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THti 
 
 ENGLISH READER; 
 
 OR, 
 
 PIECES IN PROSE AND POETRY, 
 
 SELECTEp FROM THE BEST WRITERS. 
 
 DESIGNED TO ASSIST YOUNG PERSONS TO READ WITH PROPRIETY 
 AND EFFECT? TO IMPROVE THEIR LANGUAGE AND SENTI* 
 MENTS AND TO INCULCATE SOME OF THE MOST IMPOP.- 
 TANT PRINCIPLES OF PIETY AND VIRTUE. 
 
 WITS X F£W PaELi:«INAaY OBSBBTATIOKS 
 
 ON THE PRINCIPLES OF GOOD READING, 
 
 ^ BY LINDLEY MURRAY. 
 
 AUTHOR OF AN ENGLIsll GRA^iMAR, &iV 
 
 UTICA, N. Y. 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM M iLLUMS, 
 
 Np. CO Gentjse^-Strcet. 
 

 ?Ev\zo 
 
 V 
 
 
^¥ PREFACE. 
 
 X '^ tiat this collection may also serve the purpose of promoling piety and 
 I X y'^\"^» ^"^ Compiler has introduced many extracts, which place relitfion 
 |X in the most amiable light ; and which recommend a great vai-iety of mo- 
 f ral duties, by the excellence of their nature, and the happy eliects they 
 
 produce. These subjects are exhibited in a style and manner which are 
 calculated to arrest the attention of youth ; and to make strong and du- 
 rable impressions on their minds * 
 
 The Compiler has been careful to avoid every expression and sentiment, 
 Ibat might gratily a corrupt mind, or, in the least degree, oftend the eye or 
 ear of innocence. This he conceives to be peculiarly incumbent on every 
 I person who writes for the beneht of youth. It would indeed be a greai 
 
 I and hanpy improvement in education, if no writings were allowed to com* 
 
 under their notice, but such as are perfectly innocent; and if, on all pro- 
 per occasions, they were encouraged to peruse those w^hich tend to inspire 
 a due reveieiice for virtue, and an abhorrence of vice, as well as to ani- 
 t mate them with sentiments of piety and goodness. ~ ' • 
 
 I deeply en^q-aven on their minds, and connecled^ivfrira 
 
 i 
 
 \ 
 
 deeply engraven on their minds, and conn^cled^tvfriralT their attainments^ 
 could scarcely fail of attending liwHtt-tl»rough life, and of producing a so- 
 lidity of principle and^iaracter, that would be able to resist the danget 
 arising from future intercourse with the world. 
 
 The Author has endeavoured to relieve the gi-ave and serious parts of 
 bis collection, by the occasional admission of pieces which amuse as w^ell 
 as instruct. If, however, any of his readers should think it contains too 
 great a proportion of the former, it may be some apology, to observe that, 
 in the existing publications designed for the perusaJ of young persons, the 
 preponderance is greatly on the side of gay and amusing productions. 
 Too much attention may be paid to this medium of improvement. When 
 Y ihe imagination, of youth especially, is much entertained, the sober dic- 
 tates oflhe understanding are regarded with indilierence ; and the uiflu- 
 euce of good affections is either feeble, or transient, A temperate use oi 
 such entertaiameut seems therefore requisite, to afford proper scope foi' 
 the operatious of the undei'standing and the heart. 
 
 The reader will perceive, that the Compiler has been solicitous to re- 
 commend to young persons, the i:>erusal of the sacred Scriptures, by inter- 
 spersing through his work some of the most beautiful and inter- 
 esting passages of those invaluable wa-itings. To excite an early taste and 
 veneration for this great rule of life, is a point of so high importance, as to 
 warrant the attinnpt to promote it on every proper occasion. ' 
 
 To improve the young mind, and to afford some assistance to tutors, in 
 tiic arduous and important work of education, w^ere the motives which led 
 to tbis production. If the Author should be so successful as to accomplish 
 liici-e ends, even in a small degree, he will think that his time and paiugf 
 Lave been well employed, and will deem himself amply rewarded. 
 
 * In sorae of the pieces, the Compiler has made a few alterations, chiefly verbal, to adapt 
 Iheai tbebttfigrto llie dcsigu of kis worh. - ^ 
 
 i 
 
BHEPACE* 
 
 31aNY selectioos of excellent matter have been made for the bener^ 
 of young persons. Performances of this kind are of so great utility, that 
 fresh productions of thera, and new attempts to improve the young mind] 
 will scarcely be deemed superfluous, if the writer make his compilatiod 
 instructive and interesting, and sufficiently distinct from others. \ 
 
 The present work, as the title expresses, aims at the attainment of threij 
 objects ; to improve youth in the art of reading ; to meliorate their lanj 
 guage and sentiments ; and to inculcate some of the most importani 
 principles of piety and virtue. 
 
 The pieces selected, not only give exercise to a great variety of emo 
 tioiis, and the correspondent tones and variations of voice, but coutaic 
 sentences and members of sentences, which ^e diversified, proportioned, 
 and pointed with accuracy. Exercises of this nature are, it is presumed] 
 well calculated to teach youth to read with propriety and efiect. A be- 
 lection of sentences, in which variety and proportion, with exact punc- 
 tuation, have been carefully observed, in all their parts as well as with 
 respect to one another, will probably have a much greater effect, in pro-j 
 perly teaching the art of reading, than is commonly imagined. In such 
 constructions, eveiy thing is aceommodated to the understanding and Ihei 
 voice ; and the common difficulties in learning to read well are obviated] 
 When the learner has acquired a habit of reading such sentences, with 
 justness and facility, he will readily apply that habit, and the improve- 
 ments he has made, to sentences more complicated and irregulai*, and o| 
 a construction entirely different. i 
 
 Ihe language of the pieces chosen for this collection has been carefully 
 regarded. Purity, propriety, perspicuity, and, in many instances, ele- 
 gance of diction, distinguish them. They are extracted from the works 
 of tlie most correct and elegant writers. From the sources whence the; 
 jjentiments are drawn, the reader may expect to find them connected and 
 regular, gutficiently important and impressive, and divested of everything 
 that is eithei* trite or eccentiic. The frequent perusal of such compositioa 
 naturally tends to infuse a taste for this species of excellence ; and to pi»o- 
 duce a habit of thinking, &nd of comjjosing, with jud|[meat and ttc 
 curacy* 
 
 * The learner, in his progress through this volume and the Sequel to it, will meet with 
 AUTceroas insiances of com)>u6ition, in btrtct coufornuty to tlie rules fur pronK^tine' pecitpi* 
 CU0U9 and elegtint writing coMltiiued in the Appendix to the Author's LogUtiH 0»i»M»niar. 
 By occasionally exafiiining this eonforniity, he will be confirmed m tUd utility of tboii^ 
 rules ■■, and be enabli^d to apply tbcm wiih ea^e and dexterity. 
 
 It is proper further to observe, that the lieadt-r and the Sequel, besides teaching lo read 
 accurately, and inculcatiD^; many important beniiments, may be considered as auxiUaries 
 10 the Author's English iArauuoiiri us piftcUcdl iUu!iUntUuD& of ihi; principlt^ ^U nil«ft OOA- 
 tained in that work. 
 
INTRODUCTION. Xi 
 
 SECTION VI. . 
 
 Tones. 
 
 ToHES are different both from emphasis and pauses ; consisting in th« 
 notes or variations of sound which we employ, in the expression of our 
 sentiments. Emphasis atfecta particular words and phrases, witii a degree 
 of tone or inflexion of voice ; but tones, pecnliariy so called, affect senten* 
 ces, paragraphs, and sometimes even the whole of a discourdc. 
 
 To show the use and necessity of tojies, we need only observe, that the 
 mind, in communicating its ideas, is in a constant state of activ ity, emotion, 
 or agitation, from the different effects which those ideas produce in the 
 speaker. Now the end of such communication bt^ing, not merely to lay 
 open the ideas, but also the different feelings which they excite in him who 
 utters them, there must be other signs than words, to manifest those feel- 
 ings ; as words uttered lu a muuutonous manner can represent only a similar 
 state of mind, perfectly free from all activity aod emotion. As the com- 
 munication of these internal feelings was of much uioie consequence in 
 our social intercourse, than the mere conveyance of ideas, the Author of 
 our being did not, as in that conveyance, leave the invention of the lan- 
 guage of emotion to man ; but impressed it himself upon our nature, in 
 the same manner as he has done with regard to the rest of the animai 
 world ; all of which express their various feelings, by various tones. Ours, 
 indeed, from the superior rank that we hold, are in a high degree more 
 comprehensive ; as there is not an act of the mind, an exertion of the fan- 
 cy, or an emotion of the heart, which has not its peculiar tone, or note of 
 the voice, by which it is to be expressed *, and which is suited exactly to 
 the degree of internal feeling. It is chiefly in the proper use of these tonesj 
 that the life, spirit, beauty, and harmony of delivery consist. 
 
 The limits of this Introduction do not admit of examples, to illustrate 
 the variety of tones belonging to the different passions and emotions. We 
 shall, however, select one, which is extracted from the beautiful lamen- 
 tation ot David over 3aul and Jonathan, and which will, in some degree, 
 elucidate what has been said on this subject. " The beauty of Israel is 
 slain upon thy high places ; how are the mighty fallen ! Tell it not in Gath ; 
 publish it not in the streets of Askelon ; lest the daughters of the Philistines 
 rejoice ; lest the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph. Ye mountains 
 of Gilboa, let there be no dew nor rain upon you, nor fields of offerings ; 
 for there the shield of the mighty was vilely cast away ; the shield of Saul, 
 as though be had not been anointed with oil." The first of these divisions 
 expresses sorrow and lamentation : therefore the note is low. The next 
 contaijjs a spirited command, and should be pronounced much higher. 
 The other sentence, in which he makes a pathetic address to the moun* 
 tains where bb friends had been slain, must be expressed in a note quite dif- 
 ferent from the two former ; not sq low as the first, nor so high as the se* 
 cond, in a manly, firm, and yet plaintive tone. 
 
 The correct and natural language of the emotions is not so difficult to 
 be attained, as most readers seem to imagine. If we enter into the spirit^ 
 w the author's sentiments, as well as into the meaning of his words, we 
 ^all not fail to deliver the words in ^properly varied tones. For there aie 
 few people, who speak English without a provincial note, that have not an 
 accurate use of tones, w^en they utter v'heir sentiments in earnest discourse. 
 And the reason that they have not the same use of them, in reading aloud 
 the sentiments of others, may be traced to th«* very defective and erro- 
 neous method^ m which the art of readi^.^^ is taught ; whei^by aU the vari- 
 
»ii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ous, natural, expressive tones of speech, are supnresseil ; and a few aHi 
 ficial, unmeaning reading notes, are substituted tor them. 
 
 But when we recommend to readers, an attention to the tone and lan- 
 guage of emotions, we must be understood to do it with proper limitation. 
 Moderation is necessary in this point, as it is in other things. For when 
 reading becomes strictly imitative, it assumes a theatrical manner, and 
 must be highly improper, as well as give otlence to the hearers; because 
 it is inconsistent with that delicacy and modesty, which are indispensable 
 on such occasions. The speaker who delivers his own emotions must be 
 4up]josed to be more vivid and animated, than'would be proper in the per- 
 son who ri^latfs tham at second hand. 
 
 We shall conclude thi^ section with the following rule, for the tones 
 that indicate the passions and emotions. ** In reading, let all your tones of 
 expression be borrowed from those of common s})eech, but, m some de- 
 cree, more faintly cliaracterised. Let those tones which signily any dis- 
 agreeable passion of the mind, be stijlBiore fwni than Thosc'lvhich Indicate 
 agreeable emotions; aiK^, on alToccasions, preserve yourselves from being 
 so far aifected with the subject, as to be able to proceed through it, with 
 that easy and masterly mauuer, which has its good effects in this; as weil 
 as in every other art." 
 
 SECTON vn. 
 
 Fames. 
 //auses or rests, in speaking or reading, are a total cessation of the vbice, - i 
 during a percefitible, and in many cases, a measurable space of time. 
 Pauses are equally necessary to the speaker, and the hearer. To the speak- 
 er, that he may take breath, without which he cannot proceed far in de- 
 livery ; and that he may, by these temporary rests, relieve the organs of 
 speech, whieh otherwise would be soon tired by continued action : to the 
 hearer, that the ear also may be i-elieved from the fatigue, which it would 
 otherwise endure from a continuity of sound ; and that the understanding 
 may have sutficient time to mark the distinction of sentences, and their 
 several members. 
 
 ^ There are two kinds of pauses : first, emphatical pauses ; and next, suck 
 'as mark the distinctions of sense. An emj)natical pause is generally made 
 after something has been said of peculiar moment, and on which we desire 
 to tix the hearer's attention. Soi^netimes, before such a tlihig is said, we 
 usher it in with a pause of this nature. Such pauses have the same effect 
 as d strong emphasis ; and are subject to the same rules ; especially to the 
 caution, of not repeating them too frequently. For as they excite uncom- 
 mon atiention, and of course raise expectation, if the importance of the 
 matter be not fully answerable 10 such exjiectation, they occasion disap 
 pointment and disgust. 
 
 .; liut the most fre<juent and the principal use of pauses, is to mark the di 
 "^Viiions of the sense, and iit the same time to allow the reader to draw his 
 breaih; and the pro[)er and delicate adjustment of such pauses is one of 
 the most nice and dithcult uriicles uf delivery. In all reading, the manage- 
 ment ot tlie breaih re<juires a good deal of care, so as not to oblige us to 
 divide words from oiie another, wh.ch have so intimate a connexion, that 
 they ought to be pronounced with the same breath, and without the least 
 separation. Many a sentence is njiberttbly mangled, and the force of the 
 fciiipha*is totally lost, by divi;^ons lit'nv^ made in the wrons; place. To avoid 
 this, evexy^iiii*. while he i.;«:.idi Jig, bhould be very car;^:ul to provide a 
 lull suodIv of breath 1 jr wiiai Lt- i , to lUiiir. It is a irreat mistake U) ima^^uie, 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 OBSERVATIONS ON THE PRINCIPLES OF GOOB 
 READING. 
 
 TO read with propriety is a pleasing and important attainment ; pro- 
 ductive of improvement both to the understanding and the heart. It is es- 
 sential to a complete reader, that he minutely perceive the ideas, and enter 
 into the feelings of the author, whose sentiments he professes to repeat : for 
 how is it possible to represent clearly to others, what we have but faint or 
 inaccurate conceptions of ourselves ? If there were no other benefits result- 
 ing from the art of reading well, than the necessity it lays us under, of pre- 
 cisely ascertaining the meaning of what we read ; and the habit thence ac- 
 quired, of doing this with facility, both when reading silently and aloud, 
 they would constitute a sufficient compensation for all the labour we can 
 bestow upon the subject. But the pleasure deriv^ed to ourselves and others, 
 from a clear communication of ideas and feelings ; and the strong and du- 
 rable impressions made thereby on the minds of the reader and the au- 
 dience, are considerations, which give additional importance to the 6(u<^ 
 of this necessary and useful art. The perfect attainment of it doubtless re- 
 quires great attention and practice, joined to extraordinary natural powers : 
 but as there are many degrees of excellence in the ai"t, the student whose 
 aims fall short of perfection will find himself amply rewarded for every ex- 
 ertion he may think proper to make. 
 
 To give rules for the management of the voice in reading, by which the 
 necessary pauses, emphasis, and tones, may be discovered and put in prac- 
 tice, is not possible. After all the directions that can be offered on these 
 points, much will remain to be taught by the living instructor: much will 
 be attainable by no other means, than the force of example influencing the 
 imitative powers of the learner. Some rules and principles on these heads 
 will, however, be found useful, to prevent erroneous and vicious modes of 
 utterance ; to give the young reader some taste of the subject ; and to as- 
 sist him in acquiring a just and accurate mode of delivery. The obser^ 
 vations which we have to make, for these purposes, may be comprised un» 
 der the following heads : proper loudness of voicic ; distinctness ; 
 
 slowness; PROPBIETY OF PRONUNCIATION; EMPHASIS 3 TONES } PAUSES* 
 
 and mode of reaotng verse. 
 
 KOTE. 
 
 "or many of the observations contained ia this preliminary tract, the Ai^or *s isd^lt^r 
 3 (fet writings (rf Dr. Blair, aad to the Eacyclopedia Britannica. . 
 
 A 2 ' 
 
n INTRODUCTION. 
 
 SECTION I, 
 
 Proper loudness of Voice. 
 
 The first altentidn of every person who reads to others, douotiess, must 
 be, to make himself be heard by all those to whom he reads. He must 
 endeavour to fill with his voice the space occupied by the company. This 
 power of voice, it may be thought, is wholly a natural talent. It is, in a 
 good measure, the gift of nature ; but it may receive considerable assist- 
 ance from art. Much depends, for this purpose, on the proper pitch and 
 management of the voice. Every person has three pitches in his voice ; 
 the HIGH} the middle, and the low one. The high, is that which he uses 
 in calling alond to some person at a distance. The low is, when he ap- 
 proaches to a whisper. The middle is, that which he employs in common 
 conversation, and which he should generally use in reading to others. For 
 it is a great mistake, to imagine that one must take the highest pitch of his 
 voice, in order to be well heard in a large company. This is confounding 
 two things which are different, loudness or strength of sound, with the key 
 or note on which we speak. There is a variety of sound within the com- 
 pass ot each key. A speaker may therefore render his voice louder/, with- 
 out altering the key : and we shall always be able to give most body, most 
 persevering force of sound, to that pitch of voice, to which in conversation 
 we are accustomed. Whereas by setting out on our highest pitch or key, 
 we certainly allow ourselves less compass, and are likely to strain our voice 
 before we have done. We shall fatigue ourselves, and read with pain ; and 
 whenever a person speaks with pain to himself, he is always heard with 
 pain by his audience. Let us therefore give the voice full strength and 
 swell of sound ; but always pitch it on our ordinary speaking key. It 
 should be a constant rule never to utter a greater quantity -of voice than 
 we can afford without pain to ourselves, and without any extraordinary 
 effort. As long as we keep within these bounds, the other organs of speech 
 will be at liberty to discharge th«ir several ©fSces with ease ; and ^ve shall 
 always have our voice under command. But whenever we transgress 
 jthese bounds, we give up the reins, and have no longer any management of 
 it. It is a us»eful rule too, in order to be well heard, to cast our eye on 
 .some of the most distant persons in the company, and to consider ourselves 
 &s reading to them. We naturally and mechauicaUy utter our words with 
 3uch a degree of strength, as to make ourselves be heard by the person 
 whom we address, provided he is witliin the reach of our voice. As this is 
 ihe case in conversation, it will hold also in reading to others. But let us 
 remember, that in reading, as well as in conversation, it is possible to of- 
 fend by speaking too loud. This extreme hurts the ear, by making the voice 
 come upon it in rumbling, indistinct masses. 
 
 By the habit of i'eading, when young, in a loud and vehement manner, 
 the voice becomes fixed in a strained and unnatural key ; and is rendered 
 incapable of that variety of elevation and depression which constitutes the 
 true harmony of utterance, and aflbrds ease to the reader, and pleasure to , 
 the audience. This unnatural pit«h of the voice, and disagreeable monot- 
 ony, are most observable in persons who were taught to read in large rooms; 
 who were accustomed to stand at too great a distance, when reading to 
 their toachci/j ; whose instructers were very imperfect in their hearing ; or 
 Plho were taught by p%i-sons,tht»t«f)nsiiered*oud expression as the ciiief 
 
INTROBUCTION. vii 
 
 requisite in forming a good reader. These are circumstances which de- 
 mand the serious attention of eveiy one to whom the education of youth 
 hi committed. 
 
 SECTION II 
 
 Distinctness, 
 
 In the next place, to being well heard and clearly understood, distinctness 
 of articulation contributes more than mere loudness of sound. The quan- 
 tity of sound necessary to fill even a laree space, is smaller tlian is com- 
 monly imagined ; and, with distinct articulation, a pei'^on with a v/eak 
 voice will make it reach farther, than the strongest voice can reach with- 
 out it. To this, therefore, every reader ouc^Ut to pay f^^reat attention. He 
 must give every sound which he utters, \t? due prcport'on ; and make every 
 syllable, and even every letter in the word v/hich he pronounces, be heard 
 distinctly ; without slurring, whispering, or suppressing any of tiie proper 
 sounds. 
 
 An accurate knowledge of the simple, elementary sounds of the lan- 
 guage, and a facility in expressing them, are so necessary to distinctness of 
 expressioa, that if the learner's attainments are, in this respect, imperfect, 
 (and many there are in this situation) it will be incumbent on his teacher, 
 to carry him back to these primary articulations ; and to suspend his pro- 
 gress, till he become perfectly master of them. It will be JT vain to press 
 him forward, with the hope of forming a good reader, if he cannot com- 
 pletely articulate every elementary sound of the language. 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 Due degree of sloivness. 
 
 EF order to express ourselves distinctly, moderation is requisite with regard 
 to the speed of pronouncing. Precipitancy of speech confounds all ar- 
 ticulation, and all meaning. It is scarcely necessary to observe, thatthe^e 
 may be also an extreme on the opposite side. It is obvious that a lifeless, 
 drawling manner of reading, which allows the minds of the hearers to be 
 always outrunning the speaker, must render every such performance insipid 
 and fatiguing. But the extreme of reading too fast is much more common, 
 and requires the more to be guarded against, because, when it has growm 
 into a habit, few errors are more difficult to be corrected. To pronounce 
 v/ith a proper degreet)f slowness, and sviih full and clear articulation, is 
 necessary to be studied by all; who wish to become good readers ; and it 
 cannot be too much recommended to them. Such a pronunciation gives 
 weight and dignity to the subject. It is a great assistance to the voice, by 
 the pauses and rests which it allow^s the reader more easily to make ; and 
 it enables the reader to swell all his sounds, both with more force and 
 more harmony. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 Propriety of Pronunciaiion. 
 
 After the fundamental attentions to the pitch and management of the 
 voice, to distinct articulation, and to a proper degree of slowness of speech, 
 what the young reader must, in the next place, study, is propriety of pro- 
 nunciation } or, giving to every word which he utters, that sound which 
 
vili INTRODUCTION 
 
 the best usage of the language appropriates to it ; in opposition to broad, 
 vulgar, or provincial pronunciation. This is requisite both for reading in- 
 telligibly, and for reading with correctness and ease. Instructions con- 
 cerning this article may be best given by the living teacher. But there is 
 one observation, which it may not be improper here to make. In the En- 
 glish language, every word which consists of more syllables than one, has 
 one accented syllable. The accents rest sometimes on the vowel, some 
 times on the consonant. The genius of the language requires the voice to 
 mark that syllable by a stronger percussion, and' to pass more slightly over 
 the rest. Now, after we have learned the proper seats of these accents, it 
 is an important rule, to give every word just the same accent in reading, as 
 in common discourse. Many persons err in this respect. When they read 
 to others, and with solemnity, they pronounce the syllables in a different 
 manner from what they do at other times. They dv/ell upon them and 
 protract them ] they multiply accents on the same word ; from a mistaken 
 notion, that it gives gravity and importance to their subject, and adds to the 
 energy of their delivery. Whereas this is one of the greatest faults that 
 can be committed in pronunciation : it makes what is called a pompous or 
 mouthing manner; and gives an artincial, attected air to reading, which 
 detracts greatly both from its agreeableness and its impression. 
 
 Sheridan and V/alker have published Dictionaries, for ascertaining the 
 true and best pronunci'alion of the words of our language. By attentively 
 eonsulting them, particuiarly ^' Walker's Pronouncing Dictionary," the 
 young reader vvilj oe much assisted, in his endeavours to attain a correct 
 prouuncidtiaa of the words belonging to the English language. ^ 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 Emphasis. 
 
 Bv emphasis is meant a stronger and fuller gound of voice, by which w« 
 distinguish some word or words, on which we design to lay particular stress, 
 and to show how they aiTect the rest of the sentence. Sometimes the em- 
 phatic words must be distinguished by a particular tone of voice, as well 
 as by a partir.ular stress. On the right management of the emphasis de- 
 pends the life of pronunciation. If no emphasis be placed on any words, 
 not only is discourse rendered heavy and lifeless, but the meaning left often 
 ambiguous. If the emphasis be placed wrong, we pervert and confoui 
 the meaning wholly. 
 
 Emphasis may be divided into tlie Superior and the Inferior emphasii 
 The superior emphasis determines th€ meaning of a sentence, with reference 
 to something said before, presupposed by the author as general knowledge, 
 or removes an ambiguity, where a p^assaee may have more senses than 
 one. The inferior emphasis enforces^ gi-aces, and e7ilivensj but does not 
 fix, the meaning of any passage. The words to which this latter emphasis 
 is given, are, in general, such as seem the most important in (he sentence, 
 or, on other accounts, to merit this distinction. The following passagQ^ 
 will serve to exemplify the suj)erior emphasis. 
 
 *' Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit 
 *' Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 
 *' Brought death into the world, and all or.r wo," &Lf . 
 Sing Leavenly Muse ''' 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Supposing that originally other beings, besides men, had disobeyed the 
 commands of the Almighty, and that the circumstance were well known 
 t^ us, there would fall an emphasis upon the word man's in the first line ', 
 and hence it would read thus : 
 
 " Of ma?i's first disobedience, and the fruit," &c. 
 
 But if it were a notorious truth, that mankind had transgressed in a 
 peculiar manner more than once, the emphasis would fall on first ; and the 
 line be read, 
 
 "Of man's j^r5^ disobedience," Sic. 
 
 Again, admitting death (as was really the case) to have been an uif- 
 heard of and dreadful punishment, brought upon man in consequence 
 0f bis transgression ; on that supposition the third line would be read, 
 
 " Brought death into the world," fcc. 
 
 But if we were to suppose that mankind knew there was such an evil as 
 death in other regions, though the place they inhabited had been free from 
 it till their transgression, the line w^ould run thus : 
 
 ^ " Brought death into the worlds'" ^c. 
 
 ' The superior emphasis finds place in the following short sentence, which 
 admits of four distinct meanings, each of which is ascertftiaed by the em^ 
 phasis only. 
 
 " Do you ride to town to-day ?" 
 
 The following examples illustrate the nature and use of the inferior em- 
 phasis : 
 
 " Many persons mistake the love for the practice of virtue." 
 
 " Shall I reward his services with /a/sc/^ood.^ Shall I forget ^m who can- 
 not forget we ?'" 
 
 " If his principles are false-i bo apology from himself can make them 
 right : if foundedMn iruthj no censure from others can make them wrong.' 
 
 * Though deep J yet clear ; though gentle, yet not dull; 
 " Strong without rage: without o' erflowing, fall." 
 
 " X friend exaggerates a man's virtues ; an enemy, his crimes: 
 
 " The wise man is happy, when he gains his own approbation; the foolf 
 when he gains that of others.'' 
 
 The superior emphasis, in reading as in speaking, must be determined 
 entirely by the sense of the passage, and always made alike : but as to the 
 inferior emphasis, taste ahme seems to have the right of fixing its situation 
 and quantity. 
 
 Among the number of persons, who have had proper opportunities of 
 learning to read, in the best manner it is now taught, very few could be 
 selected, who, in a given instance, would use the inferior emphasis alrke, 
 either as to place or quantity. Some persons, indeed, use scarcely any 
 degree of it : and others do not scruple to carry it far beyond any thing to 
 be found in common discourse ; and even sometimes throw it upon wonis 
 so very trifling in themselves, that it is evidently done with no other view^ 
 
1 INTRODUCTION 
 
 than to give greater variety to the modulation * Notwithstanding thfe dir 
 versity of practice, there are certainly pr(^r bwndaries, within which this 
 emphasis must be restrained, in order to make it meet the approbation of 
 sound judgment aud con-ect taste. It will doubtless have different degrees 
 of exertion, according to the greater or less degrees of importance of the 
 words upon which it operates ; and there may be very propeily some variety 
 in the use of it : but its application is not arbitrary, depending on the ca- 
 price of readers. 
 
 As emphasis often falls on words m different parts of the same sentence, 
 so it is frequently required to be continued with a little variation, on* two, 
 and sometimes more words together. The following sentences exemplify 
 both the parts of this position : " If you seek to make one rich, study not 
 to increase his stores, but to diminish his desires.'' " The Mexican figures, 
 or picture WTiting, represent things not words: they exhihiCimages to tht 
 ^y^i noi'ideas to the understanding.'' 
 
 Some sentences are so full and comprehensive, that almost every w^ord 
 is emphatical : as, " Ye hills nnrl Halps, ye rivers, woods, and plains 1" or, 
 as that pathetic expostulation in the prophecy of Ezekiel, " Why will ye 
 die !" 
 
 Emphasis, besides its other offices, is the great regulator <5f quantity. 
 Though the quantity of our syllables is fixed, in words separately pronoun- 
 ced, yet it is mutable, when these words are arranged in sentences ; the 
 long being changed into short, the short into long, according to the impor- 
 tance of the word with regard to meaning Emphasis also, in particular 
 cases, alters the seat of the accent. This is demonstrable from the follot^- J|| 
 ing examples <' He shall mcreaae, but 1 shall decrease." '' There is ?ilP 
 difference between giving and /orgiving." '' In this species of composition, 
 |?Zcfi«ibility is much more essential than probeibility.*' In these examples., 
 the emphasis requires the accent to be placed on syllables, to which it 
 does not commonly belong. 
 
 In order to acquire the proper management of the emphasis, .the ^eat 
 Pule to be given, i», that the reader study to attain a just conception of the 
 force and spirit of the sentiments w^hich he is to pronounce. For to lay 
 the emphasis w^ith exact propriety, is a constant exercise of good sense 
 and attention. It is far from being an inconsiderable attainment. It is 
 one of the most decisive trials of a true and just taste ; and must arise front 
 feeling delicately ourselves, and from judging accurately of what is fittest 
 to strike the feelings of others. 
 
 There is one error, against which it is particularly proper to caution the 
 learner; namely, that of multiplying eniphatioal words too much, and 
 using the emphasis indiscriminately. It is only by a prudent reserve and 
 distinction in the use of them, that we can give them any weight. If they 
 recur too often ; if a reader attempts to render evel^ thing he expresses of 
 high importance, by a multitude of strong emphasis, we soon learn to pay 
 little regard to them. To crowd every sentence witlj emphatical words, 
 is like crowding all the paajes of a book with Italic characters ; which, as 
 to the effect, is just the same as to use no such distinctions at all. 
 
 • By modulation is meant that pleasing^ variety of voice, which is perceived in utt«¥ing' 
 a sentence, and which, in its nature, ir perfectly distinct from emphasis, ahd the tones of 
 emotioQ and passion. The youn? render should be careful to render his modulatiojp cor* 
 rect and easy ] and, for this purpose, should form it upon tbe^jaodel of the most judicious 
 «ad accurdt*» speaker?. - ..•".' 
 
mXRODUCTION. im 
 
 giat the breath must be drawn only at the end ©f a period, when the 
 voice is allowed to fall. It may easily be gathered at the intervals of the 
 period, when the voice is suspended only for a moment ; and, by tbii- 
 management, one may always have a sufficient stock for carrying on the 
 'k)ngest sentence, without improper interruptions. 
 
 ^Pauses in reading mast generally be formed upon the manner in which 
 we utter ourselv^es in ordinary, sensible conversation ; and not upon the 
 stiff artificial manner, which is acquired from reiding books according to 
 the common punctuation. It will by no means be sufficient to attend to 
 the points used in printing ; for these are far from marking all the pauses, 
 which ought to be -nade in reading. A mechanical attention to these rest- 
 ing places, has jx)rhaps been one cause of monotony, by leading the read- 
 er to a. similar tone at every stop, a«d a uniform cadence at eveiy period. 
 The primary use of points, is to assist the reader in discerning the gram- 
 matical construction ; and it is only as a secondary object, that they regu- 
 late his pronunciation. On this head, the follovving direction may be of 
 use : *^ Though in reading great attention should be paid to the stops, yet 
 a greater should be given to the sense ; and their correspondent times 
 occasionally lengthened beyond what is usual in common speech." 
 yTo retider pauses pleasing and expressive, they must not only be made 
 in the right place, but also accompanied with a proper tone of voice, by 
 v.'hich the nature of these pauses is intimated ) mach more than by the 
 length of them, which can seldom be exactly measured. Sometimes it is 
 only a slight and simple suspension of voice that is proper ; sometime.s a 
 degree of cadence in the voice is required; and sometimes that peculiar 
 toae and cadence which denote the sentence to be finished. In all these 
 cases, we are to regulate oui-selves by attending to the manner in whicli 
 nature teaches us to speak, Vv hen engaged in real and earnest discourse 
 with others. The following sentence exemplines the suspending and the 
 closing pauses : *' Hope, the balm of ilfe^ sooths us under every misfortune." 
 The first and second pauses are accompanied by an inflection of voice, that 
 gives the hearer an exr>ectation of something fuither to complete the sense ; 
 the infieciion attending the third pau-ie sigaifies that the sense is com 
 pleted. • 
 
 f|The preceding example is an illustration of tlie suspendisig paiise, in its 
 simple state : the following instance exhibits that pause witli a degree of 
 cadence in the voice ; '' If content cannot remove the disquietudes of man- 
 kind, it will at least alleviate them." 
 
 The suspending pause is often, in the same sentence, attended with 
 both the rising and tlie failing infection of voice; as will be seen m 
 this example: ^' Moderate exercise", and habitual temperance', strengthen 
 the constitution."* 
 
 not unfrequently cgnnected with the rising inHection. Interrogative sen- 
 tences, for In^ance, are often terminated in this manner : as, " Am I un- 
 grateful ? '. <' Is he in earnest' ?" 
 
 A, But where a sentence is begun by an interrogative pronoun or adverb, It 
 is commonly terminated by the falling inllection : as, " What has he gain- 
 ed by his foily^ ?" ^' Wiio will assist him' r" " Where is the mes3engev^ :*" 
 '• When did he arrive" c'' 
 
 '* The riring inf-cction is ttenoted by the acute ; tlie faHin^, by the ^rave vicGer.t. 
 
 h 
 
 V 
 
xiT INTRODtJCTiON. 
 
 When Uvo questions are united in one sentence, and connected by the 
 conjunction oT) the first takes the rising, the second the falling inflection : 
 as, << Does his conduct support discipline', or destroy it^ r" 
 
 The rising and falling inflections must not be confounded with emphasis. 
 Thongh they may often eoincide, they are, in their nature, perfectly dis- 
 tinct. Emphasis sometimes controls those inflections. ^ 
 
 The regular application ef the rising and falling inllections, confers i^o 
 much beauty on expression, and is so necessary to be studied by the young 
 reader, that we shall insert a few more examples to induce him to pay 
 greater attention to the subject. In these instances, all the inflections are 
 not marked. Such only are distinguisried, as are most striking, and will 
 best serve to show the reader their utility and importance. 
 
 " Manufactures^, trade^, and agriculture', certainly employ more than 
 nineteen parts in twenty of the human species." 
 
 " He who resigns the world has no temptation to envy', hatred^, malice^, 
 anger' ; but is in constant possession of a serene mind : he who follows 
 tlie pleasures of it, which are in their very nature disappointing, is in con- 
 stant search of care* , solicitude', remorse', and confusion"." 
 
 *' To advise the ignoranf , relieve the needy', comfort the afflicted', are 
 duties that fall in our way almost every day of our lives." 5 
 
 " Those evil spirits, who, by long custom, have contracted in the body 
 habits of lust' and sensuality^ ; malice', and revenge^ ; an aversion to every 
 •thing that is good% just% and laudable', are naturally seasoned and pre- 
 Dared for pain and misery." 
 
 " I am persuaded, that neither death', nor life^ ; nor angels', nor 
 principalities', nor powers^; nor things present', nor things to come' ; nor 
 iieight', nor depth^ ; nor any other treature', shall be able to separate us 
 from the love of God^." 
 
 The reader who vvould wish to see a minute and ingenious investigation 
 of the nature of these inflections, and the rules by which they are gover 
 ned, may consult Walker's Elements of Elocution. 
 
 
 SECTION VIII. 
 
 Marnier of reading Versi,. -^^ 
 
 When we are reading verse, there is a peculiar dKBculty in making the 
 pauses justly. The diificulty arises from the melody of verse, which dic- 
 tates to the ear pauses or rests of its own: and to adjust and compouad 
 these properly with the pauses of the sense, so as iieitlier to hurt the eiir, 
 nor offend the understanding, is so very nice a matter, that it is no wonder 
 ^ve so seldom meet with good readers of poetry. There are two kinds ot 
 pauses that belong to the melody of verse : one i?, the pause at tlie end 
 of the line; and the other, the ca3sural pause in or near tbe middle ot it. 
 Wllh regard to the pause at the end of the line, which marks that strain 
 XiT verse to be finished, rhyme renders this always sensible ; and m some 
 measure compels us to observe it i:i our proruu-.ciation. In respect to 
 tlank versp, we ou^ht also to read it so as to make evQvy me sensible 
 to the ear: for,wh.af is the use of melody, oi'for what ejm has the poet 
 com])Osed in verse, if, in reading his linos, we -jnpress nis numbers, by 
 omitting the final pause; and de-iade them, by our pronunciation, int9 
 were prose? At the same time tluit we attend to this pause, every ar>- 
 pearanceofsing-song and tone must be carefully guarded "^^J*'^-'*; / f ^ 
 €lose of the line where it makes np pause in the meaning, ought not to he 
 marked by such a toae as is used in finishing a sentence : but, witnout 
 
INTRODUCTION, %^ 
 
 cither fall or elevation of the voice, it should be denoted only by so 
 gfight a suspension of sound, as may distinguish the passage from one 
 line to another, without injuring the meaning. 
 
 The other kind of melodious pause, is that which falls somewhere 
 about the middle of the verse, and divides it into two hemisticbs; a 
 pause, not so great as that which belongs to the close of the line, but stiM. 
 sensible to an ordinary ear. This, which is called the caesura! pause, 
 may fall, in English heroic vers©, aft^r the 4th, 5lh, 6th, or 7th syllable 
 in the line. Where the verse is so constructed, that this ca^sui-al pause 
 coincides with the slightest pause or division in the sense, the line can 
 be read easily; as in the two first verses of Pope's Messiah- 
 
 <' Ye nymphs of Solyma^'* ! begin the soag; 
 
 " To heav'nly themes''' , sublimer strains belong/' 
 
 But if it should happen that words v/hich have so strict and intimate a 
 connexion, as not to bear even a m.omentary separation, are divided 
 from one another by this caesural pause, we then feel a sort of straggle 
 between the sense and the sound, w^hich renders it difficult to read such 
 lines harmoniously. The rule of proper pronunciation in such cases, ia 
 to regard only the pause which the sense forms ; and to read the line ac- 
 cordingly. The neglect of the ca3sural pause may make the line sound 
 somev/hat unharmoniously ; but the effect would be much worse, if 
 the sense were sacrificed to tiie sound. For instance, in the following 
 line of Milton, 
 
 -" What in me is dark, 
 
 " Illumine ; what is low, raise and support." 
 
 the sense clearly dictates the pause after illumine^ at the end of the third 
 syllable, which, in reading, ought to be made accordingly; though, if the 
 melody only were to be regarded, illumine should be connected with 
 what follows, and the pause not made till the fourth or sixth syllable. So 
 in the following line of Pope's Epistle to Dv. Arbuthnot, 
 
 " I sit, with sad civility I read." 
 
 the ear plainly points out the cjesural pause as falling after sacl^ tlie fourth 
 syllable. But it would be very bad reading to make any pause there, sd 
 as to separate sad and civility. The sense admits of no other pause than 
 after the second syllable ^^7, which therefore must be the only pause made 
 in reading this part of the sentence. 
 
 There is another mode W dividing some verses, by introdwcing v^iiat 
 may be called demi-c£esuras, which require \evy slight pauses ; and which 
 the reader should manage with judgment, or he will be apt to fall into an 
 affected sing-^song; mode of pronouncilig verses of this kind. The folio^v^ 
 ing lines exemplify Ibe deini-cffisura. 
 
