

    CATO.--Fathers! we once again are met in council.
    Caesar's approach, has summon'd us together,
    And Rome attends her fate from our resolves.
    How shall we treat this bold aspiring man?
    Success still follows him, and backs his crimes,
    Pharsalia gave him Rome. Egypt has since
    Receiv'd his yoke, and the whole Nile is Caesar's.
    Why should I mention Juba's overthrow,
    And Scipio's death? Numidia's burning sands
    Still smoke with blood. 'Tis time we should decree
    What course to take. Our foe advances on us,
    And envies us ev'n Lybia's sultry deserts.
    Fathers, pronounce your thoughts. Are they still fix'd
    To hold it out and fight it to the last?
    Or, are your hearts subdu'd, at length, and wrought;
    By time and ill success, to a submission?--
    Sempronius, speak.

    SEMPRONIUS.--My voice is still for war.
    Gods! can a Roman senate long debate
    Which of the two to chuse, slav'ry or death?
    No--let us rise at once; gird on our swords;
    And, at the head of our remaining troops,
    Attack the foe; break through the thick array
    Of his throng'd legions; and charge home upon him.
    Perhaps, some arm, more lucky than the rest,
    May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage.
    Rise, Fathers, rise! 'Tis Rome demands your help;
    Rise, and revenge her slaughter'd citizens,
    Or share their fate! The corpse of half her senate
    Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we
    Sit here, delib'rating' hi told debates,
    If we should sacrifice our lives to honour,
    Or wear them out in servitude and chains.
    Rouse up, for shame: Our brothers of Pharsalia
    Point at their wounds, and cry aloud--to battle!
    Great Pompey's shade complains that we are flow;
    And Scipio's ghost walks unreveng'd amongst us!

    CATO.--Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal
    Transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason.
    True fortitude is seen in great exploits,
    That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides;
    All else is tow'ring frenzy and distraction.
    Are not the lives of those who draw the sword
    In Rome's defence, entrusted to our care?
    Should we thus lead them to a field of slaughter,
    Might not th' impartial world, with reason, say
    We lavish'd, at our deaths, the blood of thousands;
    To grace our fall, and make our ruin glorious?
    Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion.

    LUCIUS.--My thoughts, I must confess, are turn'd on peace,
    Already have our quarrels fill'd the world
    With widows and with orphans. Scythia mourns
    Our guilty wars, and earth's remotest regions
    Lie half unpeopled by the feuds of Rome.
    'Tis time to sheathe the sword, and spare mankind,
    It is not Caesar, but the gods, my fathers!
    The gods declare against us, and repel
    Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle,
    (Prompted by a blind revenge and wild despair)
    Were, to refuse th' awards of providence,
    And not to rest in heav'n's determination.
    Already have we shewn our love to Rome;
    Now, let us shew submission to the gods.
    We took up arms not to revenge ourselves,
    But free the commonwealth. When this end fails,
    Arms have no further use. Our country's cause,
    That drew our swords, now wrests them from our hands,
    And bids us not delight in Roman blood
    Unprofitably shed. What men could do
    Is done already. Heav'n and earth will witness,
    If Rome must fall, that we are innocent.

    CATO--Let us appear, not rash, nor diffident,
    Immoderate valour swells into a fault;
    And fear, admitted into public councils,
    Betray like treason. Let us shun 'em both.--
    Father's, I cannot see that our affairs
    Are grown thus desp'rate. We have bulwarks round us;
    Within our walls, are troops inur'd to toil
    In Afric heats, and season'd to the sun.
    Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind us,
    Ready to rise at its young prince's call.
    While there is hope, do not distrust the gods:
    But wait, at least, till Caesar's near approach
    Force us to yield. 'Twill never be too late
    To sue for chains, and own a conqueror.
    Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time?
    No--let us draw our term of freedom out
    In its full length, and spin it to the last:
    So shall we gain still one day's liberty.
    And, let me perish, but, in Cato's judgment,
    A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty,
    Is worth a whole eternity of bondage.

CATO, solus, _sitting in a thoughtful posture: In his hand Plato's book
on the immortality of the soul. A drawn sword on the table by him_.

    It must be so--Plato, thou reason'st well!--
    Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
    This longing after immortality?
    Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
    Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
    Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
    'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
    'Tis heav'n itself, that points out--an hereafter,
    And intimates--eternity to man.
    Eternity!--thou pleasing--dreadful thought!
    Through what variety of untry'd beings,
    Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!
    The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me--
    But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.--
    Here will I hold. If there's a pow'r above us,
    (And that there is all nature cries aloud
    Through all her works) he must delight in virtue;
    And that which he delights in must be happy.
    But, when! or where! this world--was made for Caesar.
    I'm weary of conjectures--this must end 'em.
                    [_Laying his hand on his sword_.

    Thus am I doubly arm'd; my death and life,
    My bane and antidote are both before me:
    This, in a moment, brings me to an end;
    But this informs me I shall never die.
    The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles
    At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
    The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
    Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
    But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
    Unhurt amid the war of elements,
    The wrecks of matter; and the crush of worlds.
    What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?
    This lethargy that creeps through all my senses?
    Nature oppress'd, and harrass'd out with care;
    Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her;
    That my awaken'd soul may take her flight,
    Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life;
    An offering fit for Heav'n. Let guilt or fear
    Disturb man's rest; Cato knows neither of 'em;
    Indiff'rent in his choice, to sleep or die.




HAMLET'S MEDITATION ON DEATH.

    To be--or not to be!--that is the question.--
    Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
    The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune;
    Or to take arms against a siege of troubles,
    And, by opposing, end them?--To die--to sleep--
    No more;--and, by a sleep, to say we end
    The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
    That flesh is heir to--'tis a consummation
    Devoutly to be wish'd. To die--to sleep--
    To sleep--perchance to dream--aye, there's the rub.--
    For, in that sleep of death what dreams may come;
    When we have shuffled off this mortal coil;
    Must give us pause.--There's the respect
    That makes calamity of so long a life
    For, who would bear the whips and scorns o' th' time,
    Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
    The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
    The insolence of office, and the spurns
    That patient merit of the unworthy takes;
    When he himself might his quietus make
    With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
    To groan and sweat under a weary life;
    But that the dread of something after death
    (That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne
    No traveller returns) puzzles the will;
    And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
    Than fly to others that we know not of;
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
    And thus the native hue of resolution
    Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
    And enterprizes of great pith and moment,
    With this regard, their currents turn away,
    And lose the name of action.




SELECT PASSAGES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS, EXPRESSIVE OF THE _PRINCIPAL
EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS_.




JOY.

    Then is Orestes blest! My griefs are fled!
    Fled like a dream! Methinks I tread in air!--
    Surprising happiness! unlook'd for joy!
    Never let love despair! The prize is mine!--
    Be smooth, ye seas! and, ye propitious winds,
    Blow from Epirus to the Spartan coast!




GRIEF.

    I'll go; and in the anguish of my heart---
    Weep o'er my child--If he must die, my life
    Is wrapt in his; I shall not long survive.
    'Tis for his sake that I have suffer'd life;
    Groan'd in captivity; and outliv'd Hector.--
    Yes, my Astyanax! we'll go together;
    Together--to the realms of night we'll go.




PITY.

    Hadst thou but seen, as I did, how, at last,
    Thy beauties, Belvidera, like a wretch
    That's doom'd to banishment, came weeping forth,
    Whilst two young virgins, on whose arms she lean'd,
    Kindly look'd up, and at her grief grew sad!
    E'en the lewd rabble, that were gather'd round
    To see the sight, stood mute when they beheld her,
    Govern'd their roaring throats--and grumbled pity.




FEAR.

    Come on, Sir,--here's the place--stand still,--
    How fearful 'tis to cast one's eyes so low!
    The crows and coughs, that whig the midway air,
    Shew scarce so gross as beetles. Half way down,
    Hangs one that gathers samphire--dreadful trade!
    Methinks he seems no bigger than one's head,
    The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,
    Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark
    Seems lesson'd to a cock; her cock, a buoy
    Almost too small for fight. The murmuring surge;
    That on th' unnumbered idle pebbles chases,
    Cannot be heard so high.--I'll look no more,
    Lest my brain turn and the disorder make me
    Tumble down headlong.




AWE AND FEAR.

    Now, all is hush'd and still as death--
    How reverend is the face of this tall pile,
    Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,
    To bear aloft its arch'd and pond'rous roof,
    By its own weight made stedfast and immoveable,
    Looking tranquillity! It strikes an awe
    And terror on my aking sight. The tombs,
    And monumental caves of death look cold,
    And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.
    Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice--
    Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear
    Thy voice--my own affrights me with its echoes.