 ** "Warras' in the sun", refreshes' in the breeze, 
 '< Glows' in the stars", and blossoms' in the trees ; 
 *< Lives through all life" ; extends' through all extent; . 
 ^- Spreads' undivided ', operates' unspent.' 
 
xyi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Beforfe the conclusion of this introduction, the Compiler takes the liberty 
 to recooimend to teachers, to exercise their pupils in discovering and ex- 
 plaining the emphatic words, and the proper tones and pauses, of every 
 portion assigneil them to read, previously to their being called out to the 
 performaiice. These preparatory lessons, in which they should be regularly 
 examined, will improve their judgment and taste ; prevent the practice 
 of reading without attention to th« subject; and establish a habit of readily 
 discovering the meaning, force, and beauty, of every sentence they 
 feruse. 
 
eONTENTS- 
 
 PART I. 
 PIECES m PROSE: 
 
 CHAPTER I. ^ 
 
 Page 
 
 Select Sentences and Paragraphs, - - ^3 
 CHAPTER II. 
 JYarrative Pieces. 
 Sect. 1. No rank or possessions can make the guilty mind 
 
 happy, 39 
 
 2. Change of external condition often adverse to virtue, 4Q 
 
 3. Haman; or the misery of pride, - - - - 41 
 
 4. Lady Jane Grey, - - 42 
 
 5. Ortogrul ; or the vanity of riches, - - - - 45 
 
 6. The hill of science, - - - - - 47 
 
 7. The journey of a day } a picture of human life, - 50. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Didactic Pieces. 
 
 Sect. 1. The importance of a good education, - - - 64 
 
 2. On gratitude .•.- 55 
 
 3. On forgiveness, 66 
 
 4. Motives to the practice of gentleness, - - - 67 
 
 5. A suspicious temper the source of misery to its 
 
 possessor, -------« &8 
 
 6. Comforts of religion, - - 6^ 
 
 7. Diffidence of our abilities a mark of wisdom, - - 6G 
 
 8. On the importance of order in the distribution of 
 
 our time, - - - - - - 61 
 
 9. The dignity of virtue amidst corrupt examples, - - 62 
 
 10. The mortifications of vice greater than those of virtue, 04 
 
 11. On contentment, - - - - - 6a 
 
 12. Rank and riches afibrd no ground for envy, - - 67 
 
 13. Patience under provocations our interest as well as 
 
 duty, 69 
 
 14. Moderation in our wishes recommended, - - - 70 
 16 Omniscience and omnipresence of the Deity, the 
 
 source of consolation to good men. - - - 7i>- 
 
 CHAPTER IV. ^ 
 Ar^umentaiive Pieces. 
 
 SfiCT. 1. Happiness is founded In rectitude of conduct, - - 7^- 
 
 2. Virtue man's highest interest, - - - - = 7S 
 
 3. The injustice of an uncbaritable spirit, • ^ • "!! 
 
 B 5 
 
i>UiMJiirN12>. 
 
 ^JKCT. 4. The misfortunes of men mostly chargeable on them- 
 selves, - - - - - - ^ 
 
 6. Oa disinterested friendship, 
 6. On the immortality of the soul, 
 
 CHAPTEK V, 
 
 Descripiiye Pieces, 
 
 Ject. 1. The seasons, - - -, - - - -« 
 
 ' 2. The cataract of Niagara, in Canada, North America, 
 
 3. The grotto of Antiparos, > - - . 
 
 4. The grotto of Antiparos continued, - - - . 
 
 5. Earthquake at Catanea, . - - - 
 
 6. Creation, - - - - - - . 
 
 7. Charity, - - - - - - 
 
 5. Prosperity is redoubled to a good man, - - , 
 9. On the beauties of the Psalms, 
 
 10. Character of Alfred, king of England, - - - 
 
 11. Character of Queen Elizabeth, - - « 
 
 12. On the slavery of vice, - - - - - 
 
 13. The man of integrity, ,---«- 
 
 14. Gentleness, -,,- 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 Pathetic Pieces. 
 
 Se€t. 3. Trial and execution of the EarV of Stratford, 
 
 2. An eminent instance of true fortitude of mind, 
 
 3. The good man's comfort in aSlletioii, - - - 
 
 4. The close of life ; 
 
 6. Exalted society, aiul the renewal of virkious connexions, 
 
 two sources ot" future felicity, - - - - 
 
 6. The clemency and amiable character of the patriarch 
 
 Jose})h, _------- 
 
 7. Altamont, - - 
 
 CHAPTER VII, 
 
 JDialog'iies. 
 
 SrxT. 1. Democritus and Her.TJilr,??, . . - - - 
 
 2. Dionysius, Pytiiias, and Damon, . ^ - - 
 
 3. Lccke and Bayle, - - ' 
 
 CIIAPXER VIll. 
 
 Public S}<ecchc$, 
 
 •JKf.T. I. Cicero agair.:.t Verrcs, - - - * ," . " 
 
 2. Speech of Adherbal to the Roman Senate, imploring 
 
 their protectio!! agaiustJuLurlKa, 
 
 3. The Apoj.tle Paur.s no'' ' ' '^ '' ^""^^stys and 
 
 Agi'ippa* 
 
 Pagt 
 
 78 
 80 
 83 
 
 87 
 ib. 
 89 
 90 
 ib. 
 91 
 92 
 93 
 94 
 95 
 96 
 98 
 ib. 
 
 101 
 102 
 
 103 
 104 
 
 105 
 
 106 
 
 109 
 
 111 
 113 
 115 
 
 121 
 124 
 
 126 
 
CONXEJNTS. sii 
 
 Page. 
 Sect. 4. Lord Mansfield's speech in the House of Lords, 1770, 
 on the bill for prevcDtmg the delays of justice, by 
 claiming the privilege of parliament, - - 128 
 
 6. An address to young persons, - - - 132 
 
 CHAPTER IX, 
 
 Promiiicuous Pieces. 
 
 Sect. 1. Earthquake at Calabria, in the year 1638, - - 136 
 
 2. Letter from Pliny to Geminius, . - - . J39 
 
 3. Letter frora Plioy to Marceilinus, on the death of an 
 
 amiable young woman, - - - . Po, 
 
 4. On Discretion, - - - - - - 140 
 
 5. On the government of our thoughts, - - r 143 
 
 6. On the evils which ilow from unrestrained passions, - 145 
 
 7. On the proper state of our temper, with respect to one 
 
 another, - - - - , . 146 
 
 8. Excellence of the Holy Scriptures, - - - 148 
 
 9. Reilectious occasioned by a review of the blessings, 
 
 pronounced by Christ on his disciples, in his sermon 
 
 on the mount, ----- 149 
 
 10. Schemesof life often illusory, - - - 150 
 
 11. The pleasures of virtuous seasibility, - - 152 
 
 12. On the true honour of man, - - > . 154 
 
 13. The influence of devotion on the happiness of life, 155 
 
 14. The planetary and terrestrial worlds comparatively 
 
 considered, - - - - - . 157 
 
 15. On the power of custom, and the uses to which it 
 
 may be applied, - - - - - 159 
 
 16. The pleasures resulting from a proper use of our 
 
 facultjes, - - - - - -160 
 
 17. Description of candour, - - - ., 161 
 
 18. On the imperfection of that happiness which rests 
 
 solely on worldly pleasures, - - - 162 
 
 19. What are the real and solid enjoyments of human 
 
 life, - . 165 
 
 20. Scale of beings, - - ' - - - 167 
 
 21. Trust in the care of Providence recommeoded, 169 
 
 22. Piety and gratiti»de enliven prosperity, - - 171 
 
 23. Virtue, when deeply rooted, is not subject to the ia- 
 
 fiuence of fortune, - - - , 173 
 
 24. The speech of Fabricius, a Roman ambassador, to 
 
 king Pyrrhus, who attempted to bribe him to his 
 
 interests, hj the offer of a great sura of money, 174 
 
 25. Character of James I. king of England, - 175 
 
 26. Charles V. emp-ror of Germany, resigns his dominions, 
 
 and retires from the world, - - , i^Q 
 
 27. The same subject continued, - - -s 15^ 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PART !!• 
 
 PIECES IN POETRY, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Select Sentences and Paragraphs, Page. 
 
 Sect. 1. Short and easy sentences, - ., . . Ig2 
 
 2. Verses in which the lines are of different length, - 184 
 
 3. Verses containing exclamations, interrogations, and 
 
 parentheses, * - - - - 185 
 
 4. Verses in various forms, - - - - 187 
 
 5. Verses in which sound corresponds to significatioD, 189 
 
 6. Paragraphs of greater length, - - 191 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Karrative Pieces^ 
 
 Sect. 1. The bear and the bees, - - - - 193 
 
 2. The nightingale and the glow-worm, - - 194 
 
 3. The trials of virtue, - - - - 195 
 
 4. The youth and the philosopher, - - - 196 
 
 5. Discourse between Adam and Eve, retiring to rest, 198 
 
 6. Religion and death, ... - - 200 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Didactic Pieces. 
 
 Sect. 1. The vanity of wealth, . - . . 202 
 
 2. Nothing formed in vain, ... - 203 
 
 3. On pride, - - - - - - ib. 
 
 4. Cruelty to brutes censured, - • - 204 
 
 5. A paraphrase on the latter part of the 6th chapter 
 
 of Matthew; ----- 205 
 
 6. The death of a good man a strong incentive to 
 
 virtue, ------ 206 
 
 7. Reflections on a future state, from a reviaw oi 
 
 winter, .----. 207 
 
 8. Adams advice to Eve, to avoid temptation, - 208 
 
 9. On procrastination, ----- 209 
 
 10. That philosophy, which stops at secondary causes, 
 
 reproved, - - * - - - 210 
 
 11. Indignant sentiments on national prejuc(ices and hatred ; 
 
 and on slavery, - - • - - - 211 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Descriptive Pieces. 
 
 Sect. 1. The morning in summer, ---■•. 233 
 
 a. Rural sounds, as well a£ rural sights, delightful, 21» 
 
 *. The rose, .y. , . _ - . • - - ^^M 
 
CONTENDS. xxi 
 
 Page 
 
 Sect. 4. Care of birds for their young, - * • 5214 
 
 6. Liberty and slavery contrasted, - - - 815 
 
 6. Charity. A paraphrase on the 13th chapter of the 
 
 First Epistle to the Corinthians, - - 216 
 
 7. Picture of a good man, - - - - S17 
 
 8. The |)leasures of retirement, - - - 219 
 
 9. The pleasure and benent of an improved and well-^ 
 
 directed imagination, ... * 220 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Pathetic Puces, 
 
 Sect. 1. The hermit, . - - - - 221 
 
 2. The beggar's petition, ----- 223 
 
 3. Unhappy close of life, - - - * - 224 
 
 4. Elegy to pity, . - - - . ib. 
 6. Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, 
 
 during his solitary abode in the Island of Juan 
 
 Fernandez, ... - 225 
 
 6. Gratitude, - . - - - 227 
 
 7. A man perishing in the snow ; from whence reflec- 
 
 tioiis are raised on thT^ miseries of life, - 228 
 
 8. A morning hymn, - - - 230 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 Promiscuous Pieces, 
 
 Sect. 1. Ode to Content, - - - ^ i 231 
 
 2. The shepherd and the philosopher, • 2i3 
 
 3. The road to happiness open to all men, • - 235 
 
 4. The goodness of Providence, ... 236 
 , 5. The Creator's works attest his greatness, - - ib. 
 
 6. Address to the Deity, - . , . . 237 
 
 7. The pursuit of happiness often ill directed, - 238 
 
 8. The fire-side, - - - - 240 
 
 9. Providei;C€ vindicated in the present state of man, - 242 
 
 10. Selfishness reproved, - - - - 243 
 
 11. I^uman fiaiity, - - * • ^ .. 244 
 
 12. Ode to peace, - - - - • - 245 
 
 13. Ode to adversity, - - - ... ib. 
 
 14. The Creation required to praise its Author, • - 247 
 
 15. The universal prayer, - - - • 249 
 
 16. Conscience, -.---• 25Q 
 
 17. On an infant, -...•- 251 
 
 18. the cuckoo, - . ^ .^ . ib. 
 
 19. Day. A pastoral in three parts, - • m 252 
 
 20. The order of nature, - * • • 255 
 
 21. Hymn composed during sickness, • . . 256 
 
 22. Hymn, on a review of 3ie seasons, - • - 257 
 
 23. On solitude, - . - ... 269 
 
THE ENGLISH READER. 
 
 PART i. 
 PIECES IN PROSE, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SELECT SENTENCES AND PARAGRAPHS. 
 
 SECTION 1 
 
 (Diligence, industry, and proper improvement of time, 
 are material duties of the young. 
 
 2^ The acquisition of knowledge is one of the most honour- 
 able occupations of youth. 
 
 '? Whatever useful or engaging endowment? we possess, 
 virtue is requisite, in order to their shining with proper 
 lustre. 
 
 ^Virtuous youth gradually brings forward accomplished and 
 floii fishing manhood. 
 
 jSincerit}'^ and truth form the basis of every virtue. 
 
 •Disappointments and distress are often blessings in disguise. 
 
 -^Change and alteration form the very essence of the world. 
 
 /^frue happiness is of a retired nature, and an enemy t© 
 pomp and noise. 
 
 ftii order to acqnire a capacitj' for happiness, it must be our 
 jSrst study to rectify inward disorders. 
 
 /^Vhatever purifies, fortifies alst) the heart. 
 /(From our eagerness to grasp, we strangle and destroy 
 pleasure. 
 
 JsVTE, 
 
 In the first chapter, the compiler has exhibited sentences in a great va- 
 •icty of coiistitictionj aiid in all the diversity of punctuation. IfweUpcac- 
 istvl upon, be presumrs tbey will fully prepare the young reader icr the 
 
 ririoiH pauses, infections, and modulations of voice, which the succeeding 
 •:eces require. The Author's ^'English Exercises/' under the heaii of 
 r'urjctualiou, will aiiord the ieamer additional scope for imi>"Oving hiiia- 
 self in reading sentences and paragraphs variously constructed 
 
24 The English Reader, Paj^t \. 
 
 1^ temperate spirit, and moderate expectations, are ex- 
 cellent safeguards of the mind, in this uncertain acd changing 
 
 state. 
 
 There is nothing, except simplicity of intention, and purity 
 of principle, that can stand the test of near approach and strict 
 examination. 
 
 The value of any possession is to be chiefly estimated, by 
 the rehef which it can bring 'us in the time of our greatest 
 need. 
 
 No person who has once yielded up the government of his 
 mind, and given loose rein to his desires and passions, caa 
 tell hoTv far they may carry him. 
 
 Tranquillity of mind is always most likely to be attained, 
 when the business of the world is tempered with thoughtful 
 and serious retreat. 
 
 lie who would act like a wise mari,.and build his bouse or 
 the rock, and not on the sand, shordd contemphtte human life, 
 not only in the sunshine, but in the shade. 
 
 Let usefulness and beneiicence, not ostenl'dtioa and vanity, 
 direct the train of 3^aur pursuits. 
 
 To maintain a steady and unbroken mind, amidst all the 
 shQclvai* of the world, m?irks a great and noble spirit. 
 
 Patience, by preserving composure within, resists the im- 
 pression which trouble makes from without. 
 
 Compassionate aiTections, even when they draw tears 
 from our eyes for human misery, convey satisfaction to the 
 heart. ^ 
 
 They who have nothing to gi\e, can often afford relief to 
 others, by imparting what they feel. 
 
 Our ignorance of what is to come, and of what is reiUy 
 good or evil, should correct anxiety about worldly success" 
 
 The veil wjiich covers from cur siglit the events of stic- 
 ceeding years, is a veil woven by the hand of mercy. 
 
 The best preparation for all the uncertainties of fjtunty. 
 consists in u well-ordered mind, a good conscience, and a 
 rheerfal submisr-ion to the will of Heaven. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 The chief misrortimes that bcfill us in life, cnn b<rtraced 
 to some vices or follies which we have coAimitted. 
 
 Were we to survey tliC chambers of sickness and distress, 
 we should often find them peopled uith the v- ^ • - • 
 pernnce and sensuj^Jity, z\\^\ v.' lib the cbilo^ 
 
 '^1 
 
Qiap, 1. Seitct Sentences^ 4'*-'. ^ 
 
 To be wise in our own eyes, to be w^ise in the opinion of 
 the world, and to be wise in the sight of our Creator, are 
 three things so very different, as rarely to coincide. 
 
 Man, in his highest earthly glory, is but a reed floating oa 
 the stream of time, and forced to follow every new direction 
 of the current. 
 
 The corrupted temper, and the guilty passions of the bad, 
 frustrate the etTect of every advantage which the world con- 
 fers on them. 
 
 The external misfortunes of life, dlsappointmenl?, pov- 
 erty, and sickness, are light in comparison of those inward 
 distresses of mind, occasioned by folly, by passion, and by 
 guilt. 
 
 No station is so high, no power so great, no character sd 
 umblemished, as to exempt men from the attacks of rashness, 
 iialice, or envy. 
 
 Moral and religious-JnstriiCtion derives its efficacj^ not s® 
 much from what men are taught to know, as from what they 
 are brought to* fsel. 
 
 He who pretends to great sensibility towards men, and yet 
 has no feeling tor the high oWecls of religion, no heart to ad- 
 mire and adore the great Father of the universe, has reason 
 to distrust the tralh and delicacy of his sensibility. 
 
 When, upon rritional and sober inquiry, we have estab- 
 lished our principles, let us not suiTer them to be sh:j.ken by 
 the scoils of the licentious, or the cavils of t!ie sc-jptical. 
 
 When we observe any tendency to treat rehgion or morals 
 with disrespect and levity, let us hold it to be a sure indication 
 of a perverted understanding, or a depraved heart. 
 
 Every degree of guilt incurred by yielding to tem.ptation, 
 tends to debase the mind, and to weaken the generous and 
 benevolent principles of human nature. 
 
 Luxury, pride, and vanitjs have frequently as much in- 
 fluence in corrupting the sentiments of the great, as igno- 
 rance, bigotry, and prejudice, have in misleading the opinions 
 of the multitude. 
 
 Mixed as the present strite is, reason and religion pro- 
 nounce, that generally, if not always, there is more happiness 
 than misery, more pleasure than pain, in the condition of 
 man. 
 
 Society, when formed, requires distinctioivs of property, 
 diversity of conditions, subordination of ranks, and a mul- 
 tiphcity of occu|>'ations5 in order to advance i\\e genersi 
 good. ^ 
 
 C 
 
26 llie English Pteader. Part 1 
 
 That the temper, the sentiments, the morality, and, in 
 general, the whole conduct and character of men, are in- 
 fluenced by the example and disposition of the persons with 
 whom they associate, is a reflection which has long since 
 passed into a proverb, and been ranked among the standing 
 maxims of human wisdom, in all ages of the world. 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 The desire of improvement discovers a liberal mind, 
 and is connected with many accompHshments, and many 
 virtues. 
 
 Innocence confers ease and freedom on the mind ; and 
 leaves it open to every pleasing sensation. 
 
 Moderate and simple pleasures relish high with the tem- 
 perate : In the midst of his studied refinements, the volup- 
 tuary languishes. 
 
 Gentleness corrects whatever is offensive in our manners ; 
 and, by a constant train of humane attentions, studies to al- 
 leviate the burden of common misery. 
 
 That gentleness which is the characteristic of a good man, 
 has, like every other virtue, its seat in the heart . and, let me 
 add, nothing, except what flows from the heart, can render 
 even external manners truly pleasing. 
 
 Virtue, to become either vigorous or useful, must be 
 habitually active : not breaking forth occasionally with a 
 transient lustre, like the blaze of a comst; but regular in its 
 returns, like the light of day : not like the aromatic gale, 
 which sometimes feasts the sense ; but like the ordinary 
 breeze, which purifies the air, and renders it heidtbfujv.i^-*" 
 
 Tlie happiness of every man depends more upon the state 
 of his own mind, than upon any one external circumstances 
 nay, more than upon all external things put together. 
 
 U\ no station, in no period, let us think ourselves secure 
 from the dangers which spring from our passions. Every 
 age, and every station they beset ; from youth to gra}' hairs, 
 and from the peasant to the pi-ince. 
 
 Riches and pleasures are the chief temptations to criminal 
 deeds. Yet those riches, when obtained, may very possibly 
 overwhelm us with unforeseen miseries. Those pleasures 
 may cut short our health and life. 
 
 He who is accustomed to turn aside from the world, and 
 commune with himself in retirement, will, sometimes at 
 least, hear the truths which the multitude do not tell 
 him. A more sound instructer will lift his voice, and 
 
Ghap, 1. Select Sentences, <^c, 2'7 
 
 awaken within the h^art those latent suggestions, which the 
 world had overpowered and suppressed. 
 
 Amusement often becomes the business, instead of the re- 
 laxation, of young persons : it is then highly pernicious. 
 
 He that waits for an opportunity, to do much at once, may 
 breathe out his life in idle wishes ; and regret, in the last 
 hour, his use^ss intentions and barren zeal. 
 
 The spirit of true religion breathes mildness and affability 
 It gives a native, unaffected ease to the behaviour. It is so- 
 cial, kind, and cheerful : far removed from that gloomy and 
 illiber-il superstition, which clouds the brow, sharpens the 
 temper, dejects the spirit, aod teaches men to fit themselves 
 for another world, by neglecting the concerns of this. 
 
 Reveal none of the secrets of thy friend. Be faithful to his 
 interests. Forsake him not in danger. Abhor the thought 
 of acquiring any advantage by his prejudice. 
 
 Man, always prosperous, would be giddy and insolent ; al- 
 ways afflicted; would be sullen or despondent. Hopes and 
 fears, joy and sorrow, are, therefore, so blended in his life, as 
 both to give room for wordly pursuits, and to recall, from 
 time to time, the admonitions of conscience. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 Time once past never returns : the moment which is lost, 
 is lost forever. 
 
 There is nothing on earth so stable, as to assure us of un 
 disturbed rest ; nor so powerful, as to afford us constant 
 protection. 
 
 The house of feasting too often becomes an avenue to 
 the house of mourning. Short, to the licentious, is the inter ^ 
 ral between them. 
 
 It is of great importance to us, to form a proper estimate 
 of human life ; without either loading it with imaginary 
 evils, or expecting from it greater advantages thaa it is able 
 to yield. 
 
 Among all our corrupt passions, there is a strong and inti- 
 mate connexion. When any one of them is adopted into our 
 family, it seldom quits until it has fathered upon us ail its 
 kindred. 
 
 Charity, like the sun, brightens every object on which it 
 bines , a censorious disposition casts every character into the 
 darkest shade it will bear. / 
 
 Many men mistake the love, for the practice of virtue ; and 
 are not so much good men, as the friends of gcoiiness. 
 
t*8 The English Reader. Part 1. 
 
 Genuine virtue has a language that' speaks to chrery heart 
 throughout the world. It is a language which is understood 
 by all. In every region, every climate, the homage paid to 
 it is the same. In no one sentiment, were^ever mankind 
 more generally agreed. •/ 
 
 The appearances of our security are freqijently deceitfuL 
 
 When our sky seems most settled and sei\fcie, in some un- 
 observed quarter gathers the little black cioc|i in which the 
 tempest ferments, and prepares to discharge itself on our 
 head. 
 
 The man of true fortitude may be compared to the castle 
 built on a rock, which defies the attacks of surrounding 
 waters : the man of a feeble and timorous spirit, to a hut 
 placed on the shore, which every wind shakes, and every wave 
 overflows. 
 
 Nothing is so inconsistent with self-possession as'-violent 
 anger. \i overpowers reason ; confounds our ideas ; distorts 
 the appearance, and blackens the colour of every object. 
 By the storms which it raises within, and by the mischiefs 
 which it occasions without, it generally brings on the passion- 
 ate and revengeful man, greater misery than he can bring on 
 the object of his resentment. 
 
 Th^ palace of virtue has, in all ages, been represented as 
 placed on the Eummit of a hiil ; in the ascent of which, La- 
 bour is requisite, and dilficuldes are to be surmounted ; and 
 ^^here a conductor is needed, to direct our way, and to aid 
 our steps. 
 
 In judging of others, let us always think the best, and em- 
 ploy the spirit of charity and candour. But in judging of 
 ourselves, we ought to be exact and severe. 
 
 Let him, who desires to see others happy, make haste to 
 give while his gift can be enjoyed ; and remember, that eve- 
 ry moment of delay takes away something from the value of 
 his benefaction. And let him who proposes his own happi- 
 ness reflect, that while he forms his purpose, the day rolls on, 
 and " the night comcth, when no man can work." 
 
 To sensual persons, hardly any tiling is what it appears to 
 be : and what flatters most, is always farthest from reahty. 
 There are voices which sing around them ; but whose strains 
 allure to ruin. There is a banquet spread, where poison is 
 in every dish. There is a couch which invites them to re- 
 pose ; but to slumber upon it, is death. 
 
 If we would judge whether a man is really happy, it is 
 >ot solely to his houses and lands, to his equipage and Lia 
 
Cliap. 1. Select Sentences, ^c. ^^ 
 
 retinue we are to look. Unless we could see ferther, and 
 discern what joy, or what bitterness, his heart feels^ we can 
 pronounce little concerning him. 
 
 The book is well written ; and I have perused it with plea- 
 sure and profit. It show&, first, that true devotion is rational 
 and well founded ; next, that it is of the highest importance 
 to every other part of religion and virtue ; and, lastly, that it 
 is most conducive to our happiness. 
 
 There is certainly no greater felicity, than to be able to 
 look back on a life usefully and virtuously employed ; to trace 
 our own progress in existence, by such tokens as excite neither 
 shame nor sorrow. It ought therefore to be the care of 
 those who wish to pass the last hours with comfort, to lay up 
 sucTi a treasure of pleasing ideas, as shall support the expenses 
 of that time, which is to depend wholly upon the fund already 
 acquired. 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 What avails the show -of external liberty, to one who has 
 lost the government of himself ? 
 
 He that cannot live well to-day, (says Martial,) will be less 
 qualified to live well to-morrow. 
 
 Can we esteem that man prosperous, who is raised to a 
 situation which flatters his passions, but which corrupts his 
 principles, disorders his temper, and finally oversets his virtue? 
 
 What misery does the vicious man secretly endure ! — 
 Adversity! how blunt are all the arrows of- thy quiver, in 
 comparison with those of guilt ! 
 
 When we have no pleasure in goodhess, we may with 
 certainty conclude the reason to be, that our pleasure is al! 
 derived from an opposite quarter. 
 
 How strangely are the- opinions of men altered, by a 
 change in their condition I 
 
 How many have had reason to be thankful, for being disap- 
 pointed in designs which they earnestly pursued, but -' ' 
 if successfully accomplished, they have aft^^^- 
 would have occasioned their ruin ! 
 
 What are the actions which afib^ ■ 
 rational satisfaction ? Are they the pu a plea- 
 
 sure, the riots of jollity, or the ditploj,- , vanity ? 
 
 No: I appeal to your hearts, mv ffieTi^Si, if what you r<i- 
 collect with most pleasure, are not theina . c-^iK the virtue 
 ousj the honourable parts of your past lif- 
 
 C ^ 
 
30 The English Reader. Parti. 
 
 The present employment of time should frequently be an 
 object of thought. About what are we now busied? What 
 is the ultimate scope of our present pursuits and cares ? Can 
 we justify them to ourselves ? Are they likely to produce any 
 thing that will survive the moment, and bring forth some 
 fruit for futurity ? 
 
 Is it not strange (says an ingenious writer,) that some 
 persons should be so delicate as not to bear a disagreeable 
 picture in the house, and yet, by their behaviour, force every 
 face they see about them, to wear the gloom of uneasiness 
 and discontent ? 
 
 \ If we are now in health, peace and safety ; without any 
 particular or uncommon evils to afflict our condition ; what 
 more can we reasonably look for in this vain and uncertain 
 world ? How little can the greatest prosperity add to such a 
 state ? Will any future situation ever n^ake us happy, if now, 
 with so few causes of grief, we imagine ourselves miserable ? 
 The evil lies in the state of our mind, not in our condition of 
 fortune ; and by no alteration of circumstances is likely to be 
 remedied. 
 
 When the love of unwarrantable pleasures, and of vicious 
 companions, is allowed to amuse young persons, to engross 
 their time, and to stir up their passions ; the day of ruin, — let 
 them take heed, and beware! the day of irrecoverable ruin 
 begins to draw nigh. Fortune is squandered ; health is bro- 
 ken ; friends are offended, affronted, estranged ; aged parents, 
 perhaps, sent afflicted and mourning to the dust. 
 
 On whom does time hang so heavily, as on the slothful 
 and lazy ? To whom are the hours so lingering ? Who are 
 so often devoured with spleen, and obliged to fly to every 
 expedient, which can help them to get rid of themselves ? 
 Instead of producing tranquilhty, indolence produces a fretful 
 restlessness of mind ; gives rise to cravings which are never 
 satisfied ; nourishes a sickly, effeminate delicacy, which sours 
 and corrupts every pleasure. 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 We have seen the husbandman scattering his seed upon 
 the furrowed ground ! It springs up, is gathered into his 
 barns, and crowns his labours with joy and plenty. — Thus 
 the man who distributes his fortune with generosity and 
 prudence, is arnply repaid by the gratitude of those whom he 
 obliges, b}^ the approbation of his own mind, and by the fa- 
 ^OTjr of Heaved' 
 
Chap. 1. Select Sentences^ ^c. 31 
 
 Temperance, by fortifying the mind and body, leads to hap- 
 piness : intemperance, by enervating them, ends generally in^ 
 misery. 
 
 Title and ancestry render a good man more illustrious ; 
 but an ill one, more contemptible. Vice is infamous, 
 though in a prince ; and virtue honoural^e, though in a 
 peasant. 
 
 An elevated genius employed in little things, appears (to 
 use the simile of Longinus) like the sun in his evening de- 
 clination : he remits his splendour, but retains his magnitude ; 
 and pleases more, though he dazzles less. 
 
 If envious people were to ask themselves, whether they 
 would exchange their entire situations with the persons en- 
 vied, (I mean their minds, passions, notions, as well as their 
 persons, fortunes, and dignities,) — I presume the self-love, 
 common to human nature, would generally make them prefer 
 their own condition. 
 
 We have obhged some persons : — very well ! — ^what Vt^ould 
 we have more ? Is not the consciousness of doing good, a 
 sufficient reward ? 
 
 Do not hurt 3'^ourselves or others, by the pursuit of plea- 
 sure. Consult your whole nature. Consider yourselves not 
 only as sensitive, but as rational beings ; not only as rational, 
 but social ; not only as social, but immortal. 
 
 Art thou poor ? — Show thyself active and industrious, peace- 
 able and contented. Art thou wealthy ? — Show thyself bene- 
 ficent and charitable, condescending and humane. 
 
 Though religion removes not all the evils of life, though 
 it promises no continuance of undisturbed prosperity, (which 
 indeed it were not salutary for man always to enjoy,) yet, if it 
 mitigates the evils which necessarily belong to our state, it 
 may justly be said to give " rest to them who labour and are 
 heavy laden." 
 
 What a smiling aspect does the love of parents and chil- 
 dren, of brothers and sisters, of friends and relations, give to 
 every surrounding object, and every returning day ! With 
 what a lustre does it gild even the small habitation, where 
 this placid intercourse dwells ! where such scenes of heartfelt 
 satisfaction succeed uninterruptedly to one another ! 
 
 How many clear marks of benevolent intention appear 
 every where around us ! Whctt a profusion of beauty and 
 ornament is poured forth on the face of nature! What a 
 magnificent spectacle presented to the view of man ! What 
 supply contrived for his wants I What a variety of objects 
 
32 The English Reader. Part I. 
 
 set before him, to gratify his senses, to employ his under- 
 standing, to entertain his imagination, to cheer and gladden his 
 heart ! 
 
 The hope of future happiness is a perpetual source of con- 
 solation to good men. Under trouble, it sooths their minds ; 
 amidst temptation, it supports their virtue ; and, in their dying 
 moments, enables them to say, *' O death I where is thy sting? 
 grave ! where is thy victory ?" 
 
 SECTION VII. 
 
 Agesilaus, king of Sparta, being asked, ^' What things he 
 thought most proper for boys to learn," answered, " Those 
 which they ought to practise when they come to be men." 
 A w^iser than Agesilaus has inculcated the same sentiment : 
 '' Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is 
 old he will not depart from it." 
 
 An Italian philosopher expressed in his motto, that^' time 
 was his estate." An estate indeed which will produce no- 
 thing without cultivation ; but which will always abundantly 
 repay the labours of industry, and satisfy the most extensive 
 desires, if no part of it be suffered to lie waste by negligence, 
 to be overrun with noxious plants, or laid out for show, rather 
 than use. 
 
 When Aristotle was asked, " What a man could gain by tell- 
 ing a falsehood," he replied, '' Not to be credited when he 
 speaks the truth." 
 
 L'Estrange, in his Fables, tells us that a number of frolic- 
 some boys were one day watching frogs, at the side of a pond ; 
 and that, as any of them put their heads above the water, they 
 pelted them down again with stones. One of the frogs, ap- 
 pealing to the humanity of the boys, mad'C this striking obser- 
 vation ; '* Children, you do not consider, that though this may 
 be sport to you, it is death to us." 
 
 Sully, the great statesman of France, always retained at 
 his table, in his most prosperous days, the same frugality to 
 which he had been accustomed in early hfe. He was fre- 
 quently reproached, by the courtiers, for this simplicity ; but 
 he used to reply to them, in the words of an ancient phi- 
 losopher : *' Jf the guests are men of sense, there is sufficient 
 for them : if they are not, I can very well dispense with their 
 company." 
 
 Socrates, though primarily attentive to the culture of bis 
 mind, was not negligent of his external appearance. His 
 eleanliness resulted from those ideas of order and decency, 
 
Chap. 1. Select Sentences, ^'C. S3 
 
 which governed all his actions ; and the care which he took 
 of his health, from his desire to preserve his mind free and 
 tranquil. 
 
 Eminent^ pleasing and honourable was the friendship be- 
 tween David and Jonathan. '* I am distressed for thee, my 
 brother Jonathan," said the plaintive and surviving David ; 
 *' very pleasant hast thou been to me : thy love for me was 
 wonderful ; passing the love of women." 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney, at the battle near Zutphen, was wound- 
 ed by a musket ball, which broke the bone of his thigh. He 
 was carried about a mile and a half, to the camp ; and being 
 faint with the loss of blood, and probably parched with thirst 
 tlirou^h the heat of the w^eather, he called for drink. It v>^as 
 immediately brought to him : but, as he was putting the ves- 
 sel to his mouth, a poor wounded soldier, who happened at 
 that instant to be carried by bim, looked up to it with wish- 
 ful eyes. The gallant and generous Sidney took the bottle 
 from his mouth, and delivered it to the soldier, saying, " Thy 
 necessity is yet greater than mine." 
 
 Alexander the Great demanded of a pirate, whom he had 
 taken, by what right he infested the seas ? *' By the same 
 right," replied he, " that Alexander enslaves the w^orld. Bat 
 I am called a robber, because I have only one small vessel ; 
 and he is styled a conqueror, because he commands great 
 fleets and armies." We too often judge of men by the splen- 
 dour, and not by the merit of their actions. 
 
 Antoninus Pius, the Roman Emperor, was an amiable and 
 good man. When any of his courtiers attempted to inflame 
 him with a passion for military glory, he used to answer :> 
 '^ That he more desired the preservation of one subject, than 
 the destruction of a thousand enemies." 
 
 Men are too often ingenious in making themselves miser- 
 able, by aggravating to their own fancy, beyond bounds, all 
 the evils which they endure. They compare themselves with 
 Done but those whom they imagine to be more happy ; and 
 complain, that upon them alone has fallen the whole load of 
 human sorrows. Would they look with a more impartial eye 
 on the world, they would see themselves surrounded with suf- 
 ferers ; and find that they are only drinking out of that mix- 
 ed cup, which Providence has prepared for all. — " I will re- 
 store thy daughter again to life," said the eastern sage, to a 
 pirhice who grieved immoderately for the loss of a belov- 
 ed ciiild, '• provided thou art able to engrave on her tom.b, 
 ihQ names of three persons who have never mourned." The 
 
34 The English Reader. Part 1, 
 
 prince made inquiry after such persons ; but found the inquiry 
 vain, and was silent, 
 
 SECTION VIII. 
 
 He that hath no rule over his own spirit, is like a city that 
 is broken down, and wilhout walls. 
 
 A soft answer turneth away wrath'; but grievous words stir 
 up anger. 
 
 Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox 
 and hatred therewith. 
 
 Pride goeth before destruction ; and a haughty spirit be- 
 fore a fall. 
 
 Hear counsel, and receive instruction, that thou mayest be 
 truly wi«e. 
 
 Faithful are the wounds of a friend ; but the kisses of 
 enemy are deceitful. Open rebuke is better than secret lov 
 
 Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit ? There is mor 
 hope of a fool than of him. 
 
 He that is slow to anger, is better than the mighty ; and he 
 that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city. 
 
 He that hath pity on the poor, lendeth to the Lord ; that 
 which he hath given, will he pay him again. 
 
 If thine enemy be hungr}^ give him bread to eat ; and it 
 he be thirsty, give him water to drink. 
 
 He that planted the ear, shall he not hear ? He that form- 
 ed the eye, shall he not see ? 
 
 I have been young, and now I am old ; yet have I never 
 seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread. 
 
 It is better to be a door-keeper in the house of the Lord, 
 than to dwell in the tents of wickedness. 
 
 I have seen the wicked in great power ; and spreading him- 
 self hke a green bay-tree. Yet he passed away : I sought 
 him, but he could not be found. 
 
 Happy is the man that findeth wisdom. Length of days 
 is in her right hand ; and in her left hand, riches and 
 honour. Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her 
 paths are peace. 
 
 How good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell to- 
 gether in unity ! It is like precious ointment : Like the dew 
 of Hermon, and the dew that descended upon the mountains 
 of Zion, 
 
 The sluggard will not plough by reason of the cold ; he 
 shall therefore beg in harvest, and have nothing. 
 
Chap. I. Select Sentences, ^c, 35 
 
 I went by the field of the slothful, and by the vineyard of 
 the man void of understanding : and lo ! it was ^11 grown 
 over with thorns ; nettles had covered its face ; and the stone 
 wall was broken down. Then I saw, and considered it well ; 
 I looked upon it, and received instruction. 
 
 Honourable age is not that which standeth in length of 
 time ; nor that which is measured by number of years : — 
 But wisdom is the gray hair to man ; and an unspotted life is 
 old age. 
 
 Solomon, my son, know thou the God of thy fathers ; and 
 serve him with a perfect heart, and with a willing mind. If 
 thou seek him, he will be found of thee ; but if thou forsake 
 him, he will cast thee off forever. 
 
 SECTION IX, 
 
 That every day has its pains and sorrows is universally ex- 
 perienced, and almost universally confessed. But let us not 
 attend only to mournful truths : if we look impartially about 
 us, we shall find, that every day has likewise its pleasures and 
 its joys. 
 
 We should cherish sentiments of charity towards all men. 
 
 The Author of all good nourishes much piety and virtue in 
 
 hearts that are unknown to us ; and beholds repentance 
 
 ready to spring up among many, whom we consider as 
 
 r reprobates. 
 
 No one ought to consider himself as insignificant in the 
 sight of his Creator. In our several stations, we are all sent 
 forth to be labourers in the vineyard of our heavenly Father. 
 Everyman has his work allotted, his talent committed to 
 him ; by the due improvement of which he may, in one 
 way or other, serve God, promote virtue, and be useful in the 
 world. 
 ll. The love of praise should be preserved under proper sub- 
 pordination to the principle of duty. In itself, it is a useful mo- 
 i.tive to action ; but when allowed to extend its influence too 
 far, it corrupts the whole character, and produces guilt, dis- 
 grace, and misery. To be entirely destitute of it, is a defect. 
 To be governed by it, is depravity. The proper adjustment 
 of the several principles of action in human nature is a mat- 
 ter that deserves our highest attention. For when any one 
 cf them becomes either too weak or too strong, it endangers 
 ifcth our virtue and our happiness. 
 
 The desires and passions of a vicious man, having once ob- 
 ^'5med Djri unlimited sway, trample him under their feet. They 
 
36 The EnglM Reader. Part 1. 
 
 make him feel that he is subject to various, contradictory, 
 and imperious masters, who often pull him different ways 
 His soul is rendered the receptacle of many repugnant and 
 jarring dispositions ; and resembles some barbarous country, 
 cantoned out into different principalities, which are continually 
 waging war on one another. ^ 
 
 Diseases, poverty, disappointment, and s]i^|ne, are far from 
 being, in every instance, liie unavoidable doom of man. 
 They are much more frequenilj^ the offspring of his own mis- 
 guided choice. Intemperance engenders disease, sloth pro- 
 duces povert}^ pride creates disrippointments, ^nd dishonesty 
 exposes to shame. The ungoverned passions of men betray 
 them into a thousand follies ; their follies into crimes ; and 
 their crimes into misfortaiie?. 
 
 When we reflect on the many distresses wbdcli abonnd 
 in human life ; on tlie sc inty j)roportion of hrippiaess 
 which any man is here allovved to enjoy ; on the small 
 difference which the diversity of fortune m.dves on that 
 scanty proportion ; it is surpiieing, tb.at env^^ should ever 
 have been a prevalent passion among men, much more that 
 it should have prevailed among Clirislians. WliCte so much 
 is suffered in common, little room is left f)r envy, 'i'here is 
 more occasion for pity and sympatliyj c'lul inclination to assist 
 each other. 
 
 At our first setting out in life, when yet unacquainted 
 with the wodd and its snares, when every pleasure enchants 
 with its smile, and every object sr.ines with the gloss of 
 novelty, let us beware of the seducing appearances which 
 surround us ; and recollect what others have suffered 
 from the power of headstrong desire. If we allow any 
 passion, even though it be esteemed innocent, to acquire 
 an absoKite ascendant, our inward peace will be impaired. 
 But if any, which has the t:unt of guilt, take early possession 
 of our mind, we may date, from that moment, the ruin of 
 our tranquillity. 
 
 Every man has some darling passion, which generall 
 affords the first introduction to vice. The irregular grati- 
 fications, into which it occasionally seduces him, appear un-. 
 der the form of venial weaknesses ; and are indulged, in 
 the beginning, with scrupulousness and reserve. But, by 
 Ioniser practice, these restraints weaken, and the power of 
 habit grows. One vice brings in another to its aid. By 
 a sort of natural affinity they connect and entwine tUern 
 
 
CJiap. 1. Select Sentences, <^'C, ol 
 
 selves together ; till their roots come to be spread wide and 
 deep over all the soul. 
 
 SECTION X. 
 
 Whence arises the misery of this present world ? It is 
 not owing t|| onr cloudy atmosphere, our changing sea- 
 sons, and iiMement skies. It is not owing to the debility 
 of our bodies, or to the unequal distribution of the goods 
 of fortune. Amidst all disadvantages of this kind, a pure, 
 a steadfast, and enlightened mind, possessed of strong vir- 
 tue, could enjoy itself in peace, and smile at the impotent 
 assaults of fortune and the elem.ents. It is within ourselves 
 that misery has fixed its seat. Our disordered hearts, our 
 guilty passions, our violent prejudic<=»s, and misphxed desires, 
 are the instruments of the trouble which we endure. These 
 sharpen the iJarts -which adversitj^ would otherwise point in 
 vain against us. 
 
 While the vain and the licentious are revelling in Ibe 
 midst of extravagance and riot, how little do they Ihink ot 
 those scenes of sore distress v/hich are passing at that mo- 
 ment throughout the world ; multitudes struggling for a 
 poor subsistence, to support the wife and children whom 
 they love, and who look up to them with eager eyes for 
 that bread which they can hardly procure ; multitude? 
 groaning under sickness in desolate cottages, untended and 
 unmourned ; many, apparently in a better situation of life, 
 pining away in secret with concealed griefs; families weeping 
 over the beloved friends wliom they have lost, or in all the 
 bitterness of anguish, bidding those who are just expiring the 
 last adieu. 
 
 Never adventure on too near an approach to xvliat is 
 evil. Familiarize not yourselves with it, in the slightest in- 
 stances, without fear.. Listen with reverence to every re- 
 prehension of conscience ; and preserve the most quick and 
 accurate sensibility to right and wrong. If ever your morai 
 hnpressions begin to decay, and your natural abhorrence of 
 guilt to lessen, you have ground to dread that the ruin of vir- 
 tue is fast approaching. 
 
 By disappointments and trials the violence of our pas-., 
 sions is tamed, and our minds are formed to sobriety and 
 reflection. In the varieties of life, occasioned by the xi- 
 cissitudes of worldly fortune, we are inured to habits boli- 
 of the active and the suffering virtues. How rnu«;): ---orf** 
 
 
 
38 The English Reader. Part L 
 
 we complain of the vanity of the world, facts plainly show, 
 that if its vanity were less, it could not answer the purpose 
 of salutary discipline. Unsatisfactory as it is, its pleasures 
 are still too apt to corrupt our hearts. How fatal then 
 must the consequences have been, had it yielded us more 
 complete enjoyment? If, with all its troubles, we are in dan- 
 ger of being too much attached to it, how erSp-ely would it 
 have seduced our affections, if no troubles had been mingled 
 with its pleasures? 
 
 In seasons of distress or difficulty, to abandon ourselves 
 to dejection, carries no mark of a great or a worthy mind. 
 Instead of sinking under trouble, and declaring " that his 
 soul is weary of life," it becomes a wise and a good man, 
 in the evil day, with firmnes to maintain his post ; to bear 
 up against the storm ; to have recourse to those advantages 
 which, in the worst of times, are always left to integrity and 
 virtue ; and never to give up the hope that better days may 
 yet arise. 
 
 How many young persons have at first set out in the world 
 with excellent dispositions of heart ; generous, charitable, 
 and humane ; kind to their friends, and amiable among all 
 with whom they had intercourse ! And yet, how often have 
 we seen all those fair appearances unhappily blasted in the 
 progress of life, merely through the influence of loose and 
 corrupting pleasures : and those very persons, who promised 
 once to be blessings to the world, sunk down, in the end, to 
 be the burden and nuisance of society ! 
 
 The most common propensity of mankind, is, to store futu- 
 rity with whatever is agreeable to them ; especially in those 
 periods of life, when imagination is lively, and hope is ardent. 
 Looking forward to the year now beginning, .they are ready 
 to promise themselves nrtich, from the foundations of pros- 
 perity which they have laid ; from the friendships and con- 
 nexions which they have secured ; and from the plans of con- 
 duct which they have formed. Alas ! how deceitful do all 
 these dreams of happiness often prove I While many are say- 
 ing in secret to their hearts, '* To-morrow shall be as this dav. 
 and more abundantly," we are obliged in return to say to 
 them ; '' Boast not yourselves of to-morrow ; for you know 
 not what a day may bring forth !" 
 
Shap» 2 , JVarrative Pieces* 38 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 NARRATIVE PIECES. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 JVo rank or possessions can make the guilty mind happy* 
 
 DioNYSius, the tyrant of Sicily, was far from being hap- 
 py, though he possessed great riches, and all the pleasures 
 which wealth and power could procure. Damocles, one of 
 his flatterers, deceived by those specious appearances of hap- 
 piness, took occasion to ccmpliment him on the extent of his 
 power, his treasures and royal magniticence : and declared 
 that no monarch had ever been greater or happier than Dio- 
 nysius.^^ " Hast thou a mi^d, Damocles," says the king, " to 
 taste this happiness ; and to know, by experience, what the 
 enjoyments are, of which thou hast so high an idea ?" Daino-* 
 cleS; with joy, accepted the offer. The king ordered that a 
 royal banquet should be prepared, and a gilded sofa, covered 
 with rich embroidery, placed for his favourite. Side boards, 
 loaded with gold and silver plate of immense value, vvere 
 arranged in the apartment^ Pages., of extraordinary bciuty 
 w6re ordered to attend his table, and to obey his commands 
 with the utmost readiness, and the most profound submissioii. 
 Fragrant ointments, chaplets of flowers, and rich perfumes. 
 were added to the entertainment. The table was loaded 
 with the most exquisite delicacies of every kind. Damo- 
 cles, intoxicated with pleasure, fancied himself amongst 
 superior beings./ /But in the midst of all this happiness, as 
 he lay indulging himself in state, he sees let down from the 
 ceiling, exactly over his head, a glittering sword hung by 
 a single hair. The ^ight of impending destruction put a 
 speedy end to his joy and revelling. The pomp of his at- 
 tendance, the glitter of the carved plate, and the delicacy 
 of the viands, cease to ailord him any pleasure. He dreads 
 to stretch forth his hand to the table. He throv/s oti' the 
 garland of roses. He hastens io remove from his dangerous 
 situation ; and earnestly entreats the king to restore him to 
 his former humble condition, having no desire to enjoy any 
 longer a happiness so terrible. 
 
 s*By this device, Dionvsius intimated to Damocles, how 
 miserable he was in the midst of all his treasures ; and in pos- 
 session of all the honours and enjoymoDls which rojrJty could 
 bestow* CICERO. 
 
40 The English Reader. Part L 
 
 SECTION ir. 
 
 Caange of external condition is often adverse to virtue. 
 
 In the days of Joram, king of Israel, flourished the 
 prophet Ehsha. His character was so eminent, and his 
 fame so widely spread, that Benhadad, the king of Syria, 
 though an idolater, sent to consult him, concerning the 
 isgue of a distemper which threatened his life. The mes- 
 seoger employed on this occasion was Hazael, who appears 
 to have heen one of the princes, or chief men of the 
 Syrian court. Charged with rich gifts from the king, he 
 presents himself before the prophet ; and accosts him in 
 terms of the highest respect. C- During the conference 
 which they held together, Elisha fixed his eyes stedfistly on 
 the co^ar-teri'^nce of Hazael ; and discerning, by a prophetic 
 spirit, his future tyranny and cruelty, he could not con- 
 vain himself from bursting into a flood of tears. When 
 Hazael, in surprise, inquired into the cause of this sudden 
 emotion, the prophet plainly informed him of the crimes and 
 barbarities, v/hich he foresaw that he would afterwards com- 
 iiiit. The soul of Hazael abhorred, at this time, the 
 ihoughts of cruelty. ^ Uncorrupted, as yet, by ambition or 
 >i,Teatness, his indignatron rose at being thought capable of 
 ihe savage actions which the prophet had mentioned ; and, 
 V, ith much warmth he replies ; " But what ? is thy servant a 
 dog, that he shguld do tliis great thing ?" Elisha makes no re- 
 tarn, but to point out a remarkable change, which was to 
 take place in his condition ; '' The Lord hath shown me, that 
 ihoii slialt be king over Syria." In course of time, all that 
 had been predicted came to pass. 4r Hazael ascended the 
 throne, and ambition took possession of his heart. '' He 
 .^nio!e the children of Israel in ail their coasts. He oppres- 
 sed t.^em during all the days of king Jehoahaz :" and, from 
 what is left on recprd of his actions, he plainly appears to 
 Lave proved, what the prophet foresaw him to be, a man of 
 violence, cruelty, and blood. ^ 
 
 In this passage of history, an object is presented, which 
 
 deserves our scrJLpus attention. We behold a man who, in 
 
 onn state of life, could not look upon certain crimes vvjth- 
 
 out surprise and horror ; who knew so little of himself, as 
 
 believe it impossible for him ever to be concerned in 
 
 ommitting them ; that same man, by a change of condi- 
 
Chap, 2. Narrative Pieces: 41 
 
 tion, and an unguarded state of mind, transformed in all his 
 sentiments ; and as he rose in greatness rising also in guilt ; 
 till at last he completed that whole character of iniquity^ 
 which he once detested Jj^^ blair 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 Haman ; or^ the misery of pride, 
 
 \ Ahasuerus, who is supposed to be the prince known 
 among the Greek historians by the name of Artaxerxes, 
 had advanced to the chief dignity in his kingdom, Haman, 
 an Amalekite, who inherited all the ancient enmij of his 
 race, to the Jewish nation. He appears, from what is re- 
 corded of him, to have been a very wicked minister. 
 Raised to greatness without merit, he employed his power 
 solely for the gratification of his passions. As the honours 
 which he possessed were next to royal, his pride was every 
 day fed with that servile homage, which is peculiar to 
 Asiatic courts ; and all the servants of the king prostrated 
 themselves before him. 'j^In the midst of this general adu- 
 lation, one person only stooped not to Haman. This was 
 Mordecai the Jew ; who, knowing this Amalekite to be 
 an enemy to the people of God, and, with virtuous indig- 
 nation, despising that insolence of prosperity with which he 
 saw him lifted up, '' bowed not, nor did him reverence." 
 On this appearance of disrespect from Mordecai, Haman 
 " was full of wrath : but he thought scorn to lay hands 
 on Mordecai alone." '^Personal revenge was not suificient 
 to satisfy him. So violent and black were his passions, that 
 he resolved to exterminate the whole nation to which 
 Mordecai belonged. Abusing, for his cruel purpose, the 
 favour of his credulous sovereign, he obtained a decree to 
 be sent fortl^that, against a certain day, all the Jews 
 throughout thP^Persian dominions should be put to the 
 sword. [^Meanwhile, confident of success, ?.nd blind to ap- 
 proaching ruin, he continued exulting in his prosperity. 
 Invited by Ahasuerus to a royal banquet, which Esther 
 the queen had prepared, '* he went forth that day joyful, 
 and with a glad heart." But behold how slight an inci- 
 dent was sufficent to poison his joy ! As he went forth, he 
 Si^w Mordecai in the king's gate ; and observed, that he 
 te'tili refused to do him homage : *' He stood not up,, not 
 was moved for him;" although he well knew the for- 
 muLrra- dP'siP'ns. which H.-iman was prennrinp- to s^iAf^je^nut 
 
-i^ Tlie English Reader. Part 1. 
 
 One private man, who despised his greatness, and disdained 
 submission, while a whole kingdom trembled before him ; 
 one spirit, which the utmost stretch of his power could 
 neither subdue nor humble, bUsteddiis triumphs. ^ His whole 
 soul was shaken with a storm of pal^ion. Wrath, pride, and 
 desire of revenge, rose into fur}^ With difficulty he re- 
 strained himself in public ; but as soon as he came to his 
 own house, he was forced to disclose the agony of his mind. 
 He gathered together his friends and family, with Zeresh his 
 wife. *' He told them of the glory of his riches, and the 
 multitude of his children^ and of all the things wherein the 
 king haf promoted him ; and how he had advanced him 
 above the princes and servants of the king. He said, 
 moreover. Yea, Esther the queen suffered no man to come 
 in with the king, to the banquet that she had prepared, but 
 myself ; and to-morrow also am I invited to her with the 
 king." After all this preamble, what is the conclusion ? 
 * Yet all this availeth me nothing, so long as 1 see Mordecai 
 the Jew sitting at the king's gate." 
 
 The sequel of Ham^an's history I shall not now pursue. 
 It might afford matter for much instruction, by the con- 
 spicuous justice of God in his fall and punishment. But con- 
 templating only the singular situation, in which the expres- 
 sions just quoted present him, and the violent agitation of his 
 mind which they display, the following reflections naturally 
 arise : How miserable is vice^ when one guilty passion 
 creates so much torment ! how unavailing is prosperity, when 
 in the height of it, a single disappointment can destroy the 
 relish of all its pleasures I how weak is human nature, 
 which, in the absence of a real, is thus prone to form to itself 
 imaginary woes ! blair. 
 
 SECTION IV 
 
 Lady Jane Gray, 
 
 This excellent personage was descended from the royal 
 line of England by both her parents. 
 
 She was carefully educated in the principles of the re- 
 formation ; and her wisdom and virtue rendered her a shin- 
 ing example to her sex. But it was her lot to continue 
 only a short period on this stage of being ; for, in e.trly 
 life, she fell a sacrifice to the wild ambuion of the duke of 
 Novthunibevhmd ; who promoted a marria^:^e between hep 
 w lid his son, lord Guilford Dudley; tmd raised her to th^^ 
 
Chap, 2 Karrative Pieces, 43 
 
 throne of England, in opposition to the rights of Mary and 
 Elizabeth. At the time of their marriage, she was only 
 about eighteen years of age, and her husband was also very 
 young : a season of life very unequal to oppose the interested 
 views of artful and aspiring men ; who, instead of exposing 
 them to danger, should have been the protectors of their in- 
 nocence and youth. 
 
 This extraordinary young person, besides the solid endow- 
 ments of piety and virtue, possessed the most engaging dispo- 
 sition, the most accomplished parts ; and being of an equal 
 age with king Edward VI. she had received all her education 
 with him, and seemed even to possess a greater facility in ac- 
 quiring every part of manly and classical literature. She had 
 attained a knowledge of the Roman and Greek languages, as 
 well as of several modern tongues ; had passed most of her time 
 in an application to learning ; and expressed a great indifference 
 for other occupations and amusements usual with her sex and 
 station. Roger Ascham, tutor to the lady Elizabeth, having 
 at one time paid her a visit, found her employed in reading 
 Plato, while the rest of the family were engaged in a party 
 of hunting in the park ; and upon his admiring the singularity 
 of her choice, she told him, that she " received more pleasure 
 from that author, than others could reap from all their sport 
 and gaiety." Her heart, replete with this love of hterature 
 and serious studies, and with tenderness towards her husband, 
 who was deserving of her affection, had never opened itself 
 to the flattering allurements of ambition ; and the information 
 of her advancement to the throne was by no means agreeable 
 to her. She even refused to accept the crown ; pleaded the 
 preferable right of the two princesses ; expressed her dread 
 of the consequences attending an enterprise so dangerous, 
 not to say so criminal ; and desired to remain in that private 
 station in which she was born. Overcome at last with the 
 entreaties, rather than reasons, of her father and father-in- 
 law, and, above all, of her husband, she submitted to their 
 will, and was prevailed on to relinquish her own judgment. 
 But her elevation was of very short continuance. The na- 
 tion declared for queen Mary ; and the lady Jane, after wear- 
 ing the vain pageantry of a crown during ten days, returned 
 to a priv^ate life, with much more satiisfaction than she felt 
 ^iien. royalty was tendered to her. 
 
44 The English Reader. Part 1. 
 
 Queen Mary, who appears to have been incapable of 
 generosity or clemency, determined to remove every person, 
 from whom the least danger could be apprehended. Warn- 
 ing was, therefore, given to lady Jane to prepare for death ; 
 a doom which she had expected, and which the innocence of 
 her life, as well as the misfortunes to which she had been 
 exposed, rendered no unwelcome news to her. The queen's 
 bigoted zeal, under colour of tender mercy to the prisoner's 
 soul, induced her to send priests, who molested her with 
 perpetual disputation ; and even a reprieve of three days was 
 granted her, in hopes that she would be persuaded, during 
 that time, to pay, by a timely conversion to popery, some 
 regard to her eternal welfare. Lady Jane had presence of 
 mind, in those melancholy circumstances, not only to defend 
 her religion by solid arguments, but also to write a letter to 
 her sister, in the Greek language ; in which, besides send- 
 ing her a copy of the Scriptures in that tongue, she exhorted 
 her to maintain, in every fortune, a like steady perseverance. 
 On the day of her execution, her husband, lord Guilford, 
 desired permission to see her ; but she refused her consent, 
 and sent him word, that the tenderness of their parting would 
 overcome the fortitude of both ; and would too much unbend 
 their minds from that constancy, which their approaching 
 end required of them. Their separation, she said, would be 
 only for a moment ;* and they would soon rejoin each other in 
 a scene, where their affections would be forever united ; and 
 where death, disappointment, and misfortune, could no longer 
 have access to them, or disturb their eternal felicity. 
 
 It had been intended to execute the lady Jane and lord 
 Guilford together on the same scaffold, at Tower hill ; 
 but the council, dreading the compassion of the people for 
 their youth, beauty, innocence, and noble birth, changed 
 their orders, and gave directions that she should be behead- 
 ed within the verge of the Tower. She saw her husband 
 led to execirtion ; and having given him from the window 
 some token of her remembrance, she waited with tran- 
 quillity till her own appointed hour should bring her to a 
 like fate. She even saw his headless body carried back in 
 a cart j and found herself more conhrmed by the reports, 
 which phe heard of the constancy of his end, than shaken 
 by so tender and melancholy a spectacle. Sir John Gage, 
 constable of the Tower, when he led her to execution, de- 
 sired her to bestow on him some small preseHt, which he 
 
Oiap, 2. jYarrative Pieces, 46 
 
 might keep as a perpetual memorial of her. She gave 
 htm her table-book, in which she had just written three 
 sentences, on seeing her husband's dead body ; one in 
 Greek, another in Latin, a third in Enghsh. The purport 
 of them was, "that human justice was against his body, but 
 the Divine Mercy would be favourable to his soul; and that 
 if her taalt deserved punishment, her youth, at least, and 
 her imprudence, were worthy of excuse ; and that God and 
 posterity, she trusted, would show her favour." On the 
 ' scaffold, she made a speech to the by-standers, in which the 
 mildness of her disposition led her to take the blame entirely 
 on herself, without uttering one complaint against the severi- 
 ty with which she had been treated. She said, that her of" 
 fence was, cot that she had laid her hand upon the crov/n, 
 but||hat she had not rejected it with sufficient constancy ; that 
 she had less erred through ambition than througl reverence 
 to her parents, whom she- had been taught to respect and 
 obey : that she willingly received death, as the only satisfac- 
 tion which she could now make to the injured state ; and 
 though her infringement of the laws had been constrained, 
 she would sho^ by her voluntary submission to their sen- 
 tence, that she was desirous to atone for that disobedience, 
 into which too much filial piety had betrayed her : that she 
 had justly deserved this punishment, for being made the in- 
 strument, though the i«nwilling instrument^ of the ambition 
 of others : and that the story of her life, she hoped, might 
 at least be useful, by proving that innocence excuses not 
 great misdeeds, if they tend any way to the destruction of 
 the commonv/ealtb.— Afteiluttering these words, she caus- 
 ed herself to be disrobed b}^her women, and with a steady^, 
 serene counte' aace, submitted herself to the excutioner. 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 I 
 
 Oriogrul ; or^ the vanity of riches. 
 
 As Ortogrul of Basra was one day wandering along the 
 streetSf of Bagdat, musing on the varieties of merchandise 
 which the shops opened to his view ; and observing the dif- 
 ferent occupations which busied the multitude on every ?ide, 
 he was awakened from the tranquJllity of meditatior, by a 
 « rowd that obstructed his passage. He raised his eyes , -lud 
 nv the chief vizier, who, having returned from the divan > 
 f^'^y euferiDg his palace 
 
46 TJve English Reader. Port 1. 
 
 Ortogrui mingled with the atteiidants ; and being supposed 
 to have some petition 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 owa 
 little habitation. f 
 
 *' Surely," said he to himself, " thi^ palace is the seat of 
 happiness ; where pleasure succeeds to pleasure, and discon- 
 tent 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 lux- 
 ury cover his table ! the voice of harmony lulls him in hh 
 bowers ; he breathes the fragrance of the groves of Java, 
 and sleeps upon the down of the cygnets of Ganges/ He 
 speaks, afAi his mandate is obeyed ; he wishes, and his wish 
 is gratified ; all, whom he sees, obey him, and all, whom he 
 hears, flatter him. Kov/ different. Oh Ortogrui. is thy con- 
 d**ion, who art doomed to the perpetual torments of unsatis- 
 fied 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 v/hat does wisdom avail with poverty ? 
 None will flatter the poor ; and the wise have very little pow- 
 er of flattering themselves. That man is surely the most 
 wretched of the sons of wretchedn^, v/ho 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 aot found it'l^.will from this 
 moment endeavour to be rich.'/ J 
 
 Full of his new resolution, pe shut himself in his cham- 1 
 ber for six months, to deliberate how he should grow rich. 
 He sometimes purposed to offer himself as a counsellor to 
 one of the kings in India ; and sometimes rresolved to dig m 
 for diamonds in the mines of Golcondiif One day, after i 
 some hours passed in violent fluctuption of opinion, sleep 1 
 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 
 befoie him. "Ortogrui," said the old man, " I know 
 thy perplexity ; listen to thy father ; turn thine eye on the 
 o^>posite mountain/' Ortogrui looked, and saw a torrent. 
 
 sircci 
 
Chap, 2. Narrative Pieces, 47 
 
 tumbling down the rocks, roaring with the noise of thun 
 der, and scattering its foan^ on the impending woods 
 ** Now," said his father, '' behold the valley that lies be- 
 tween the hills." Ortogrul looked, and espied a little well, 
 out of which issued a small rivulejr. '' Tell me now," said 
 his father, " dost thou wish for sudden affluence, that may 
 pour upon thee like the mountain torrent ;r4^ for a slow 
 and gradual increase, resembling the rill gliding from the 
 well F* ''Let me be quickly rich," said Ortogrul; *' let 
 the golden stream be quick and violent." '' Look round 
 thee," said his father, '* once again." Ortogrul looked, and 
 perceived the channel of the torrent dry and dusty ; but fol- 
 lowing the rivulet from the well, he traced it to a wide lake, 
 which the supply, slow and constant, kept always full. He 
 awoke, and determined to grow rich by silent profit, and 
 persevering industry .m 
 
 Having sold his patrimony, he engaged in merchandise ; 
 and in twenty years purchased hmds, 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 aH the felicity which he had imagined riches able to 
 afford.^Lcisure soon mide ni weary of himself, and he 
 longed^o be persuaded that he was great and happy. 
 He was courteous afid liberal : he gave all that approached 
 him hopes of pleasing hini^nd --^who should plejse him, 
 hopes of being rewarded /^fcvery art of praise was tried, 
 and every source of adulatory fica^n was exhausteckifl^Orto- 
 grul henrd his flatterers without di light, because n^ found 
 himself unable to beheve tbem. 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 use- 
 less ! Let no man hereafter wish to be rich, who is already 
 too wise to be flattered. ^^gv/ DR. jqhnsox. 
 
 SECTION Vfc / 
 
 ^Jhe hill of science. 
 
 h; that seaso^Foi the \ear, when the serenity of the sky, 
 the various fruits which cover the ground, the discoloured 
 foli>:^/e of the trees, and e^ll the sweet, but fading graces 
 ot ^a-piring' autumn. opeMpthe mind to benevolence, and 
 
 pose it tor contemplation, I was wandering in a beauti- 
 ?nd romantic Gountrv. till curiosity began to give way 
 
48 Tfie English Reader. Part K 
 
 to weariness ; and I sat down on the fragment of a rock 
 overgrown with moss ; where the rustling of the falling 
 leaves, the dashing of waters, and the hum of the distant 
 city, soothed my mind into a most perfect . tranquillity ; 
 and sleep insensibly stole upon me, as I was indulging the 
 agreeable reveries, which the objects around me naturally 
 inspired. \J9^ 
 
 I immediately found myself in a vast extended plain, in 
 the middle of which arose a mountain higher than I had be- 
 fore any conception of. It w^as covered with a multitude of 
 people, chiefly youth ; many of whom pressed forward with 
 the liveliest expression of ardour in their countenance, j 
 though the way was in many places steep and difficult.! 
 I observed, that those, who had but just begun to climb 
 the hill, thought themselves not far^rom the top ; but as 
 they proceeded^ new hills were con^ually rising to their 
 view ; and the summit of the highest they could before 
 discern seemed but the foot of another, till the mountain 
 at length appeared to Iosp itself in the clouds. As 1 was 
 gazing on these things with astonishment, a friendly instruc- 
 ter suddenly appeared : '' Ih^ mountain before theQi|' said 
 he, " is tlie Hill of Science. wOn the top is the t^ple of 
 Truth, v-hose head is abov^Tthe clouds, and a veil of pure 
 light covers her face. Observe the progress of her votaries : 
 be silent and attentive." >^ ^i^ 
 
 After I had noticed a variety^^lbf objects, 1 turned my 
 eye toTtards the multitudes who were climbing the steep as- 
 cent ; and observed amongst them a yOuth of a hvely 
 look, a piercing eye, and something fiery and irregular in 
 all his motions. Aliis name w^as Genius. He darted like 
 an eagle up the mountain ; and left his companions gazing 
 after him with envy and admiration : but his progress was 
 unequal, and interrupted by a tjiousand caprices. When 
 Pleasure warbled in the valley, fe^ mingled in her train. 
 When Pride beckoned towards the precipice, he ventured 
 to the tottering edge.^He delighted in devious and un- 
 tried paths ; and made so many excursions from the road, 
 that his feebler companions often outstripped him. 1 ob- 
 served that the Muses beheld him with partiality ; but ' 
 Truth often frowned and turned aside her tace. ^While 
 Genius was thus wasting his strength in eccentric Rights, I 
 saw a ; erson of very diilere^c aj^pearance, #rmi»^d Ap. 
 plication. He ci^pt along with a slow andAinremittir< 
 pace, his evc^ f>xpd on •.h'"' '••^n of the nu^unLirn. ni^t^icnU 
 
Chap, 2. Narrative Pieces. 49 
 
 removing every stone that obstructed his way, till he saw 
 most of those below him, who had at first derided his 
 slow and toilsome progress. {^Indeed, there were few 
 who ascended the«pwith equal, and uninterrupted steadi- 
 ness ; for, besides ^he difficulties of the way, they were 
 continually sohcited to turn aside, by a numerous crowd 
 of Appetites, Passions, and Pleasures, whose importunity, 
 when once complied with, they became less and less able 
 to resist : and though they often returned to the path, the 
 asperities of the road w^ere more severely fel4 ; the hill ap- 
 peared more steep and rugged ; the fruits,' which were 
 w^holesome and refreshing, seemed harsh and ill tasted ; 
 their sight gr^w dim ; and their feet tript at every little 
 obstruction. V / 
 
 I saw, wilTrsome surprise, that the Muses, whose busi- 
 ness was to che^and encourage those who were toiling up 
 the ascent, wouia often sing in the bowers of Pleasure? 
 and accompany those who were enticed away at the call of 
 the Passions. •They accompanied them, however, but a 
 little way ; aira always forsook them when they lost sight 
 of the hill. The tyrants then doubled their chains upon 
 the unhappy captives ; and led them away, without resist- 
 ance, to the cells of Ignorance, or the mansions of Mis- 
 ery. «• Amongst the innumerabje seducers, who were en- 
 deavouring to draw away the votaries of Truth from the 
 path of science, there was one,^o little formidable in her 
 appearance, and so gentle and languid in her attempts, 
 that I should scarcely have taken notice of her, but for 
 the numbers she had imperceptibly loaded with her chains. 
 Indolence, (for so she was called,) far from proceeding to 
 open hostilities, did not attempt to turn their feet out of 
 the path, but contented herself w^th retarding their pro- 
 gress ; and the purpose she could not force them to aban- 
 don, she persuaded them to delay. ^ Her touch had a 
 power like that of the torpedo, which withered the strength 
 of those who came within its influence. Her i>nhappy 
 captives still turned their faces towards the temple, and 
 always hoped to arrive there ; but the ground seemed to 
 slide from beneath their feet, and they found themselves at 
 the bottom, before they suspected they hsd changed their 
 place,/(j|jrhe placid serenity, which at first appeared in 
 their countenance, changed by degrees into a melancholy 
 languor, which was tinged with deeper and deeper gloom, 
 .s they glided down the stream of Insignificance : a dapk 
 
 E 
 
iO The English Reader, Part 1. 
 
 and sluggish water, which is curled by no breeze, and en- 
 livened by no murmur, till it falls into a dead sea, where 
 
 startled passengers are awakjined by the shock, and the next 
 moment buried in the gulf of Oblivionjg^ 
 
 Of nil the unha^jpy deserters from the pffis of Scienee, none 
 seemed less able to return than the followers of Indolence. 
 The captives of Appetite and Passion would often seize the 
 moment when their tyrants were languid or asleep, to escape 
 from their enchantment ; but the dominion of Indolence was 
 constant and unremitted ; and seldom resisted, till resistance 
 was in vain, ^y 
 
 After contemplating these things, I turned my eyes towards 
 the top of the mountain, where the air was always pure and 
 exhilarating, the path shaded with laurels an^d ^evergreens. 
 arid the effulgence which beamed from the flice of Science 
 seemed to shed a glory round her votaries ^iHappy, said I, 
 are they who are permitted to ascend the mountain ! But 
 while I was pronouncing this exclamation, with uncommon 
 ardour, I saw, standing beside me, a form of dinner fe itures, 
 an:l a more benign radiance. " happier," said she, '' are 
 they whom Virtue conducts to the Mansions of Content. " 
 '' "^Vhat," said I, " does Virtue then reside in the vale ?" '* I 
 am found," said she, "in the vale, and I illuminate the 
 mountain. I cheer the cattager at his toil, and inspir^ the 
 sage at his meditation. I mingle in the crowd of cities, and 
 bJess the hermit in his cell. 1 1 have a temple in every heart 
 that owns my influence , and to him that wishes for me, I am 
 already present. Science may Taise thee to eminence ; but I 
 alone can guide thee to felicity 1" While Virtue was thus 
 speaking, I stretched out my arms towards her, with a 
 vehemence v/hich broke my slumber. The chill dews were 
 f:illit!g around me, and the shades of evening stretched over 
 the landscape. I hastened homeward ; and resigned the 
 night to silence and m^itation. \J aiken- 
 
 SECTION VII. 
 
 The journey of a day; a picture of hmnanlife, 
 
 Obiuaii, the son of Abei>sina, left the caravansera early 
 in the morning, and pursued his journey througfh the 
 pl.uns of Indostan. He was fresh and viu;orous with rest ; 
 he W.J? .jnia^ ited with hope ; hp was incited by desire ; he 
 walked swiftly forward over the valliejs^ and saw the hills 
 
Chap, 2. Yarrattve Pieces. 51 
 
 gradually rising before him. v-^As he passed along, his ears 
 were delighted with the morning song of the bird of para- 
 dise ; he was fanned by the last flutters of the sinking 
 breeze, and sprinkled with Jew by groves of spices. He 
 sometimes contempWed th* towering height of the oak, 
 monarch of the hills ; and sometimes canght the gentle fra- 
 grance of the primrose, eldest daughter of the spring : ail 
 his senses were gratilied, and all care was banished from his 
 heart. (^^^^ 
 
 Thus ne went on," till the sun approached his meridian^ 
 and the increased heat preyed upon his strenirth ; he then 
 looked round about him for some more comrno(^ious path. 
 He saw, on his rii^ht hand, a grove that seemed to wave its 
 shades as a sign of invitation.; he entered it, and found the 
 coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant. ^He did not, how- 
 ever, forget whkher he was travelling ; but found a narrow 
 way bordered >TOh flovvers, which ap^ared to have the 
 same direction with the main road ; and was pleased, that, 
 by this happy experiment, he had found rnetins to unite 
 pleasure with business, and to gain the rewards of diligence 
 without suffering its fatigues. ^^He, therefore, still continued • 
 to walk for a time, without thdj^ast remission of his ardour, 
 except that he was sometimes tempted to stop by the music 
 of the birds, which the heat had assembled in the shade ; 
 and sometimes amused himself with plucking the ilowers that 
 covered the banks on either side, or the fruits that hung 
 upon the branches. ^At last, the green path began to decline 
 from its first tendency^ and to wind among hills and thickets. 
 cooled with fountains, and murmuring with waterfalls. Here 
 Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider vvhether it 
 were longer safe to forsake the known and common track ; 
 but remembering that the heat was now in its greatest vio- 
 lence, and that the plain was dusty and uneven, he resolved 
 to pursue the new path, which he supposed only to make a 
 few meanders, in compliance with the varieties of the ground, 
 and to end at last in the common road. \^ 
 
 Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, 
 though he suspected that he v^^as not gaining ground. This 
 uneasiness of his mind inclined him to lay hold on every 
 tiew object, and give way to every sensation that might 
 sooth or divert him./ He listened to every echo ; he 
 mounted every hill for a fresh prospect ; he turned aside 
 to every cascade ; and pleased himself with tracing th^. 
 
52 The English Reader. Part 1 . 
 
 course of a gentle river that rolled among the trees, and 
 watered a large region with innumerable circumvolutions. 
 in these amusements, the hours passed away unaccounted ; 
 his deviations had perplexed Us n^etnory, and he knew not 
 towards what point to travel. •He sto# pensive and confus- 
 ed, afraid to go forward lest m? should go wrong, yet con- 
 scious that the time of loitering was now past. While he 
 was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was overspread 
 with CiOuds ; the day vanished from befcme hig^^; and a sad- 
 den tempest gathered round his head,f^4ie was* now roused 
 by his danger to a quick and painful remembrance of his fol- 
 ly ; he npw saw how happiness is lost when ease is consult- 
 ed ; he lamented the unmanly impatience that prompted him 
 to seek shelter in the grove ; and despised the petty curios- 
 ity that led him on from trifle to trifle. While he was thus 
 reflecting, the air grew blacker, and a clap of thunder broke 
 his meditation. x^JkJ^^-^-^'''^^ — ■-^'"' *' 
 
 He now resolved to do what yet remained in his power, 
 to tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to 
 find some issue where the wood might open into the plain. 
 He prostrated himself on thegground, and recommended his 
 life to the Lord of Nature. AHe rose with conlidence and 
 tranquillity, and pressed on with resolution. The beasts of 
 the desert were in motion, and on every hand were heard 
 the mingled howls of rage and fear, and ravage and expira- 
 tion, iill the horrors of darkness and sohtude surrounded 
 him : the winds roared in the woods ; ^d the torrents tum- 
 bled from the hills. A 
 
 Thrs forlorn and "distressed, he wandered through the 
 wild, without knowing whither he- was going, or whether 
 he was every moment drawing nearer to safety, or to de- 
 structign. At length, not fear, but labour, began to over- 
 come him ; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled ; 
 and he was on the point of lying down in resignation to his 
 fate, when he beheld, through the brambles, the glimmer of 
 a taper.J^He advanced towards the light ; and finding that it 
 proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at 
 the door, and obtained admission. The old man set before 
 him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on which 
 Oliidah fed with eagerness and gratitude. V^ 
 
 When the repast was over, '' Tell me," said the hermit, 
 ^ by what chance thou hast been brought hither ? I have 
 leen now twenty years an inhabitant of the wilderness, in 
 
 I 
 
Qtap, 2. V Nnrrative Pieces, 53 
 
 which I never saw a man before." Obidah then related the 
 occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or pal- 
 liation. (^ gf 
 
 '* Son," said the hermit, " let the errors and folhes, the 
 dangers and escape of this day, sink deep into thy heart. 
 Remember, my son, that human life is the journey of a 
 day. We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigour, 
 and full of expectation ; we set forward with spirit and hope, 
 with gaiety and with* diligence, and travel on a while in the di- 
 rect road of piety towards the mansions of rest.% In a short 
 time, we remit (mr fervour, and endeavour to find some mi- 
 tigation of our duty, and some more easy means of obtaining 
 the same end. We then relax our vigour, and resolve no 
 longer to be terrified with crimes at a distance ; but rely 
 upon our own constancy, and venture to approach what we 
 resolve never to touch. 4(/j/Ve flius enter the bmvers of ease, 
 and repose in the shades of security. Here the heart sof- 
 tens, and vigilance subsides ; we are then willing to inquire 
 whether another advance cannot be made, and whether we 
 may not, at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of plea- 
 sure. ^We approacji them with scruple and hesitation ; we 
 enter them, but enter timorous and trembling ; and always 
 hope to pass through them without losing the road of virtue, 
 which, for a while, we keep in our sight, and to which we 
 purpose to return. But temptation succeeds temptation, and 
 one compliance prepares us tor another ; we in time lose the 
 happiness of innocence, and solace our disquiet with sen- 
 sual gratifications. By degrees, w^ let fill the remem- 
 brance of our original intention, and * uit the only adequate 
 object of rational desire, fe We entangle ourselves in business, 
 immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths 
 of inconstancy ; till the darkness of old age begins to invade 
 us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look 
 back upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repen- 
 tance ; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not 
 forsaken the ways of virtu e^^^Happy are they, my son, who* 
 shall learn from th 3^ example, not to despair; but j= hail re- 
 member, that, though the day is past, and their strength is 
 waste*^d, there j'et remain^ one effort to be made f that re- 
 formation is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavours ever un- 
 assisted ; that the wanderer may at length return after all his 
 errors ; and that h^who implores strength and courage from 
 above, shall find Hunger and difficulty give w^^y before him. 
 Qo nowj my son, to thy repose ; commit thvseif to tlie ear-;. 
 