HORROR.

    Hark!--the death-denouncing trumpet founds
    The fatal charge, and shouts proclaim the onset.
    Destruction rushes dreadful to the field,
    And bathes itself in blood. Havock, let loose.
    Now, undistinguish'd, rages all around;
    While Ruin, seated on her dreary throne,
    Sees the plain strew'd, with subjects truly her's,
    Breathless and cold.




ANGER.

    Hear me, rash man; on thy allegiance hear me,
    Since thou hast striven to make us break our vow,
    Which, nor our nature, nor our place can bear,
    We banish thee forever from our sight
    And kingdom. If, when three days are expir'd,
    Thy hated trunk be found in our dominions,
    That moment is thy death---Away!




REVENGE.

    If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath
    disgraced me, and hindered me of half a million; laughed at my
    losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains,
    cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And what's his reason--I am
    a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,
    dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Is he not fed with the
    same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases,
    healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and
    summer, as a Christian is? if you prick us do we not bleed? If you
    tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And, if
    you wrong us--shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest,
    we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is
    his humility?--Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his
    sufferance be by Christian example?---Why, revenge. The villainy you
    teach me, I will execute; and it shall go hard, but I will better
    the instruction.




ADMIRATION.

    What find I here?
    Fair Portia's counterfeit?--What demi-god
    Hath come so near creation! Move these eyes!
    Or, whether, riding on the balls of mine,
    Seem they in motion?--Here are sever'd lips,
    Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar
    Should sunder such sweet friends.--Here, in her hair,
    The painter plays the spider, and hath woven
    A golden mesh, t' entrap the hearts of men
    Falter than gnats in cobwebs.--But her eyes--
    How could he see to do them! having made one,
    Methinks it should have power to steal both his,
    And leave itself unfinish'd!




HAUGHTINESS.

    Make thy demands to those that own thy power!
    Know, I am still beyond thee. And tho' fortune
    Has strip'd me of this train, this pomp of greatness;
    This outside of a king, yet still my soul,
    Fix'd high, and on herself alone dependant,
    Is ever free and royal: and, even now,
    As at the head of battle--does defy thee!




CONTEMPT.

    Away! no woman could descend so low,
    A skipping, dancing, worthless tribe you are;
    Fit only for yourselves. You herd together;
    And when the circling glass warms your vain hearts,
    You talk of beauties that you never saw,
    And fancy raptures that you never knew.




RESIGNATION.

    Yet, yet endure--nor murmur, O my foul!
    For, are not thy transgressions great and numberless?
    Do they not cover thee, like rising floods?
    And press then, like a weight of waters, down?
    Does not the hand of righteousness afflict thee?
    And who shall plead against it? who shall say
    To Pow'r Almighty, Thou hast done enough;
    Or bid his dreadful rod of vengeance it stay?--
    Wait, then, with patience, till the circling hours
    Shall bring the time of thy appointed rest
    And lay thee down in death.




IMPATIENCE.

    Oh! rid me of this torture, quickly there,
    My Madam, with the everlasting voice.
    The bells, in time of pestilence, ne'er made
    Like noise, or were in that perpetual motion.
    ---------------------------------All my house,
    But now, steam'd like a bath, with her thick breath,
    A lawyer could not have been heard, nor scarce
    Another woman, such a hail of words
    She has let fall.





REMORSE AND DESPAIR.

    Henceforth, let no man trust the first false step
    Of guilt. It hangs upon a precipice,
    Whose deep descent in last perdition ends.
    How far am I plung'd down, beyond all thought
    Which I this evening fram'd--
    Consummate horror! guilt beyond, a name!--
    Dare not, my soul, repent. In thee, repentance
    Were second guilt; and 'twere blaspheming Heav'n
    To hope for mercy. My pain can only cease
    When gods want power to punish.--Ha!--the dawn--
    Rise never more, O fun!--let night prevail:
    Eternal darkness close the world's wide scene--
    And hide me from myself.




DISTRACTION.

    Mercy!--I know it not--for I am miserable.
    I'll give thee misery--for here she dwells,
    This is her house--where the sun never dawns:
    The bird of night sits screaming o'er the roof;
    Grim spectres sweep along the horrid gloom;
    And nought in heard, but wailings and lamenting.
    Hark!--something cracks above;--it shakes--it totters!
    And see--the nodding ruin falls to crush me!--
    'Tis fallen--'Tis here!--I feel it on my brain!
    A waving flood of bluish fire swells o'er me!
    And now 'tis out--and I am drown'd in blood.--
    Ha! what art thou? thou horrid headless trunk!--
    It is my Hastings--See, he wafts me on!
    Away I go!--I fly!--I follow thee!




GRATITUDE.

    My Father! Oh! let me unlade my breast;
    Pour out the fullness of my soul before you;
    Shew ev'ry tender, ev'ry grateful thought,
    This wond'rous goodness stirs. But 'tis impossible,
    And utt'rance all is vile; since I can only
    Swear you reign here, but never tell how much.




INTREATY.

    Reward him for the noble deed, just Heavens!
    For this one action, guard him, and distinguish him
    With signal mercies, and with great deliverance,
    Save him from wrong, adversity, and shame,
    Let never-fading honours flourish round him;
    And consecrate his name; ev'n to time's end.
    Let him know nothing else, but good on earth
    And everlasting blessedness hereafter.




COMMANDING.

    Silence, ye winds!
    That make outrageous war upon the ocean:
    And then, old ocean? lull thy boist'rous waves.
    Ye warring elements! be hush'd as death,
    While I impose my dread commands on hell.
    And thou, profoundest hell! whose dreary sway,
    Is given to me by fate and demogorgon--
    Hear, hear my powerful voice, through all thy regions
    And from thy gloomy caverns thunder the reply.




COURAGE.

    A generous few, the vet'ran hardy gleanings
    Of many a hapless fight, with a, fierce
    Heroic fire, inspirited each other:
    Resolv'd on death, disdaining to survive
    Their dearest country. "If we fall," I cry'd,
    "Let us not tamely fall, like passive cowards!
    No--let us live, or let us die--like men!
    Come on, my friends. To Alfred we will cut
    Our glorious way: or as we nobly perish,
    Will offer to the genius of our country--
    Whole hecatombs of Danes." As if one soul
    Have mov'd them all, around their heads they flash'd
    Their flaming falchions--"lead us to those Danes!
    Our Country!--Vengeance!" was the general cry.




BOASTING.

    I will tell you, Sir, by the way of private, and under seal. I am a
    gentleman; and live here, obscure, and to myself; but, were I known
    to his Majesty, and the Lords, observe me, I would undertake, upon
    this poor head and life, for the public benefit or the state, not
    only to spare the entire lives of his subjects in general, but to
    save the one half, nay three parts of his yearly charge, in holding
    war, and against what enemy soever. And how would I do it, think
    you? Why thus, Sir. I would select nineteen more to myself,
    throughout the land; gentlemen they should be; of good spirit,
    strong and able constitution. I would chuse them by an instinct that
    I have. And I would teach these nineteen, the special rules; as your
    Punto, your Reverso, your Stoccaio, your Imbroccato, your Passada,
    your Montonto; till they could all play very near, or altogether, as
    well as myself. This done, say the enemy were forty thousand strong.
    We twenty, would come into the field the tenth of March or
    thereabouts; and we would challenge twenty of the enemy; they could
    not, in their honour refuse us: Well, we would kill them; challenge
    twenty more, kill them: twenty more, kill them: twenty more, kill
    them too. And thus, would we kill, every man, his twenty a day;
    that's twenty score; twenty score; that's two hundred; two hundred
    a day; five days, a thousand: forty thousand--forty times five--five
    times forty--two hundred days kill them all up by computation. And
    this I will venture my poor gentleman-like carcase to perform
    (provided there by no treason practised upon) by fair and discreet
    manhood; that is, civilly by the sword.




PERPLEXITY.

    --Let me think--
    What can this mean--Is it to me aversion?
    Or is it, as I feared, she loves another?
    Ha! yes--perhaps the king, the young count Tancred?
    They were bred up together--surely that,
    That cannot be--Has he not given his hand,
    In the most solemn manner, to Constantia?
    Does not his crown depend upon the deed?
    No--if they lov'd, and this old statesman knew it,
    He could not to a king prefer a subject.
    His virtues I esteem--nay more, I trust them--
    So far as virtue goes--but could he place
    His daughter on the throne of Sicily--
    O! 'tis a glorious bribe; too much for man!
    What is it then!--I care not what it is.




SUSPICION.