64 The English Reader, , Fart 1. 
 
 ©f Omnipotence ; and when the morning calls again to toil, 
 begin anew thy journey and thy life." I dr. johnson. 
 
 CHAP. HI. 
 DIDACTIC PIECES. 
 
 ^ SECTION I. 
 
 The importance of a good Education. 
 
 I CONSIDER a human soul, without education, like mar- 
 ble in the quarry : which shows none of its inherent beau- 
 ties, until the skill of the polisher fetches out the colours, 
 makes the surface shine, and d§iGovers every ornamen- 
 tal cloud, spot, and vein, that runs through the body of it. 
 l^ducation, after the same manner, when it works upon a 
 noble mind, draws out to view every latent virtue and perfec- 
 tion, whichy without such helps, are never able to make their 
 appearance. # J^ , V ' 
 
 If my reader will give me leave to^change the allusion so 
 soon upon him, I shall make use of the same instance to il- 
 lustrate the force of education, which Aristotle has brought 
 to explain his doctrine of substantial forms, when he tells us 
 that a statue lies hid in a block of marble ; and that the art 
 of the statuary only clears away the superfluous matter, and 
 removes the rubbish.4|The figure is in the stone, and the 
 sculptor only finds it. *What sculpture is to a block of mar- 
 ble, education is to a human soul^ The philosopher, the 
 saint, or the hero, the wise, the good, or the great man, 
 very often lies hid and concealed in a plebeian, which a pro- 
 per education might have disinterred, and have brought to 
 light. I am therefore much dolighted with reading the ac- 
 counts of savage nations ; and with contemplating those vir- 
 tues which are wild ai)^d uncultivated : to see courage exert- 
 ifiig itself in fierceness, resolution in obstinacv, wisdom in 
 cunning, patience in sullenness and despair. \jL^ 
 
 J\Ien's passions operate variously, and appear in differ- 
 ent kinds of actions, according as they are more or less 
 rectified and swayed by reason. When one hears of ne- 
 jrrres, who, upon the death of their masters, or upon 
 changing their service, hang themselves upon the next tree, 
 .10 it sometimes happens \^ our American plantations, wfec 
 
Chap, o. Didactic Pieces, 55 
 
 can forbear admiring tbeir fideIity*hough it expresses itself 
 in 80 dreadful a manaei>? What mio^ht not thatipiijfe«i^e^ great- 
 ness of soul, which app\^rs^n thes|^^oor ^oj^hes on many 
 occasions, be raised to, w*ere|rit ri^iy culti^^d ? 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 
 prospects 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 ?»/. 
 
 It is therefor^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 
 lib^^^al education, rise abpve one another by several different 
 degrees of perfectionqg^or, to return to our statue in the 
 block of marble, we see it sometimes only begun to be chip- 
 ped, sometimes rough hewn, and but just sketched into a hu- 
 man figure ; sometimes, \^ see the man appearing distinctly 
 
 W in all his limbs and features , sometimes, we find the figure 
 wrought up to great elegancy ; but seldom meet with any to 
 
 * which the hand of a Phidias or a Praxiteles could not give 
 several nice touches and finishings./^. addison. 
 
 ^ 
 
 SECTION IL 
 
 On Gratitude. 
 
 There is not a more pleasing exercise of the mind, than 
 gratitude- It is accompanied with so great inward satisfac- 
 tion, that ihe duty is sufficiently rewarded by the perform- 
 ance. It is not, like the practice of many other virtues, dif- 
 ficult and painful, but attended with so Jpuch pleasure, that 
 were there no positive command which enjoined it, nor any 
 recompense laid up for it hereafter, a generous mind would 
 indulge in it, for the natural gratification which it affords. J^ 
 
 If gratitude is due from man to man, how much moi*e~- 
 from man to his Maker : The Supreme Being does not 
 only confer upon us those bounties which proceed more im- 
 mediately from his handj but even tho^e benefits which are 
 
56 The English Reader. Part 1. 
 
 convByed to us by othA;s. Every blessing we enjoy^ by 
 js soever it OKy be derived upon us, is the gift of 
 rthe great Author of good, and the Father of 
 
 when exerted towards one another, naturally 
 Fery pleasing sensation in the mind of a grateful 
 man, it exalts the soul into rapture, when it is employed on 
 this great object of gratitude ; on this beneficent Being, who 
 has given us every thing we already possess, and from whom 
 we expect every thing we yet hope for. 4|^ abdison. 
 
 SECTION III. 
 On Forgtoeness, 
 
 The most pUin and natural sentiments of equity concur 
 with divine authority, to enforce the duty of forgiveness. 
 Let him who has never in his life done wrong, be allowed 
 the privilege of remaining inexorable. But let such as are 
 conscious of frailties and crimes, consider forgiveness as a 
 debt which they owe to others. Common failings are the ; 
 strongest lesson of mutual forbeararice.^Were this virtue 
 unknown among men, order and comfort, peace and repose, 
 would be strangers to human lifei|p^Injuries retaliated accord- ^bi 
 ing to the exorbitant measure wiich passion prescribes,^*! 
 would excite resentment in return. I The injured person |\ 
 would become the injurer ; and thus wmngs, retaliations, and ^ 
 fresh injuries, would circulate in endless succession, till the • 
 world was rendered a field of blood.^Of all the pa^^sion^^ 
 which invade the human breast, revenge is the most direful^^ 
 When allowed to reign with full dominion, it is more thanSP^ 
 sufficient to poison the few pleasures which remain to man 
 in his present state. |#How much soever a person may suffer 
 from injustice, he is always in hazard of suffering more from 
 the prosecution of revenge. 1.1 The violence of an enemy cap- 
 not inflict what is equal to the torment he creates to himself, 
 by means of the fierce and desperate passions which he allows 
 to rage in his soulw Uj^ ^ 
 
 Those evil spirits who inhabit the regions of misery are 
 represented as delighting in revenge and cruelty. But all 
 that is great and good in the universe, is on the side of 
 clemency and mercy. - The almighty Ruler of the world, 
 though for ages offen(Ted by the unrighteousness, and in- 
 sulted by tlie impiety of men, is '' lonir suffering and slow 
 to anger."' *iiis ^on, when he appeared in our nature, €:£- 
 
Chap. 3. Didactic Pieces, 57 
 
 hibited, both in his life and his death, the most illustrious 83^- 
 ample of forgiveness which the w.orM.ever beheld. s^If we 
 look into the histcfcy^ of mankind, we shallfiM that, in every 
 age, ^v who have been respected as worthy, or admired as 
 great^ave been distinguished for this virtuejlkevenge dwells 
 in little mindsJ* A noble and magnanimouirt]pirit is always 
 superior to it. It suffers not from the injuries of men those 
 severe shocks which others feel. OGollected within itself, it 
 stands unmoved by their impotent assaults ; and with gene- 
 rous pity, rather than with anger, looks down on their unwor- 
 thy conduct. It has been truly said, that the greatest man 
 on earth can no, sooner c^ommit an injury, than a good man 
 can make himself greater, ''^jjfergiving it. f^^r blair. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 Motives to the practice of genW^ss. 
 
 To promote the virtue of gentleness, we ought to view our 
 character with an impartial eye ; and to learn, from our own 
 failings, to give that indulgence which in our turn we claim. 
 It is pride which fills the world with so much harshness and 
 severity. Jji In the fulness of self-estimation, we forget what, 
 we are. RKVe claim attentions to which we are not. entitled. # 
 
 rWe are rigorous to offences, as if w^e had never offended ; 
 unfeeling to distress, as if we knew not what it was to suffer. 
 From those airy regions of pride and folly, let us descend to 
 our proper level. 0Let us survey the natural equality on which 
 Providence has placed man with man, and reflect on the in- 
 firmities common to all.^ If thai reflection on natural equality 
 and mutual offences, be insufficient to prompt humanity, let 
 us at least remember what we are in Me sight of our Grea- 
 tor. Have we none of that forbearanc^to give one another, 
 which we all so earnestly entreat from heaven ? Can we look 
 for clemency or gentleness from ou*r Judge, when we are so 
 backward to show it to our own brethren 1i6(fJ 
 
 Let us also accustom ourselves, to reflect en the small mo- 
 ment ofjj^se things, which are the usual incentives to vio- 
 lence and contention. In the ruffled and angry hour,- we 
 view every appearance through a false medium. The most 
 inconsideraMp point of interest, or honour, swells into a mo- 
 mentous obrect ; and the slightest attack seems to threaten 
 immediate ruin, #But after passien or pride has subsided, we 
 look around in vain for the nJghty mischiefs we dreaded r*?^' 
 The fabric, which our disturbed imagination had rearedj to^ 
 
58 * The English Reader, fart 1. 
 
 ^tally (disappears. But Ihough the cause of contention has 
 dwin-dled away, its consequences remainA j We have alienated 
 a friend ; we hare imbittered an enemyj* we have sown the 
 seeds of future suspicion, malevolence, or disgust.JPLet ^s 
 
 suspend ourgfc)lence for a moment, w^hen causes ol^iscord 
 occur. Let i^' anticipate that period of c®*olness, which, of 
 itself, will soon arrive, ft Let us reflect how little we have any 
 prospect of gaining b}^ fierce contention ; but how much of 
 the true happiness,-of life we are certain of throwing away. 
 Easily, and /rom the smallest chink, the bitter waters of strife 
 are let forth ; but their course cannot be foreseen ; and he sel- 
 dom fails of suffering most fronajtheir pokpnous effect, who 
 first allowed tl?tm to flow, f^^j^th^j^^^ A A blair. 
 
 ^ SECTION V. ^ ^ 
 
 A suspiciou^Knper the source of misery toils possesso?. 
 
 As a suspicious spirit is the source of many crimes and 
 calamities in the world, so it is the spring of certain^ misery 
 to the person who indulges it. His friends will be feW ; and 
 small will be his comfort in those whom he possesses. Be-« , 
 lievin^ others to be his enemies, he will of course make theiMJ 
 suclf^^Let his caution be ever so great, the asperity of his* 
 thoughts will often break out in his behaviour ; and in returi^ 
 for suspecting and hating, he will incur suspicion and hatredW 
 Besides the external evils which he draws up^n himself, arising 
 from alienated friendship, broken confiden|^, and open enmity ^a 
 the suspicious temper itself is one of the worst evils which an« ! 
 man can suffer, yf " in all fear there is torment," how miseraF*- 
 ble must be his state Who, by living in perpetual jealousy, lives 
 in perpetual dread JeLoo king upon himself to be surrounded 
 with spies, enemies^id designing men, he is a stranger to re- 
 liance and trust.JHe Knows not to whom to open himselr He 
 dresses his countenance ^ forced smiles, while his heart throbs 
 within from apprehensions of secret treachery. Hence fretful- 
 ness and ill-humour, disgust at the world, and all the painful 
 sensations of an irritated and imbittered mind.\jL^ 
 
 So numerous and great are the evils arising frorSTa suspi- 
 cious disposition, that, of the two extremes, it is more eligible' 
 to expose ourselves to occasional disadvantage|i:om thinking 
 too well of others, than to suffer continual mi^y by think- 
 ing always ill of them, sjltis better to be %metime9 imposed 
 upon, than never to trust, ff Safety is purchased at too dear a 
 rate, when, in order to secure it, we are obliged to be alwjay* 
 
Ohap, 3. Didactic Pieces > 6i 
 
 must decide our hopes and apprehensions : and the wisdom;, 
 which, hke our Saviour, cometh from above, will, through his 
 merits, bring us thither. All our other studies and pursuits, 
 however different, ought to be subservient to, and centre in, 
 this grand point, the pursuit of eternal happiness, by being 
 good in ourselves, and useful to the world. [^ seed- 
 
 SECTION VIIL 
 On the importance of order in the dim^ihution of our time. 
 
 Time we ought to consider as a sacred trust committed to 
 us by God ; of which we are now the depositaries, and are 
 to render an account at the last. That portion of it which he 
 has allotted to us, is intended uJjfcJj ^^^ ^^^ concerns of this 
 world, partly for those of the ^xt. Let each of these oc* 
 cupy, in the distribution of our time, that space which pro- 
 perly belongs to it. Let not the hours of hospitality and 
 ple^^jsure interfere with the discharge of our necessary affairs ; 
 and let not what we Call necessary affairs, encroach upon the 
 time which is due to devotion. ■KTo every thing there is a 
 season, and a time for every purpose under the heaven. If 
 we delay till to-morrow what ought to be done to-day, we ^ 
 overcharge the morrow with a burden which belongs not to 
 it. We load the wheels of time, and prevent them from 
 carrying us along smoothly. He who every morning plans 
 the transactions of the day, and follows out that plan, carries 
 en a thread wMch will guide him through the labyrinth of the 
 most busy life^The orderly arrangement of his time is like 
 a ray of iight,wl)ich darts itself through all his affairs. But, 
 where no plafiTis laid, where the disposal of time is surren- 
 dered merely to the chance of incidents, all things lie hud- 
 dled together in one chaos, which admits neither of distribu- 
 tion nor review, ^s^^^^ 
 
 The first requisite ioi^nm)ducing order into the manage- 
 ment of time, is to be impressed with a just sense of its 
 value. Let us consider weW how much depends upon it, and 
 how fast it flies away. The bulk of men are in nothing 
 more capricious and inconsistent, than in their appreciation of 
 time. When they think of it, as the measure of their con- 
 tinuance on earth, they highly prize it, and with the greatest 
 anxiety seek to lengthen it out. But when they view it ii. 
 separate parcels, they appear to hold it in contempt, anu 
 sq^tjrnder it with inconsiderate profusion^tJ^ While they com 
 iplain that life is short, thej^ are often wishing it* ^\n'?r - 
 
62 The English Reader Part 1. 
 
 periods at an end. Covetous of every other possession, of 
 time only they are prodigal. They allow every idle man to 
 be master of this property, and make every frivolous occupar- 
 tion welcome that can help them to consume it. Among 
 those who are so careless of time, it is not to be expected 
 that order sh^d be observed in its distribution.^ But, by this 
 fatal neglect, how many materials of severe and lasting regret 
 are they laying up in store for themselves ! The time which 
 they suffer to pass awl|^ in the midst of confusion, bitter re- 
 pentance seeks afterwards in vain to recall. What was omit- 
 ted to be done at its proper moment, arises i-o be the torment 
 of some future season. Manhood is disgraced by the conse- 
 quences of neglected youth. ^Oid age, oppressed by cares that 
 belonged to a former perio^^abours under a burden not its 
 own. At the close of life, the^dying man beholds with anguisk 
 that his days are finishing, when his preparation for eternity 
 is hardly commenced. Such are the efiects of a disorderly 
 waste of time, through not attending to its value. Every thing 
 in the life of such persons is misplaced. Nothing is perform- 
 ■ed aric^ht, from not being pAformed in due season. ^^^.^^'^ 
 
 But he who is orderly in The distribution of his time, takes 
 ihQ proper method of escaping those manifold evils. He is 
 justly said to redeem the time. By proper manng^ment, he 
 prolongs it. fie lives much in httle space ; more in a few 
 vears than others do in many. He can live to God and his 
 own soul, and at the same time attend to all the lawful in- 
 terests of th^ present world. He looks back^n the past, and 
 provides for the future.^He catches and arr^s the hours as 
 they fly. They are marked down for useful purposes, and 
 their memory remains. Whereas those hours fleet by the 
 man of confusion like a shadow. His days and years are 
 either blanks, of which he has no re:nembr,mce, or they arfe 
 filled up with so confused '"'•^^^'JIJlBp^!^^^ '^ succession of un- 
 Imished transactions, that ihoi--|nneie members he has been 
 busy, yet he can give no account of the business which h-a^ 
 employed him. blair. 
 
 ^ SECTION IX. 
 
 Tke dignity of virtue amidst corrupt examples, 
 
 \ The most excellent and honourable character which can 
 adorn a man and a Christian, is acquired by resisting the tor- 
 rent of vice, and adhering to the cause of God and virtue 
 against a corrupted multitude. It will be found ta hold in 
 
Chap* 3- Didactic Pieces, 6S 
 
 general, that they, who, in any of the great lines of life, have 
 distinguished themselves for thinking profoundly, and acting 
 nobly, have despised popular prejudices ; and departed, in se- 
 veral things, from the common ways of the world. On no oc- 
 casion is this more requisite for true honour, than where reli- 
 gion and raorahty are concerned J^ln times of prevailing li- 
 centiousness, to maintain unblemished virtue, and uncorrupted 
 integrity ; in a pubhc or a private cause, to stand firm by 
 what is fair and just, amidst discouragements and opposition ; 
 despising groundless censure and reproach ; disdaining all 
 compliance with public manners, when they are vicious and 
 unlawful ; and never ashamed of the punctual discbarge of 
 every duty towards God and man ; — this is what shows true 
 greatness of spirit, and will force approbation even from the 
 degenerate multitude themselves. *' This is the man," (their 
 conscience will oblige them to acli^owledge,) " whom we are 
 iinuble to bend to mean condescensions. We see it in vain 
 eitherUo flatter or to threaten him : he rests on a principle 
 within, wliicb we cannot shake. To this man we may, on any 
 occa^sion, safelv commit our cause, lie is incapable cf be- 
 traying his trust, or deserting his friend, or denying his faith." 
 If-It is, accordindy, this steady indexible virtue, this rega^-d 
 to principle, superior to all custom and opinion, which peeu- 
 liarlv marked the characters of those in any age, who have 
 shone vi^ith distinguished lustre ; and has cosecrated their 
 memory to all posterity. It rvas this that obtained to ancient 
 Enoch the most singular testimony of honour from heaven. 
 He continued to -^v/alk with God, "'^ when the world aposta- 
 tized from him.rHe pleased God, and was beloved of him ; 
 so that living among sinners, he was translated to heaven 
 without seeing death ; " Yea, speedily v/as he taken away, 
 lest wickedness should have altered his understanding, or 
 deceit beguiled his soul." When Sodom could not furnish 
 ten righteous men to save it. Lot remained unspotted amidst 
 the contagion. He lived like an angel among spirits of dark- 
 ness ; and the destroying flame w^as not permitted to go forth, 
 till the good man was called away-, by a heavenly messenger, 
 from his devoted city.^ When " all flesh had corrupted their 
 way upon the earth," then lived Noah, a righteous man, and 
 n preacher of righteousness. He stood alone, and was scoff- 
 ed by the prof me crew. But they by the deluge were swept 
 ewliy ; while on him. Providence conferred the immortal ho- 
 nour, of being the restorer of a better race, and the father of 
 a new world. Such examples as these, and such honour 
 
04 The English Reader. Pari 1. 
 
 Gonferred by God on them who withstood the multitude of 
 evil doers, should often be present to our minds. >^ Let us op- 
 pose them to the numbers of low and corrupt examples, 
 which we behold around us \ and when we are in hazard of 
 being swayed by such, let us fortify our virtue, by thinking 
 of those who, in former titnes, shone like stars in the midst 
 of surrounding darkness, and are now shining in the kingdom 
 of heaven, as the brightness of the firmament, for ever and 
 
 SECTION X. 
 
 The mortifications of vice greater than those of virtue. 
 
 Though no condition of human life is free from uneasiness, 
 yet it must be allowed, that the uneasiness belonging to a sin- 
 ful course, is far greater, than what attends a course of well- 
 doing. If we are weary of the labours of virtue, we may be 
 assured, that the world, whenever we try the exchange, will 
 h\y upon us a much heovier load. It is the outside only, of a 
 licentious life, which is gay and smiling. ^Within, it conceals 
 toil, and trouble, and deadly sorrow. For vice poisons hu- 
 man happiness in the spring, by introducing disorder into the 
 heart. Those passions which it seems to indulge, it only 
 feeds with imperfect gratifications ; and thereby strengthens 
 them for preying, in the end, on their unhappy victims. ,Z- 
 \ It is a great mistake to imag' .e^ that the pain of self-denial 
 jfs confined to virtue. He who follows the world, as much as 
 he who follows Christ, must " ttike up his cross ;" and to him 
 assuredly, it^will prove a more oppressive burden. Vice al- 
 lows all our passions to range uncontrolled ; and where each 
 claims to be superior, it is impossible to gratify all. The pre- 
 dominant desire can only be indulged at the expense of its 
 rival. No mortifications which virtue exacts, are more severe 
 than those, which ambition imposes upon the love pf ease, 
 pride upon interest, and covetousness upon vanity .^^elf-de- 
 nial, therefore, belongs, in common, to vice ajid virtue ; but 
 with this remarkable difference, that the passions which vir- 
 tue requires us to mortify, it tends to weaken ; whereas, those 
 which vice obliges us to deny, it, at the same time, strengthens. 
 The one diminishes the paiu of self-denial, by moderating the 
 demand of passion ; the other increases it, by rendering those 
 'lemands imperious and violent.,/ What distresses that occur 
 •n the calm life of virtue, can be compared to those tortures, 
 ' ;> ch remorse of conscieaqe inllicts on the wicked ; to those 
 
Chap, 3. Didactic Pieces. 65 
 
 severe humiliations, arising from guilt combined with misfor-- 
 tunes, which sink them to the dust ; to those violent agita- 
 tions of shame and disappointment, which sometimes drive 
 them to the most fatal extremities, and make them abhor 
 their existence j^f low often, in the midst of those disastrous 
 situations, into which their crimes have brought them, have 
 they execrated the seductions of vice ; and, with bitter regret, 
 looked back to the day on which they first forsook the path of 
 innocence ! blair 
 
 SECTION XL 
 
 On Contentment* 
 
 Contentment produces, in some measure, all those effects 
 which the alchymist usually ascribes to what he calls the phi- 
 losopher's stone ; and K it does not bring riches, it does the 
 same thing, by banishing the desire of them. If it cannot re- 
 move the disquietudes arising from a man's mind, body, of 
 fortune, it makes him easy under them. It has indeed a kind- 
 ly influence on the soul of man, in respect of every being to 
 whom he stands related, r It extinguishes all murmur, repin- 
 ing, and ingratitude, towards that Being who has allotted him 
 his part to act in this world. It destroys all inordinate ambi- 
 tion, 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.^^-^ 
 
 Among the many methods which might be made use of for 
 acquiring this virtue, I shall mention only the two following. 
 First of all, a man should always consider how much he has 
 more than he wants ; and secondly, how much more unhappy 
 he might be than he really is. ^ "^ — 
 
 First, a man should always consider how much he has more 
 than he wants I am wonderfully pleased with the reply 
 which ^ristippus made to one, who condoled with him upon 
 the loss of a farm : '' Why," said he ''' I have three forms still, 
 and you have but one ; so that I ought rather to be afflicted 
 for you, than you for me." On the contrary, foolisli men are 
 more apt to consider what they have lost, than what they pos- 
 sess ; and to fix their eyes upon those who are richer than 
 themselves, rather than on those who are under grentcr dif- 
 ficulties, if 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 5:ot 
 the start of them in wealth and honour. For this renson, as 
 i^cne can be properly called rich, who have \ioi more tha^r 
 
^^ The English Keader, Part I, 
 
 they want, there are few rich men in any of the politer na- 
 lioils, hut among the middle sort of people, who keep their 
 wishes withio their fortunes, and have more wealth than ihey 
 know how to enjoy. ^ Persons of a higher rank live in a kind 
 of splendid poverty^ and are perpetually ^jraniing, hecause, 
 instead of acquiescing in the solid pleasures of life, ihev en- 
 deayour 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, they enjoy all that secret satis- 
 foction which others are always in quest of. j The truth is, 
 this ridiculous chase after imaginary pleasures/ cannot be suf- 
 ficiently exposed, as it is the great source of those evils which 
 generally undo a nation. Let a man's estate be what it lOiiy, 
 he is a poor roan, if he does not live within it ; and naturally 
 sets himself to sale to any one that can give him his price. 
 ^When Pittacus, after the death of his brother, who had lefl 
 aim a good estate, was offered a great sum of money by the 
 king of Lydia, he thanked! him for his kindness ; but told him, 
 He had already more by half than he knew what to do with. 
 in short, content is equivalent to wealth, and luxury to poverty ; 
 or, to give the thought a more agreeable turn, '* Content 
 is natural wealth,'' says Socrates ; towliich 1 shall add, luxury 
 is artificial poverty. ; 1 shall therefore recommend to the consi- 
 deration of those, who are always iiiming at superfluous and 
 imaginary enjoyments, and who will not be at the trouble ol 
 contracting their desires, an excellent saying of Bion th*; 
 philosopher, namely, ••* That no man has so niu^ care, as he 
 who endeavours after the most happiness. '"^ 
 
 In the second place, every one ought to refiect how much 
 more unhappy he ought be, than he really is. — The former 
 consideration took in all tho<se, who are sufliciently provided 
 with the means to make themselves easy ; this regards such 
 as actiKilly lie umler some prc*^sure or misfortune. These 
 may receive great alleviation, from such a comparisoo as the 
 inhappy person may make bet*?een himself and others ; or 
 )elwecD the misfortune which he suffers, and greater misfor- 
 tunes which might have befailen him. — ^ ^ 
 I hke the story of the honest Dutchman, who, v.; 
 
 n^ his leg by a tVdl trozn the niain-m;fest, told the si 
 
 : was a great mercy that it was not his neck* To \^ 
 =ince I am got in quotations^ give nie leave to add the -.. 
 •ng of an old phiio^pber, who, after having icviird some of 
 
 II 
 
Chap, 3. Didactic Pieces. 07 
 
 came into the room in a pad.'^ion, and threw down the table 
 that stood before tliejri : V' Every one/' says he, " lias his ca- 
 lamity ; and he is a happy man tliat has no greater that this." 
 We find an inslance to the same purpose, in the life of doctor 
 Hammond, written by bishop Fell. As this good man was 
 troubled with a comphcation 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 tinui-. "" 
 
 I cannot conclude tiiis essay without observing, that tliore 
 never was any system besides that of Cliristianity, wliicli 
 could effectually produce in the mind of man the virtue 1 
 have been hitherto speaking of. In order to make us content- 
 ed with our condition, many of the present philosophers tell 
 ns, that our discontent only hurts ourselves, without being 
 able to make any alteration in our circumslances ; others, 
 that whatever evil befalls us is derived to us by a fatal neces- 
 sity, to which superior beings themselves are subject ; while 
 others, very gravely, tell the man who is miserable, that it is 
 necessary he should be so, to keep up the harmony of the uni- 
 verse ; and that the scheme of Providence would be troubled 
 and perverted, were he otherwise. -^Tbese, and the like 
 considerations, rather silence than satisfy a man. They may 
 show him that his discontent is unreasonable, but they are by 
 rio means sufficient to relieve it. They rather give despair 
 tiuiTi 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 1 grieve." 
 
 On the contrary, religion bears a more tender regard to bus- 
 man nature. It prescribes to every miserable man the means 
 of bettering his condition : nay, it s^hows him, that bearing 
 his afflictions as he ought to do, will naturally end in the re- 
 moval of them. It makes^ him easy here, because it can make 
 him happy hereafter. addison. 
 
 SECTION XII. 
 
 ^ Rank and riches afford no ground for envy. 
 
 Of all the grounds of envy among men, superiority in rank 
 md fortune is the most general. Hence, the mahgnity which 
 he poor commonly bear to the rich, as engrossing to them- 
 elves all the comforts of life. HencC; the ^il eye with 
 
68 The English Reader, Part 1. 
 
 which persons of inferior station scrutinize those who are 
 above them in rank ; and if they approach to that rank, their 
 envy is j^enerally strongest against such as are just one step 
 higher than themselves. — Akis! my friends, all this envious 
 disquietude, which agitates the world, arises from a deceitful 
 figure which imposes on the public view. False colours are 
 hung out : the real state of men is not what it seems to be. 
 The order of society requires a distinction of ranks to take 
 place : but in point of happine;ss, all men come much nearer 
 to equality than is commonly imagined ; and the circumstan- 
 ces, which form any mcft^ial difference of happiness among 
 them, are not of that nature which renders them grounds of 
 envy. The poor man possesses not, it is •true, some of the 
 conveniences and pleasures of the rich ; but, in return, he is 
 free from many embarrassments to which they are subject. 
 By the simplicjiy and uniformity of his life, he is dehvered 
 from that variety of cares, which perplex those who have 
 great affairs to manage, intricate plans to pursue, many ene- 
 mies, perhaps, to encounter in the pursuit. In the tranquil- 
 lity of his small habitation, and private family, he enjoys a 
 peace which is often unknown at courts. The gratifications 
 of nature, which are always the most satisfactory, are possess- 
 ed by hina to their full extent ; and if he be a stranger to the 
 refined pleasures of the wealthy, he is unacquainted also with 
 the desire of them, and by consequence, feels no want. His 
 plain meal satisfies his appetite, with a relish probably higher 
 than that of the rich man, who sits dowg to his luxurious ban- 
 quet. Flis sleep is more sound ; his 'health more firm ; he 
 knows not what spleen, languor, and listlessness are. His ac- 
 customed ecnployments or labours are not more oppressive to 
 him, than the labour of attendance on courts and the great, 
 the labours of dress, the fatigue of amusements, the very 
 weight of idleness, frequently are to the rich. In the mean 
 time, all the beauty of the face of nature, all the enjoyments 
 of domestic society, all thegaietyand cheerfulness of jm easy 
 mind, are as open to him as to those of the highest rank. The 
 splendour of retinue, the sound of titles, the appearances of 
 high respect, are indeed soothing, for a short tijjne, to the great. 
 But, become fmniliar, they are soon forgotten. Custom ef- 
 faces their impression. They sink into tl->e r;mk of those or- 
 dinary things, which daily recur, without raiding any sensation 
 of joy. — Let us cease, therefore, from looking up with dis- 
 content and envy to those, whom birth or fortune has placed 
 above us. Let us adjust the balance of happiness fairly. Wher» 
 
Chap, S. Didacuc Pieces, 69 
 
 we think of the enjoyments we want, we should think also of 
 the troubles from which we are free. If we allow their just 
 value to the comforts we possess, we shall find reason to rest 
 satisfied, with a very moderate, though not an opulent and 
 splendid, condition of fortune. Often, did we know the whole, 
 we should be inclined to pity the state of those wliom.we now 
 cnw b-lair* 
 
 SECTION XIII. 
 
 Patience under provocations our interest as well as duty. 
 The wide circle of human society is diversified by an^end-^ 
 less variety of characters, dispositions, and passions. Unifiliihi# 
 ty is, in no respect, the genius of the world. Every man is 
 marked by some peculiarity which distinguishes him from 
 another : and no where can two individuals be found, who 
 are exactly and in all respects, ahke. Where so much di- 
 versity obtains, it cannot but happen, that in the intercourse 
 which men are obliged to maintain, th*eir tempers will often 
 be ill adjusted to that intercourse ; will jar, and interfere with 
 each other. Hence, in every station, the highest as well as 
 the lowest, and in ever condition of life, public, private, and 
 domestic, occasions of irritation frequently arise. We are 
 provoked, sometimes, by the folly and levity of those with 
 whom we are connected ; sometimes, by their indifference 
 or neglect ; by the incivility of a friend, the haughtiness of a 
 superior, or the insolent behaviour of one in lower station. 
 Hardly a day passes, without somewhat or other occuring, 
 which serves to rufilej||ie man of impatient spirit. Of course, 
 such a man lives in axontinual storm. He knows not what 
 it is to enjoy a train of good humour. Servants, neighbours, 
 friends, spouse, and children, all, through the unrestrained 
 violence of his temper, become sources of disturbance and 
 vexation to him. In vain is a^uence ; in vain are health and 
 prosperity. The least trifle is sufficient to discompose his 
 mind, and poison his pleasures. His very amusements are 
 mixed with turbulence and passion.*^ 
 
 I would beseech this man to consider, of what small mo- 
 ment the provocations which he receives, or at least imagines 
 himself to receive, are really in themselves ; but of what 
 great moment he. makes them, by goffering them to deprive 
 him of the posi^ession of himself. I would beseech him, to 
 consider, how many hours of happiness he throws away, 
 ul>ich a little more patience would allow him to enjoy : and 
 k'Ow much he puts it in the power of the most iii-^i^niiicant 
 
79 The English Reader. Part 1. 
 
 persons to render him miserable. " Bat who can expect,®* 
 we hear him exclaim, " that he is to possess the insensibility 
 of a stone ? How is it possible for human nature to endure sa 
 many repeated provocations ? or to bear calmly with so un- 
 reasonable behaviour?" — My brother ! if thoa canst bear with 
 no instances of unreasonable behaviour, withdraw thyself 
 from the world. Thou art no longer fit to live in it. Leave 
 the intercourse of men. Retreat to the mountain, and the 
 desert ; or shut thyself up in a cell. For here, in the midst 
 of society, offences must come. We might as well expect, 
 when we behold a' calm atmosphere, and a clear sky, that no 
 clouds were ever to rise, and no winds to blow, as that our 
 life were long to proceed, without receivii^ provocations from 
 human frailty. The careless and the imprudent, the giddy 
 and the fickle, the ungrateful and the interested, every where 
 meet us. They are the briers and thorns, with which the 
 paths of human life are beset. He only, who can hold his 
 course among them with patience and equanimity, he who is 
 prepared to bear what he must expect to happen, is worthy 
 of die name of a man. 
 
 If we preserved ourselves composed but for a moment, we 
 should perceive the insigniiicancy of most of those provoca- 
 tions which we magnify so highly. When a few suns more « 
 have rolled over our heads, the storm will, of itself, have B 
 subsided ; the cause of our present impatience and distur- 
 bance will be utterly forgotten. Can we not then, anticipate 
 this hour of calmness to ourselves^^nd begin to enjoy iho. 
 peace which it will certainly bring ?|p^ others have behaved 
 improperly, let us leave them to their own folly, without be- 
 co ning the victim of their caprice, and punishing ourselves on 
 th^ir account. — Patience, in this exercise of it, cannot be too 
 mich studied by ail who wish th,eir life to flow in a sn-ooth 
 stream. It is the reason of a man, in opposition to the passion 
 of a child. It is the enjoyment of peace, in opposition to 
 uproar and confusion. ^ blai.'\. 
 
 Action xiv. 
 
 Moderation in our wishes recommended. 
 The active mind of man seldom or never rests satisfied 
 with its present condition, how prosperous soever. Originally 
 formed for a wider range of objects, for a higher sphere of 
 enjoynients, it finds itself, in every situation of fortune,' 
 straitened and confined. Sensible of deficiency in its state, it^ 
 is ever sending forth the fond desire, the aspiring wish, after^ 
 
 II 
 
Chap. 3. Didactic Pieces, M^ 7i 
 
 something beyond what is^ enjoyed at present^Rlfence, that 
 restlessness vvhich^prevails so generally among mankind. 
 Hence, that disgust 'd^ pleasures which they have tried ; that 
 piission for noveltj : that ambition of rising to some degree of 
 eminence or felicity, of which they have formed to themselves 
 an indistinct idea. All which may be considered as indica- 
 tions of a certain native, original greatness in the human soul, 
 swelling beyond the limits of its present condition ; and point- 
 ing to tbe higher objects for which li was made. Happy, if 
 these latent remains of our prirmitive state, served to direct 
 our wishes towards their proper destination, and to lead us 
 into the path of true bliss^ 
 
 But in this darlB^^ bemTdered state, the aspiring tendency 
 of our nature unfoHfeately takes an opposite direction, and 
 feeds a y^v^ misplaced ambition. The flattering appearances 
 which here present themselves to sense ; the distinctions 
 which fortune confers ; the advantageslSBd pleasures which 
 we imagine the world to be capable of bestowing, hll up the 
 ultimate wish of most men^^These are the objects wdiich en- 
 gross their solitary musings, and stimulate their active labours ; 
 w^hich warm the breasts of the young, animate the industry of 
 the middle aged, and often ke^^alive the passions of the old, 
 until the very close of life. ^ 
 
 Assuredly, there is notbmg unlawful in our wishing to be 
 freed from whatever is disagreeable, and to obtain a fuller 
 enjoyment of the comforts of life^^But when these wishes 
 are not tempered by reason, they ^^ in danger of precipitat- 
 ^ ing us into much extravagance and iK^Ci-^r. Desires and wisl^s 
 are the first springs of action. When they become exorbl^ 
 tant, the whole character is likely to be tainted. ^If we suf- 
 fer our fincy to create to itself worlds of ideal happiness, we 
 shall discompose the peace and order of our minds, and fo- 
 ment many hurtful passions. Here, then, let moderation 
 begin its reign ; by bringing within reasonable bounds the 
 wishes that we form. As soon as they become extravagant, 
 let us check them, by proper reflections on the fallacious na- 
 ture of t^e objects, which the world hangs out to allure 
 desire, ^tf ^ 
 
 1 ou b4ve strayed, my friends, from the road which conducts 
 to felicity ; j^ou have dishonoured the native dignity of your 
 souls, in allowing your wishes to terminate on nothing higher 
 than worldly ideas of greatness or happiness. Your imagina- 
 tion roves in a land of shadows. Unreal forms deceive you. It 
 is no more than a phantom, an illusion of happiness, which 
 
72 J^ The English Reader. Parti, 
 
 attracts you^Bnd admiration ; nay, an illusion of happiness, 
 which often conceals much real misery .^^ 
 
 Do you imagine that all are happy, ^ho have attained to 
 those summits of distinction, towards which your wishes. taS- 
 pire ? Alas ! how frequently has experience shown, that 
 where roses were supposed to bloom, nothing but briers and 
 thorns grew ! Reputation, beauty, riches, grandeur, nay, royalty 
 itself, would, many a time, have been gladly exchanged by 
 the possessors, for that more quiet and humble station, with 
 which you are now diss^itisfied. With all that is splendid and 
 shining in the world, it is decreed that there should mix many 
 deep shades of wo. On the e3||j^ited si^^tions of fortune, 
 the great calamities of life chiefly faiy^^here, the -storm 
 spends its violence, and there, the thi^raer breaks ; while, 
 safe and unhurt, the inhabitants of the vale remain below ; — 
 Retreat, then, fronithose vain and pernicious excursions of 
 extravagant desire.^JISatisfy yourselves with what is rational 
 and attainable. Tram your mi^s to moderate views^ of hu- 
 man life, and human happiness, l^member, and admire, the 
 wisdom of Agur's petition : *' Remove far from me vanity 
 and lies. Give me neither poverty nor riches. Feed me 
 with food convenient for me : lest 1 be full and deny thee , 
 and say, who is the Lord ? or 1« I be poor, and steal ; and 
 take the name of my God in vain.'* blair. 
 
 StCTIQN XV. 
 
 Omniscience and omnipresence of the Deity, the source qf con- 
 
 /solation to good men. 
 . I WAS y^l^rday, about sun-set, walking in the open fields^ 
 till the night insensibly fell upon me. 1 at first amused my- 
 self with all the richness and variety of colours, which ap- 
 peared in the western parts of heaven. In proportion as they 
 ftided away and went out, several stars and planets appeared 
 one after another, till the whole firmament was in a glow. 
 The blueness of the ether was exceedinu;ly heightened and 
 enlivened, by the season of the year, and the ;m^ of all 
 those luminaries that passed through it.yThe gala^appear- 
 ed 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 dispc^fd 
 among softer lights then that which the sun had before fhj»* ' 
 -"ered to us. 
 
Chap, 3. Didactic Pieces. A "^3 
 
 • As I was surveying the moon walking i^her brightness, 
 ^^nd taking her progress among the constellations, a thought 
 ^rose in me, which I believe very often perplexes and disturbs 
 ^ki#i 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 the stars which thou 
 bast ordained ; what is man that thou art mindful of him, and 
 the son of man that thou regardest him !|Kn the same man- 
 ner, when I considered that infinite host of stars, or, to speak 
 more philosophically, of suns, which were then shining upon 
 me ; w ith those innumerable sets of planets or worlds, which 
 were moving round their respective suas ; when I still en- 
 larged the idd^l^and supposed another heaven of suns and 
 worlds, rising still a'bove this which we discovered ; and 
 these still enlightened by a superior firmament of luminaries, 
 which are planted at so great a distance, that they may ap- 
 pear to the inhabitants of the former, as the stars do to us i 
 in short, while I pursued this thought, 1 could not but reflect 
 on that little insignificant figure which ^nyself bore amidst 
 the immensity of God's works, St * 
 
 Were the sun, which enlighfens this part of the creation, 
 with all the liost of planetarj'^ worlds that move above him, 
 utterly extinguished and annihilated, they would not be missed, 
 more than a grain of sand upon the sea-^hore. The space 
 they possess is so exceedinglj^ little in comparison of the 
 whole, it would scarcely make a blank in the creation.^ The 
 chasm would be imperceptible to an eye, that could take in 
 the whole compass of nature ^nd pass from one end of the 
 creation to the other ; as it'N^^j^ssible there may be such a 
 sense in ourselves hereafter, or in creatures which are at 
 present more exalted than ourselves. By the help of glasses, 
 we see many stars, which we do not discover with oar naked 
 eyes ; and tj^finer our telescopes are, the more stil! are our 
 discoveries. ^pluygenius carries this ^bought so ftr, that he 
 does not think it impossible there r^ybe stars, whose light 
 has not yet travelled down to us, since their first creation. 
 There is no question that 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 c^n our imaginations set any bounds to 
 
 it?^ 
 
 To n 
 
 To return, therefore, to my first though^I could not but 
 look upon myself with secret horror, as a oMng that was not 
 wonh the smallest regard of one who had so great a work 
 
 G 
 
74 m The English Reader, Part 1. 
 
 under his careMnd superintendency. I was afraid of beii^n 
 overlooked amidst the immensity of nature ; and lost among*^ 
 that infinite variety of creatures, which, in all probabilit}^ 
 swarm through all these immeasurable regions of matter. %rfP 
 
 In order to recover myself from this mortifying thought, I 
 considered that it took its rise from those narrow conceptions, 
 which we are apt to entertain of the Divine Nature. We 
 ourselves cannot Jj^nd to many different objects at the same 
 time. If we arc cfn-eful to inspect some things, we must of 
 course neglect others. 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 natur€g4|||^The presence j 
 of every created being is confined to df certain measure of 1 
 space ; and consequently his observation is stinted to a certain 
 number of objects. The sphere in which v/e 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.^ But the widest of these our spheres has 
 its circumference.wWhen,'fciereforc, we reflect on the Di- 
 vine Nature, we are so useolffiid accustomed to this imperfec- 
 tion in ourselves, that w^e cannot forbear, in some measure, 
 ascribing it to him, in whom there is no shadow of imperfec- 
 tion. Our reason indeed assures us, that his attributes are 
 infinite ; but the poorness of our conceptions is such, that it 
 cannc^ forbear setting bounds to every thing it contemplates, 
 till 01^ reason comes again to our succour, and throws down 
 all those little prejudices, whidi rise in us unawares, and are 
 natural to the mind of man. ^p^ 
 
 We shall therefor-e utterly extinguish this melancholy 
 thought, of our being overlooked by our Maker, in the mul- 
 tiplicity of his works, and the ijifmity of those objects among 
 which he seems to be incessantly cm})]oyed, if^ve consider, 
 in the first place, that he is omiiipresent ; and «^he second, 
 that he is omniscient, ^jf 
 
 If we con-ider him innis omnipresence, his beina; passes 
 through, actuates, and supportis the whole frame of nature. 
 His creation, in every part of it, is full oHnm. There is no- 
 thing be has made, which is either so distant, so little, or so 
 inconsiderable, that he does not essentially reside in it>^^His 
 substance is within the substance of every being, whetheJ^ma- 
 terial or immatejjal, and as intimately present to it, as that 
 beini: is to itselAlt would be an imperfection in him, were 
 h^ able to move^out of one placid into another ; or to with 
 
Qiap, 3. Didactic Pieces. 76 
 
 JlTSlw himself from any thing he has created, or from any part 
 of that space which he diffused and spread abroad to infinity. 
 In short, to speak of him in the language^ of the old phi- 
 losophers, he is a being whose xentre is every where, 
 and his circumference no where^flp*^ 
 
 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 mo- 
 tion that arises in the whole material wc^ld, which he thus 
 essentially pervades ; and of every thought that is stirring in 
 the intellectaalji^rld, to every part of which he is thus in- 
 timately unitedT^Were the soul separated from the body, and 
 should it with one glance of thought start beyond the bounjis 
 of l;he creation ; should it for milHons of years, continue i 
 progress through irjfinite space, with the same activity, it 
 ^ivoald still find itself within the embrace of its Crgj^or, and 
 encompassed by the immensity of the Godhead./ 4^ 
 
 la this consideration of the Almighty's omnipresenc-e and 
 omniscience, every uncomfortable thought vanishes. He can- 
 not but regard every thing that has being, especially such of 
 his creatures \vho fear they are not regarded by him. He i^ 
 privy to all tlij^ thoughts, and to that anxiety of heart in par- 
 ticular, 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 ; ^^nti 
 in unfeigned humility of heart, think themselves unworthy 
 (hat he should be mindful of them. addiso/t 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES 
 
 . t SECTION I. 
 
 '"^ Happiness is founded in rectitude of conduct. 
 
 ' ki.i, men pui^e good, and would be happy, if they knew 
 
 l:0\v : not happy for minutes, and miserable for hours ; but 
 
 ii;:]>|>3% if possible, through every part of their existence. Ei- 
 
 ^ lUcr, uierefore, there is a good of ihis steady, durable kind, or 
 
 K^yi^xe is not. If not, then all good must be transient and un- 
 
 ^.e-trth:. ; and if so, an object of i\\e^ lowest value, which can 
 
 uitle deserve our attention or Inquiry.jIfBut if there le ?. bet- 
 
 ^ - "^ such a good' as v/e are seeking ; like every othc? 
 
76^ The English Reader. Part 1. 
 
 thing, it must be derived from some cause ; and that cause 
 must either be external, internal, or mixed ; in as much as, ex^ 
 cept these three, there is no other possible. Now a steady, 
 durable good, cannot be derived from an external cause ; since 
 all derived from exterH|A^must fluctuate as they fluctuate, 
 f By the same rule, it canSm be derived from a mixture of the 
 ' two ; because the part which is external, will proportionably 
 destroy its essence. What then remains but the cause inter 
 nal ? the very caus^ which we have supposed, when w^e place 
 the sovereign good in mind, — in rectitude of conduct. — harrfs, 
 
 A 
 
 SECTION li. "^ 
 
 Virtue and piety inan^s highest interest. 
 
 I FIND myself existing upon a little spot, surrounded every 
 way by an immense unknown expansion. — Where am 1 ? 
 What somVK place do i inhabit ? Is it exactly accommodated 
 in ev^ry instance to my convenience ? Is there no excess of 
 cold, none of heat, to offcDd me ? Am I never annoyed by 
 animals, either of- my own, or a different kind ? Is every thing 
 subservient to me, as though 1 had ordered allmyself ? No — 
 nothing like it — the farthest from it possible. jUhe ^vorld ap- 
 pears not, then, originally made for the private convenience 
 of me alone ? — It does not. But is it not possible so to ac- 
 commodate it, by my own particular industry ? If to accommo- 
 date man and beast, heaven and earth, if this be beyond me, 
 it is not possible. What consequence then follows ; or can 
 there be any other than this — If 1 se^k an interest of my owa 
 detached from that of others, I seek an interest which is chi- 
 merical, and which can never have existence, ^p 
 
 How then must I determine ? Have I no interest at all? If 
 I have not, I am stationed here to no purpose. But why no 
 interest ? Can I be contented with none but one separate and 
 detached ? Is a social interest, joined with others, such an 
 absurdity as not to be admitted ? The bee, the b'eaverf^and 
 the tribes of herding animals, are sufficient to convince me, 
 that the thing is somewhere at least possible.^How, then, am 
 I assured that it is not equally true of man ? Admit it ; and 
 what follows ? If so, then honour and justice are my interest ; 
 then the whole train of moral virtues are my interest ; without ^ 
 some portion of which, not even thieves can miuntain society ^^ 
 
 But, farther still — I stop not here — I pursue this social In- 
 terest as far as I can f^cc. my several relations, i pass ivour 
 
 TTiy O'vn ?(n( V, my OW^^ nci'. !' ■ i - •: vl^no^l r.. r,\vr' r-t^-nn. ^'^ the 
 
Chap, 4. Ar^ufiientaiive Pieces. 77 
 
 whole race of tnankinu, as dispersed throughout the earth. 
 Am I not related to them all, by the mutual aids of com- 
 merce, by the general intercourse of arts a^M|^ers, by that 
 common nature of which v^e all participate^^^P 
 
 Again — 1 must have food and clothing. ^Wrout a proper 
 genial warmth, I instantly perish. Am I not related, in this 
 view, to the very earth itself; to the distant sun, from whose 
 beams I derive vigour ? to that stupendous course and order 
 of the infinite host of he^en, by which the times and seasons 
 ever uniformly pass on WA^ere this order once confounded, 
 I could not probably surme a moment ; so absolutely do I de- 
 pend on this common general welfare. What, then, have i 
 to do, but to enlarge virtue into piety ? Not only honour and 
 justice, and what I owe to man, is my interest ; but gratitude 
 also, acquiescence, resignation, adoration, and all I owe to 
 this great polity, and its great Governor our common Parent. 
 
 HAPvRIS, 
 
 SECTION IIL 
 
 ^ The injustice of an uncharitable spirit. 
 
 r A SUSPICIOUS, uncharitable spirit is not only inconsistent with 
 all social virtue and happiness, but it is also, in itself, unrea- 
 sonable and unjust. In order to form sound opinions concern- 
 ing characters and actions, two things are especially requisite, 
 information and impartiality. But such as are most forward 
 . to decide unfavourably, are commonly destitute of 'both. In- 
 stead of possessing, or even requiring, full information, the 
 grounds oa which they proceed are frequently the most :5light 
 and frivoloudHk. tale, perhaps, which the idle haye invented, 
 the inquisitivehave listened to, and the credulous have pro= 
 pagated ; or a real incident which rumour, in carrying it 
 along, has exaggerated and disguised, supplies them with ma- 
 te rials of confident assertion, and decisive judgment. From 
 an action they presently look into the heart, and infer the 
 motive. This supposed motive they conclude to be the 
 ruling principle ; and pronounce at once concerning the whole 
 character^P 
 
 IS othin^ran be more contrary both to equity and to sound 
 reason, than this precipitate judgment. Any man who at- 
 tends to what passes wathin himself, may easily discern what 
 a comphcated system the human character is ; and what a 
 I'ariety of circumstances must be taken into the account, in 
 order to estimate it truly. No singly instance of conduct 
 wfeateyer, is sufficient to determine it.aAa ivom ova worthy 
 
78 The English Reader. art i 
 
 action, it were credulity, not charity, to conclude a person to 
 be free from all vice ; so from one which i« censurable, it is 
 perfectly um^L to infer that the author of it is without con- 
 science, ^^^Khout merit. If we knew all the attending 
 circumstan^li^ might appear in an excusable light ; nay, 
 perhaps, under a commendable form. The motives of the ac- 
 tor may have been entirely different from those which we as- 
 cribe to him ; and where we suppose him impelled by bad de- 
 sign, he may have been prompte^jy conscience and mistaken 
 principle. Admitting the action^fcave been in every view 
 criminal j^ he may have been hurri^ into it through inadver- 
 tency and surprise. He may have sincerely repented ; and 
 the virtuous- principle may have now regained it* full vigour. 
 Perhaps this was the corner of frailty ; the quarter on which 
 he lay open to the incursions of temptation ; while the other 
 avenues of his heart were lirmly guarded by conscience. 
 
 It is therefore evident, that no part of the government of 
 temper deserves attention more, than to keep our minds pure 
 from uncharitable prejudices, and open to candour and hu- 
 manity in judging of others. The worst consequences, l^^h 
 to ourselves and to society, follow from the opposite spirit!^ 
 
 BLAJB. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 Tlie misfortunes of men mostly chargeable on themselves. 
 
 We find man placed in a world, where he has by no means 
 the disposal of the events that happen. Calamities sometimes' 
 befall the worthiest and the best, which it is not in their power 
 60 prevent, and where nothing is left themJBat to acknow- 
 ledge, and to submit to, the high hand of HeaWn. For such 
 visitations of trial, many good and wise reasons can be as- 
 signed, which the present subject leads me not to discuss. 
 But though those unavoidable, calamities make a part, yet 
 they make not the chief part, of the vexations and sorrows 
 that distress human life. A multitude of evils beset us, for 
 the source of which we must look to another quarter. — No 
 sooner has any thing in the health, or in the ciAmstances of 
 men, gone cross to their wish, than fhey begin t^ilk of the 
 unequal distribution of the good things of this life ; they envy 
 the condition of others ; they repine at their own lot, and 
 fret against the Ruler of the world. 
 
 Full of these sentiments, one man pines under a broken 
 constitution. But let us ask bim, whether he can., fairly and 
 honestly, aesigano 3b«e for this but th^ I'nknowE decr€^ of 
 
Chap. 4. Jirguineniaiive Pieces. 79 
 
 heaven ? Has he duly valued the blessing of health, and al- 
 ways observed the rales of virtue and sobriety ? Has he been 
 moderate in his life, and temperate in all his j||^sures ? If 
 now he is only paying the price of his forme^Berhaps his 
 forgotten indulgences, has he any title to com^Hn, as if he 
 were sufferini^ unjustly ? Were we to survey the chambers of 
 sickness and distress, we should often find them peopled with 
 the victims of intemperance and sensuality, and with the chil- 
 dren of vicious indolence and sloth. Among the thousands 
 who languish there, we should find the proportion of inno- 
 cent sufferers to be small. We should see faded youth, pre- 
 mature old age, and the prospect of an untimely ^rave, to be 
 the portion of multitudes, who, in one way or other, have 
 brought those evils on themselves ; while yet these martyrs 
 of vice and folly hay*e the assurance to arraign the hard fate 
 of man, and to " fret against the Lord." 
 
 But you, perhaps, complain of hardships of another kind ; 
 of the injustice of the world ; of the poverty which you suf- 
 fer, and the discouragements under which you labour ; of the 
 crosses and disappointments of which your life has been 
 doomed to be full. — ^Before you give too much scope to your 
 discontent, let me desire you to reflect impartially upon your 
 past train of life. Have not sloth or pride, or ill temper, or 
 sinful passions, misled you often i>om the path of sound and 
 wise conduct ? Have you not been wanting to yourselves in 
 improving those opportunities which Providence offered you, 
 for bettering and advancing your state ? If you have chosen 
 to indulge your humour, or your taste, in the gratifications of 
 indolence or pleasure, can you complain because others, in 
 preference to you, have obtained those advantages which 
 naturally belong to useful labours, and honourable pursuits ? 
 Have not the consequences of some false steps, into which 
 your passions, or your pleasures, have betrayed you, pursued 
 you through much of your Hfe ; tainted, perhaps, your charac- 
 ters, involved you in embarrassments, or sunk you into ne- 
 glect ? — It is an old saying, that every man is the artificer of 
 his own fortu-^e in the world. It is certain, that the world 
 seldom turns wholly against a man, unless through his own 
 fault. " Religion is," in general, " profitable unto all things." 
 Virtue, diligence, and industry, joined with good temper and 
 prudence, have ever been found the surest road to prosperity ; 
 and where men fail of attaining it, their want of success is 
 far oftener owing to their having deviated from that road, 
 than to their having encountered insijperabie bars in it. 
 SiJiae, by being too artful, forfeit the reputation of probity. 
 
£0 Tlie English Reader, Part 1. 
 
 Some, by being too open, are accounted to fail in prudence. 
 Others, by being fickle and ch^ingeable, are distrusted by all. 
 The case^mmonly is, that men seek to ascribe their disap- 
 pointment^ any cause, rather than to their own miscon- 
 duct ; ancWWien they can devise no other cause, they lay 
 them to the charge cf Providence."^ Their folly leads them 
 into vices ; their vices into misfortunes ; and in their misfor 
 tunes they " murmur against Providence." They are doubly 
 unjust towards their Creator. In their prosperity, they are 
 apt to ascribe their success to their own diligence, rather 
 than to his blessing : and in their adversity, they impute their 
 distresses to his providence, not to their own misbehaviour. 
 Whereas, the truth is the very reverse of this. '* Every good 
 and every perfect gift cometh from abpye /' and (^ evil and 
 misery, man is the author to himself. v.A^\ 
 
 When, from the condition of individuals, we look abroad 
 to the public stale of the world, we meet with more proofs 
 of the truth of this assertion. We see great societies of men 
 torn in pieces by intestine dissensions, tumults, and civil com- 
 motions. We see mighty armies going forth, in formidable 
 array, against each other, to cover the earth with blood, and 
 to till the air with the cries of widows and orphans. Sad evils 
 these are, to which this miserable world is exposed. — But are 
 these evils, I beseech you, ta be imputed to God ? Was it 
 he who sent forth slaughtering armies into the field, or who 
 filled the peaceful city with massacres and blood ? Are these 
 miseries any other- than the bitter fruit of men's violent and 
 disorderly passions ? Are they not clearly to be traced to the 
 ambition and vices of princes, to the quarrels of the great, 
 and to th^ turbulence of the people ? — Let us lay them en- 
 tirely out of the account, in thinking of Providence ; and let 
 us think only of the " foolishness of man." Did man control 
 his passions, and form his conduct according to the dictates of 
 wisdom, humanity, and virtue, the earth would no longer be 
 desolated by cruelty ; and human societies would live in or- 
 der, harmony, and peace. In those scenes of mischief and 
 violence which fill the world, let man behold, with shame, the 
 picture of his vices, his ignorance, and folly. Let him be 
 humbled by the mortifying view of his owDpajverseness ; but 
 let not his ** heart fret against the Lord.*'* j^ blair. 
 
 SECTION V. 
 On disinterested friendship* 
 I AM infornxed. that certain Greek writers (philosophers, it 
 Qeems, in the opirflon of their countrymen) have advaoced* 
 
Vhap, 4. Argumentative Pieces, 81 
 
 some very extraordinary positions relating to friendship ; as, 
 indeed, what subject is there, which these subtle geniuses 
 have not tortured with their sophistry ?^0i 
 
 The authors to whom I refer, dissuade tHfeir disciples from 
 entering into any strong attachments, as unavoidably creating 
 supernamerarj^ disquietudes to those who engage in them ; 
 and, as every man has more than sufficient to call forth his 
 solicitude, in the course of his own affairs, it is a weakness, 
 they contend, anxiously to involve himself in the concerns of 
 other^>\They recommend it also, in all connexions of this 
 kind, to hold the bands of union extremely loose ; so as always 
 to have it in one's power to straiten or relax them, as circum- 
 stances and situations shall render most expedient. They 
 add, as a capital article of their doctrine, that, '' to live exempt 
 from cares, is an essential ingredient to constitute human hap- 
 piness : but an ingredient, however, which he, who voluntarily 
 distresses himself with cares, in which he has no necessary 
 and personal interest, must never hope to possess. '^^(^^ 
 - 1 have been told likewise, that there is another set of pre- 
 tended philosophers, of the same country, whose tenets, con- 
 cerning this subject, are of a still more illiberal and ungene- 
 rous cast.VL ;-^ 
 
 The proposition they tjttempt to establish, is, that '* friend- 
 ship is an affair of seif-iaterest entirely ; and that the proper 
 motive for engaging in it, is, not in order to gratify the kind 
 and benevolent affections, but for the benefit of that assist- 
 ance and support which are to be derived from the connex- 
 ion.'* Accordingly they assert, that those persons are most 
 disposed to have recourse to auxiliary alliances of this kind, 
 who are least qualified by nature, or fortune, to depend upou 
 theix own strength and powders : the weaker sex, for instance, 
 being generally more inclined to engage in friendships, than 
 the male part of our species ; and those who are depressed 
 hj indigence, or labouring under misfortunes, than the 
 wealthy and the prosperous. 
 
 Excellent and obliging sages, these, undoubtedly ! To 
 strike out the friendly affections from the moral world, would 
 be like extinguishing the suri in the natural ; each of them 
 being the source of the best and most grateful satisflictions, 
 that Heaven has conferred on the sons of men. But I should 
 be gJad to know, what the real value of this boasted exemp- 
 tion from ccire, which they promise their disciples, justly 
 unoiints to ? an exemption flattering to self-love, 1 confess ; 
 o'jx which, upon many occurrences in human life, shoidd be 
 
S^ 'Hie English Reader. Part 1 
 
 rejected with the utmost disdain. For nothins;, surely, can be 
 more inconsistent with a well-poised and manly spirit, than to 
 decline engaging in> any laudable action, or to be discouraged 
 from persevering in it, by an apprehension of the trouble and 
 solicitude, with which it may probably be attended. Virtue her- 
 self, indeed, ought to be totally renounced, if it be right to 
 avoid every possible means that may be productive of uneasi- 
 ness : for who, that is actuated by her principles, can observe 
 the conduct of an opposite character, without being affected 
 with some degree of secret dissatisfaction ? Are not th^.jist, the 
 brave, and the good, necessarily exposed to the disagreeable 
 emotions of dislike and aversion, when they respectively meet 
 ,with instances of fraud, of cowardice, or of viilany ? It is an 
 essential property of every well-constituted mind, to be affect- 
 ed with pain, or pleasure, according to the nature of those 
 moral appearances that present themselves to observation. 
 
 If sensibihty, therefore, be not incompatible with true wis- 
 dom, (aWd it surely is not, unless we suppose that philosophy 
 deadens every finer feeling o-f our nature,) what just reason 
 can be assigned, why the sympathetic sufferings which may 
 result from friendship, should be a sufficient inducement for 
 banishing that generous affection from the human breast ? 
 Extinguish all emotions of the heart, and what diflerence will 
 remain, I do not say between man and brute, but between 
 man and a mere inanimate clod ? Away then with those au- 
 stere philosophers, who represent virtue as hardening the soul 
 agriinst ail the softer impressions of humanity ! The iact, cer- 
 tainly, is much otherwise. A truly good man is, upon many 
 occasions, extremely susceptible of tender sentiments ; and 
 his heart expands with joy, or shrinks with sorrow, as good 
 or ill fortune accompanies his friend. Upon the whole, then, 
 it may fairly be concluded, that, as in the case of virtue, so 
 in that of friendship, those painful sensations, which may 
 sometimes be produced by the one, as well as by the other, 
 are equally insufficient grounds for excluding either of them 
 from taking possession of our bosoms. 
 
 They who insist that *' utihty is the first and prevailing mo- 
 tive, which induces mankind to enter into particular friend- 
 ships," appear to me to divest the association of its most amia- 
 ble and engaging principle. For to a mind rightly disposed, 
 it is not so much the benefits received, as the affectionate zeal 
 from which they flow, that gives th<im their best and most 
 valuable recommendation. it is so far indeed from being 
 '■ f rffu'd by frrf, that « '^cn^f?. of ow: wyi\)i^ 5^ fV.p or*p;lr»M] rafj.-p 
 
Chap, 4. Argumentative Pieces, 83 
 
 of forming these amicable alliances ; that, on the contrary, it 
 is observable, that none have been more distinguished in their 
 friendships than those, whose power and opulence, but, above 
 all, whose superior virtue, (a much firmer support,) have rais- 
 ed them above every necessity of having recourse to the as- 
 sistance of others. 
 
 The true distinction then, in this question, is, that '^ although 
 friendship is certainly productive of utility, yet utility is not 
 the primary motive of friendship." Those seliish sensualists, 
 therefore, who, lulled in the lap of luxury, presume to main- 
 tain the reverse, have surely no claim to attention ; as they 
 are neither qualified by reflection, nor experience, to be com- 
 petent judges of the subject. 
 
 Is there a man upon the face of the earth, who would de- 
 liberately accept of all the wealth, and all the affluence this 
 world can bestow, if offered to him upon the severe terms of 
 his being unconnected with a single mortal whom he could 
 love, or by whom he should be beloved ? This would be to 
 lead the wretched life of a detested tyrant, who, amidst per- 
 petual suspicions and alarms, passes his miserable days a 
 stranger to ev^ery tender sentiment ; and utterly precluded 
 from the heart-felt satisfactions of friendship. 
 
 Melmoth^s translation of Cic * r ...?:,,. . 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 On the immortality of the soul. 
 
 I WAS yesterday walking alone, in one of my friend's woods ; 
 and lost myself in it very agreeably, as 1 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 
 ot a resonable creature. I considered those several proofs 
 drawn, 
 
 First, from the nature of the soul itself, and particularly its 
 immalerinlity ; 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, particular- 
 ly, from its love of existence ; its horror of annihilation ; and 
 Its hopes of immortahty ; with that secret satisfaction which 
 it finds in the practice of virtue ; and that uoeasiaess whicfc 
 ^ows upon the commission of vice. 
 \ 
 
84 The English Reader. Part I , 
 
 Thirdly, from the nature of the Supreme Being, whose 
 justice, goodness, wisdom, and veracity, 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 writ- 
 ten on this subject, though it seems to me to carry a very 
 great weight with it. How can it enter into the thoughts of 
 man, that the soul, which is capable of immense perfections, 
 and of receiving new improvements to all eternity, shall fall 
 away into nothing, almost as soon as it is created ? Are such 
 abilities made for no purpose ? A brute arrives at a point of 
 perfection^ that he can never pass : in a few j^ears 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. 
 Were a human soul thus at a stand in her accomplishments ; 
 were her faculties to be full blown, and incapable of farther 
 enlargements ; 1 could imagine she might fall away insensi- 
 bly, and drop at once into a state of annihilation. But can 
 we believe a thinking being that is in a perpetual progress of 
 improvement, and travelling on from perfection to perfection, 
 after having just looked abroad into the works of her Creator, 
 and made a few discoveries of his infinite goodness, wisdom, 
 and power, must perish at her first setcing out, and in the 
 very beginning of her inquiries ? 
 
 Man, considered only in his present state, seems sent into 
 the world merely to propagate his kind. He provides himself 
 with a successor ; and immediately quits bis post to make 
 room for him. He does not seem born to enjoy life, but to 
 deliver it down to others. This is not surprising to consider in 
 animals, which are formed for our use, ;xnd which can finish 
 their business in a short life. The silk worm, after having 
 spun her task, lays her eg;i;S and dies. But a man cannot take 
 in his full measure of knowledge, has not time to subdue his 
 passions, establish his soul in virtue, and come up to the per- 
 fection of his nature, before he is hurried off the stage. Would 
 an infinitel}' 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 givcus talents that are not to be exerted ? capaci- 
 ties that are never to be gratified ? How can we find that 
 wisdom which shines through all his works, in the format' f 
 
Qhap 4. Argumentative Pieees, 8^ 
 
 of mun, without looking on tbis.woj-ld as only a nursery for 
 the next ; and without believing that the several generations 
 of rational creatures, which rise up and disappear in such 
 quick successions, are only to receive their first rudiments of 
 existence here, and afterwards to be transplanted into a more 
 friendly chmate, where they may spread and flourish to ail 
 eternity ? 
 
 There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and trium- 
 phant consideration in religion, than this of the perpetual pro 
 gress, which the soul makes towards the perfection of its na- 
 ture, without ever arriving at a period in it. To l^ok 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 vir- 
 tue to virtue, and knowledge to knowledge ; carries in il 
 something wonderfully. agreeable to that ambition, which is 
 natural to the mind 'of man. Nay, it must be a prospect 
 pleasing to God himself, to see his creation for ever beauti- 
 fying in his eyes ; and drawing nearer to him, by greater de- 
 crees of resemblance. 
 
 Methinks this single consideration, of the progress of a finite 
 spirit to perfection, will be sufficient to extinguish all envv in 
 inferior natures, and all contempt in superior. That cherub, 
 which now appears as a god to a human soul, knows \^ry 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 supe- 
 riority in the scale of being ; but he knows that, how hio;h 
 soever the station is of which he stands possessed at present, 
 the inferior nature w^ill, at length, mount up to it ; and shine 
 forth in the same degree of glory. 
 
 With what astonishment and veneration, may we look into 
 our own souls, where there are such hidden stores of virtue 
 and knowledge, such inexhausted sources of perfection! We 
 know not yet what we shall be ; «or will it ever enter into 
 the heart of man, to conceive the glorv 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 possibilit;y of touching it : 
 and can there be a thought so transporting, as to consider1)ur 
 selves m these perpetual approaches to him, who is the stand- 
 ard not only of ji^rfectioii, but of happiness ? addisot"? 
 
 H 
 
SS The English Reader, Pari 1. 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 .ODESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 The Seasons, 
 
 Among the great blessings and wonders of the creation, may 
 be classed the regularities of times and seasons. Immediately 
 after the flood, the sacred promise was made to man, that seed- 
 time and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and 
 night, should continue to the very end of ail things. Accord- 
 mgly, in obedience to that promise, the rotation is constantly 
 presenting us with some useful and agreeable alteration : and 
 all the pleasing noveltyof life arises from these natural changes: 
 nor are we less indebted to them for ninny of its solid comforts. 
 It has been frequently the task of the moralist and poet, to 
 mark, in polished periods, the particular charms and conve- 
 niences of every change ; and, indeed, such discriminate obser- 
 vations upon natural variety, cannot be undelightful ; since the 
 hlessing which every month brings along with it, is a fres-h in- 
 stance of the wisdom and bounty of that Providence, which 
 regulates the glories of the year. We glow as we contem- 
 plate ; we feel a propensity to adore, whilst we enjoy. In the 
 time of seed-sowing, it is the season of conjidence : the grain 
 which the husbandman trusts to the bosom of the earth shall, 
 haply, yield its seven-fold rewards. Spring presents us with 
 a scene of lively expectation. That which was before sown, 
 begins now to discover signs of successful vegetation. The 
 labourer observes the change, and anticipates the harvest ; he 
 watches the progress of nature, and smiles at her influence : 
 while the man of contemplation walks forth with the evening, 
 amidst the fragrance of flowers, and promises of plenty ; nor 
 returns to his cottage till darkness closes the scene upon his 
 eye. Then cometh the harvest, when the large wish is satis- 
 fied, and the granaries of nature are loaded with the means of 
 life, even to a luxury of abundance. The powers of language 
 are unequal to the description of this happy season. It is the 
 oarnival of nature : sun and shade, coolness and quietude, 
 cheerfttlness and melody, love and gratitude, unite to render 
 every scene of summer delightful. The division of light and 
 darkness is one of the kindest efforts of Omnipotent Wisdom. 
 ]^ay and night vield us contrary bleseings.j :ad, at the same 
 
Chap, 5. Descriptive PieceSs SV 
 
 time, assist each other, by giving fresh lustre to the delights of 
 both. Amidst the glare of day, and bustle of life, how could we 
 sleep ? Amidst the gloom of darkness, how could we labour ? 
 How wise, how benignant, then, is the proper division I The. 
 hours of light are adapted to activity ; and those of darkness, 
 to rest. Ere the day is passed, exercise and nature prepare 
 us for the pillow ; and by the time that the morning returns^ 
 we are again able to meet it with a smile. Thus, every sea- 
 son has a charm peculiar to itself; and every moment aifords 
 Som€ interesting innovation. melmoth. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 The cataract of Niagara ^ in Canada^ North America, 
 This amazing fall of water is made by the river St. Law- 
 rence, in its passage from lake Erie into the lake Ontario, 
 The St. Lawrence is one of the largest rivers in the world ; 
 and yet the whole of its waters is discharged in this place, by 
 a fall of a hundred and fifty feet perpendicular. It is not 
 easy to bring the imagination to correspond to the greatness of 
 the scene. A river extremely deep and rapid, and that serves 
 to drain the waters of almost all North America into the At- 
 lantic Ocean, is here poured precipitately down a ledge of 
 rocks, that rises, like a wall, across the whole bed of its stream. 
 The river, a little above, is near three quarters of a mile 
 broad ; and the rocks, where it grows narrower, are four hun- 
 dred yards over. Their direction is not straight across, but 
 hollowing inwards like a horse-shoe : so that the cataract^ 
 which bends to the shape of the obstacle, rounding inwards. 
 presents a kind of theatre the most tremendous in nature. 
 Just in the middle of this circular wall of waters, a little island, 
 that has braved the fury of the current, presents one of its 
 points, and divides the stream at top into two parts ; but they 
 unite again long before they reach the bottom. The noise of 
 the fall is heard at the distance of several leagues ; and the 
 fury of the waters, at the termination of their fall, is incon- 
 ceivable. Tho dashing produces a mist that rises to the very 
 clouds ; and which forms a most beautiful rainbow, when the 
 sun shines. It will be readily supposed, that such a catara<!t 
 entirely destroys the navigation of the stream ; and yet some 
 Indians in their canoes, as it is said, have ventured down it 
 with safety. goldsmith. 
 
 SECTION in. 
 
 The grotto of Antiparos, 
 Of all the subterraneous caverns now known, the grotto of 
 Antiparos is ll»^ most remarkable, as well for its extent j as {cr- 
 
88 The English Reader, Part I. 
 
 the beauty of its sparry incrustations. This celebrated cav- 
 ern was tirst explored by one Magni, an Italian traveller, 
 about one hundred years ago, at Antiparos, an inconsiderable 
 island of the Archipelago. " Having been informed," says he, 
 *' by the natives of Paros, that, in the little island of Antiparo&j 
 which lies about two miles from the former, a gigantic statue 
 ivas to be seen at the mouth of a cavern in that place, it was 
 resolved that we (the French consul and himself) should pay 
 it a visit. In pursuance of this resolution, after we had landed 
 on the island, and walked about four miles through the midst 
 of beautiful plains, and sloping woodlands, we at length came 
 to a little hill, on the side of which yawned a most horrid cav- 
 ern, that, by its gloom, at first struck us with terror, and al- 
 most repressed curiosity. Recovering the first surprise, bow- , 
 ever,, we entered boldly ; and had not proceeded above twenty 
 paces, when the supposed statue of the giant presented itself 
 to our view. We quickly perceived, that what the ignorant 
 patives had been terrified at as a giant, was nothing more than 
 a sparry concretion, formed by the water dropping from the 
 roof of the cave, and by degrees hardening into a figure, 
 '.viiich their fears had formed into a monster. Incited by this 
 extraordiiiary appearance, we were induced to proceed still 
 f^urtlier, in quest of new adventures in this subterranean abode. 
 As we proceeded, new wonders QjSered themselves ; the spar.^, 
 formed into^ trees and shrubs, presented a kind of petrified 
 ^rove ; some white, some green ; and all receding in due per- 
 spective. They struck us with the more amazement, as we 
 knew them to be mere productions of nature, who, hitherto 
 in solitude, had, in her playful moments, dressed the scene, 
 us if lor her own amusement." 
 
 " We had as yet seen bat a few of the v/onders of the 
 place ; and we were introduced only into the portico of this 
 amazing temple. In one corner of this half illuminated re- 
 cess, there appeared an opening of about three feet wide, 
 vv')ich seemed to lead to a place totally dark, and which one 
 pf the natives assured us contained oothing more than a reser- 
 voir of water. Upon tliis information, we made an experi- 
 ment, by throwing down some stones, which rumbling along 
 the sides of the descent for some time, the sound seemed at 
 last quashed in a bed of water. In order, however, to be more 
 certain, we sent in a Levantine mariner, who, by the profuse 
 of a good rewjird, ventured, with a flambeau in his hand, mto 
 this narrow aperture. After continuing within it for about a 
 quarter of an hour, he returned, bearing in his xhand, some 
 beautiful pieces of white spar, which art coi ' d neither equa! 
 
Chap. 5. Descriptive Piecti: 89 
 
 nor imitate. Upon being informed by him that the place was 
 full of these beautiful incrustations, I ventured in once more 
 with him, about fifty paces, anxiously and cautiously descend- 
 ing, by a steep and dangerous way. Finding, however, that 
 we came to a precipice which led into a spacious amphi- 
 theatre, (if 1 may so call it,) still deeper than any other part, 
 we returned, and being provided with a ladder, flambeau, and 
 ©ther things to expedite our descent, our whole company, man 
 by man, ventured into the same opening ; and descending one 
 after another, we at last saw ourselves all together in the mosb 
 magnificient part of the cavern." 
 
 SECTION lY. 
 Tlie grotto of Antiparos^ continued, 
 
 '' Our candles being now all lighted up, and the whole" 
 place completely illuminated, never could the eye be present- 
 ed with a more glittering, or a more magnificent scene. The^ 
 whole roof hung with solid icicles, transparent as glass, yet 
 solid as marble. The eye could scarcely reach the lofty and 
 noble ceiling ; the sides were regularly formed with spars ; 
 and the whole presented the idea of a magnificent theatre, 
 ilkrainated with an immense profusion of lights. The floor 
 consisted of solid marble ; and, in several places, magnificent^ 
 columns, thrones, altars, and other objects, appeared, as if na- 
 ture had designed to mock the curiosities of art. Our voices, 
 upon speaking, or singing, were redoubled to an astonishing 
 loudness ; and upon the firing of a gun, the noise and rever- 
 berations were almost deafening. In the midst of this grand 
 amphitheatre rose a concretion of about fifteen feet high». 
 that, in some measure, resembled an altar ; from which, 
 taking the hint, we caused mass to be celebrated there. The 
 beautiful columns that shot up round the altar, appeared like 
 candlesticks ; and many other natural objects represented the 
 customary ornaments of this rite." 
 
 *^ Below even this spacious grotto, there seemed another 
 cavern ; down which I ventured with my former mariner, and 
 descended about fifty paces by means of a rope. I at lasC^ 
 arrived at a small spot of level ground, where the bottom ap= 
 peiired different from that of the amphitheatre, being com- 
 posed of soft clay, yielding to the pre^ure, and in which I 
 thrust a stick to the depth of six feet. In this however, a^ 
 above, numbers of the most beautiful crystals were formed ;. 
 one of which, particularly, resembled a table. Upon our 
 sgcess from this amazing cavern, we perceived a Gre^i* la* 
 
 H 2- 
 
90 The Eriglhk Reader. Part I. 
 
 scription upon a rock at the mouth, but so obliterated by 
 time, that we could not read it distinctly. It seemed to im- 
 port that one Antipater, in the time of Alexander, had come 
 hither ; but whether he penetrated into the depths of the 
 cavern, he does not think fit to inform us." — This account of 
 so beautiful and striking a scene, may serve to give us some 
 idea of the subterraneous wonders of nature. goldsmithv 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 Earthguake at Catanea. 
 One of the earthquakes most particularly described in his- 
 tory, is that which happened in the year 1693 ; the damages 
 of which were chiefly felt in Sicily, but its motion was per- 
 ceived in Germany, France, and England. It extended to a 
 circumference of two thousand six hundred leagues ; chiefly 
 affecting the sea coasts, and great rivers ; more perceivable 
 also upon the mountains than in the valleys. Its motions 
 were so rapid, that persons who lay at their length, were 
 tossed from side to side, as upon a rolling billow. The walls 
 were dashed from their foundations ; and no fewer than fifty- 
 four cities, with an incredible number of villages, were either 
 destroyed or greatly damaged. The city of Catanea, in par- 
 ticular, was utterly overthrown. A traveller who was on his 
 w^ay thither, perceived, at the distance of some miles, a black 
 cloud, like night, hanging over the place. The sea, all of a 
 sudden, began to roar ; mount iEtna to send forth great spires 
 of flame ; and soon after a shock ensued, with a noise as if all 
 the artillery in the world had been at once discharged. Our 
 traveller being obliged to alight instantly, felt himself raised 
 a foot from the ground ; and turning his eyes to the city, he 
 with amazement saw nothing but a thick cloud of dust in the 
 air. The birds flew about astcfriished ; the sun was darkened ; 
 the beasts ran howhng from the hills; and although the 
 shock did not continue above three minutes, yet near nine- 
 teen thousand of the inhabitants of Sicily perished in the 
 ruins. Catanea, to which city the describer was travelling, 
 seemed the principal scene of ruin ; its place only was to be 
 fc. Mid ; and not a footstep of its former magiiificence was to be 
 set ^ remaining. goldsmith.^ 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 Creation. 
 N the ^"T'sjicss of the Divine works and government, there 
 ?i;r.ved a p-i'.'^n, in w^ icb iliis earlh was to be called Into exy 
 
€hap, 5. Descriptive Pieces. 91 
 
 istence. When the sign J moment, predestined from all 
 eternity, was come, the Deity arose in his might, and with a 
 word created the world. — What nn ilhistrious moment was that, 
 when, from non-existence, there sprang at once into being, this 
 mighty globe, on which so many millions of creatures now 
 ^\ye\\ I — No preparatory measures were required. No long 
 circuit of means was employed. *' He spake ; and it was done ; 
 he commanded ; and it stood fast. The earth was at first with- 
 out form, and void ; and darkness was on the face of the deep." 
 The Almighty surveyed the dark abyss ; and fixed bounds to 
 the several divisions of nature. He said, '* Let there be light ; 
 and there was light." Then appeared the sea, and the dry 
 land. The mountains rose ; and the rivers flowed. The sun 
 and moon began their course in the skies. Herbs and plants 
 clothed the ground. The air, the earth, and the waters, were 
 stored w^th their respective inhabitants. At last, man was 
 made after the image of God. He appeared, walking with 
 I countenance erect ; and received his Creator's benediction, as 
 the lord of this new w orld. The Almighty beheld his work 
 when it was finished ; and pronounced it good. Superior beings 
 saw with wonder this new accession to existence. *' The 
 morning stars sang together ; and all the sons of God shouted 
 
 for joy." BLAIR. 
 