    Would he were fatter--but I fear him not.
    Yes, if my name were liable to fear,
    I do not know the man I should avoid,
    So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much--
    He is a great observer--and he looks
    Quite through the deeds of men.
    He loves no plays: he hears no music.
    Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
    As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit,
    That could be moved to smile at any thing.
    Such men as he be never at heart's ease,
    Whilst they behold a greater than themselves--
    And, therefore, are they very dangerous.




WIT AND HUMOUR.


A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold operation in it. It ascends me into
the brain. Dries me there, all-the foolish, dull, and crudy vapours
which environ it: makes it apprehensive, quick, inventive; full of
nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes, which, delivered over to the
voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit--The second
property of your excellent sherris, is, the warming of the blood; which,
before, cold and settled, left the liver white and pale: which is the
badge of pusillanimity and cowardice. But the sherris warms it, and
makes its course from the inwards to the parts extreme. It illuminateth
the face, which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the rest of this
little kingdom, man, to arm; and then, the vital commoners, and inland
petty spirits, muster me all to their captain, the heart; who, great,
and puffed up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage--and this
value comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon, is nothing without
sack; for that sets it a-work; and learning, a mere hoard of gold kept
by a devil, till sack commences it, and sets it in act and use. Hereof
comes it that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did
naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, steril, and bare
land, manured, husbanded, and tilled, with drinking good, and good store
of fertile sherris--If I had a thousand sons, the first human principle
I would teach them, should be--to foreswear thin potations, and to
addict themselves to sack.

    A plague on all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too, marry
    and amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy--Ere I lead this life long,
    I'll sew nether socks and mend them, and foot them too. A plague
    on all cowards! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue
    extant?   [_Drinks._

    You rogue! here's lime in this sack too. There is nothing but
    roguery to be found in villainous man. Yet a coward is worse
    than a cup of sack with lime in it---Go thy ways, old Jack! die
    when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon
    the face of the earth, then a'nt I a shotten herring. There lives
    not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is
    fat, and grows old, God help the while!--A plague on all cowards,
    I say still!---Give me a cup of sack.  [_Drinks._

    I am a rogue if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them
    two hours together. I have escaped by miracle. I am eight
    times thrust through the doublet; four through the hose; my
    buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a hand-saw--_ecce
    signum!_ I never dealt better since I was a man. All
    would not do. A plague on all cowards!--But I have peppered
    two of them; two, I am sure I have paid; two rogues in buckram
    suits. I tell thee what, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face;
    call me a horse.--Thou knowest my old ward. Here I lay; and
    thus I bore my point.--Four rogues in buckram let drive at me.
    These four came all afront, and mainly thrust at me. I made no
    more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus.
    Then, these nine in buckram, that I told thee of, began to give
    me ground. But I followed them close; came in foot and hand;
    and, with a thought--seven of these eleven I paid.--A plague on
    all cowards, say I!--Give me a cup of sack.  [_Drinks_.




RIDICULE.

    I can as well be hanged, as tell the manner of it; it was mere
    foolery.--I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown; and, as I told you,
    he put it by once--but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain
    have had it. Then he offered it to him again; then, he put it by
    again--but, to my thinking, he was very loth to lay his fingers off
    it. And then he offered it a third time; he put it the third time
    by; and still as he refused it, the rabblement shouted, and clapt
    their chopt hands, and threw by their sweaty night-caps, and uttered
    such a deal of stinking breath, because Caesar refused the crown,
    that it had almost choaked Caesar, for he swooned, and, fell down at
    it; and for mine own part, I durst not laugh for fear of opening my
    lips, and receiving the bad air.

    Before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd were glad, he
    refused the crown, he plucked me ope his doublet, and offered them
    his throat to cut: an' I had been a man of any occupation, if I
    would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among
    the rogues!--and so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said,
    "if he had done, or said any thing amiss, he desired their worships
    to think it was his infirmity." Three or four wenches where I stood,
    cried, Alas, good soul!--and forgave him with all their hearts. But
    there's no heed to be taken of them: if Caesar had stabbed their
    mothers they would have done no less.




PERTURBATION.

    Vengeance! death! plague! confusion!
    Fiery! what quality?---Why, Gloster, Gloster!
    I'd speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife:
    The King would speak with Cornwall---the dear father
    Would with his daughter speak; commands her service.
    Are they inform'd of this?---My breath and blood!
    Fiery! the fiery Duke! Tell the hot Duke--
    No' but not yet: may be he is not well:
    I beg his pardon: and I'll chide my rashness,
    That took the indisposed and sickly fit.
    For the sound man,---But wherefore sits he there?--
    Death on my state! this act convinces me,
    That this retiredness of the Duke and her
    Is plain contempt--Give me my servant forth--
    Go tell the Duke and's wife I'd speak with 'em:
    Now: instantly--Bid 'em come forth and hear me;
    Or, at their chamber-door, I'll beat the drum--
    'Till it cry--Sleep to death.




Elements of Gesture.




SECTION I.

_On the Speaking of Speeches at Schools_.


Elocution has, for some years past, been an object of attention in the
most respectable schools in this country. A laudable ambition of
instructing youth in the pronunciation and delivery of their native
language, has made English speeches a very conspicuous part of those
exhibitions of oratory which do them so much credit.

This attention to English pronunciation has induced several ingenious
men to compile Exercises in Elocution for the use of schools, which have
answered very useful purposes; but none, so far as I have seen, have
attempted to give us a regular system of gesture suited to the wants and
capacities of school-boys. Mr. Burgh, in his Art of Speaking, has given
us a system of the passions, and has shewn us how they appear in the
countenance, and operate on the body; but this system, however useful to
people of riper years, is too delicate and complicated to be taught in
schools. Indeed, the exact adaptation of the action to the word, and the
word to the action, as Shakespear calls it, is the most difficult part
of delivery, and therefore can never be taught perfectly to children; to
say nothing of distracting their attention with two difficult things at
the same time. But that boys should stand motionless, while they are
pronouncing the most impassioned language, is extremely absurd and
unnatural; and that they should sprawl into an aukward, ungain, and
desultory action, is still more offensive and disgusting. What then
remains, but that such a general style of action be adopted, as shall be
easily conceived and easily executed, which, though not expressive of
any particular passion, shall not be inconsistent with the expression of
any passion; which shall always keep the body in a graceful position,
and shall so vary its motions; at proper intervals, as to seem the
subject operating on the speaker, and not the speaker on the subject.
This, it will be confessed, is a great desideratum; and an attempt to do
this, is the principal object of the present publication.

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

The first plate represents the attitude in which a boy should always
place himself when he begins to speak. He should rest the whole weight
of his body on the right leg; the other, just touching the ground, at
the distance at which it would naturally fall, if lifted up to shew that
the body does not bear upon it. The knees should be strait and braced,
and the body, though perfectly strait, not perpendicular, but inclining
as far to the right as a firm position on the right leg will permit. The
right arm must then be held out with the palm open, the fingers straight
and close, the thumb almost as distant from them as it will go, and the
flat of the hand neither horizontal nor vertical, but exactly between
both. The position of the arm perhaps will be best described by
supposing an oblong hollow square, formed by the measure of four arms,
as in plate the first, where the arm in its true position forms the
diagonal of such an imaginary figure. So that, if lines were drawn at
right angles from the shoulder, extending downwards, forwards, and
sideways, the arm will form a& angle of forty-five degrees every way.

When the pupil has pronounced one sentence in the position thus
described, the hand, as if lifeless, must drop down to the side, the
very moment the last accepted word is pronounced; and the body, without
altering the place of the feet, poise itself on the left leg, while the
left hand rises itself into exactly the same position as the right
was before, and continues in this position till tine end of the next
sentence, when it drops down on the side, as if dead; and the body
poizing itself on the right leg as before, continues with the right arm
extended, till the end of the succeeding sentence, and so on from right
to left, and from left to right alternately, till the speech is ended.

[Illustration: PLATE I.]

[Illustration: PLATE II.]

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

If the pupil's knees are not well formed, or incline inwards, he must be
taught to keep his legs at as great a distance as possible, and to
incline his body so much to that side, on which the arm is extended, as
to oblige him to rest the opposite leg upon the toe; and this will, in a
great measure, hide the defect of his make. In the same manner, if the
arm be too long, or the elbow incline inwards, it will be proper to make
him turn the palm of his hand downwards, so as to make it perfectly
horizontal. This will infallibly incline the elbow outwards, and prevent
the worst position the arm can possibly fall into, which is that of
inclining the elbow to the body. This position of the hand so
necessarily keeps the elbow out, that it would not be improper to make
the pupil sometimes practice it, though he may have no defect in his
make; as an occasional alteration of the former position to this, may
often be necessary both for the sake of justness and variety. These two
last positions of the legs and arms, are described in plate second.