 SECTION VII. 
 
 Charity. 
 
 /Charity is the same with benevolence or love ; and is the 
 term uniformly employed in the New Testament, to denote 
 all the good affections which w^e ought to bear towards one 
 another. It consists not in speculative ideas of general bene- 
 volence, floating in the head, and leaving the heart, as specula- 
 tions too often do, untouched and cold. Neither is it confined 
 to that indolent good nature, which makes ^us rest satisfied 
 with being free from inveterate malice, oi^- ill-will to our fel- 
 low-creatures, without promoting us to be. of service to any. 
 2^ rue charity is an active principle. It is not properly a single 
 virtue ; but a disposition residing in the heart, as a fountain 
 whence all the virtues of benignity, candour, forbearance, ge- 
 nerosity, compassion, and iiberahty, flow, as so many native 
 streamsi From general good- will to all, it extends its influ- 
 ence particularly to those with whom we stand in nearest con- 
 nexion, and who are directly within the sphere of our good 
 offices. VFrom the country or community to which we be- 
 long, it descends to the soiailer associations of aeighbouiboo^. 
 
92 The Engliih Header. Part \, 
 
 relations, and friencis ; and spreads itself over the whole cir- 
 cle of soci j1 and domestic life. I mean not that it imports a 
 promiscuous undistiiiguished affection, which gives every man 
 an equal title to our love. Charitj, ii we should endeavour 
 to carry it so far, would be rendered an impracticable virtue ; 
 and would resolve itself into mere words, without affecting the 
 heart. ^True charity attempts not to shut our eyes to the dis- 
 tinction between good and bad men ; nor to warm our hearts 
 equally to those who befriend, and those who injure us. It 
 reserves our esteem for good men, and our complacency for our 
 friends. Towards our enemies it inspires forgiveness, humanity, 
 and a solicitude for their welfare. It breathes universal can- 
 dour, and liberality of sentiment. It forms gentleness of 
 temper, and dictates affability of manners.Tit prompts corres- 
 ponding sympathieskwith them who rejoice, and them who 
 weep. It teaches ulrto slight and despise no man. Charity i% 
 the comforter of the« afflicted, the protector of the oppressed, 
 the reconciler of differences, the intercessor for offenders. It 
 is faithfulness in the friend, public spirit in the magistrate 
 equity and patience in the iudge, moderation in the sovereign 
 and loyalty in the subject^In parents, it is care and attention 
 in children, it is reverence and submission. In a word, it is the 
 soul of social life. It is the sun that enlivens and cheers the 
 abodes of men. It is "like the dew of Hermon," says the 
 Psalmist, " and the dew that descended on the mountains of 
 Zion, where the Lord commanded the blessing, even life for 
 evermore." blair* 
 
 SECTION VIII. 
 
 Prosperity is redoubled to a good man, 
 
 /None but the temperate, the regular, and the virtuous, 
 know how to enjoy prosperity. They bring to its comforts the 
 manly rehsh of a sound uncorrupted mind. They stop at the 
 proper point, before enjoyment degenerates into disgust, and 
 pleasure is converted into pain. They are strangers to those 
 complaints which flow from spleen, caprice, and all the 
 fantastical distresses of a vitiated mind. While riotous indul- 
 gence enervates both the body and the mind, purity and virtue 
 heighten all the powers of human fruition. | 
 V^Feeble are all pleasures in which the heart has no share. 
 The selfish gratifications of the bad, are both narrow in their 
 circle, and short in their duration. But prosperity is re- 
 doubled to a good man, by his genej-ous use of it. It is re- 
 flected bi^ upon hirfi fr^jpi every one whom he make« h^ppy* 
 
Cliap, B. Descriptive Pieces. &B 
 
 In the intercourse of domestic affection, in the attachment of 
 friends, the gratitude of dependants, the esteem and good- 
 will of all who know him, he sees blessings multiplied round 
 him, on e^ery side<-/j When the ear heard me, then it blessed 
 me ; and when the eye saw me, it gave witness to me : be- 
 cause I delivered the poor that cried, the fatherless, and him 
 that had none to help him. The blessing of him that was 
 ready tofcerish came upon me, and I caused the widow's 
 heart to^ng with joy. I was eyes to the blind, and feet was 
 1 to the lame : 1 was a father to the poor ; and the cause 
 which i knew not I searched oul^^Thus, while the righteous 
 m-m flourishes like a tree planted Dy the rivers of water, hfe 
 brings forth also his fruit in its season : and that fruit he brings 
 forth, not for himself alone. He flourishes, not like a tree in 
 some solitary desert, which scatters its blossoms to the w^ind, 
 and communicates neither fruit nor shade to any living thing : 
 but like a tree in the midst of an inhabited country, which t* 
 some affords friendly shelter, to others fruit ; which^s not only 
 admired by all for its bisauty ; but blessed by the traveller for 
 the shade, and by the hungry for the sustenance, it hath given. 
 
 ^-_^::^^Z^,c,;:^-ii^- BLAin. 
 SECTION IX;"" " . 
 On the beauties of the Psalms. 
 /Greatness confers no exemption from the cares and sot- 
 rows of life : its share of them frequently bears a melancholy 
 proportion %Q its exaltation. This the monarch of Israel ex- 
 perienced. He sought in piety, that peace which he could 
 not find in empire ; and alleviated the disquietudes of state, 
 with the exercises of devotion. His invaluable Psalms convey 
 those comforts to others, which they afforded to himselj^fcom- 
 posed upon parficuiar occasions, yet designed for general 
 use ; deli veered out as services for Israehtes under the Law, 
 yet no less adapted to the circumstances of Christians under 
 the Gospel ; they present religion to us in the most engaging 
 dress ; communicating truths which philosophy could never 
 investigate, in a style which poetry can never equal ; while 
 history is made the vehicle of prophecy,- and creation lends all 
 il» charms to paint the glories of redemption^ Calculated 
 alike to profit and to please, they inform the undersl:anding, 
 elevate the affections, and entertain the imagination. Indited 
 u ider the influence of him, to whom all hearts are known, 
 aiv^ •« ^:veirls foreknown, they suit mankind in all situations ; 
 the manna which descended from above* and con 
 ^di to every palate. If ii. 
 
94 The English Reader. Part 1. 
 
 ^/The fairest productions of human wit, after a few perusals, 
 like gathered flowers, wither in our hands, and lose their fra- 
 grancy : but these unfading plants of paradise become, as we 
 are accustomed to them, still more and more beautiful ; their 
 bloom appears to be daily heightened ; fresh odours are emit? 
 ted, and new sweets extracted from them. He who has once 
 tasted their excellences, will desire to taste them again ; and 
 he who tastes them oftenest, will relish them best.M 
 /^^nd now, could the author flatter himself, that any one 
 would take half the pleasure in reading his work, which he 
 has taken in writing it, he would not fear the loss of his la- 
 bour. The employment detached him from the bustle and 
 hurry of life, the din of politics, and the noise of folly. Vani- 
 ty and vexation flew away for a season ; care and disquietude 
 came not near his dwelling. He arose, fresh as the morning, 
 to his task ; the silence of the night invited him to pursue it ; 
 and he can {ruly say, that food and rest were not preferred 
 before it.l^Every psalm improved infinitely upon his acquaint- 
 ance with it, and' no one gave him uneasiness but the last ; 
 for then he grieved that his work was done. Happier hours 
 than those which have been spent in these meditations on the ^ 
 songs of Sion, he never expects to see in this world. Very 
 pleasantly did they pass ; they moved smoothly and swiftly 
 along : for when thus engaged, he counted no time. They 
 are gone, but they have left a relish and a fragranpe upon the 
 mind ; and the remembrance of them is sweet. ^^ horn^v 
 
 SECTION X. 
 
 Character of Alfred, king of England, 
 i TiS: merit of this prince, both in private and public life, 
 may, with advantage, be set in opposition % that of any mo- 
 aarch or citizen, which the annals of any age, or any nation, 
 can present to us. He seems, indeed, to be the complete 
 model of that perfect character, which, under the denomina- 
 tion of a sage or wise man, the philosophers have been fond 
 of delineating, rather as a fiction of their imagination, than 
 in hopes of ever seeing it reduced to practice : so happily 
 were all his^irtues tempered together ; so justly were they 
 blended ; and so powerfully did each prevent the other from 
 exceeding its proper bounds Jf:^' 
 
 ^ He knew how to conciliate the most enterprising spiri^ 
 with the coolest moderation ; the most obstinate perseverance, 
 with the easiest flexibility ; the most severe justice, with the 
 greatest lenity; the greatestl rigour in command, ^^'ith th^ 
 
 f' 
 
Chap, 6. Descriptive Pieces. ^5 
 
 greatest affability of deportment ; the highest capacity and in- 
 clination for science, with the most shining talents for actia^ 
 
 JNature also, as if desirous that so bright a i^roduction'^T 
 her skill should be set in the fairest Fight, had hest'&vved on him 
 all bodily accomplishments ; vigour of limbs, dignity of shape 
 and air, and a pleasant, engaging, and open countenance. 
 By living jn that barbarous age, he was deprived of historians 
 worthy to'transmit his fame to posterity ; and we wish to see 
 hiii>xlehneated in more lively colours, and with more parti- 
 cular strokes, that we might at least perceive some of those 
 small spejfc s and blemishes, from which, as a man, it is im- 
 possible ne could be entirely exempted/^ hume. 
 
 SECTION XI. 
 
 Character of Queen Elizabeth* 
 4 There are few personages in history, who have been mor6 
 exposed to the calumny of enemies^ and the adulation of 
 friends, than queen Elizabeth ; and yet ther^ygflrcely is any, 
 whose reputation has been more certainly d^Prmined by the 
 unanimous consent of posterity. The unusual length of her 
 administration, anithe strong features of her character, were 
 able to overcome alj^ prejudices ; and, obliging her detractors 
 to abate much ^f their ^ivectives, and her admirers somewhat 
 
 e mucn^ttneir^^ 
 of their ^kegAics, haW at last, in spite of political factions, 
 
 a^B more, of religious animositie^ 
 judgment with regard to her conduct^^Jpler vigour, her con 
 
 and wha^B more, of religious animosities produced a uniform 
 
 stancy, her magnanimity, her penetration, vigilance, and ad- 
 dress, are allowed to merit the highest praises ; and appear 
 not to have been s.ujpassed by any person who ever filled a 
 throne : a conduc^i^ss rigorous, less imperious, more sincere, 
 more indulgent to Hfc* people, would have been requisite to 
 form a perfect charae4:er. B^ the force of her mind, she 
 controlled all her more active, and stronger qualities ; and 
 prevented them from running into excesaj^^fler heroism was 
 exempted from all temerity ; her frugality from avarice ; her 
 friendship from partiality ; her euti^rprise from turbulency and 
 a vain ambition. She guarded not herself, with equal care, or 
 equal success, from less infirmities ; the rivalship of beauty^ 
 the desire of admiration, the jealousy of love, and the saUies 
 
 ine aesire o! 
 of angerfi^ 
 JjHer singul 
 
 ler singular talents for government, were founded equally 
 br her temper and on her capacity. Endowed with a great 
 command over herself, she soon obtained an uncontrolled 
 ^cer*d©ncy over the people* Few sovereigns of England sue- 
 
^6 The English Header. Part i, 
 
 ^eeded to the throne in more difficult circumstances ; and 
 Bone ever conducted the government with so uniform success 
 and felicity.i^^hough unacquainted with the practice of 
 toleration, the true secret for managing religious factions, she 
 preserved her people, by her superior prudence, from those 
 confusions in which theological controversy had involved aU 
 the neighbouring nations ; and though her enemies were the 
 most powerful princes of Europe, the most active, the most 
 enterprising, the least scrupulous, she was able, by her vigour, 
 to make deep impressions on their state ; her own greatness 
 meanwhile remaining untouched and unimpaired,*" jfc^ " ^ -^ 
 / i^The wise ministers and brave men who flourished during 
 iier reign, share the praise of her success ; but, instead of 
 lessening the applause due to her, they make great addition 
 to it They owed, ail of them, their advancement to he^ 
 choice ; they were supported by her constancy ; and, with all 
 their ability ,-^jie^were never cible to acquire an undue ascend- 
 ancy over hepHpn her flimily, in her court, in her kingdom, 
 she remained ^ually mistress. The force of the tender pas- 
 sions was great over her, but the force of her mind was still 
 superior : and the combat which her victory visibly cost her, 
 serves only to displa}'^ the firmness ofJi^ reso lution, and the 
 loftiness of her ambitious sentimentspjk X?"^^ ^|^ 
 ^^ The flime of this princess, tboui^n ft nas^^^mOTffted the 
 'prejudices both of fp.ct^n -.md of biac^try, yet hes still exposed 
 to another prejudice, whieh is mor'3 durable, because more 
 natural ; and which, according to the. different views in which 
 we survey her, is capable either of e^ltmg beyond measure, 
 or diminishing, the lustre of her characte^Ji This prejudice is 
 founded on the consideration of her sexwpv hen we contem- 
 plate her as a woman, we are apt t(^e struck with the 
 liig:hest admiration of her qualities and extensive capacity ; 
 but we are also a^3l|to require some more softness of disposi- 
 tion, some greater lenity of temper, some of those amiable 
 weaknesses by which her sex is distinguished. But the true 
 method of estimating her merit, is, to lay aside all these con- 
 siderations, and to consider her merely as a rational being, 
 placed in authority, and intrusi^ with the government of Wn 
 kind.f-Tv-^"^^-^ .^-^ K-^"^--'''")^ """" 
 
 HUMB^ 
 
 SECTION XIL " ^' 
 
 The slavery of vict. 
 I The sl^ivcry pr:^diK^ 1 by vice ap])^^ars in the dependence 
 itmder which it brings the sinner, to circumstances of exteiaa! 
 
tShap. &. Descriptive Piece^. 9*? 
 
 fortune. One of the favourite characters of liberty, is th€ 
 independence it bestows. He who is truly a freeman is 
 above all servile compliances, and abject subjection. He i^ 
 able to rest upon himself; and while he regards his superiors 
 with proper deference, neither debases himself by cringing to 
 them, nor is tempted to purchase their favour by dishonoura- 
 ble means, ^fiut the sinner has forfeited every privilege of 
 this nature J^4lis passions and habits render him an absolute 
 dependanV^me world, and the world's favour ; on the un- 
 certain goods* of fortune, and the ifickle humours of men* 
 For it is by these he subsists, and among these his happiness 
 is sought ; according as his passions determine him to pursue 
 pleasures, riche&i, or preferments. Having no fund wi m 
 himself whence to draw enjoyment, his only resource is ih 
 things without. His hopes and fears all hang upon the wot !<i> 
 He partakes in all its vicissitudes ; and is moved and shrtkeg 
 by every wind of fortune. This is to b^rtn the^ipict^tj 
 a slave to the world. ♦__--^::^I!L- — y^ -i^^^^Ja^^^j^- 
 ^Religion and virtue, on the other hand ptrSnIfTon tiieiniad 
 principles of noble independence. '' The upright man is 
 satisfied from himself." He despises not the advantages of 
 fortune, but he centres not his happiness in them. With a 
 moderate share of them he can be contented ; and^iconteat- 
 ment is felicity. Happy in his own integrity, conscious of the 
 esteem of good men, reposing firm trust in the providence, 
 and the promises of God, he is exempted from servile depend- 
 ence on other things w'He can wrap himself up in a good 
 conscience, and look forward, without terror, to the change 
 of the world. Let all things shift around him as they please, 
 he beheves that, by the Divine ordination, they shnll be mnde 
 to work together in the issue for his good : and therefore^ 
 having much to hope from God, and little to fear from the 
 world, he can be easy In every state. One who possesses wiUir, 
 in himself such an estabhshment of mind, is truly fre^^Su^ 
 shall I call that man free, who has nothing that is his own, no 
 property assured ; whose very heart is not his own, but ren- 
 dered the appendage of external things, and the sport of fop* 
 tune ? Is that man free, let his outward condition be ever so 
 apleodid, whom his imperious passions detain at their e;rd, 
 whom they send forth at their pleasure, to drudge and \ vA^ 
 and to>eg his only enjoyment from the casualties of the 
 worid^ls he free, who nlust flatter and lie to compass bis 
 cnd&; 1^0 must bear with this man>»caprice, and that mrn's 
 aeom 4 musl jprofeae friendship where he hates, and respec" 
 
■ 3^ The Engtish Reader. . Part 1 , 
 where he contemns ; who is not at liberty to nppear in his own 
 colours, nor to speak his own sentiments ; who dares not be 
 honest, lest he should be poor I^J^elieve it, no chains bind so 
 hard, no fetters are so heav}^ as those which fasten the cor- 
 rupted heart to this treacherous world ; no dependence is more 
 contenaptible than that under which the v^oluptuous, the covet- 
 ous, or the ambitious man, l^es to the means of pleasure, gain, 
 or power. Yet this is the boasted liberty, which vije promises, 
 as the recompense of setting us fsee from the salutary re- 
 straints of virtue.-" — ■ --.^^ -:-..-•_ ^-blair. 
 
 SECTION XIII. 
 
 if The man of integrity, 
 
 / It will not take much time to delineate the character of the 
 man of integrity, as by its nature it is a plain one, and easily 
 understood. He is one, who mikes it his constant rule to fol- 
 low the road of duty, according as the word of God, and the 
 voice of hisl^gg|)science, point it out to mm. He is not gu'ided 
 merely by affections, which may sometimes give the colour of 
 virtue to a loose nnd unst'ibje character.^The upright man is 
 guided hy a fixed principle of iHind,^ which determines him to 
 esteem nothing but what is honourable ; and to abhor wTriat- 
 ever is l-»ise or unworthy, in moral conduct. Hence we iind 
 him ever the same ; at all times, the trusty friend, the af-» 
 feclionate relation, the conscientious man of business, the 
 pious worshipper, the p'*jblic spirited ciUzen/SpHe assumes no 
 borrowed appearance. He seeks no n^sk toA:over him ; for 
 he acts no studied part ; but he is indeed what he appears to 
 be, fall of truth, c^mdour, and humimity. In all his pursuits, 
 he knows no path, but the fiir and direct one ; and would 
 much rather fiil of success, thaa attain it by reproachful 
 means. «|y-Ie never shows us a smiliui^ counteijance, while he 
 meditates evil against us in his heart.^ He never praises us 
 among our friends ; and tlien joins in^- traducing; us among 
 aur enemies. We shall never ^nd one part of his character 
 at variance with another, in his manners, he is simple and, 
 unaffected ; in all his proceedings, open and consistent./;^^^ 
 
 BLAIR. 
 
 SECTION XIV. 
 
 Gentleness, 
 if I BEGIN with distinguishin r, true gentleness from passive 
 Lameness of spirit, ai"! from uidimited c.-rav Ji uioe with the 
 manr*er« of others. '1 iiat passive tamediessj, which 9^uba»t»> 
 
 t 
 
Chap* 6. IJescriptive Pieces, 90^^ 
 
 without opposition-, to every encroachment of the violent and 
 assuming, forms no part of Christian duty ; but, on the con- 
 trary, is destructive of ^^eneral happiness and order. That 
 unlimited complaisance, wlach, on every occasion, falls in with 
 the opinions -md manners of others, is so far from being a vir- 
 tue, that it is itself a vice, and the parerit of many vice^^Jt 
 overthrows all steadiness of principle; and produces tli^t'sin- 
 ful conformity with the w^orid, which taints the whole chijr^c- 
 ter. In the present corrupted state of haman manners, al- 
 ways to assent and to comply, is the very worst maxim we 
 can adopt. It is impossible to support the purily and dicrnity 
 of Christian morals, without opposing the world on various 
 occasions, even though we should stand alone. /JJTh. it gerille- 
 ness therefore which belongs to virtue, is to bj^carefully dis^ 
 tinguished from the mean spirit of cowards, and the fawriing 
 assent of sycophants. It renoances no just right from fe;ir. 
 It gives up no important truth from dattery. It is indeed not 
 only consistent with a firm mind, but it necessarilv require-- a 
 manly spirit, and a fixed principle, in order to give it any real 
 value. Upon this solid ground only, the polish of gentleness-^ 
 can with advantage be superinduced. ^ 
 
 Oil stands opposed, not to the most determined regard for 
 virtue and truth, but to harshness and severity, to pride and 
 arrogance, to violence and oppression. It is properly, that 
 part of the great virtue of charity, which makes us unwilliri^ 
 to give pain to any of our brethren. Compassion prompts us 
 to relieve their wants. Forbearance prevents us from retalia- 
 ting tQeir injuries. Meekr.ess restrains our angry passions ; 
 candour, our severe judgments, ^Gentleness corrects what- 
 ever is offensive ia our manners-"; and, by a constant train of 
 humane attentions, studies to alleviate the burden of common 
 misery. Its office, therefore, is extensive. It is not, like 
 some ^her virtues, called forth only on peculiar emergencies; 
 but it is continually in action, when we are engaged in inter- 
 course with men. It ought to form our address, to regulate 
 our speech, and to diiSlise itself over our whole behaviour, idf 
 ^ We must not, however, confound this gentle '' wisdom which 
 is from above," with that artificial courtesy, that studied 
 smoothness of manners, which is learned in the school of the 
 world. Such accomplishments, the most frivolous and empty 
 mi'y possess. Too often they are employed hy the artful, as 
 a snare ; too .often affected by the hard and unfeeling, as a 
 cover to the baseness of their minds. We cannot, at the same 
 time, avoid, observing the hom-ige^ wdiich. even ia such in- 
 
iO« TAe English Reader. Part 1, 
 
 stances, the tvorld is constrained to pay to virtue^ In order 
 to render society agreeable, it is found necessary to assume 
 somewhat, that may at least carry its appearance. Virtue is 
 the universal charm. Even its shadow is courted, when the 
 substance is wanting. The imitation of its form has been re- 
 duced into an art ; and, in the commerce of life, the first 
 study of all who would either gain the esteem, or win the 
 hearts of others, is to learn the speech, and to aj^opt the man- 
 ners, of candour, gentleness, and humanity ^But that gen- 
 tleness which is the characteristic of a goodman, has, like 
 every other virtue, its seat in the heart ; and let me add, no- 
 thing except what flows from the heart, can render even ex- 
 ternal mann|fi's truly pleasing. For no assumed behaviour 
 can at all times hide the real character. In that unaffected 
 civility which springs from a gentle mind, there is a charm 
 infinite!}^ more powerful, than in all the studied manners of 
 
 the most finished courtier, tp- — ^. ^ ^ ^ — ^•— --^r^^ — 
 
 7(W'rue gentleness is founded on a sense of what we owe to 
 HIM who made us, and to the common nature of which we all 
 share. It arises from reflection on our own failings and 
 wants ; and from just flews of the condition, and the duty of 
 mun. It is native feeling, heightened and improved by prin- 
 ciple. It is the heart which easily relents ; which feels for 
 every thing that is humpn ; and is backward and slow to in- 
 dict the least wouud/^lt is affable in its address, and mild in 
 its demeanour ; ever ready to oblige, and willing to be obliged 
 by others ; breathing habitual kindness towards friends, cour- 
 tesy to strangers, long-suffering to enemies. It exercises au- 
 thority with moderation ;«* administers reproof with tender- 
 ness ; confers favours with ease and modesty. It is unassum- 
 ing in opinion, and temperate in zeal. It contends not eagerly 
 about trifles ; slow to contradict, and still slower to blame ; 
 but prompt to allay dissension, and restore peace. ^Jflt nei- 
 ther intermeddles unnecessarily with the affairs, nor pries in- 
 quisitively into the secrets of others. It delights above all 
 things to alleviate distress ; and, if it cannot dry up the fulling 
 tear,'to sooth at least the grieving heart. Where it has not 
 the power of being useful, it is never burdensome. It seeka 
 to please, rather than to shine and dazzle ; and conceals with 
 care that superiority, either of talents or of rank, which is 
 oppressive to those who are beneath ij/fc-jn a word, it is that 
 spirit and that tenour of manners, whicn the gospel of Christ 
 enjoins, when it commr.ndrf us, *' to bear one anotlier's bur- 
 dens ; to rejoice with tho^o, who rejoice, and to weep witt 
 
Chap. 6. Pathetic Pieces, !01 
 
 those who weep ; to please every one his neighbour for his 
 good -, to be kind and tender-hearted ; to be pitiful and courte- 
 ous 5 to support the weak, and to be patient towards all men.^ 
 
 BLAIR^ 
 
 CHAP. VL 
 
 PATHETIC PIECES, 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 Trial and execution of the Earl of Strafford, who fell Or 
 sacrifiee to the violence of the times, in the reign of Charles 
 the First. 
 
 /The earl of Straiford defended himself against the accusa- 
 tions of the house of Commons, with all the prjesence of mindj 
 judgment, and sagacity, that could be expected from inno- 
 cence and ability. His children were placed beside him, as 
 he was thus defending his life, and the cause of his royal mas- 
 ter. After he had, in a long and eloquent speech, delivered 
 without premeditation, confuted all the accusations of his ene- 
 mies, he thus drew to a conclusion. '^^ But, my lords, I have 
 troubled you too long : longer than I should have done, but 
 for the sake of these dear pledges, which a saint in heaven has 
 left me."— Upon this he paused ; dropped a tear ; looked upon 
 his children ; and proceeded. — *' What I forfeit for niyself is 
 a trifle : that my indiscretions should reach my posterity, 
 wounds me to the heart. Srardon my infirmity.— Something 
 I should have added, bi^t-Oam not able ; and therefore I let it 
 pass. And now, my lords, for myself. I ha^^. long been 
 taught, that the afflictions of this life are overpaid by that 
 eternal weight of glory, which awaits the innocent. And so, 
 my lords, even so, with the utmost tranquillity, I submit my- 
 self to your judgment, wheiher that judgment be life or 
 death : not my will, but thine, O God, be done !" C 
 V^^is eloquence and innocence induced those judges to pity, 
 who were the most zealous to condemn him. The king him- 
 self went to the house of lords, and spoke for some time in 
 his defence; but the spirit of vengeance, which had beffa 
 chained for eleven years, was now roused ; and nothine; but 
 his blood could^give the people satisfaction. He was con- 
 demned by both 'houses of parliament ; and nothifig remaiae^j' 
 but for the king to give his consent to the bill of attaind^f. 
 But in the present commotions, the coxV^eut of. the kirg 
 
102 The English Reader, Part I. 
 
 would very easily be dispensed with ; and imminent danger 
 might attend his refusal. Charles, however, who loved 
 . Strafford tenderly, hesitated, and seemed reluctant ; tr;yiflg 
 / every expedient to put off so dreadful an office, as that of 
 ^signing the warrant for his execution. While he continued 
 in this agitation of mind, and state of suspense, his doubts 
 were at last silenced by an act of great magnanimity in the 
 condemned lord.^'He received a letter from that unfortunate 
 nobleman, desiring that his life might be made a sacrifice to 
 obtain reconciliation between the king and his people : add- 
 ing, that he was prepared to die ; and that to a willing mind 
 there could be no injury. This instance of noble generosity 
 was but ill repaid by his master, who complied with his re- 
 quest. He consented to sign the fatal bill by commission ; 
 and Strafford was beheaded on Tower-hill ; behaving with all 
 ftat composed dignity of resolution, which was expected from 
 his character. C' goldsmith. 
 
 ^ SECTION II. 
 
 An eminent instance of true fortitude. 
 
 I All who have been distinguished as servants of God, or 
 benefactors of men ; ajl who, in perilous situations, have 
 acted their part with such honour as to render their names 
 illustrious through succeeding ages, have been eminent for 
 fortitude of mind. Of this we have one conspicuous example 
 k) the apostle Paul, whom it will be instructive for us to view 
 in a remarkable occurrence of his life. ^ After having long 
 acted as the apostle of the Gentiles, his mission called him to 
 go to Jerusalem, where he knew that he was to encounter the 
 utmost violence of his enemies. ^Just before he set sail, he 
 called together the ciders of his favourite church at Ephesus. 
 and, in a pathetic speech, which does great honour to hia 
 character, gave them his last farewell. Deeply affected by 
 their knowledge of the certain diangers to which he was ex- 
 posing himself, all the assembly were filled with distress, and 
 melted into tears. "^The circumstances were such, as might 
 have conveyed dejection even into a resolute mind ; and 
 would have totally overwhelmed the feeble. '' They all wept 
 sore, and fell on Paul's neck, and kissed him ; sorrowing nlost 
 of all for the words which he spoke, that they should see. his 
 face no more." — What were then the sentiments, what was 
 the language, of this great and good man ?J|^ear the words 
 which spoke his firm and undaunted mind. ^'* Behold, I go 
 bound in the spirit, to Jerusalem, r^ot knowing the things tbid 
 
Chap: 6. Pathetic Pieces. 105 
 
 shall befall me there ; save that the Holy Spirit witnesseth 
 in every city, sayings that bonds and afflictions abide me. But 
 none of these things move me ; neither count 1 my life dear 
 to myself, so that I might finish my course with joy, and the 
 ministry which I have received of the Lord Jesus, to testify 
 the gospel of the grace of God. 'Jf^lie re was uttered the 
 voice, there breathed the spirit, of a brave and a virtuous 
 man. Such a man knows not what it is to shrink from dan- 
 ger, w^hen conscience points out his path. In that path he is 
 determiiKed to walk, let the consequences be what they may. 
 This was the magnanimous behaviour of that great apostje, 
 when he had persecution and distress full in view^prAttQj||l^ -•'••• 
 now to the sentiments of the same excellent man,'Vhen the 
 time of his last suffering approached ; and remark the ma- 
 jesty, and the ease, with which he looked on death. *' I am 
 now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at 
 hand. I have fought the good fight. I have finished my 
 course. I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up 
 for me a crown af righteousnesses-How many years of life 
 does such a dyirf^ moment overbalance ! Who would not 
 choose, in thi^atomer, to go off the stage, with such a song 
 of triumph in^^mouth, rather t)ian prolong his existence 
 through a wretched old age, stained with sk and shame "i^y 
 
 BLAIA. 
 
 ^ SECTION III. 
 
 The good ma'ids. comfort in affliction, 
 
 / The religion of Christ not only arms us with fortitude 
 against the approach of evil ; but, supposing evils to fall upon 
 us with their heaviest pressure, it lightens the load by many 
 consolations to which others are strangers. While bad men 
 trace, in the calamities with which they are visited, the hand 
 of an offended sovereign, Christians are taught to view them 
 as the well-intended chastisements of*^a merciful Father^^ 
 i ^They hear amidst them, that still voice which a good con-''^^^ 
 1^ science brings to their ear : *' Fear not, for I am with thee : 
 be not dismayed, for I am thy God." They apply to them- 
 selves the comfortable promises with which the gospel 
 abounds. They discoyer in these the happy issue decreed to 
 their troubles ; and wait with patience till Providence shall 
 have accomplished its great and good designs*3^In the mean 
 ime, Devotion opens to them ks blessed and Iroly sanctuary : 
 :hat sanctuary in which the wounded heart is healed, and the 
 weary mind is at rest ; wheife the cares of ike worW-are Sqt- 
 
104 ^The English Reader. Part 1. 
 
 gotten, where its tumults are hushed, and its miseries disap- 
 pear ; where greater ohject« open to our view than any which 
 the world presents ; where a more serene sky shines, and a 
 sweeter and calmer light beams on the afflicted heart.A In 
 those moments of devotion, a pious man, pouring out his v^nts 
 and sorrows to an Almi^ty Supporter, feels that he js not left 
 solitary and forsaken in a vale of wo. God is with' him ; 
 Christ and the holy Spirit are with him ; and though he 
 should be bereaved of every friend on earth, he can look up 
 in heaven to a Friend that will never desert him. J^ blair. 
 
 ^ ^ SECTION lY. 
 
 * The close of life. 
 
 I When we contemplate the close of life ; the termination of 
 man's designs and hopes ; the silence that now^ reigns among 
 those who, a little while ago, were so busy, or so gay ; who 
 can avoid being touched with sensations at once awful and 
 tender ? What heart but then warms with the glow of hu- 
 manity ? In whose eye dof s not the tear gather, on revolving 
 the fate of passing and short-lived man ?|ft 
 ^Behold the poor man who lays down aOm^he burden of 
 his wearisome life. No more shall he gifflHRinder the load 
 of poverty and toil. No more shall he hear the insolent calls 
 of the master'^Jrom whom he received his scanty wages. No 
 more shall he 0€ raised from needful slumber on his bed of 
 straw, nor be hurried away from his homely meal, to undergo 
 the repeated labours of the day.'*^While his humble grave is 
 preparing, and a few poor and d^^yed neighbours are carry- 
 ing him thither, it is good for us to think, that this man too 
 was our brother ; that for him the aged and destitute wife, and 
 the needy children, now weep ; that, neglected as he was by 
 the world, he possessed, perhaps, both a sound understanding, 
 and a worthy heart ; and is now carried by angelsto rest in 
 Abraham's bosom. 4#At no great distance from him, the grave 
 is opened to recelv^ the rich and proud mem. For, as it is 
 said with emphasis in the parable, ** the rich man also died, 
 and was' buried." He also died. His riches prevented not 
 his sharing the same fate with the poor man ; perhaps, through 
 luxury, they accelerated his doom./y.Then, indeed, " the 
 mourners go about the streets ;" and, while, in all the pomp 
 and magnificence of wo, his funeral is preparing, his heirs, 
 impatient to examine his will, are looking on one another 
 with jealous eyes, and already beginning to dispute aboHJ %^ 
 ^vision ofbis substance-^&Une day, we see carried along, ibe 
 
Chap. 6. Pathetic Pieces. 106 
 
 coffin of the smiliog infant ; the flower just nipped as it began^ 
 to blossom in the parent's view : and the next day, we behold 
 the voung man, or young woman, of blooming form and pro- 
 mising hopes^ laid in an untimely grave. While the funeral 
 is attended by a numerous unconcerned company, who are 
 discoursing to one another about the news of the day, or the 
 ordinary affairs of life, let our thoughts rather follow to the 
 house of mourning, and represent to themselves what is pass^l 
 ing there^^ There we should see a disconsolate fponily, sitting 
 in silent grief, thinking of the sad breach that is made in their 
 little society ; and with tears in their eyes, looking to the 
 chamber that is now left vacant, and to every memorial that 
 presents itself df their departed friend. By such attention to 
 the woes of others, the selfish hardness of our hearts will be 
 gradually softened, and melted down into humanity?^ 
 ^Another day, we follow to the grave, one who, in old age^ 
 and after a long career of life, has in full maturity sunk at last 
 into rest. As we are going along to the mansion of the dead, 
 it is natural for us to thinks and to discburse, of all the chang- 
 es which such a person has seen during the course of his life. 
 He has passed, it k likely, through varieties of fortune. He 
 has experienced prosperity, and adversity. He has seen fa- 
 milies and kindreds rise and fall. He has seen peace and war 
 succeeding i» their turns y Ihe face of his country undergoing 
 many alterations ; and the verjkdjty in which he dwelt, risings 
 in a manner, new around him.-^pfter all he has beheld, his 
 eyes are now closed for ever, tie was becoming a stranger 
 in the midst of a new succession of men. A race who knew 
 him not, had arisen to fill the earth. — Thus passes the world 
 away. Throughout all ranks and conditions, " one generation 
 passeth, and another generation cometh ;" and this great inn is 
 by turns evacuated and replenished, by troops of succeeding 
 pilgrims^jM^ vain and inconstant world ! O fleeting and tran- 
 sient life Tw hen will the sons of men learn to think of thee 
 as they ought ? When will they learn humanity from the af- 
 flictions of their brethren ; or moderation and wisdom, from 
 the sense of their own fugitive state l^ t^ blair, 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 Exalted society^ and the renewal of mrtiwus connexions^ iwe 
 
 sources of future feliciiy. 
 If Besides the felicity which springs from perfect love, there 
 J re two circuQistances which particularly enhaiice the bless - 
 <idneis of that ^' multitude who stand before the throne ;'' these 
 
 Jill ^ 
 
106 37ie English Reader. Part t 
 
 are, access to the most exalted society, and renewal of the oi ost 
 tender connexions. The former is pointed out in the Scrip- 
 tu re, by "joining the innumerable company of angels, and the 
 general assembly and church of the first-born ; by sitting down 
 with Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, in the kingdom of hea* 
 ven ;" a promise which opens the sublimest prospects to the 
 human mind.^lt allows good men to entertain the hope, that, 
 'Separated frOroT all the dregs of the human mass, from that 
 mixed and polluted crowd in the midst of which they now 
 dwell, they shall be permitted to mingle w-ith prophets, pa- 
 triarchs, and apostles, with all those great and illustrious spi- 
 rits, who have shone in former ages as the servants of God,- 
 or the benefactors of men ; whose deeds we are accustomed 
 to celebrate ; whose steps we now follow at a distance ; and 
 whose .names we pronounce with veneration^ ^ 
 J United to this high assembly, the blessed, at the same time, 
 'renew those ancient connexions with virtuous friends, which 
 had been dissolved by death. The prospect of this awakens 
 in the heart, the most pkasing and tender sentiment that per- 
 haps can fill it, in this mortal state. For of all the sorrows 
 which we are here doomed to endure, none is so bitter as that 
 occasioned by the flital stroke which separates us, in appear- 
 ance for ever, from those to whom either nature or friendship 
 had intimately joined our h e ;ir ts .^M e m o ry , from time to time, 
 renews the anguish ; opens the wound which seemed onc« iO 
 have been closed ; and, by recalling joys that are past and 
 gone, touches every spring of painful sensibility. In thegt- 
 a£;onizinglnoments, how relijeving the thought, that the sepa- 
 ration is only temporary, not eternal ; that there is a time to 
 come of re-union with those with whom our happiest days 
 were spent : whose joys and sorrows once were ours ; whose 
 fiety and virtue cheered and encouraged us ; and from whom 
 after we shall have landed on the peaceful shore phere they 
 dwell, no revolutions of nature shall ever be able to part us 
 more ! Such is the society of the blessed above. Of such are 
 the multitude composed, who '' stand before the throne. '^/^ 
 
 ELAIJK. 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 Vie clemency and amiahle character of the j) at riarch Joseph. 
 
 / No human character exhibited in the records of Scripture, 
 is more remarkable and instructive than that of the patriarch 
 Joseph. He is one whom we behold tried in all the vicis.-i- 
 :udes of fortune ; from the condition of a slave, risii ' ': 
 
Chap. 6. Pathetic Pieces, 107 
 
 puler of the land of E,2;ypt ; and in every st'^tion acquiring, by 
 his virtue and wisdom, favour with God and man. When 
 overseer of Fotiphar's house, his fidehty was proved by strong 
 temptations, which he honourably resisted.^When thrown 
 into prison by the artifices of a f ilse woman, his integrity and 
 prudence soon rendered him conspicuous, even in that dark 
 mansion. When called into the presence of Pharaoh, the 
 wise and extensive plan which he formed for saving the king- 
 dom from the miseries of impending famine, justly raised him 
 to a high station, wherein his abilities were eminently ilisplay- 
 <y in the public service.^ But in his whole history, there is 
 no circumstance so strifci^ and interesting, as his behaviour 
 to his brethren who had sold him into slavery. The moment 
 in which he made himself known to them, was the most cri- 
 tical one of his life, and the most decisive of his character. 
 It is such as rarely occurs in the course of human events ; and 
 i^ calculated to draw the hi'^hest attention of all who are en- 
 dowed with any degree of sensibility of heart.^^^ 
 ^From the whole tenour of the narration it appears, that 
 though Joseph, upon the arrival of his brethren in Egypt, 
 made himself strange to them, yet from the beginning he in- 
 tenled to discover himself; and studied so to conduct the dis- 
 covery, as might render the surprise of joy complete. For this 
 e.^',* by affected severit}^ he took measur^% for bringing 
 d^n into Egypt all his 'father's childrenjf^hey were now 
 arrived there ; and Benjamin among the rest, who was his 
 youno:er brother by the same mother, and was particularly be- 
 loved by Joseph. Him he threatened to detain ; and seemed 
 willing to allow the rest to depart. This incident renewf^ 
 th'^^ir distress. They all knew their father's extreme anxiely 
 abmU the safety of Benjamin, and with w^hat difficulty he had ' 
 yielded to his undertaking this journey^ Should he be pre- 
 venled fi-om returning, they dreaded that grief would over- 
 pf^^'cr the Old m-m's spirits, and prove fital to his hfe. J^u- 
 dah, theretore, who had particularly urged the necessity of 
 Benjijoin's accompanying his brothers, and had solemnly 
 pledged himself to their father for his safe return, craved, up- 
 on thfs occasion, an audience of the governor ; and gave him 
 a full account of the circumstances of Jacob's family.-^- 
 ^^rNothing can be more interesting and pathetic than this dis- 
 course of Judah. Little knowing to whom he spoke, he 
 paints in all the colours of simple and natural eloquence, the 
 distressed situation of the aged patriarch, hastening to the close 
 of hfe : long afflii^ted for the lo&s of a favourite son, whom be 
 
108 The English Reader. Part' 1. 
 
 supposed to have been torn in pieces by a beast of prey ; la^ 
 bouring now under anxious concern about his youngest son^ 
 the child of his old age, who alone was left alive of his mother, 
 and whom nothing but the calamities of severe ftimine could 
 have moved a tender father to send from home, and expose to 
 the dangers of a foreign land^^^*^If we bring him not back 
 with us, we shall bring down the gray hairs of thy servant, 
 our father, with sorrow, to the grave. 1 pray thee therefore 
 let thy servant abide, instead of the young man, a bondman to 
 our lord. For how shall I go up to my father, and Benjamin 
 not with me ? lest I see the evil that shall come on my fatiber j(|^ 
 y Upon this relation Joseph could no longer restrain himsjiir. 
 The tender ideas of his father, and his father's house, of his 
 ancient home, his country, and his kindred, of the distress of 
 his family, and his own exaltation, all rushed too strongly up 
 on his mind to bear any farther concealment. ** He crie 
 Cause every man to go out from me ; and he wept aloud 
 
 /^The tears which he shed were not the tears of grief. They 
 were the burst of affection. They were the effusions of a 
 heart overflowing with all the tender sensibilities of nature* 
 Formerly he had been moved in the same manner, when he 
 first saw his brethren before him. *' His bowels yearned upon 
 them ; he sougiit for a place where to weep. He went into 
 his chamber ; and then washed his face and returned to therakr 
 
 / / At that period his generous plans were not completed. dwI 
 now, when there was no farther occasion for constraining 
 himself, he gave free vent to the strong emotions of his heart. 
 The first minister to the king of Egypt was not ashamed to 
 si^jW, that he felt as a man, and a brother. '' He wept aloud ; 
 and the Egyptians, and the house of Pharaoh, heard himj^;^ 
 ^/The first words wjjich his swelling heart allowed him to 
 pronounce, are the most suitable to such an affecting situation 
 that were ever uttered ; — *' I am Joseph ; doth my father yet 
 live V — What could he, what ought he, in that impassioned 
 moment, to have said more ? This is the voice of nature her- 
 self, speaking her own language ; and it penetrates the heart : 
 no pomp of expression ; no par rule of kindness ; but strong 
 affection hastening to utter what it strongly felt. ^jfpHis bre- 
 thren could not answer him ; for they were troumed at his 
 presence." Their silence is as expressive of those emotions 
 of repentance and shame, which, on this amazing discovery, 
 
 -^ filled their breasts, and stopped their utterance, as the few 
 words which Joseph speaks, are expressive of the generous 
 
 9gitations which struggled for vent withm him/ff^io painter 
 
 the g< 
 
Ohap. 6. Pathetic Pieces, 109 
 
 could seize a more striking moment for displaying the charac- 
 teristis^l features of the human h^art, than what is here pre- 
 sented. Never was there a situation of more tender and vir- 
 tuous joy, on the one hand ; nor, on the other, of more over- 
 whelming confusion and conscious guilt. In the simple nar- 
 ration of the sacred historian, it is set before us with greater 
 energy and higher effect, than if it had been wrought up witji 
 all the colouring of the most admired modem eloquence^-^ 
 
 BLAIR; 
 
 SECTION VII. 
 
 ALTAMONT. 
 
 The following account of an affecting^ mournful exit, is related 
 by Dr* Youngs 'who was presejit at the melancholy scene. 
 
 / The sad evening before the death of the noble youth, whose 
 last hours suggested the most solemn and awful refiections, I 
 was with him. No one was present, but his physician, and an 
 intimate whom he loved, and whom he had ruined. At my 
 coming in, he said, '' You and the ph3^sician are come too 
 late. I have neither life nor hope. You both aim at mira- 
 cles. You would raise the dead I^JHeaven, I said, was mer- 
 ciful — '' Or," exclaimed he, — " I could not have been thus 
 guilty. What has it not done to bless and to save me ! — I have 
 been too strong for Omnipotence ! I have plucked down 
 
 ruin." 1 said, the blessed Redeemer,—" Hold ! hold ! you 
 
 wound me ! — That is the rock on which I split :— 1 denied his 
 name i" 
 
 «> Refusing to hear ruj thing from me, or take any thing 
 from the ph3^sician, he lay silent, as far as sudden darts of pain 
 would permit, till the clock struck : Then with vehemence 
 he exclaimed ; •« Oh ! time ! time ! it is tit thou shouldst thns 
 Strike thy murderer to the heart ! — How ai^t thou fled for 
 ever ! — A month ! — Oh, for a single week ! I ask not for 
 years! though an age were too little for the much I have to 
 do.'V^i^ nny saying, we could not do too much : that heaven 
 
 was a blessed place- " So mu^h the worse.— -'Tis lost ! 'ti« 
 
 lost ! — Heaven is to me the severest part of hell !" 
 
 Soon after, I proposed prayer, — " Pray 3^ou that can, I 
 never prated. I cannot pray — nor need I. Is not Heaven 
 on my side already ? It closes with my conscience. Its se- 
 verest strokes but second my own. '3 ^Observing th^i his 
 foiend was much touched at this, even to tears — (who couif^ 
 ferhear ? I couJd not) — with a most affectionate look he bv.''.^u 
 V K 
 
1 10 TJie English Reader. Part 1. 
 
 *' K^ep those tears for thyself. I hav^e undone thee. — Dost 
 tjaou weep for me ? th it is cruel. What can pain me rtiore ?" 
 C Here his friend, too much affected, would have left him.— ^ 
 *' No, stay — thou still mayst hope ; therefore hear me. How 
 madly have ! talked ! How madly hast thou listened and he- 
 iieved ! but look on my present state, as a full answer to thee, 
 and to myself This body is all weakness and pain ; but my 
 soul, as if stung up by torment to greater strength and spirit^ 
 is f: 11 powerful to reason ; full mighty to suffer. And that 
 v/bich thus triumphs within the jaws of immortality, is, doubt- 
 less, immortal — And, as for a Deity, nothing less than an Al- 
 miv;hty could inflict what I feel." 
 V I vTJis about to congratulate this passive, involuntary con- 
 
 ^fe T, on his asserting the two prime articles of his creed, ex- 
 ix iied by the rack of nature, when he thus, very passionately 
 exclaimed :—'' No, no ! let me speak on. I have not long to 
 speak. — My much injured friend ! my soul, as my bpdy, lies 
 in ruins ; in scattered fragments of broken thought^Kemorse 
 for the past, throws my thought on the future. Worse dread 
 of trie futur^, strikes it back on the past. I turn, and turn, and 
 liad no ray. Didst thou feel half the mountain that is on me, 
 thou w^ouldst struggle with the martyr for his stake ; and bless 
 Heaven for the flames !— that is not an everlasting flame ; tliat 
 is not an unquenchable fire." 
 
 ^ How were we struck! yet, soon after, still more. With 
 what an eye of distraction, what a face of despair, he cried 
 out! '' My principles have poisoned n>y friend ; my extrava- 
 g-^Dce has beggared my boy ! my unkind.sess has murdered 
 my nife ! — And is there another hell ? Oh 1 thou blasphemed, 
 yet indulgent LORD GOD ! Hell itself is n rduge, if it hide 
 me from thy frown ;/'/^Goon after, his understanding failed. 
 His terrified irriaginalion uttered horrors not to be repeated, 
 or ever forgotten. And ere the sun Qwhich, 1 hope, hik? eeea 
 few like him) arose, the 2:ay, young, noble, ingenious, accom- 
 plished, and most wretrhed AUarnont, expired ! 
 
 I ilf this is a m^m of t)leasure, what is a man of pain ? How 
 quick, how total, is Jici transit of such persons 1 In what a dis- 
 mal gloom they set for ever! How short, alas! the day of 
 their rejoicing ! — For a moment they glitter — they dazzle ! 
 In a moment,' where are they ? Oblivion covers their mem- 
 ories. Ah I would it did ! Infamy snatches them from obliv- 
 ion. In the long living antiuh of infamy their triumphs ir« 
 recoidedy^'rhy'suflferings, poor Alt imont ! still bleed in the 
 bosom of the heart-stricken friend— for Altamont had a 
 
Chaf 7, Dialogues, 111 
 
 frierjd. He might have had many. His transient morning 
 might have been the dawn o\ an immortal d.^y. His name 
 might have been gloriously enrolled in the re«. ords of eternity. 
 His memory might have left a sr eet fragrance behind it, 
 grateful to the surviving friend, salutary to tlie succeediag 
 generation./ "^ith what capacity was he endowed ! with what 
 advantages, for being greatly good I But with the talents of an 
 angel, a man may be a fool. If he judges amiss in the su- 
 preme point, ju<lging right in all else, but aggravates his fol- 
 ly ; as it shows him wrong, though blessed with t' -^ be.:i cav 
 pacity of being right. dk. young. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 DIALOGUES. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 DEMOCRITUS AND HERACLITUS* 
 
 The vices and follies of men should excite compassion rather 
 than ridicule. 
 
 Ltmocritus. I find it impossible to reconcile m3^self to a 
 melaTiCholy philosophy. 
 
 Heraclitus, And I am equally unable to approve of that vaijjt 
 philosophy, which teaches men to despise and ridicule one 
 another. To a wise and feeling mind, the world appears in 
 a wretched and painful light. 
 
 Dem. Thou art too much atfected with the state of things ; 
 and this is a source of misery to thee. 
 
 Her. And I think thou art too little moved by it. Thy 
 mirth and ridicule bespeik the buffoon, rather than the phi- 
 losopher. Does it not excite thy compassion, to see mankind 
 so trail, go blind, so far departed from the rules of virtue ? 
 
 Dem. I am excited to laughter, w^hen I see so much im 
 pertinence and folly. 
 
 Her. And yet, after all, they, who are the objects of thy 
 ridicule, include, not only mankind in general, but the persons 
 with whom thou livest, thy friends, thy fimily, nay even 
 thyself. 
 
 * Democritus and Heraclitus were two ancient philosophers, the for- 
 mer of whom laughed, and the latter wept, at the eiTors and follies ol 
 mankind. 
 
11^ The English Reader. Parti. 
 
 Dem. I care very little for all the silly persons I meet 
 with ; and think I am justifiable in diverting myself with their 
 folly. 
 
 Her. If they are weak and foolish, it marks neither wisdom 
 nor humanity, to insult rather than pity them. But is it cer- 
 tain, that thou art not as extravagant as they are ? 
 
 Dem. I presume that I am not ; since, in every point, my 
 ^entiijaents are the very reverse of theirs. 
 
 Her. There are follies of different kinds. By constantly 
 imusing tbyself with the errors and misconduct of others, 
 thou mayst render thyself equally ridiculous and culpable. 
 
 Dein, Thou art at liberty to indulge such sentiments ; and 
 to weep over me too, if thou hast any tears to spare. For my 
 part, I caimot refrain from pleasing myself with the levities 
 and ilJ conduct of the world al3Dut me. Are not all men fool- 
 ish, or irregular in their live* ? 
 
 Her. Alas ! there is but too much reason to believe^ they 
 are so : and on this ground, I pity and deplore their conditiort. 
 We agree in this poiet, that men do not conduct themselves 
 according to reasonable nnd just principles : but I, who d® 
 not saffer myself to uct as they do, njust yet regard the 
 dictates of my understanding and feelings, which compel me 
 to love them ; and that love fills me with compassion for 
 their mistakes and irregularities. Canst thou condemTt me 
 Tor pitying my own species, my brethren, persons born in the 
 •^.me condition of life, and destined to the same hopes and 
 privileges ? If thou shouldst enter a hospite^l, w^here sick and 
 wounded persons reside, would their wounds and distresses 
 Qxcite thy mirth ? And yet, the evils of the body bear no 
 coiTiparison with those of the mind. Thou wouldst certainly 
 blush at thy barbarity, if thou hadst been so unfeeling as to. 
 laugh at or despise ci poor miserable being, who had lost ona 
 of his legs : and yet thou art so destitute of humanity, as to 
 ridicule those, who appear to be deprived of the noble pow- 
 ers of the understanding, by the little regard which they pay 
 to its dictates. 
 
 Dem. He who hf^s lost nleg is to be pitied, because the loss 
 i$ not to be imputed to himself: but he who rejects the dic- 
 tates of reason and conscience, voluntarily deprives himself 
 of their aid. The loss originates in his own folly. 
 
 Her, Ah ! so much the more is be to be pitied ! A furious 
 :naniac, who should pluck out his own eyes, would deserve 
 jnore compassion than an ordinary blind man. 
 
 Dem. Come, Jet us accommodate the business, There is 
 
Chap. 7. Vidlogmsr ii3 
 
 something to be said on each side of the question. There is 
 every where reason for laughing, and reason for weeping. 
 The world is ridiculous, and I laugh at it : it is deplorable, 
 and thou lamentest over it. Every person views it in his owa 
 way, and according to his own temper. One point is un- 
 questionable, that mankind are preposterous : to think right, 
 and to act well, we must think and act differently from them 
 To submit to the authority, and follow the example of the 
 greater part of men, would render us foolish and miserable. 
 Her, All this is, indeed, true ; bat then, thou hast no re:il 
 iove or feehng for thy species. The calamities of mankind 
 excite thy mirth : and this proves that thou hast no regard for 
 men, nor any true respect for the virtues which they have un- 
 happily abandoned. Fenelon^ Archbishop of Cambray^ 
 
 SECTION II. 
 DIONYSIUS, PYTHIAS, AND DAMON. 
 
 Genuine virtue commands respect^ even from the bad. 
 
 Dionysius, Amazing ! What do I see ? It is Pythias ju^t ar- 
 rived. — It is indeed Pythias. I did not think it possible. He 
 is come to die, and to redeem his friend! 
 
 Pythias. Yes, it is Pythias. I left the place of my confine- 
 ment, with no other views, than to pay to heaven the vows I 
 had made ; to settle my family concerns according to the rules 
 of justice ; and to bid adieu to my children, that I might die 
 tranquil and satisfied. 
 
 Dio, But why dost thou return ? Hast thou no fenr of death ? 
 Is it not the character of a madman, to seek it thu«; voluntarily '? 
 
 Py, I return to suffer, though I have not deserved d^eath. 
 Every principle of honour and goodness, forbids me to allow 
 my friend to die for me. , 
 
 Dio. Dost thou, then, love him better than thyself ? 
 
 Py. No ; I love him as myself But I am persuaded that 
 I ought to suffer death, rather than my friend ; since it was 
 Pythias whom thou hadst decreed to die. It were not just 
 that Damon should suffer, to deliver me from the death which 
 was designed, not for him, but for me only. 
 
 Dio, But thou supposest, that it is as unjust to inflict death 
 upon thee, as upon thy friend. 
 
 Py, Very true ; we are both perfectly innocent ; and it is 
 equally unjust to make either of us suffer. 
 
 Dio, Why dost thou then assert, that it wefe injustice ic? 
 put him to death, instead of thee ? 
 
 K 9 
 
114 The English Reader, Pari I, 
 
 Py, It is unjust, in the same degree, to inflict death either 
 on Damon or on myself; bj*t Pythias were highly culpable to 
 let Damon suffer that death, which the tyrant had prepared 
 for Pythias only. 
 
 Dio, Dostthou then return hither, an the day appointed, with 
 no other view, than tosare the hfe of a friend, by losiagthy own? 
 
 Py, I return, in regard to thee, to suffer an act of injustice 
 which it is common for tyrants to inflict ; and, with respect 
 to Damon, to perform my duty, by rescuing him from the 
 danger he incurred by his generosity to me. 
 
 Dio, And now, Damon, let me address myself to thee. 
 Didst thou not really fear, that Pythias w ould never return ; 
 and that thou vrouldst be put to death on his account ? 
 
 Da, I was but too well assured, that Pythias would punc- 
 tually return ; and that he would be more solicitous to keep 
 his promise, than to preserve his life. Would to heaven, that 
 his relations and friends had forcibly detained him ! He would 
 then have lived for the comfort and benefit of good men ; 
 and I shouM have the satisfaction of dying for him ! 
 
 Dio, What I Does life displease thee ? 
 
 Da. Yes ; it displeases me when I see and feel the power 
 of a tyrant. 
 
 Dio, It is well ! Thou shalt see him no more. I will or- 
 der thee to be put to death immediately. 
 
 Py. Pardon the feelings of a man who smypathizes with 
 his dying friend. But remember it was Pythias who was de- 
 voted by thee to destruction. I come to submit to it, that I 
 may redeem my friend. Do not refuse me this consolation in 
 my last hour. 
 
 Dio. I cannot endure men, who despise death, and set my 
 power at defiance. 
 
 Da, Thou canst not, then, endure virtue. 
 
 Dio, No : I cannot endure that proud, disdainful virtue, 
 ^hich contemns life ; which dreads no punishment ; and 
 which is insensible to the charms of riches and pleasure. 
 
 Da. Thou seest, however, that it is a virtue, which is not 
 insensible to the dictates of honour, justice, and friendship, 
 
 Dio. Guards, take Pythias to execution , We shall see 
 whether Damon will continue to despise my authority. 
 
 Da. Pythias, by returning to submit himself to thy plea- 
 sure, has merited his life, and deserved thy favour j but I 
 have excited thy indignation, by resigning myself to thy pow- 
 er, in order to save him ; be satisiiedj then, with this sacr*- 
 ncej and put me to death. 
 
Chap. 1. t)ialQgues. il5 
 
 Py. Hold, Dioiiysiiis! remember, it was Pythias alone who 
 offended thet* ; Daaion could not 
 
 Dio, Alas! what do I see and hear! w^here ami? How 
 mii^erabie ; and how worthy to be so ! I have hitherto known 
 nothing of true v^irtne. i have spent my life in darkness and 
 error. All my power and honours are insufficient to produce 
 love. I cannot boast of having acquired a single friend, in 
 the course of a reign of thirty years. And yet these two 
 persons, in a private condition, love one another tenderly, un- 
 reservedly confide in each other, are mutually happy, and 
 ready to die for each other's preservation. 
 
 Fy, How couldst thou, who hast never loved any person, 
 expect to have friends ? if thou hadst loved and respected 
 men, thou wouldst have secured th'eir love and respect. Thou 
 hast feared mankind ; and they fear thee ; they detest thee, 
 
 Dio. Damon, Pythias, condescend to admit me as a third 
 friend, in a connexion so perfect. I give you your lives ; 
 and I will load you with riches. 
 
 Da, We have no desire to be enriched by thee ; and, in 
 regard to thy friendship, we cannot accept or enjoy it, till 
 thou become good and just. Without these qualities, thou 
 canst be connected with none but trembling slaves, and' 
 base flatterers. To be loved and esteemed by men of free 
 and generous minds, thou must be virtuous, affectionate, 
 disinterested, beneficient ; and know how to live in ai sort 
 of equality with those who share and deserve thy friendship, 
 
 Fenelon^ Archhishop of Cambray^ 
 
 h • ^ SECTION III. 
 
 LOCKE AND BAYLE. 
 
 Cdristianiiy defended against thet cavils of scepticism, 
 
 Bayle. Yes, we both were philosophers ; but my philo- 
 sophy was the deepest. Ypu dogmatized; I doubted. 
 
 Locke, Do you make doubting a proof of depth in philo- 
 sophy ? It may be a good beginning of it ; but it is a bad end. 
 
 Bayle, No : — the more profound our searches are into th^ 
 nature of things, the more uncertainty we shall find ; and 
 the most subtle minds see objections and difficulties in every 
 system, which are overlooked or undiscoverable by ordi- 
 nary understandings. 
 
 Locke, It would be better then to be no philosopher, and to 
 contiaue in the vulgar herd of mankind, that one may have the 
 
116 The English Reader. Parti. 
 
 convenience of thinking that one knows something. I find 
 that the eyes which nature has given me, see many things 
 very clfearly, though some are out of their reach, or discerned 
 l^ut dimly. What opinion ought I to have of a physician, who 
 should offer me an eye-water, the use of which would at first 
 so sharpen my sight, as to carry it farther than ordinary vi- 
 sion ; but would ia the end put them out ? Your philosophy 
 is to the eyes of the mind, what I have supposed the doctor's 
 nostrum to be to those of the body. It actually brought your 
 own excellent understanding, which was by nature quick- 
 sighted, and rendered more so by art and a subtilty of logic 
 peculiar to yourself — it brought, 1 say, your very acute un- 
 derstanding to see nothing clearly ; and enveloped all the 
 great truths of reason and religion in mists of doubt. 
 
 Bayle, I own it did ; — but your comparison is not just. I 
 did not see well, before I used my philosophic eye-water : I 
 only supposed I saw well ; but I was in an error, with all the 
 rest of mankind. The blindness was real, the perceptions 
 were imaginary. I cured myself first of those false imagina- 
 tions, and then I laudably endeavoured to cure other men. 
 
 Locke. A great cure indeed ! — and do not you think that, in 
 return for the service you did them, they ought to erect you 
 a statue ? 
 
 Bayle. Yes ; it is good for human nature to know its own 
 weakness. When we arrogantly presume on a strength we 
 have not, we are always in great danger of hurting ourselves, 
 or at least of deserving ridicule and contempt, by vain and 
 idle efforts. 
 
 Locke. I agree with you, that human nature should know 
 its own weakness ; but it should also feel its strength, and try 
 to improve it. This was my employment as a philosopher. 
 I endeavoured to discover the real powers of the mind, to see 
 what it could do^ and what it could not ; to restrain it from 
 efforts beyond its ability ; but to teach it how to advance as 
 far as the f iculties given to it by nature, with the utmost ex- 
 ertion and most proper culture of them, would allow it to go. 
 In the vast ocean of philosophy, I had the line and the plum- 
 met always in my hands. Many of its depths 1 found myself 
 unable to fathom ; but, by caution in sounding, and the care- 
 ful observations I made in the course of my voyage, I found 
 out some truths of so much use to mankind, that they ac- 
 knowledge me to have been their benefactor. 
 
 Bayle. Their ignorance m^dces them think so. Some other 
 philosopher will come hereafter, and show tboge truths to be 
 
Chap, 1 Dialogues. 117 
 
 falsehoods. He will pretend to discover other truths of equal 
 importance. A later sage will arise, perhaps among men now 
 barbarous and unlearned, whose sagacious discoveries will dis- 
 credit the opinions of his admired predecessor. In philoso* 
 ph}', as in nature, all changes its form, and one thing exists by 
 the destruction of another. 
 
 Locke. Opinions taken up withoHt a patient investigation, 
 depending on terms not accurately defined, and principles 
 begged without proof, like theories to explain the phaenomena 
 of nature, built on suppositions instead of experiments, must 
 perpetually change and destroy one another. But some opin- 
 ions there are, even in matters not obvious to the commca 
 sense of mankind, which the mind has received on such ra- 
 tional grounds of absent, that they are as immoveable as the 
 pillars of heaven ; or (to speak philosopliically) as the great 
 laws of Nature, by which, under God, the universe is sus- 
 tained. Can \nou seriously think, that, because the hypothesis 
 of your countrj-man Descartes, which was nothing but an in- 
 genious, well-imagiiied romance, has been lately exploded, the 
 system of Newton, which is built on experiments and geome- 
 try, the two most cert:rin methods of discovering truth, will 
 ever fail ; or that, because the whims of fanatics and the 
 divinity of the schoolmen, cannot now be supported, the 
 doctrines of that religion, which I, the declared enemy of «11 
 enthusiasm and fWs^ reasoning, firmlj' believed and maintaia- 
 ed, will ever be shaken ? 
 
 Bayle. If you had asked Descartes, while he was k) the 
 height of bis vogue, whether his system would ever be con- 
 futed by any other philosophers, as that of Aristotle had beea 
 by his, what answer do you suppose he would have returned ? 
 
 Locke, Come, come, yon yourself know^ the difference be* 
 tween the foundations on which the credit of those systems, 
 Qnd that gf Newton is placed. Your scepticism is more 
 atiected than real. You found it a shoi'ter way to a great re» 
 putation, (the only wish of your heart,) to object, than to de- 
 lend ; to pull dowu, than to set up. And your talents were 
 admirable for that kind of work. Then ybur huddling to- 
 gether in a Critical Dictionary, a pleasant tale, o-r obscene 
 jest, and a grave argument ag-ainst the Christian religion, a 
 witt3 confutation of some absurd author, and an artful sophism 
 to impeach some respectable truth, was particularly com- 
 modious to all our young smarts and smalterers in free-think- 
 ing. But what mischief have you not done to human society ? 
 You have endeavoured, and with $ome degree of success, to 
 
118 ^rhe English Reader. Part 1. 
 
 shi ke those foundations, on which the whole moral world, 
 and the great fubj-ic of social happiness, entirely rest. How 
 could jou, as a philosopher, in the sober hours of reflection, 
 answer for this to your conscience, even supposing you had 
 doubts of the truth of a system, which gives to virtue its 
 sweetest hopes, to impenitent vice its greatest fears, and to 
 true penitence its best consolations ; which restrains even the 
 leait approaches to guilt, and yet makes those allowances for 
 tho innraiities of our nature, which the Stoic pride denied to 
 it, hut which its real imperfection, and the goodness of its 
 intinitely benevolent Creator, so evidently require ? 
 
 Bayle. The mind is free ; and it loves to exert its freedom. 
 Any restraint upon it is a violence done to its nature, and a 
 tyranny, against which it has a right to rebel. 
 
 Locke, The mind, though free, has a governor within it- 
 self, which may and ought to limit the exercise of its freedom. 
 That governor is reason. 
 
 Bayle. Yes :— but reason, like other governors, has a policy 
 more dependent upon uncertain caprice, than upon any fixed 
 laws. And if that reason, which rules my mind or yours, has 
 happened to set up a favourite notion, it not only submits 
 jjriT)licitlv to it, but desires that the same respect should be " 
 paid to it by all the rest of mankind. Now I hold that any 
 man may lawfully oppose this desire in another ; and that if 
 he is w^ise, he will use his utmost endeavours to check it in 
 himself. 
 
 Locke, Is there not also a weakness of a contrary nature t© 
 this you are now ridicuhng ? Do we not often take a pleasure 
 in showing our own power, and gratifying our own pride, by 
 degrading the>notions set up by other men, and generally re- 
 spected ? 
 
 Bayle, I beheve we do ; and by this means it often happens, 
 that, if one man builds and consecrates a temple to folly, 
 another pufls it down. 
 
 Locke. Do you think it beneficial to human society, to have 
 all tomples pulled down ? 
 ^ Bayle. I cannot say that I do. 
 
 Locke. Yet I find not in your writings any mark of* distinc- 
 tion, to show us which you mean to save. 
 
 Bayle. A true philosopher, like an impartial historian, must 
 be of no sect. 
 
 Locke. Is there nO medium between the blind zeal of a 
 sectary, and a total indiflference to all rehgion ? 
 
 Bayle. With regard to morality, 1 was not indifferent 
 
Chap^ 7. Dialoguas. 119 
 
 Locke. How could you then be indifferent with regard to 
 the sanctions relii^ion gives to moraiity ? How could you pub- 
 lish what tends so dir* ctly and apparently to weaken in man- 
 kind the behef of those sanctions 'I Was not this sacrificing 
 the great ifiterests of virtue to the little motives of vanity ? 
 
 Bayle, A man may act indiscreetly, but he cannot do wrong, 
 by declaring that, which, on a full discussion of the question, 
 he sincerely thinks to be true. 
 
 Locke. An enthusiast, who advances doctrines prejudicial 
 to society, or opposes any that are useful to it, has the strength 
 of opinion, and the heat of a disturbed imagination, to ple.td 
 in alleviation of his fault. But your cool head and sound 
 judgment, can have no such excuse. I know very well there 
 are passages in all your works, and those not few, where you 
 talk hke a rigid moralist. I have also heard that your charac- 
 ter was irreproachably good. But when, in the most laboured 
 parts of your writing?, you sap the surest foundations of all 
 moral duties ; what avails it that in others, or in the conduct 
 of your life, you appeared to respect them ? How many, who 
 have stronger passion? than you had, and are desirous to get 
 rid of the curb that restrains them, will lay hold of your 
 scepticism, to set themselves loose from ail obligations of vir- 
 tue ! What a misfortune is it to have made such a use of such 
 talents ! It would have been better for you and for m 'Oivind, 
 i{ you had been one of the dullest of Dutch theologians, or 
 the most credulous monk in a Portuguese convent. The rich- 
 es of the mind, like those of fortune, may be employed so 
 perversely, as to become a nuisance and pest, instead of an 
 ornament and support, to society. 
 
 Bayle. You are very severe upon me. — But do you count 
 it no merit, no service to mankind, to dehver them from the 
 frauds and fetters of priestcraft, from the deliriums of fanati- 
 cism, and from the terrors and follies of superstition ? Con- 
 sider how much mischief these have done to the world ! 
 Even in the last age, what massacres, what civil wars, what 
 ! convulsions of government, what confusion in society, did 
 I they produce 1 Nay, in that we both hved in, though much 
 ' - more enlightened than the former, did 1 not see them occa- 
 sion a violent persecution in my own country ? and can you 
 blame me for striking at the root of these evils ? 
 
 Locke. The root of these evils, you well know^ was false 
 religion : but you struck at the true. He<iven and hell are not 
 mure different, than the system of futh I defended, und that 
 which produced the horrors of which you speak. Why 
 
120 Tfte EngU^i Reader. Part 1, 
 
 would you so fallaciously confound th^m together in some of 
 your writings, that it requires much more judgment, and a 
 more diligent attention, than ordinary readers have, to sepa- 
 rate them again, and to make the proper distinctions ? This, 
 indeed, is the great art of the most celebrated free-thinkers. 
 They recommend themselves to warm and ingenuous minds, 
 by lively strokes of wit, and by arguments really strong, 
 against superstition, enthusiasm, and priestcraft. But, at the 
 game time, they insidiously throw the colours of these upon 
 the fair face of true religion ; and dress her out in their garb, 
 with a malignant intention to render her odious or despicable, 
 to those who have not penetration enough to discern the 
 impious fraud. Some of them may have thus deceived them- 
 selves, as well as others. Yet it is certain, no book that ever 
 WfS written by the most acute of these gentlemen, is so re- 
 pugnant to priestcraft, to spiritual tj^ranny, to all absut-d su- 
 perstitions, to all that can Njnd to disturb or injure society, as 
 that gospel they so much aiTect to despise. 
 
 Bayle. Mankind are so made, ihiit, when they have been 
 over-heated, they cannot be brou-^ht to a proper temper again, 
 till they have been over-cooled. My scepticism might be ne- 
 cessary, to abate the fever and phrenzy of false religion. 
 
 Locke, A wise prescription, indeed, to bring on a paralyti- 
 ca! state of the mind, (for such a scepticism as yours is a 
 palsy, which deprives the mind of all vigour, and deadens its 
 natural and vita! powers,) in order to tnke off a fever, which 
 temperance, anc! the milk of the evangelical doctrines, would 
 probably cure 1 
 
 Bayle. I acknowledge that those medicines have a great 
 power. But few doctors apply them untainted with the mix- 
 ture of some harsher drugs, or some unsafe and ridiculous 
 nostrums of their own. 
 
 Locke, What you now say is too true. — God has given us 
 a most excellent physic for the soul, in all its diseases ; but 
 bad and interested physicians, or ignorant and conceited. 
 qu^cki?, admi'iister it so ill to the rest of mankind, that much 
 of the benetit of it is unhappily lost, lord lytteltok. 
 
tJiao, B. Fitblic Speeches. 121 
 
 CHAP. VIII. 
 PUBLIC SPEECHES. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 Cicero against Verres. 
 
 The time is come. Fathers, when that which has long beeu 
 wished for, towards allaying the envy your order has been 
 subject to, and removing the imputations against trials, is ef- 
 fectually pat in your power. An opinion has long prevailed, 
 not only here at home, but likewise in foreign countries, both 
 d:^ngerous to you, and pernicious to the state,-— that, in prose- 
 cutions, men of wealth are always safe, however clearly con- 
 victed. /There is now to be brought upon his trial before you^ 
 to the confusion, J hope, of the propagators of this slanderous 
 imputation, one whose life and actions condemn him in the 
 opinion of all impartial persons ; but who, according to his own 
 reckoning and declared dependence upon his riches, is already 
 acquitted ; I mean Cains Verres. I demand justice of you. 
 Fathers, upon the robber of the public treasury, the oppressor 
 of Asia Minor and Pamphylia, the invader of the rights and 
 privileges of Romjins, tht^ scourge and curse of Sicily. Il^If 
 that sentence is passed upon him which his crimes deserve, 
 your authority. Fathers, will be venerable and sacred in the 
 eyes of the public : but if his greeit riches should bias you in 
 his favour, I shall still gain one point, — to make it apparent to 
 all the world, that what was wanting in this cas^, was not a 
 criminal nor a prosecutor, but justice and adequate punishment. 
 ^To pass over the shameful irregularities of his youth, what 
 /does his qu^storship, the first public employment he held, 
 what does it exhibit, but one continued scene of villanies ? 
 Cneius Carbo, plundered of the public money by his own 
 treasurer, a consul stripped and betrayed, an army deserted 
 and reduced to want, a province robbed, the civil and reli- 
 gious rights of a people violated. ^The employment he held 
 in A-ia Minor and Pamphyha, what did it produce but the ruin 
 of those countries ? in which houses, cities, and temples, were 
 robbed by him. What was his conduct in his prastorship here 
 at home ? Let the plundered temples, and public works neg- 
 lected, that he might embezzle the money intended for car- 
 rying them on, bear witness. Hovv did he discharge tlie of 
 ftce of a ^ud.^e ? Let ihose who suifeced by his injustice c^n- 
 
 L 
 
I'Sf TJie EngUsh Reader. Pari I. 
 
 swer. But his praetorship in Sicily crowns all his works of 
 wickedness, and finishes a lasting monument to his infamy. 
 The mischiefs done by him in that unhappy country, dviriig 
 the three years of his iniquitous administration, are such« ihat 
 many years, under the wisest and best of praetors, will n-)t be 
 sufficient to restore things to the condition in which he found 
 them : for it is notorious, that, during the time of his tyranny, 
 the l^icilians neither enjoyed the protection of their own ori- 
 ginal laws ; of the regulations made for their benefit by the 
 Roman senate, upon their coming under the protection of the 
 commonwealth ; nor of the natural and unalienable rights of 
 men. His nod has decided all causes in Sioiiy for these three 
 year^. 'And his decisions have broken all Itw, all precedent, 
 all right. The sums he has, by arbitrary taxes and unheard-of 
 impositions, extorted from the industrious poor, are not to be 
 computed. The most faithful allies of the comm(^nwealth 
 have been treated as enemies^^ Roman citizens hate, like 
 slaves, been put to death with tortures. The most atrocious 
 criminals, for money, have been exempted from the deserved 
 punishments ; and men of the most unexceptionable charac- 
 ters, condemned and banished unheard. The harbours, though 
 f?ufficiently fortified, and the gates of strong towns, have been 
 opened to pirates and ravagers. The soldiery and sailors, be- 
 longing to a province under the protection of the common- 
 wealth, have been starFcd to death; whole fleets, to the great de- 
 triment of the province, suffered to perish. The ancient monu- 
 ments of either Sicilian or Homan greatness, the statues of 
 heroes and princes, have been carried off; and the temples 
 stripped of the images-^Having, by his iniquitous sentences, 
 -filled the prisons with tne most industrious and deserving of 
 the people, he then proceeded to order numbers of Uoma^^ 
 citizens to be stranii;led in the gaols : so that the exclamation, ' 
 *' I am a citizen of Rome 1" which has often, in the most dis- 
 tant regions, and among the most barbarous people, been a 
 protection, was of no service to them ; but, on the contrary, 
 brought a speedier and a more severe punisliment upon them.^-. 
 
 1 ask now, Verres, what^thou hast to advance against this 
 charge ? Wilt thou pretend to deny it ? Wilt thou pretend, 
 that any thing false, that even any thing aggravated, is alleged 
 against thee ? Had any prince, or any state, committed 
 the same outrage against the privilege of Roman citizens, 
 should we not think we had sufficient ground for demanding 
 satisfaction K^What punishment ought, then, to be inflicted 
 rpoD a tyrannical and wicked praetor, who dared, at no grea*- 
 
Chap: 8. Public ^t^^L ^^^ 
 
 er distance than Sicily, within ^|iWf the Italian coast, to 
 put to the infamous derith^of crncirixion, that unfortunate and 
 innocent citizen, Publias G nius Cosanus, only for his having 
 asserted his privilege of citizei.ship, and declared his intention 
 of appealing to the justice of his country, against the cruel 
 oppressor, who had unjustly confined him inprison at Syra- 
 cuse, whence he had just made his escape ^The unhappy 
 man, arrested as he was going to embark for his native coun- 
 try, is brought before the wicked pnetor. With eyes darting 
 fu^3^ and a countenance distorted with cruelt}^ he orders the 
 helpless victim of his rage to be stripped, and rods to be 
 brought : accusing him, but without the le tst sh.ulow of evi 
 dence, or even of suspicion, of having come to biciiy as aspy2L 
 It was in vain that the unhappy man crhfd out, *' L am a Ko- 
 nian citizen : I have served under Lu' iri^s Pretius, who is now 
 at Panormus, and will attest my innocence." The blood-thirs- 
 ty praetor, deaf to all he could urge in his own defence, or- 
 dered the infamous punishment to be in iicted.'^rhus, fathers^ 
 was an innocent Roman citizen publicly mangled with scourg- 
 ing; whilst the only words he uttered, amidst his cruel suf- 
 ferings, were, *' I am a Roman citizen!" Witli these he 
 hoped to defend himself from violence and infamy- But of 
 so little service was this privilege to him, that, -rhile ho waB 
 thus asserting his citizenship, the order was given for his exe- 
 cution, — for his execution upon the cross I-^ 
 
 liberty ! — O sound once delightful to every Roman ear ! — 
 O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship ! — once sacred ! — - 
 now trampled upon !— But- what then! Is it come to this? 
 Shall an inferior magistrate, a governor, who holds his whole 
 power of the Roman people, in a Roman province, withia 
 sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture with fire and red hot 
 plates of iron, and at last put to the infamous death of the 
 cross, a Roman citizen ? Shall neither the cries of innocence 
 expiring in agony, nor the tears of pitying spectators, nor the 
 niajesty of the Roman commonwealth, nor the fear of the 
 justice of his country, restrain the licentious and wanton cruel- 
 ty of a monster, who, in confidence of his riches, strikes at 
 the root of liberty, and setr. mankind at defiance 'l^. 
 
 1 conclude with expressing my hopes, that fonv wisdom 
 and justice, Fathers, will not, by suffering the atrocious and 
 unexampled insolence of Caius Verres to escape due punish- 
 ment, leave room to apprehend the danger of a total subver- 
 sion of authority, and the introduction of general anarchy and 
 confusion. 7 cicero's okations*. , 
 

 124 T^^^msh Reader. Part 1. 
 
 ^lON II. 
 