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

As this motion of the arm is somewhat complicated, and may be found
difficult to execute, it would be adviseable to let the pupil at first
speak without any motion of the arm at all. After some time he will
naturally fall into a small curvature of the elbow, to beat time, as it
were, to the emphatic word; and if, in doing this, he is constantly
urged to raise the elbow, and to keep it at a distance from the body,
the action of the arm will naturally grow up into that we have just
described. So the diagonal position of the arm, though the most graceful
and easy when the body is at rest, may he too difficult for boys to fall
into at first; and therefore it may be necessary, in order to avoid the
worse extreme, for some time to make them extend the arm as far from the
body as they can, in a somewhat similar direction, but higher from the
ground, and inclining more to the back. Great care must be taken to keep
the hand open, and the thumb at some distance from the fingers; and
particular attention must be paid to keeping the hand in the exact line
with the lower part of the arm, so as not to bend at the wrist, either
when it is held out without motion, or when it gives the emphatic
stroke. And above all, the body must be kept in a straight line with the
leg on which it bears, and not suffered to bend to the opposite side.

[Illustration: PLATE III.]

At first it may not be improper for the teacher, after placing the pupil
in the position plate I. to stand at some distance exactly opposite to
him in the same position, the right and left sides only reversed, and
while the pupil is speaking, to show him by example the action he is to
make use of. In this case the teacher's left hand will correspond for
the pupil's right, by which means he will see as in a looking-glass, how
to regulate his gesture, and will soon catch the method of doing it by
himself.

It is expected the master will be a little discouraged at the aukward
figure his pupil makes in his first attempts to teach him. But this is
no more than what happens in dancing, fencing, or any other exercise
which depends on habit. By practice, the pupil will soon begin to feel
his position, and be easy in it. Those positions which were at first
distressing to him, he will fall into naturally, and if they are such as
are really graceful and becoming (and such it is presumed are those
which have been just described) they will be adopted with more facility
than any other that can be taught him.




SECTION II.

_On the Acting of Plays at School_.


Though the acting of plays at schools has been universally supposed a
very useful practice, it has of late years been much laid aside. The
advantages arising from it have not been judged equal to the
inconveniencies; and the speaking of single speeches, or the acting of
single scenes, has been generally substituted in its stead. Indeed when
we consider the leading principle and prevailing sentiments of most
plays, we shall not wonder that they are not always thought to be the
most suitable employment for youth at school; nor, when we reflect on
the long interruption to the common school-exercises, which the
preparation for a play must necessarily occasion, shall we think it
consistent with the general improvement:--But, to wave every objection
from prudence or morality, it may be confidently affirmed, that the
acting of a play is not so conducive to improvement in elocution, as the
speaking of single speeches.

In the first place, the acting of plays is of all kinds of delivery the
most difficult; and therefore cannot be the most suitable exercise for
boys at school. In the next place, a dramatic performance requires so
much attention to the deportment of the body, so varied an expression of
the passions, and so strict an adherence to character, that elocution is
in danger of being neglected: Besides, exact propriety of action, and a
nice discrimination of the passions, however essential on the stage, are
but of a secondary importance in a school. It is plain, open, distinct,
and forcible pronunciation which school-boys should aim at; and not that
quick transition from one passion to another, that archness of look, and
that _jeu de theatre_, as it is called, so essential to a tolerable
dramatic exhibition, and which actors themselves can scarcely arrive at.
In short, it is speaking rather than acting which school-boys should be
taught, while the performance of plays is calculated to teach them
acting rather than speaking.

But there is a contrary extreme into which many teachers are apt to run,
and that is, to condemn every thing which is vehement and forcible as
_theatrical_. It is an old trick to depreciate what we can not attain,
and calling a spirited pronunciation _theatrical_, is but an artful
method of hiding an utter inability of speaking with force and energy.
But though school-boys ought not to be taught those nice touches which
form the greatest difficulties in the profession of an actor, they
should not be too much restrained from an exertion of voice, so
necessary to strengthening the organs of sound, because they may
sometimes be too loud and vociferous. Perhaps nine out of ten, instead
of too much confidence, and too violent a manner of speaking, which
these teachers seem so much to dread, have as Dr. Johnson calls it, a
frigid equality, a stupid languor, and a torpid apathy. These must be
roused by something strong and excessive, or they will never rise even
to mediocrity; while the few who have a tendency to rant, are very
easily reclaimed; and ought to be treated in pronunciation and action,
as Quintillion advises to do in composition; that is, we should rather
allow of an exuberance, than, by too much correctness, check the vigour
and luxuriancy of nature.

[Illustration: PLATE IV.]

Though school-boys, therefore, ought not to be taught the finesses of
acting, they should as much as possible be accustomed to speak such
speeches as require a full, open, animated pronunciation: for which
purpose, they should be confined chiefly to orations, odes, and such
single speeches of plays, as are in the declamatory and vehement style.
But as there are many scenes of plays, which are justly reckoned among
the finest compositions of the language, some of these may be adopted
among the upper class of boys, and those more particularly who have the
best deportment: for action in scenes will be found much more difficult
than in single speeches. And here it will be necessary to give some
additional instructions respecting action, as a speaker who delivers
himself singly to an auditory, and one who addresses another speaker in
view of an auditory, are under very different predicaments. The first
has only one object to address, the last has two:--For if a speaker on
the stage were to address the person he speaks to, without any regard to
the point of view in which he stands with respect to the audience, he
would be apt to turn his back on them, and to place himself in such
positions as would be highly ungraceful and disgusting. When a scene,
therefore, is represented, it is necessary that the two personages who
speak should form a sort of picture, and place themselves in a position
agreeable to the laws of perspective. In order to do this, it will be
necessary that each of them should stand obliquely, and chiefly make use
of one hand: that is, supposing the stage or platform where they stand,
to be a quadrangle, each speaker should respectively face that corner of
it next to the audience, and use that hand and rest upon that leg which
is next to the person he speaks to, and which is farthest from the
audience. This disposition is absolutely necessary to form any thing
like a picturesque grouping of objects, and without it, that is, if both
speakers use the right hand, and stand exactly fronting each other, the
impropriety will be palpable, and the spectacle disgusting.

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

Occasion may be taken in the course of the scene to change sides. One
speaker at the end of an impassioned speech, may cross over to the place
of the other, while the latter at the same moment crosses over to the
place of the former. This, however, must be done with great care, and so
as to keep the back from being turned to the audience: But if this
transition be performed adroitly, it will have a very good effect in
varying the position of the speakers, and giving each an opportunity of
using his right hand--the most favourable to grace and expression. And
if from so humble a scene as the school, we may be permitted to raise
our observations to the senate, it might be hinted, that gentlemen on
each side of the house, while addressing the chair, can with grace and
propriety only make use of one hand; namely, that which is next to the
speaker; and it may be observed in passing, that to all the other
advantages of speaking, which are supposed to belong to one side of the
house--may be added--the graceful use of the right hand.

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

From what has been laid down, it will evidently appear, how much more
difficult and complicate is the action of a scene than that of a single
speech; and, in teaching both to children, how necessary it is to adopt
as simple and easy a method as possible. The easiest method of conveying
instruction in this point, will be sufficiently difficult; and
therefore, the avoiding of aukwardness and impropriety should be more
the object of instruction, than the conveying of beauties.

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

But the necessity of adopting some method of teaching action, is too
evident to need proof. Boys will infallibly contract some action; to
require them to stand stock-still while they are speaking an impassioned
speech, is not only exacting a very difficult task from them, but is, in
a great measure, checking their natural exertions. If they are left to
themselves, they will in all probability fall into very wild and
ungraceful action, which, when once formed into habit, can scarcely ever
be corrected: giving them therefore a general out-line of good action,
must be of the utmost consequence to their progress and improvement in
pronunciation.

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

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

It may not be useless to observe, that boys should be classed in this,
as in every other kind of instruction, according to their abilities.
That a class should not consist of more than ten; that about eight or
ten lines of some speech, should be read first by the teacher, then by
the boy who reads best; and then by the rest in order, all having a book
of the same kind, and all reading the same portion. This portion they
must be ordered to get by heart against the next lesson; and then the
first boy must speak it, standing at some distance from the rest; in the
manner directed in the plates; the second boy must succeed him, and so
on till they have all spoken. After which another portion may be read to
them, which they must read and speak in the same manner as before. When
they have gone through a speech in this manner by portions, the two or
three first boys may be ordered, against the next lesson, to speak the
whole speech; the next lesson two or three more, and so on to the rest.
This will excite emulation, and give the teacher an opportunity of
ranking them according to their merits.




SECTION III.

_Rules for expressing with Propriety, the principal Passions and Humours
which occur in Reading or public Speaking_.


Every part of the human frame contributes to express the passions and
emotions of the mind, and to shew, in general, its present state. The
head is sometimes erected, sometimes hung down, sometimes drawn suddenly
back with an air of disdain, sometimes shews by a nod, a particular
person or object; gives assent or denial, by different motions;
threatens by one sort of movement, approves by another, and expresses
suspicion by a third.

The arms are sometimes both thrown out, sometimes the right alone.
Sometimes they are lifted up as high as the face, to express wonder;
sometimes held out before the breast, to shew fear; spread forth with
the hands open to express desire or affection; the hands clapped in
surprise, and in sudden joy and grief; the right hand clenched, and the
arms brandished, to threaten; the two arms set a-kimbo, to look big, and
express contempt or courage. With the hands, we solicit, we refuse, we
promise, we threaten, we dismiss, we invite, we in treat, we express
aversion, fear, doubting, denial, asking, affirmation, negation, joy,
grief, confession, penitence. With the hands we describe, and point out
all circumstances of time, place and manner of what we relate; we excite
the passions of others, and soothe them: we approve and disapprove,
permit or prohibit, admire or despise. The hands serve us instead of
many sorts of words, and where the language of the tongue is unknown,
that of the hands is understood, being universal and common to all
nations.

The legs advance, or retreat, to express desire, or aversion, love or
hatred, courage or fear, and produce exultation, or leaping in sudden
joy; and the stamping of the foot expresses earnestness, anger, and
threatening.

Especially the face, being furnished with a variety of muscles, does
more in expressing the passions of the mind, than the whole human frame
besides. The change of colour (in white people) shews, by turns, anger
by redness, and sometimes by paleness; fear likewise by paleness, and
shame by blushing. Every feature contributes its part. The mouth open,
shews one state of the mind, shut, another; the gnashing of the teeth
another. The forehead smooth, eyebrows arched and easy, shew tranquility
or joy. Mirth opens the mouth towards the ears, crisps the nose, half
shuts the eyes, and sometimes fills them with tears. The front wrinkled
into frowns, and the eyebrows overhanging the eyes, like clouds fraught
with tempest, shew a mind agitated with fury. Above all, the eye shews
the very spirit in a visible form. In every different state of the mind,
it assumes a different appearance. Joy brightens and opens it. Grief
half-closes, and drowns it in tears. Hatred and anger, flash from it
like lightning. Love darts from it in glances, like the orient beam.
Jealousy, and squinting envy, dart their contagious blasts from the eye.
And devotion raises it to the skies, as if the soul of the holy man were
going to take its flight to heaven.

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

The following are, I believe, the principal passions, humours,
sentiments and intentions, which are to be expressed by speech and
action. And I hope it will be allowed by the reader, that it is nearly
in the following manner, that nature expresses them.

_Tranquility_, or _apathy_, appears by the composure of the countenance,
and general repose of the body and limbs, without the exertion of any
one muscle. The countenance open; the forehead smooth; the eyebrows
arched; the mouth just not shut; and the eyes passing with an easy
motion from object to object, but not dwelling long upon any one.

_Cheerfulness_, adds a smile, opening the mouth a little more.

_Mirth_, or _laughter_, opens the mouth still more towards the ears;
crisps the nose; lessens the aperture of the eyes, and sometimes fills
them with tears; shakes and convulses the whole frame, giving
considerable pain, which occasions holding the sides.

_Raillery_, in sport, without real animosity, puts on the aspect of
cheerfulness. The tone of voice is sprightly. With contempt, or disgust,
it casts a look asquint, from time to time, at the object; and quits the
cheerful aspect for one mixed between an affected grin and sourness--the
upper lip is drawn up with an air of disdain. The arms are set a-kimbo
on the hips, and the right hand now and then thrown out toward the
object, as if one were going to strike another a slight back-handed
blow. The pitch of the voice rather loud, the tone arch and sneering;
the sentences short; the expressions satyrical, with mock-praise
intermixed. There are instances of raillery in scripture itself, as 1
Kings xviii. and Isa. xliv. It is not, therefore, beneath the dignity
of the pulpit-orator, occasionally to use it, in the cause of virtue, by
exhibiting vice in a ludicrus appearance. Nor should I think raillery
unworthy the attention of the lawyer; as it may occasionally come in,
not unusefully, in his pleadings, as well as any other stroke of
ornament, or entertainment.

_Buffoonery_ assumes an arch, sly, leering gravity. Must not quit its
serious aspect, though all should laugh to burst ribs of steel. This
command of face is somewhat difficult, though not so hard, I should
think, as to restrain the contrary sympathy, I mean of weeping with
those who weep.

_Joy_, when sudden and violent, expresses itself by clapping of hands,
and exultation, or leaping. The eyes are opened wide; perhaps filled
with tears; often raised to heaven, especially by devout persons. The
countenance is smiling; not composedly, but with features aggravated.
The voice rises from time to time, to very high notes.

_Delight_, or _pleasure_, as when one is entertained, or ravished with
music, painting, oratory, or any such elegancy, shews itself by the
looks, gestures, and utterance of joy; but moderated.

_Gravity_, or _seriousness_, the mind fixed upon some important subject,
draws down the eyebrows a little; casts down, or shuts, or raises the
eyes to heaven; shuts the mouth, and pinches the lips close. The posture
of the body and limbs is composed, and without much motion. The speech,
if any, slow and solemn; the tone unvarying.

_Enquiry_ into an obscure subject, fixes the body in one posture, the
head stooping, and the eye poring, the eyebrows drawn down.

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

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

_Perplexity_, or _anxiety_, which is always attended with some degree of
fear and uneasiness, draws all the parts of the body together; gathers
up the arms upon the breast, unless one hand covers the eyes, or rubs
the forehead; draws down the eyebrows; hangs the head upon the breast;
casts down the eyes; shuts and pinches the eye-lids close; shuts the
month, and pinches the lips close, or bites them. Suddenly the whole
body is vehemently agitated. The person walks about busily; stops
abruptly: then he talks to himself, or makes grimaces. If he speaks to
another, his pauses are very long; the tone of his voice, unvarying, and
his sentences broken, expressing half, and keeping in half of what
arises in his mind.

_Vexation_, occasioned by some real or imaginary misfortune, agitates
the whole frame; and, besides expressing itself with the looks,
gestures, restlessness, and tone of perplexity, it adds complaint,
fretting, and lamenting.

_Pity_, a mixed passion of love and grief, looks down upon distress with
lifted hands; eyebrows drawn down; mouth open, and features drawn
together. Its expression, as to looks and gesture, is the same with
those of suffering, (see _Suffering_) but more moderate, as the painful
feelings are only sympathetic, and therefore one remove, as it were,
more distant from the soul, than what one feels in his own person.

_Grief_, sudden and violent, expresses itself by beating the head;
groveling on the ground; tearing of garments, hair, and flesh; screaming
aloud, weeping, stamping with the feet, lifting the eyes, from time to
time, to heaven; hurrying to and fro, running distracted, or fainting
away, sometimes without recovery. Sometimes violent grief produces a
torpid silence, resembling total apathy.

_Melancholy_, or fixed grief, is gloomy, sedentary, motionless. The
lower jaw falls; the lips pale; the eyes are cast down, half shut,
eye-lids swelled and red, or livid, tears trickling silent, and unwiped;
with a total inattention to every thing that passes. Words, if any, few,
and those dragged out, rather than spoken; the accents weak, and
interrupted, sighs breaking into the middle of sentences and words.

_Despair_, as in a condemned criminal, or one who has lost all hope of
salvation, bends the eyebrows downward; clouds the forehead; roils the
eyes around frightfully; opens the mouth towards the ears; bites the
lips; widens the nostrils; gnashes with the teeth, like a fierce wild
beast. The heart is too much hardened to suffer tears to flow; yet the
eye-balls will be red and inflamed, like those of an animal in a rabid
state. The head is hung down upon the breast. The arms are bended at the
elbows, the fists are clenched hard; the veins and muscles swelled; the
skin livid; and the whole body strained and violently agitated; groans,
expressive of inward torture, more frequently uttered than words. If any
words, they are few, and expressed with a sullen, eager bitterness; the
tone of voice often loud and furious. As it often drives people to
distraction, and self-murder, it can hardly be over-acted by one who
would represent it.

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

_Shame_, or a sense of one's appearing to a disadvantage, before one's
fellow-creatures; turns away the face from the beholders, covers it with
blushes, hangs the head, casts down the eyes, draws down the eyebrows,
either strikes the person dumb, or, if he attempts to say any thing in
his own defence, causes his tongue to faulter, and confounds his
utterance, and puts him upon making a thousand gestures and grimaces, to
keep himself in countenance; all of which only heighten the confusion of
his appearance.

_Remorse_, or a painful sense of guilt; casts down the countenance, and
clouds it with anxiety; hangs down the head, draws the eyebrows down
upon the eyes; the right hand beats the breast; the teeth gnash with
anguish; the whole body is strained and violently agitated. If this
strong remorse is succeeded by the more gracious disposition of
penitence, or contrition, then the eyes are raised (but with great
appearance of doubting and fear) to the throne of heavenly mercy; and
immediately cast down again to the earth. Then floods of tears are seen
to flow. The knees are bended, or the body prostrated on the ground. The
arms are spread in a suppliant posture, and the voice of deprecation is
uttered with sighs, groans, timidity, hesitation and trembling.

_Courage_, steady, and cool, opens the countenance, gives the whole form
an erect and graceful air. The accents are strong, full-mouthed and
articulate, the voice firm and even.

_Boasting_, or affected courage, is loud, blustering, threatening. The
eyes stare; the eyebrows draw down; the face red and bloated; the mouth
pouts out; the voice hollow and thundering; the arms are set a-kimbo;
the head often nodding in a menacing manner; and the right fist,
clenched, is brandished, from time to time, at the person threatened.
The right foot is often stamped upon the ground, and the legs take such
large strides, and the steps are so heavy, that the earth seems to
tremble under them.

_Pride_, assumes a lofty look, bordering upon the aspect and attitude of
anger. The eyes open, but with the eyebrows considerably drawn down; the
mouth pouting out, mostly shut, and the lips pinched close. The words
walk out a-strut, with a slow, stiff bombastic affectation of
importance. The arms generally a-kimbo, and the legs at a distance from
one another, taking large tragedy strides.

_Obstinacy_ adds to the aspect of pride, a dodged sourness, like that of
malice. See _Malice_.

_Authority_, opens the countenance, but draws down the eyebrows a
little, so far as to give the look of gravity. See _Gravity_.

_Commanding_ requires an air a little more peremptory, with a look a
little severe or stern. The hand is held out, and moved toward the
person to whom the order is given, with the palm upwards, and the head
nods towards him.

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

_Affirming_, especially with a judicial oath, is expressed by lifting
the open right hand and eyes toward heaven; or if conscience is appealed
to, by laying the right hand upon the breast.

_Denying_ is expressed by pushing the open right hand from one, and
turning the face the contrary way. See _Aversion_.

_Differing_ in sentiment may be expressed as refusing. See _Refusing_.

_Agreeing_ in opinion, or _Conviction_, as granting. See _Granting_.

_Exhorting_, as by a general at the head of his army, requires a kind,
complacent look; unless matter of offence has passed, as neglect of
duty, or the like.

_Judging_ demands a grave, steady look, with deep attention; the
countenance altogether clear from any appearance of either disgust or
favour. The accents slow, distinct, emphatical, accompanied with little
action, and that very grave.

_Reproving_ puts on a stern aspect, roughens the voice, and is
accompanied with gestures not much different from those of
_Threatening_, but not so lively.

_Acquitting_ is performed with a benevolent, tranquil countenance and
tone of voice; the right hand, if not both, open, waved gently toward
the person acquitted, expressing dismission. See _Dismissing_.

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

_Teaching_, explaining, inculcating, or giving orders to an inferior,
requires an air of superiority to be assumed. The features are to be
composed of an authoritative gravity. The eye steady, and open, the
eye-brow a little drawn down over it; but not so much as to look surly
or dogmatical. The tone of voice varying according as the emphasis
requires, of which a good deal is necessary in expressing matter of this
sort. The pitch of the voice to be strong and clear; the articulation
distinct; the utterance slow, and the manner peremptory. This is the
proper manner of pronouncing the commandments in the communion office.
But (I am sorry to say it) they are too commonly spoken in the same
manner as the prayers, than which nothing can be more unnatural.

_Pardoning_ differs from acquitting, in that the latter means clearing a
person, after trial, of guilt; whereas the former supposes guilt, and
signifies merely delivering the guilty person from punishment. Pardoning
requires some degree of severity of aspect and tone of voice, because
the pardoned person is not an object of entire unmixed approbation;
otherwise its expression is much the same as granting. See _Granting_.

_Arguing_ requires a cool, sedate, attentive aspect, and a clear, slow,
emphatical accent, with much demonstration by the hand. It differs from
teaching (see _Teaching_) in that the look of authority is not wanting
in arguing.

_Dismissing_, with approbation, is done with a kind aspect and tone of
voice; the right hand open, gently waved toward the person. With
displeasure, besides the look and tone of voice which suits displeasure,
the hand is hastily thrown out toward the person dismissed, the back
part toward him, the countenance at the same time turned away from him.

_Refusing_, when accompanied with displeasure, is expressed nearly in
the same way. Without displeasure, it is done with a visible reluctance,
which occasions the bringing out the words slowly, with such a shake of
the head, and shrug of the shoulders, as is natural upon hearing of
somewhat which gives us concern.

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

_Dependence_. See _Modesty_.

_Veneration_, or _Worshipping_, comprehends several articles, as
ascription, confession, remorse, intercession, thanksgiving,
deprecation, petition, &c. Ascription of honour and praise to the
peerless, supreme Majesty of Heaven, and confession and deprecation, are
to be uttered with all that humility of looks and gesture, which can
exhibit the most profound self-abasement, and annihilation, before One;
whose superiority is infinite. The head is a little raised, but with
the most apparent timidity and dread; the eye is lifted, but immediately
cast down again, or closed for a moment; the eyebrows are drawn down in
the most respectful manner; the features, and the whole body and limbs,
are all composed to the most profound gravity; one posture continuing,
without considerable change, during the whole performance of the duty.
The knees bended, or the whole body prostrate, or if the posture be
standing, which scripture does not disallow, bending forward, as ready
to prostrate itself. The arms spread out, but modestly, as high as the
breast; the hands open. The tone of the voice will be submissive, timid,
equal trembling, weak, suppliant. The words will be brought out with a
visible anxiety and diffidence, approaching to hesitation; few and slow;
nothing of vain repetition, haranguing, flowers of rhetoric, or affected
figures of speech; all simplicity, humility, and lowliness, such as
becomes a reptile of the dust, when presuming to address Him, whose
greatness is tremenduous beyond all created conception. In intercession
for our fellow creatures, which is prescribed in the scriptures, and in
thanksgiving, the countenance will naturally assume a small degree of
cheerfulness beyond what it was clothed with in confession of sin, and
deprecation of punishment. But all affected ornament of speech, or
gesture in devotion, deserves the severest censure, as being somewhat
much worse than absurd.

_Respect_ for a superior, puts on the looks and gesture of modesty. See
_Modesty_.

_Hope_ brightens the countenance; arches the eyebrows; gives the eyes an
eager, wishful look; opens the mouth to half a smile; bends the body a
little forward, the feet equal; spreads the arms, with the hands open,
as to receive the object of its longings. The tone of the voice is eager
and unevenly, inclining to that of joy, but curbed by a degree of doubt
and anxiety. Desire differs from hope as to expression, in this
particular, that there is more appearance of doubt and anxiety in the
former than in the latter. For it is one thing to desire what is
agreeable, and another to have a prospect of actually obtaining it.

_Desire_ expresses itself by bending the body forward, and stretching
the arms toward the object, as to grasp it. The countenance smiling, but
eager and wishful; the eyes wide open, and eyebrows raised; the mouth
open; the tone of voice suppliant, but lively and cheerful, unless there
be distress as well as desire; the expressions fluent and copious: if no
words are used, sighs instead of them; but this is chiefly in distress.

_Love_ (successful) lights up the countenance into smiles. The forehead
is smoothed and enlarged; the eyebrows are arched; the mouth a little
open, and smiling; the eyes languishing, and half shut, doat upon the
beloved object. The countenance assumes the eager and wishful look of
desire, (see _Desire_ above) but mixed with an air of satisfaction and
repose. The accents are soft and winning; the tone of voice persuasive,
flattering, pathetic, various, musical, rapturous, as in joy. (See
_Joy_.) The attitude much the same with that of desire. Sometimes both
hands pressed eagerly to the bosom. Love, unsuccessful, adds an air of
anxiety and melancholy. See _Perplexity_ and _Melancholy_.

_Giving_, _Inviting_, _Soliciting_. and such-like actions, which suppose
some degree of affection, real or pretended, are accompanied with much
the same looks and gestures as express love, but more moderate.

_Wonder_, or _Amazement_, (without any other _interesting_ passion, as
_Love_, _Esteem_, &c.) opens the eyes, and makes them appear very
prominent; sometimes raises them to the skies; but oftener, and more
expressively, fixes them on the object, if the cause of the passion be a
present and visible object, with the look, all except the wildness, of
fear. (See _Fear_.) If the hands hold any thing, at the time when the
object of wonder appears, they immediately let it drop, unconscious, and
the whole body fixes in the contracted, stooping posture of amazement;
the mouth open; the hands held up open, nearly in the attitude of fear.
(See _Fear_.) The first excess of this passion stops all utterance; but
it makes amends afterwards by a copious flow of words, and exclamations.

_Admiration_, a mixed passion, consisting of wonder, with love or
esteem, takes away the familiar gesture and expression of simple love.
(See _Love_.) Keeps the respectful look and gesture. (See _Modesty_ and
_Veneration_.) The eyes are opened wide, and now and then raised toward
heaven. The mouth is opened. The hands are lifted up. The tone of the
voice rapturous. This passion expresses itself copiously, making great
use of the figure hyperbole.

_Gratitude_ puts on an aspect full of complacency. (See _Love_.) If the
object of it is a character greatly superior, it expresses much
submission. (See _Modesty_.) The right hand pressed upon the breast,
accompanies, very properly, the expression of a sincere and hearty
sensibility of obligation.

_Curiosity_, as of a busy-body, opens the eyes and mouth, lengthens the
neck, bends the body forward, and fixes it in one posture, with the
hands nearly in that of admiration. See _Admiration_. See also _Desire_,
_Attention_, _Hope_, _Enquiry_, and _Perplexity_.

_Persuasion_ puts on the looks of moderate love. (See _Love_.) Its
accents are soft, flattering, emphatical and articulate.

_Tempting_, or _Wheedling_, expresses itself much in the same way, only
carrying the fawning part to excess.

_Promising_ is expressed with benevolent looks, the nod of consent, and
the open hands gently moved towards the person to whom the promise is
made, the palms upwards. The sincerity of the promiser may be expressed
by laying the right hand gently on the breast.

_Affectation_ displays itself in a thousand different gestures, motions,
airs and looks, according to the character which the person affects.
Affectation of learning gives a stiff formality to the whole person. The
words come stalking out with the pace of a funeral procession, and every
sentence has the solemnity of an oracle. Affectation of piety turns up
the goggling whites of the eyes to heaven, as if the person were in a
trance, and fixes them in that posture so long that the brain of the
beholder grows giddy. Then comes up, deep grumbling, a holy groan from
the lower parts of the thorax; but so tremendous in sound, and so long
protracted, that you expect to see a goblin rise, like an exhalation
through the solid earth. Then he begins to rock from side to side, or
backward and forward, like an aged pine on the side of a hill, when a
brisk wind blows. The hands are clasped together, and often lifted, and
the head often shaken with foolish vehemence. The tone of the voice is
canting, or sing-song lullaby, not much distant from an Irish howl, and
the words godly doggrell. Affectation of beauty, and killing, puts a
fine woman by turns into all sorts of forms, appearances and attitudes,
but amiable ones. She undoes by art, or rather by aukwardness, (for true
art conceals itself) all that nature had done for her. Nature formed her
almost an angel, and she, with infinite pains, makes herself a monkey.
Therefore, this species of affectation is easily imitated, or taken off.
Make as many and as ugly grimaces, motions and gestures as can be made,
and take care that nature never peep out, and you represent coquetish
affectation to the life.

_Sloth_ appears by yawning, dosing, snoring; the head dangling sometimes
to one side, sometimes to the other; the arms and legs stretched out,
and every sinew of the body unstrung; the eyes heavy, or closed; the
words, if any, crawl out of the mouth but half formed, scarcely audible
to any ear, and broken off in the middle by powerful sleep.

People who walk in their sleep (of which our inimitable Shakespear has,
in his tragedy of MACBETH, drawn out a fine scene) are said to have
their eyes open; though they are not, the more for that, conscious of
any thing, but the dream which has got possession of their imagination.
I never saw one of those persons, therefore cannot describe their manner
from nature; but I suppose their speech is pretty much like that of
persons dreaming, inarticulate, incoherent, and very different, in its
tone, from what it is when waking.

_Intoxication_ shews itself by the eyes half shut, sleepy, stupid,
inflamed. An idiot smile, a ridiculous surliness, an affected bravado,
disgraces the bloated countenance. The mouth open tumbles out nonsense
in heaps, without articulation enough for any ear to take it in, and
unworthy of attention, if it could be taken In. The head seems too heavy
for the neck. The arms dangle from the shoulders; as if they were almost
cut away, and hung by shreds. The legs totter and bend at the knees, as
ready to sink under the weight of the reeling body. And a general
incapacity, corporeal and mental, exhibits human nature sunk below the
brutal.

_Anger_, (violent) or _Rage_ expresses itself with rapidity,
interruption, noise, harshness, and trepidation. The neck stretched
out; the head forward, often nodding and shaken in a menacing manner,
against the object of the passion. The eyes red, inflamed, staring,
rolling, and sparkling; the eyebrows drawn down over them; and the
forehead wrinkled into clouds. The nostrils stretched wide; every vein
swelled; every muscle strained; the breast heaving, and the breath
fetched hard. The mouth open, and drawn on each side toward the ears,
shewing the teeth in a gnashing posture. The face bloated, pale, red, or
sometimes almost black. The feet stamping: the right arm often thrown
out, and menacing with the clenched fist shaken, and a general end
violent agitation of the whole body.

_Peevishism_ or _Ill-nature_ is a lower degree of anger; and is
therefore expressed in the above manner, only more moderate, with half
sentences, and broken speeches, uttered hastily; the upper lip drawn up
disdainfully; the eyes asquint upon the object of displeasure.

_Malice_ or _Spite_, sets the jaws, or gnashes with the teeth; sends
blasting flashes from the eyes; draws the mouth toward the ears;
clenches both fists, and bends the elbows in a straining manner. The
tone of voice and expression, are much the same with that of anger; but
the pitch not so loud.

_Envy_ is a little more moderate in its gestures than malice, but much
the same in kind.

_Revenge_ expresses itself as malice.

_Cruelty_. See _Anger_, _Aversion_, _Malice_ and the other irrascible
passions.

_Complaining_ as when one is under violent bodily pain, distorts the
features; almost closes the eyes; sometimes raises them wishfully; opens
the mouth; gnashes with the teeth; draws up the upper lip; draws down
the head upon the breast, and the whole body together. The arms are
violently bent at the elbows, and the fists strongly clenched. The voice
is uttered in groans, lamentations, and violent screams. Extreme torture
produces fainting, and death.

_Fatigue_ from severe labour, gives a general languor to the whole body.
The countenance is dejected. (See _Grief_.) The arms hang listless; the
body (if sitting or lying along be not the posture) stoops, as in
old-age. (See _Dotage_.) The legs, if walking, are dragged heavily
along, and seem at every step ready to bend under the weight of the
body. The voice is weak, and the words hardly enough articulated to be
understood.

_Aversion_, or _Hatred_, expressed to, or of any person or thing, that
is odious to the speaker, occasions his drawing back, as avoiding the
approach of what he hates; the hands, at the same time, thrown out
spread, as if to keep it off. The face turned away from that side toward
which the hands are thrown out; the eyes looking angrily and asquint the
same way the hands are directed; the eyebrows drawn downwards; the upper
lip disdainfully drawn up; but the teeth set. The pitch of the voice
loud; the tone chiding, unequal, surly, vehement. The sentences short
and abrupt.

_Commendation_, or _Approbation_ from a superior, puts on the aspect of
love (excluding desire and respect) and expresses itself in a mild tone
of voice; the arms gently spread; the palms of the hands toward the
person approved. Exhorting or encouraging, as of an army by a general,
is expressed with some part of the looks and action of courage.

_Jealousy_ would be likely to be well expressed by one, who had often
seen prisoners tortured in the dungeons of the inquisition, or who had
seen what the dungeons of the inquisition are the best earthly emblem
of; I mean Hell. For next to being in the Pope's or in Satan's prison,
is the torture of him who is possessed with the spirit of jealousy.
Being a mixture of passions directly contrary to one another, the
person, whose soul is the seat of such confusion and tumult, must be in
as much greater misery than Prometheus, with the vulture tearing his
liver, as the pains of the mind are greater than those of the body.
Jealousy is a ferment of love, hatred, hope, fear, shame, anxiety,
suspicion, grief, pity, envy, pride, rage, cruelty, vengeance, madness,
and if there be any other tormenting passion which can agitate the human
mind. Therefore to express jealousy well, requires that one know how to
represent justly all these passions by turns, (see _Love_, _Hatred_,
&c.) and often several of them together. Jealousy shews itself by
restlessness, peevishness, thoughtfulness, anxiety, absence of mind.
Sometimes it bursts out in piteous complaint and weeping; then a gleam
of hope, that all is yet well, lights up the countenance into a
momentary smile. Immediately the face, clouded with a general gloom,
shews the mind overcast again with horrid suspicions and frightful
imaginations. Then the arms are folded upon the breast; the fists
violently clenched; the rolling, bloody eyes dart fury. He hurries to
and fro; he has no more rest than a ship in a troubled sea, the sport of
winds and waves. Again, he composes himself a little to reflect on the
charms of the suspected person. She appears to his imagination like the
sweetness of the rising dawn. Then his monster-breeding fancy represents
her as false as she is fair. Then he roars out as one on the rack, when
the cruel engine rends every joint, and every sinew bursts. Then he
throws himself on the ground. He beats his head against the pavement.
Then he springs up, and with the look and action of a fury bursting hot
from the abyss, he snatches the instrument of death, and, after ripping
up the bosom of the loved, suspected, hated, lamented, fair one, he
stabs himself to the heart, and exhibits a striking proof, how terrible
a creature a puny mortal is, when agitated by an infernal passion.

_Dotage_ or _infirm old age_, shews itself by talkativeness, boasting of
the past, hollowness of the eyes and cheeks, dimness of sight, deafness,
tremor of voice, the accents, through default of teeth, scarce
intelligible; hams weak, knees tottering, head paralytic, hollow
coughing, frequent expectoration, breathless wheezing, laborious
groaning, the body stooping under the insupportable load of years, which
soon shall crush it into the dust, from whence it had its origin.

_Folly_, that is, of a natural ideot, gives the face an habitual
thoughtless, brainless grin. The eyes dance from object to object,
without ever fixing steadily upon any one. A thousand different and
incoherent passions, looks, gestures, speeches and absurdities, are
played off every moment.

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

_Sickness_ has infirmity and feebleness in every motion and utterance.
The eyes dim, and almost closed; cheeks pale and hollow; the jaw fallen;
the head hung down, as if too heavy to be supported by the neck. A
general inertia prevails. The voice trembling; the utterance through the
nose; every sentence accompanied with a groan; the hand shaking, and the
knees tottering under the body; or the body stretched helpless on the
bed.

_Fainting_ produces a sudden relaxation of all that holds the human
frame together, every sinew and ligament unstrung. The colour flies from
the vermilion cheek; the sparkling eye grows dim. Down the body drops,
as helpless, and senseless, as a mass of clay, to which, by its colour
and appearance, it seems hastening to resolve itself--Which leads me to
conclude with:

_Death_ the awful end of all flesh; which exhibits nothing in appearance
different from what I have been just describing; for fainting continued
ends in death,--a subject almost too serious to be made a matter of
artificial imitation.

_Lower_ degrees of every passion are to be expressed by more moderate
exertions of voice and gesture; as every public speaker's discretion
will suggest to him.

_Mixed_ passions, or emotions of the mind, require a mixed expression.
_Pity_, for example, is composed of grief and love. It is therefore
evident, that a correct speaker must, by his looks and gestures, and by
the tone and pitch of his voice, express both grief and love, in
expressing pity, and so of the rest.

It is to be remembered, that the action, in expressing the various
humours and passions, for which I have here given rules, is to be suited
to the age, sex, condition, and circumstances of the character. Violent
anger, or rage, for example, is to be expressed with great agitation;
(see _Anger_) but the rage of an infirm old man, of a woman, and of a
youth, are all different from one another, and from that of a man in the
flower of his age, as every speaker's discretion will suggest. A hero
may shew fear, or sensibility of pain; but not in the same manner as a
girl would express those sensations. Grief may be expressed by a person
reading a melancholy story or description of a room. It may be acted
upon the stage. It may be dwelt upon by the pleader at the bar; or it
may have a place in a sermon. The passion is still grief. But the manner
of expressing it will be different in each of the speakers, if they have
judgment.

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




_On Reading and Speaking_.

FROM BLAIR'S LECTURES.


The first object of a reader or speaker, is, to be clearly understood by
his hearers. In order for this, it is necessary that he should pronounce
his words distinctly, and deliberately; that he should carefully avoid
the two extremes of uttering either too fast, or too slow; and that his
tone of voice should be perfectly natural.

A reader or speaker should endeavor to acquire a perfect command of his
voice; so as neither to stun his hearers by pitching it upon too high a
key; nor tire their patience by obliging them to listen to sounds which
are scarcely audible. It is not the loudest speaker, who is always the
best understood; but he who pronounces upon that key which fills the
space occupied by the audience. That pitch of voice, which is used in
ordinary conversation, is usually the best for a public speaker.

Early attention ought to be paid to the pauses; but the rules for these
are so indefinite and arbitrary, and so difficult to be comprehended,
that long experience is necessary in order to acquire a perfect
knowledge of their use. With regard to the length of the several pauses,
no precise rules can be given. This, together with the variety of tones
which accompany them, depends much upon the nature of the subject.

Perhaps nothing is of more importance to a reader or speaker, than a
proper attention to accent, emphasis, and cadence. Every word in our
language, of more than one syllable, has, at least, one accented
syllable. This syllable ought to be rightly known, and the word should
be pronounced by the reader or speaker in the same manner as he would
pronounce it in ordinary conversation.

By emphasis, we distinguish those words in a sentence which we esteem
the most important, by laying a greater stress of voice upon them than
we do upon the others. And it is surprising to observe how the sense of
a phrase may be altered by varying the emphasis. The following example
will serve as an illustration.

This short question, "Will you ride to town to-day?" may be understood
in four different ways, and consequently, may receive four different
answers, according to the placing of the emphasis.

If it be pronounced thus; Will _you_ ride to town to-day? the answer may
properly be, no; I shall send my son. If thus; Will you _ride_ to town
to-day; Answer, no; I intend to walk. Will you ride to _town_ to-day?
No; I shall ride into the country. Will you ride to town _to-day_? No;
but I shall to-morrow.

This shows how necessary it is that a reader or speaker should know
where to place his emphasis. And the only rule for this is, that he
study to attain a just conception of the force and spirit of the
sentiments which he delivers. There is as great a difference between one
who lays his emphasis properly, and one who pays no regard to it, or
places it wrong, as there is between one who plays on an instrument with
a masterly hand, and the most bungling performer.

Cadence is the reverse of emphasis. It is a depression or lowering of
the voice; and commonly falls upon the last syllable in a sentence. It
is varied, however, according to the sense. When a question is asked, it
seldom falls upon the last word; and many sentences require no cadence
at all.

In addition to what has been said, it is of great importance to attend
particularly to tones and gestures. To almost every sentiment we utter,
more especially, to every strong emotion, nature has adapted some
peculiar tone of voice. And we may observe, that every man, when he is
much in earnest in common discourse, when he is speaking on some subject
which interests him nearly, has an eloquent or persuasive tone and
manner.

If one were to tell another that he was very angry, or very much
grieved, in a tone which did not suit such emotions, instead of being
believed, he would be laughed at. The best direction which can be given,
is, to copy the proper tones for expressing every sentiment from those
which nature dictates to us in conversation with others.

With respect to gesture, the few following hints may be of some service.
When speaking in public, one should endeavor to preserve as much dignity
as possible in the whole attitude of the body. An erect posture is
generally to be chosen; standing firm so as to have the fullest command
of all his motions. Any inclination, which is used, should be forwards
towards the hearers, which is a natural expression of earnestness.

As for the countenance, the chief rule is, that it should correspond
with the nature of the discourse; and when no particular emotion is
expressed, a serious and manly look is always the best. The eyes should
never be fixed close on any one object, but more easily round upon the
whole audience.

In the motions made with the hands consists the chief part of gesture in
speaking. The right hand should be used more frequently than the left.
Warm emotions demand the motion of both hands corresponding together.
All the gestures should be free and easy. Perpendicular movements with
the hands, that is, in a straight line up and down are seldom good.
Oblique motions are, in general, the most graceful.

Motions made with the hands should proceed rather from the shoulders
than from the elbows; for they appear much more easy. Too sudden and
nimble motions should be avoided. Earnestness can be fully expressed
without them. Above all things, a speaker should guard against
affectation, which is always disgustful.

_FINIS_.


















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