 Speech of Aduerbal to the Roman Senate^ imploring their pro- 
 tection against Jugurtha. 
 
 FATHERS ! 
 
 /It is known to you, that king Micipsa, my father, on his 
 death-bed, left in charge to Jugurtha, his adopted son, con- 
 junctly with my unfortunate brother Hiempsal and myself, the 
 children of his own body, the administration of the kingdom 
 of Numidia, directing us to consider the senate and people of 
 Rome as proprietors of it. He charged us to use our best en- 
 deavours to be serviceable to the Roman commonwesillh ; as- 
 suring us, that your protection would prove a defence against 
 al) enemies ; and would be instead of armies, fortifications, 
 and treasures. 
 
 jjVhile my brother and I were thinking of nothing but how 
 to regulate ourselves according to the directions of our de- 
 ceased father — Jugurtha — the most infamous of mankind I — 
 breaking through all ties of gratitude and of common hu- 
 manity, and-trampling on the authority of the Roman com- 
 rnonwealth, procured- the murder of my unfortunate brother; 
 ;riid has driven me from my throne and native country, though 
 he knows I inherit, from my grandfather Massinissa, and my 
 Thther ?'Rcipsa, the friendship and alliance of the Romans. 
 ^ For a prince to be reduced, by viUany, to my distressful cir- 
 .lumstances, is calairiity enough ; but my misfortunes are 
 heigiitened by the consideration — ^that I lind myself obliged 
 to solicit your assistcUice, fathers, for the services done you 
 hy my ancestors, not for any i have been able to render you 
 n my own person. Jugurtha has put it out of my power to 
 rieserve any thing at your hands-, and has forced me to be 
 burdensome, before Tcould be useful to you. /^And yet, if I 
 bad no plea, but my undeserved misery — a once powerful 
 prince, the descendant of a race of illustrious monarchs, now, 
 without any fault of my own, destitute of every support, and 
 reduced to the necessity of begging foreign assistance, against 
 an enemy who has seized my throne and my kingdom — if 
 my unequalled distresses were all 1 had to plead — it would 
 become the greatness of the Roman commonwealth, to pro- 
 tect the injured, and to check the triumph of daring wicked- 
 ness over helpless innoccnce.^ut, to provoke your resentment 
 to the utmo:it, Jugurtha ha^'^iven me from the very domin- 
 ions, which the senate and people of Rome gave to my ances- 
 tors ; and, from which, my grandfather, and my fither, under 
 your umbragCj expelled Sy^hux and the Carthaginians. Thus. .; 
 
L 
 
 Chap, 8. Public J 
 
 fathers, your kindness to our farffl^is defeated ; and Jugur- 
 tha, in injuring me, throws contempt upon you. 
 •^ O wretched prince ! Oh cruel reverse of fortune ! Oh fa- 
 er Micipsa ! is this the consequence of thy generosity ; that 
 he, whom thy goodness raised to an equahty with thy own 
 children, should be the murderer of thy children ? Must, then, 
 the royal house of Numidia always be a scene of havoc and 
 blood ^While Carthage remained, we suifered, as was to be 
 expected, all sorts of hardships from their hostile attacks ; our 
 enemy near ; our only powerful ally, the Roman common- 
 wealth, at a distance. When that scourge of Africa was no 
 more, we congratulated ourselves on the prospect of establish- 
 ed peace. But, instead of peace, behold the kingdom of Nu- 
 midia drenched with royal blood ! and the only suiviving son of 
 its late king, flj ing from an adopted murderer, and seeking 
 that safety in foreign parts, which he cannot command in his 
 own kingdom. ^ 
 
 r Whither— Oh ! whither shall I fly ? If I return to the royal 
 palace of my ancestors, my father's throne is seized by the 
 murderer of my brother. What can 1 there expect, but that 
 Jugurtha should hasten to imbrue, in my blood, those hands 
 which are now reeking with my brother's ? If I were to fly 
 for refuge, or for assistance to any other court, from what 
 prince can I hope for protection, if the Roman commonwealth 
 give me up ? From my own family or friends I have no ex- 
 pectations, y My royal father is no more. He is beyond the 
 reach of violence, and out of hearing of the complaints of his 
 unhappy son. Were my brother alive, our mutual sympathy 
 would be some alleviation. But he is hurried out of life, ia 
 his early youth, by the very hand which should have been the 
 last to injure any of the royal family of Numidia. 7 /^The 
 bloody Jugurtha has butchered all whom he suspected ^o be 
 in my interest. Some have been destroyed by the lingering 
 torment of the cross. Others have been given a prey to wild 
 beasts ; and their anguish made the sport of men more cru^^l 
 than wild beasts. If there be any yet alive, they are shut up 
 in dungeons, there to drag out a life more intolerable thaa 
 death itsolf. 
 
 // Look down, illtistrious senators of Rome ! from that bei;> 't 
 of power to which you are raised, on the unexampled • ii = 
 tresses of a prince, who is, by the cruelty of a wicked ' 
 trurfer, become an outcast from all mankind. Let not ti.e 
 crafty insinuations of him who return^ murder for adoption, 
 prejudice your judgment. Do not lisjten to the wretch wijCi 
 
 L2 
 
226 n^tjkgUsh Reader. Fart 1. 
 
 has butchered the son an^elations of a king, who ffave him 
 power to sit on the same throne with his own sons.^I have 
 been informed, that he labours by his emissaries to pi event 
 your determining any thing against him in his absence ; pre- 
 tending that I magnify my distress, and might, for him, have 
 staid in peace in my own kingdom. But, if ever the time 
 comes, when the due vengeance from above shall overtake 
 him, he will then dissemble as 1 do. Then he, who now, 
 hardened in wickedness, triumphs over those whom his vio- 
 lence has laid lov/, will, in his turn, feel distress, and suffer for 
 his impious ingratitude to my father, and his blood-thirsty 
 e|*ueity to my brother. 
 j /^, Oh murdered, butchered brother I Oh dearest to my heart — 
 aow gone for ever from my sight ! — but why should I lament 
 his death ? He is, indeed, deprived of the blessed light of 
 heaven, of life, and kingdom, at once, by the very person who 
 ought to have been the first to hazard his own life, in defence 
 of any one of Micipsa's family. But, as things are, my bro- 
 ther is not so much deprived of these comforts, as delivered 
 from terror, from flight, from exile, and the endless train of 
 miseries which render Ufe to me a burden/^ He hes full low, 
 gored with wounds, and festering in his own blood. But he 
 lies in peace. He feels none of the miseries which rend my 
 soul with agony and distraction, while I am set up a spectacle 
 to all mankind, of the uncertainty of human affairs. So far 
 from having it in my power to punish his murderer, 1 am not 
 master of the means of securing my own life. So far from 
 being in a condition to defend my kingdom from the violence 
 of the usurper, I am obliged to apply for foreign protection 
 for my own person 
 
 0, 
 
 "fathers 1 Senators of Rome ! the arbiters of nations I to 
 you I fly for refuge from the murderous fury of Jugurtha. — 
 By yoiir affection for your children ; by your love for your 
 country ; by your own virtues ; by the majesty of the Roman 
 commonwealth ; by all that is sacred, and all that is dear to 
 you — deliver a wretched prince from undeserved, unprovoked 
 injury ; and save the kingdom of Nuniidia, which is your own 
 property, from being the prey of violence, usurpation, and 
 cruelty. sallust. 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 The Apostle Paul'^ 7iobl€ defence before Festus and Agrippa. 
 /Agrippa said unto Paul, thou art permitted to speak for 
 thyself —Then Paul- stretched forth kis baud, and wagwer^* 
 ios bin^elf. 
 
^lap, 8 Pubhc Speeches. l^f 
 
 I think myself happy, king Agrippa, because I shall answer 
 fvt myself this d-iy before thee, concerning all the things 
 whereof I am accused by the Jews : especially, as 1 know 
 thee to* he expert in all customs and questions which are 
 among the Jews. Wherefore 1 beseech thee to hear me pa- 
 Ji^Mitly. 
 
 J' My m inner of life from my youth, which was at the first 
 among my own nation at Jerusalem, know all the Jews ; who 
 knew me from the beginning, (if they w^ouid testify,) that 
 afttr the straitest sect' of our reli2:ion, I lived a Pharisee. 
 And now I stand and am judged for the hope of the promise 
 made by God to our fathers ; to which promise, our twelve 
 tribes, continually serving God day and niLcht, hope to come: 
 and, for this hope's sake, king Agrippa, I am accused by the 
 Jews. 
 JrVhy should it be thought a thing incredible with you, that 
 od ^lould raise the dead ? I verily thought with myself, that 
 I ought to do many things contrary to the name of Jesus of 
 Naziireth : and this I did in Jerusalem. Many of the saints I 
 shut up in prison, having received authority from the chief 
 priests : and when they vrere put to death, I gave my voice 
 against them^^^nd I often punished them in every synagogue, 
 and compellM them to blaspheme ; and being exceedingly 
 mad against them, I persecuted them even unto strange cities. 
 But as I went to Damascus, with authority and commission 
 from the chief priests, at mid-day, O king ! I saw in the way 
 a light from heaven, above the brightness of the sun, shining 
 round about rae, and them who journeyed with me.V'And 
 when we were all fallen to the earth, 1 heard a voice speaking 
 tome and saj^ing, in the Hebrew^ tongue, Saul, Saul, why 
 persecutest thou me ? It is hard for thee to kick against the 
 pricks. And I said, who art thou, L£>rd ? And he rephed, I 
 am Jesus whom thou persecutest. ^^ut rise, and stand upon 
 thy feet: for I have appeared to thee for this purpose, to 
 make thee a minister, and a w^itness both of these things, 
 which thou hast seen, and of those things in w^hich I will ap- 
 pear to thee ; delivering thee from the people, and from the 
 Gentiles, to w^hom I now send thee, to open their eyes, and 
 to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of 
 Satan to God ; that they may receive forgiveness of sins, and 
 inheritance amongst them who are sanctified by faith that is 
 ia^me. / 
 
 Wbereuponj O king Agrippa ! I was not disobedient to the 
 feayenly vision \ but showed fir^t to them of Damascus, and 
 
 L 
 
128 The English Reader. Part L 
 
 at Jerusalem, and through all the coasts of Judea, and then 
 to the Gentiles, that they should repent, and tarn to God, and 
 do wojks meet for repentance. For these causes, the Jews 
 caught me in the temple ; and went about to kill m^ Having, 
 however, obtained help from God, I continue to this day, 
 witnessing both to small and great, saying no other things 
 than those which the prophets and Moses declared should 
 come : that Christ should suffer ; that he would be the first 
 who should rise from the dead ; and that he would show light 
 to. the people, and to the Gentiles. * 
 
 '^'And as he thus spoke for himself, Festus said, with a loud 
 voice, " Paul, thou art beside thyself j much learning hath 
 made thee mad." But he replied, 1 am not mad, most noble 
 Festus ; but speak the words of truth and soberness. For 
 the king knoweth these things, before whom I also speak 
 freely. 1 am persuaded that none of these things are hidden 
 from him : for this thing was not done in a corner^ King 
 Agrippa, believest thou the prophets ? I know tfiat thou 
 believest. Then Agrippa said to Paul, '^ Almost thou per- 
 suadest me to be a Christian." And Paul replied, " I would 
 to God, that not only thou, but also all that hear me this day, 
 v/ere both almost, and altogether such as I am,, except these 
 bonds. "^ ACTS XXVI. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 Lord Mansfield's speech in the House of Peers, 1770, on the 
 bill for preventing (he delays of justice, by claiming the Privi- 
 lege of Parliament. 
 
 MY LO ..DS, 
 
 /When I consider the importance of this bill to your Lord- 
 .«hips, I um not surprised it has taken up so much of your con- 
 sideration. It is a bill, indeed, of no common mngnitude ; it 
 is po less than to take away from two thirds of the legislative 
 hOGy of this great kingdom, certain privileges and immunities 
 of which they have been long possessed. Perhaps there is no 
 situation the human mind can be placed in, that is so difficult 
 and ^v. trying, as when it is made a judge in its ovvn cause* ^ 
 
 * How happy was this great Apostle, even in the most perilous cireum- 
 stauces ! Thoijgh under bonds and oppression, his mind was frjee, and 
 raised above every fear of man. With what digmty and composure does 
 h»>-defend hims^df. and thenoWe cause he had espoused ; whilst he di.^playi 
 the most compassionate and generous feelings, for those wh© v/erf straagcrs^ 
 [o the sublime religion by which bt was auiraated ! 
 
Chap. 0. Public Speeches > 129 
 
 ^There is someibing implanted in the breast of man so atlexhed 
 ^0 self, so tenacious of privileges once obtained, that in such 
 a situation, either to discuss with impartiality, or decide with 
 justice, has ever been held the summit of all human virtue. 
 The bill now in question puts your lordships in this very pre- 
 dicament ; and 1 have no doubt the wisdom of your decision 
 will convince the world, that where self-interest and justice 
 are in opposite scales, the latter will ever preponderate with 
 vpur lordships.^, 
 
 ^Privileges have been granted to legislators in all ages, and 
 inal] countries. The practice is founded in wisdom; and. 
 indeed, it is peculiarly essential to the constitution of this 
 country, that the members of both houses should be free ifl 
 their persons, in cases of civil suits : for there may com(» a 
 time when the safety and welfare of this whole empire, may 
 depend upon their attendance in parliament. 5l-J am far from 
 advising any measure that w^ould in future ejadanger the state <: 
 but the bill before your lordships has, I am confident, no 
 such tendency ; for it expressly secures the persons of mem- 
 bers of either house in all civil suits. ^v This being the case, I 
 confess, when I see many noble lords, for whose judgment I 
 have a verv great respect, standing up to oppose a bill which 
 is calculated merely to ficilitate the recovery of just and legal 
 debts, i am astonished and amazed. ^^^They, I doubt not, op- 
 pose the bill upon public principles : 1 would not wish to in- 
 sinuate, that priv^ate interest had the least v^^eight in their de- 
 termination. ;' 
 
 ^The bill has been frequently proposed, and as frequently 
 nas miscarried : but it w^as always lost in the lower house. 
 Little did 1 think, when it had passed the commons, that it 
 possibly could have met with such opposition here.5»«Shall it 
 be said, that you, my lords, the grand council of the nation, 
 the high e^^t judicial and legislaave body of the realm, endea- 
 vour to evade, by privilege, th^e very laws which you enforce 
 on. your fellow-subjects ? Forbid it iustice ! — I am sure, were 
 the noble lords as well acquainted'as lam, with but half the 
 difficulties and dehn^s occasioned in the courts of justice, un- 
 der pretence of privilege, they would not, nay, they could 
 not, oppose this bill. - 
 
 )of I have waited with patience to hear what nrguments might 
 8e urged' against this bill ; but I have waited in vain : the 
 truth is, there b no argument that can weigh against it. The 
 justice and expediency of the bill are such as render it self- 
 vident. It is a proposition of that nature. Tvhicli can neiiJiey 
 
130 The English Reader. Part I. 
 
 be weakened by argument, nor entan2;lefl with sophistry. 
 Much, indeed, has been said by some noble lords, on thewis- 
 doa? of our ancestors, and how difTereutly they thought from 
 tii.^rhey not only decreed, that privilege should prevent 
 all civil suits from proceedinj^ during the sitting of parhament, 
 but likewise granted protection to the very servants of mem- 
 bers. I shall say nothing on the wisdom of our ancestors ; it 
 mi;>;]it perhaps appear invidious : that is not necessary in the 
 present case. ^I shall only say, that the noble lords who flat- 
 ter Ihemselve^ with the vi^eight of that reflection, should re- 
 ni laber, that as circumstances alter, things themselves shduld 
 ait r# Formerly, itw^as not so fashionable either for masters 
 or servants to run in debt^ as it is at present. Formerly, we 
 w re not that great commercial nation we are at present ; nor 
 fo> ?nerly were merchants and manufactures members of par- 
 !i ?m8nt as at present. The case is now very different : both 
 merchants and manufactures are, with great propriety, elect- 
 ed members of the lower house. iflDommerce having thus got 
 hilo the legislative body of the Kingdom, privilege must be 
 done away./ We all know, that the very soul and essence of 
 trade are regular payments ; and sad experience teaches us, 
 that there are men, who will not make their regular payments 
 without the compulsive pbwer of the laws. The law then 
 ought to be equally ope.n to all. Any exemption to particulat* 
 men, or particular ranks of men, is, in a free and commerciarl 
 country, a solecism of the grossest nature. 
 ■^QButl will not trouble your lordships with arguments for 
 that, which is sutficiently evident without any. I shall only 
 say a few words to soine noble lords, who foresee niuch in- 
 convenience, from the persons of their servants being liable to 
 be arrested. Ore noble lord observes. That the coachman 
 of a peer may be arrested, while he is driving his master to 
 the House, and that, consequently, he will not be able to at- 
 tend his duty in parliament./ jjpf this were actually to happen, 
 there are so many methods by which the member might still 
 get to the house, that 1 can hardly think the noble lord is se- 
 rious in his objection/jj^nother noble peer said. That, by this 
 bill, one might los(^ iiis most valuable and honest servants^ 
 This I hold to be a^ix)ntradiction in terms : for he can neithef 
 be a valuable servant, nor an honest man, who gets into deb 
 which he is neither able nor w^illing to pay, till compelled hi 
 the law./2 If iny servant, by unforeseen accidents, has got in| 
 to debt, and I still wish to retain him, 1 certainly would pa 
 the demand. But upon no principle of liberal legislatio^ 
 
0iap, 8. A, 'Public Speechce, 131 
 
 whatever, can my servant have a title to set his creditors at 
 defiance, while, for forty shillings only, the honest tradesman 
 may be torn from his family, and locked up in a gaol. It is 
 monstrous injustice ! I flatter myself, however, the determina- 
 tion of this day will entirely put an end to all these partial 
 proceedings for the future, by passinginto a law^ the bill now 
 under your lordships' consideration. iS 
 
 // 1 come now to ^eak, upon what, indeed, I would have 
 gladly avoided, had i not been particul-arly pointed at, for the 
 part 1 have taken in this bill. It has been said, by a noble 
 lord on my left hand, that I likewise am running the race of 
 popularity, if the noble lord means by popularity, that ap- 
 plause bestowed by after-ages on good and virtuous actions, I 
 have long^ee^n struggling in that facgj^: to what purpose, all- 
 trying tiriie can alone determine^T^^ut if the noble lord 
 means that mushroom popularity, which is raised without 
 merit, and lost without a crime, he is much mistaken in his 
 opinion, I defy the noble lord to point out a single action of 
 mj life, in which the popnlirity of the times ever had the 
 smallest influence on my determinations. I thank God 1 have 
 a more permanent and ateady rule for my conduct, — the dic- 
 tates of my own breasty^hose who have forgone that pleas- 
 ing adviser, and given up their mind to be the slave of every 
 popular impulse, I sincerely pity : I pity them still more, if 
 their v^anity leads them to mistake the shouts of a mob, for 
 the trumpet of firne. Experience might inform them, that 
 many, who have been saluted with the huzzas of a crowd one 
 day, have received their execrations the next ; and many, 
 who by the popularity of their times, have been held up as 
 spotless patrmis, have, nevertheless, appeared upon the histo- 
 rian's page, when Inith has triumphed over delusion, the as- 
 Srissins of liberty .I^Wby then the noble lord can think 1 am 
 ambitious of presenrpopularity, that echo of folly, and shadow 
 of renown, 1 am at a loss to determine. Besides, I do not 
 know that the bill now before your lordships will be popular : 
 it depends mucii upon the caprice of the day. It may not 
 be popular to compel people to pay their debts ; .and, in that 
 case, the present miisl be a verj unpopular^'bill, /Mt-may not 
 he popular either to take away any of the privil^s of par- 
 liament ; for I very well remember, and many of your lord- 
 ships may rem.ember, that, not long ago, the popular cry was 
 for the extension of privilege ; and so far did they carry it at 
 that lime, that it was said, the privilege protected members 
 even in criminal actions ; nay, such was the power of popular 
 
132 The English Reader. Pari I, 
 
 prejudices over weak minds, that the very decision of some 
 of the courts were tinctured with that doctrine. It was un- 
 doubtedly an abominable doctrine j^^I thought so then, and I 
 think so still : but, nevertheless, it was a popular doctrine^ 
 and came immediately from those who are called the friends of 
 liberty ; how deservedly, time will show.//fTrue liberty, in 
 my opinion, can only exist when justice is ^ually administer- 
 ed to all ; to the king and to the beggar-^l^Where is the jus- 
 tice then, or where is the law that prote^ a member of par- 
 liament, more than any other man, from the punishment due 
 to his crimes ? The laws of this country allow of no place^ 
 nor any employment, to be a sanctuary for crimes ; and 
 where I have the honour to .sit as judge, neither royal favour^ 
 nor popular applause, shall protect the guilty. i^ijfep* 
 lYl have now only to be|-pardor> for having employed so much 
 <H your lordships' time ; and I am sorry a bill, fraught with 
 so many good consequences, has not met with an abler advo- 
 cate : but I doubt not your lordships' determination will con- 
 vince the world, that a bill, calculated to contribute so much 
 to the equal distribution of justice as the present, requires with 
 your lordships but very little support, v/ 
 
 SECTION V^ 
 
 An address to young persons. 
 , I INTEND, in this address, to show you the importance of be- 
 ginning early to give serious attention to ypur conduct. As 
 soon as you are capable of reflection, you must perceive that 
 there is a right and a wrong in human actions. You see, that 
 those who are born with the same advantages of fortune, are 
 nX)t 'A\ equally prosperous in the course of hfe^^While some 
 of them, by v/ise and steady conduct, attain distinction in t\xe 
 world, and pass their days with comfort and honour ; others, 
 of the same rank, by mean and vicious behaviour, forfeit the 
 advantages of their birth ; involve themselves in much mis- 
 ery ; and end in being a disgrace to their friends, and a bur- 
 den on societ}^^ Early, then, may you learn, ti^at it is not on 
 the externnl (Edition in which you tind yourselves pliced 
 but on the part which you are to act, that your welfare or^ 
 unhappiness, your honour or infamy, depends. Now, whet 
 Deginning to act that part, what can be of greater momr itj 
 thjin to re^rulate your plan of conduct with the most ?'H 
 attention, before you have yet committed any fttal < • 
 tri'^V'tble errors 1(^1^ instead of exerting; reflectio, 
 
 3rs ?j^] 
 ose, ^ 
 
 valuable purpose, ^ou deliver yourselves up. at so Ct 
 
Chap, S, Public Speeches, 133 
 
 time, to sioth and pleasures ; if jou refuse to listen to nuy 
 counsellor but humour, or to attend to any pursuit except that 
 of amusement ; if you allow yourselves to float loose and 
 careless on the tide of life, ready to receive any direction 
 which 'the current of fashion may chance to give you ; what 
 can you expect to follow from such ^e^innings ^1^' hile so 
 many around you are undergoing the sad* consequences of a 
 like indiscretion, for what reason shall not those consequences 
 extend to you ? Shall you attain success without that prepara- 
 tion, and escape dangers without that precaution, which are 
 required of others ? Shall happiness grow up to you, of its own 
 accord, and solicit your acceptance, when, to the rest of man- 
 kir|#it is the fruiUof^ long cultivation, and the acquisition of 
 labour and care l—Mf^I)eceive not yourselves with those arro- 
 gant hopes. Wb^i^er be your rank. Providence will not, 
 for your sake, reverse its established order. The Author of 
 your being hath enjoined you to *' take heed to yonr ways : 
 ^|to ponder the paths of your feet ; to remember your Creator 
 ^* *in the days of your youth. "4KHe hath decreed, that they on- 
 ly *' who seek after wisdom, snail find it ; that fools shall be 
 afflicted, because of their transgressions ; and that whoever 
 refuseth instruction, shail destroy his own soul." By hsten- 
 - ing to these admonitions, and tempering the vivacity of youth 
 with a proper mixture of serious thought, *^ou may ensure 
 cheerfulness for the rest of life ; but by dehvering yourselves 
 up at present to giddiness and levity, you lay the foundation 
 of lasting heariness of heart.^^ 
 
 yWhen you look forward to those plans of life, which either 
 your circumstances have suggested, or^y*our friends have pro- 
 posed, you will not hesitate to acknowledge, that in order to 
 pursue them with advantage, some previous discipline is re- 
 quisite. Be assured, th;4t whatever is to be your prof-pssion. 
 no-education is more necessary to your success, than the ac- 
 quirement of virtuous dispo.sitions and habits. This is th< 
 universal preparation for ever}^ character, and every station 
 in life|9?f^ad as the world is, respect is always paid to virtue. 
 In the Mual course of human affairs, it willbe found, that a 
 plain understanding, joined with acknowledged worth, contri- 
 butes more to prosperity, than the brightest part without prc- 
 tbity or honour. Whether science, or business, or pubhc life, 
 ^be your aim, virtue still enters, for a principal share, into all 
 those great departments, of society. It is connected witU 
 eminence, in every liberal art ; with reputation intivery branrb. 
 of fair and useful business j with distinotion in every publ-^f 
 
1^4 The English Reader. Part 1. 
 
 station»The vigour which it gives the mind, and the weight 
 which it*adds to character ; the generous sentiments which it 
 breathes ; the undaunted spirit which it inspires ; the ardour 
 ©f diligence which it quickens ; the freedom which it pro- 
 cures from pernicious and dishonourable avocations ; are the 
 foundations of all that is highly honourable, or greatly suc- 
 cessful among men.// 
 
 [^^Whatever ornamental or engaging endowments you now 
 possess, virtue is a necessary requisite, in order to their shining 
 with proper lustre. Feeble are the attractions of the fairest 
 form, if it be suspected that nothing within corresponds to 
 the pleasing appearance without. Short are the triumphs of 
 wit, when it is supposed to be the vehicle of malic e.,^yBy 
 whatever means you may at first attracMhe attention, you 
 can hold the esteem, and secure the hearts of others, only by 
 amiable dispositions, and the accomplishments of the mind. 
 These ar€ the qualities whose influence will last, when the 
 liistre of all that once sparkled and dazzled has passed away. - 
 vCiet not then the season of youth be barren of improve- *-« 
 inents, so essential to your future felicity and honour. Now "" 
 is the seed-time of life ; and according to '•* what you sow, you 
 shall reap." Your character is now, under Divine Assistance, 
 of your own forming ; your fate is, in some measure, put into 
 your own hands\kYour nature is as yet pliant and soft. Habits 
 have not established their dominion. Prejudices have not 
 pre-occupied your understanding. The world has not had 
 time to contract and debase yoivr affections. All your powers 
 are more vigorous, disembarrassed, and free, than they will be 
 at any future period ^^IjWh ate ver impulse yon now give to 
 your desires and passions, the direction is likely to continue. 
 It will form the channel in which your life is to run ; nay, it 
 may determine its everlasting issue. Consider then the em- 
 ployment of this important period, as the highest trust whieh 
 shall ever be committed to you ; as in a great measure, de*- 
 cisive of your happiness, in time, and in eternity./|^^s in the 
 succession of the seasons, each, by the in^^ariable ^layvs of 
 nature, affects the productions of what is next in course ; so, 
 m human life, every period of our age, according as it is well 
 or ill spent, influences the happiness of that which is to fol- 
 low. Virtuous youth gradually brings forward accomplished 
 and flourishing manhood ; and such manhood passes of itself, I 
 
 ^without uneasiness, into respectable and tranquil old age. 
 
 (iu^But when nature is turned out of its regular course, disorder 
 takes place in the moral, juist as in the vegetable world !: 
 
Chap. S, Public Speeches, 135 
 
 the spnag pnt forth no blossoms, in summer there will be 
 no beauty, and in autumn, no fruit : so, if youth be trifled 
 away without improvement, manhood will probably be con- 
 temptible, and old age miserable. If the beginnings of life 
 
 have been '* vanity,'' its latter end can scarcely be any other 
 
 than '' V ~ / Z 
 
 t^l shall finish this addres'??, with calHng your attention to 
 
 2xation of spirit 
 
 latter 
 
 ■w 
 
 that dependence on the blessing of Heaven, which, amidst all 
 your endeavours after improvement, you ought continually to 
 preserve. It is too common with the young, even when they 
 resolve to tread the path of virtue and honour, to set oat with, 
 presumptuous confidence in themselves.iJ^rusting to their 
 own^abilities for carrying them successfully through hfe, they 
 are careless of applying to God, or of deriving any assistance 
 from what they are apt to reckon the gloomy discipline of re- 
 ligion. Alas! how little do they know the dangers which 
 await them ? Neither human wisdom, nor human virtue, un- 
 supported by reUgion. is equal to the trying situations which 
 often occur in hfe^^^gBy the shock of temptation, how fre- 
 quently hpive the mjM virtuous intentions been overthrown ? 
 Under the pressure of disaster, how often has the greatest 
 constancy sunk ? *' Every good, and every perfect gift, is 
 from above.'' Wisdom and virtue, as well as '' riches and 
 honour, come from God." Destitute of his f ivour, 3^ou are in 
 no better situation, with all your boasted abilities, than or-, 
 phans left to wander in a trackless desert, without any guide 
 to conduct them, or any shelter to cover them from the 
 gathering siormMS^orrGct, then, this ill-founded arrogance. 
 Expect not, tharyour happiness can be independent of Hin^ 
 who made you. By fa.ith and repentance, apply to the Re- 
 deemer of the world. By pietj and prayer, seek the pro- 
 tection of the God of heaven.^^1 conclude with the solemn 
 words, in whirh a great prince delivered his dying charge to 
 his son : worus/ which every j^oung person ought to consider 
 as addressed to himself, and to engrave deeply on his heart i- 
 *' Solomon, my son, know thou the God of thy fathers ; and 
 -serve him with a perfect heart, and with a wilhng mind. For 
 the Lord searcheth all hearts, and understandeth all the mia- 
 ginations of the thoughts. If thou seek him, he will be 
 found of thee ; but if thou forsake him. he will cast thee ofi 
 for ever '' blaih. 
 
]36 The English Reader. Part L 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 FROMISCUOUS PIECES. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 Earthquake at Calabria, in the year 1638. 
 
 JAn account of this dreadful earthquake, is given by the 
 celebrated fatiier Kircber. It happened whilst he was on his 
 journej to visit Mount JEixiR^ and the rest of the wonders that 
 La towards the South of Italy. Kircher is considered, by 
 scholars, as one oFlhe greatest prodigies of learning. ^ 
 
 " Having hired a boat, in company with four iiiore, (two 
 friars of the order of St. Francis, and two seculars,) we 
 I'uiached from the harbour of Messina, in Sicily ; and arrived. 
 the same day, at the promontory of Pelorus. Our destination 
 was for the city of Eiipbamia, in Calabria ; where we had 
 some business^o transact ; and where we designed to tarry 
 iGl some time^ However. Providence^^med willing to cross 
 our design ; for we were obliged to continue three days at 
 Pelorus, on account of the weatmer ; and though we often put 
 out to sea, yet we were as often driven back. At length, 
 wearied with the delay, we resolved to prosecute our voyage ^ 
 and, although the sea seemed more than usually agitated, we 
 ventured forward .^^<1^' he gulf of Char3^bdis, which w^e ap- 
 proached, seemed v\4nrled round in such a manner, as to form 
 a vast hollow, verging to a point in the ceij^tre. Proceeding 
 onward, and turning my eyes to ^i^tna, "f^aw it cnst forth 
 large volumes of smoke, of mountainous sizes, which entirely 
 covered the island, and blotted out the very s^hores from my 
 view<5^'hi^9 together with the dreadful noise, and the sul- 
 phurous stench which was strongly perceived, fdled me with 
 apprehensions, that some more dreadful calamity was impend- 
 ing. Ij'i he sea itself seemed to wear a very unusual appear- 
 ance : they who have seen a lake in a violent shower of niin, 
 covered all over with bubbles, will conceive some idea of its 
 Ggitations/^' My surprise was still increased, by the calmness 
 end serenu}^ of the weather ; not a breeze, not a cloud, which 
 might be supposed to put all nature thus into motion. 1 
 therefore warned my companions, that an earthquake was ap- 
 proaching ; and, after some time, making for the shore with 
 all possible diligence, we landed nl Tropxa, happy and 1' 
 ful for huvin::^ escaped the threatening dangers of th^^ - ■ 
 
Chap» 9, Promiscuous Precet. 13?? 
 
 "fbxit our triumphs at land were of short duration ; for we 
 had scarcely arrived at the Jesuit's College, in that city, when 
 our ears were stunned with a horrid sound, resembling that of 
 an infinite number of chariots, driven fiercely forward ; the 
 wheels rattUng, and the thongs cracking.^ Soon after this, a 
 most dreadful earthquake ensued ; so that the whole tract 
 upon which we stood seemed to vibrate, as if we were in the 
 scale of a balance that continued wavering. This motion, 
 however, soon grew more violent ; and being no longer able 
 to keep my legs, 1 was thrown prostrate upon the ground^a 
 the mean tim£^ the universal ruin round me redoubled^my 
 amazement. >M The crash of falling houses, the tottering of 
 towers, and fee groans of the dying, all contribuled to raise 
 my terror and despair. On every side of me, ! saw nothing 
 but a scene of ruin ; and danger threatening wherever 1 should 
 fly. I recommended myself to God, as my last great refuge/^ 
 "^At that hour, O how vain was every sublunary happiness 1 
 4 Wealth, honour, empire, wisdom, all mere useless sounds, and 
 as empty as the bubbles of the deep !: Just standing on the 
 threshold of eternity, nothing but God was my pleasure ; and 
 the nearer I approached, I only loved him the more^^fter 
 some time, however, findiftg that I remained unhurt, amidst 
 ^ the general concussion, I resolved to venture for safety ; and 
 running as fast as 1 could, I reached the shore, but almost 
 terrified out of my reason. I did not se^firch long here, till I 
 found the boat in which I had landed ; and my companions 
 also, whose terrors were even greater than mine. Our 
 meeting was not of that kind, where every one is desirous of 
 telhng his own happy escape : ijLwas.all silence, and a gloomy 
 dread of impending terrors. "/^^ \^ 
 
 ^Leaving this seat of desolation, we prosecuted our voyage 
 alfHg the coast ; and the next day came to Rochetta, where 
 we landed, although the earth still continued in violert agita- 
 tions. But we had scarcely arrived at our inn, when we were 
 once more obliged to return to the boat ; and, in about half 
 . ,an hour, we saw the greater part of the town, and the inn at 
 li.fcvhich we had set up, dashed to the ground, and bnrying the 
 inhabjtants beneath the ruins. ^^^^^ 
 
 /^rln this manner, proceediijg onward in our little vessel, 
 finding no safety at land, and yet, from the smallness of our 
 boat, having but a very dangerous continuance at sea, w^e at 
 length landed at Lopizium, a castle midway between Tropsp:? 
 and Euphaemia, the city to which, as 1 said before, we were 
 boufldi/felere, wherever 1 turned mv eves, nothi;i«; >:Mi 
 
13>8 The English Reader. Fart h 
 
 scenes of ruin and horror appeared ; towns and cfisties levelled 
 to the ground ; Stromboli, though at sixty miles distaace, 
 belching forth flames in an unusual manner, and with a noise 
 which 1 could distinctly hearif But my attention jv0 quickly 
 turned from moreji^remote, to Sontiguous danger/ Vf he rum- 
 bling sound of an approaching earthquake, which we by this 
 time were grown acquainted with, alarmed us for the conse- 
 quences ; it every moment seemed to grow louder, and to ap- 
 proach nearer. The place on which we stood now began to 
 slfiike most dreadfully : so that being unable to stand, my 
 companions and 1 caught hold of whatever shrub grew next 
 to us, and supported ourselves in that manner|r ^ 
 
 It-After some time, this violent paroxysm ceasing, we again 
 stood up, in order to prosecute our voyage to Euphcemia, 
 which lay within sight. In the mean time, while we were ' 
 
 ^Sjj^pre paring for this purpose, I turned my eyes towards the city, 
 but could see only a frightful dark cloud, that seemed to rest 
 upon ti.e place. This the more surprised us, as the weather 
 was so very sereneJWVe waited, therefore, till the cloud had 
 passed away : theil tm^ning to look for the city, it was totally 
 ^unk.f^ Wonderful to tell ! nothing but a dismal and putrid 
 lake was seen where it stood. We looked about to find some 
 one that could tell us of its sad catastrophe, but could see no 
 person. All was become a mekmcholy solitude ; a scene of 
 hideous desolatioiiJjMbus p^ in quest 
 
 of some human bein^that could give us a little information, 
 we at length savv' a boy sitting by the shore, and appearing 
 stupified with terror. Of him, therefore, we inquired con- 
 cerning the fate of the fitv ; but he could not be prevailed 
 on to give us an answeri^^^e untreated him, v/ith every ex- 
 pression of tenderness aM pityto tell us ; but his senses were 
 quite wrapt up in the contemplation of the danger he had 
 escaped. We offered him some victuals,^ but he seemed to 
 loath the sight. We etill persisted in our offices of kindness; 
 but he only pointed "to the place of the city, like one out of 
 his senses ; and then running up into the wjods, was never 
 , l^eard of after. Such was the fate of the city of Enphaemia^]^^ 
 
 .J^4s we continued our mela^J^bly course a^ong the shore, the 
 whole coast, for the space of \wo hundred miles, presented 
 not^ung but the rcnvum of cities ; and men scattered, with- 
 out a habitation, over the tields. Proceeding thus along, we 
 at h ngth ended oi'r distresbfd voyage by arriving at Naples, 
 afrei having escaped a thousand dangers both at sea and 
 
Chap, 0. Fi^omiscuoiis Pieces. 139 
 
 SECTION 11.^ 
 
 Letter from PliNy to (jeminius. 
 
 Do we not sometimes observe a sort of people, who though 
 they are themselves under the abject dominion of every vice, 
 show a kind of malicious resentment against the errors of 
 others ; and are most severe upon those whom they most re- 
 semble ? yet^ surely a lenity of disposition, even in persons 
 who have the least occasion Jor clemency themselves, is of all 
 virtues^ the most becomingl^The highest of all characters, 
 in my ^timation, is his, who is as ready to pardon the errors 
 of mankind, as if he were every day guilty of some himsel*^ ; 
 and, at the same time, as cautious of committing a fault, as if 
 he never forgave one. It is a rule then which we should, 
 upon all occasions, both private and»public, most religiously 
 observe ; " to be inexorable to our own failings, while we 
 treat those of the rest of the world with tenderne^ not ex- 
 septing even such as forgive none but themselves.j^ 
 
 I shall, perhaps, be asked, who it is that has given occasion 
 to these reflections. Know then that a certain person late* 
 ly — but of that when we meet — though, upon second thoughts, 
 not even then ; lest, whilst 1 condemn and expose his conduct, 
 I shall act counter to that maxim I particularly recommend. 
 Whoever therefore, and whatever he is, shall remain in si- 
 lence : for though there may be some uae, perhaps, in setting 
 a mark upon the man, for the sake of example, there will be 
 more, however, in sparing him, for the sake of humanity. 
 Farewell. melmoth's pliny. 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 Letter from Pliny to Marcellinus, 07i the death of an amiable 
 young woman, 
 I WRITE this under the utmost oppression of sorrow : the 
 youngest daughter of my friend Fundanus is dead I Never 
 surely was there a more agreeable, and more amiable youngs 
 person ; or one who better deserved to have enjoyed a long, 
 1 had almost said, an immortal life ! She had all the wisdom 
 of age, and discretion of a matron, joined with youthful sweet- 
 ness and virgin modesty .OjVith what' *an engaging fondness 
 did she behave to her father ! How kindly and respectfully 
 receive his friends I How affectionately treat all those who, 
 in their respective offices, had the care and education of her ! 
 She employed much of her time in readin-^, in which she dis- 
 covered great strength of judgment ; she indulged herself ia 
 few diversions, ^nd those with much caution. With what 
 
140 The English Reader. Pari 1. 
 
 forbearance, with whaLpatience, with what courage, did she 
 endure her last illness©She comphed with all the directions 
 of her physicians ; she'^couraged her sister, and her feither ; 
 and, when all her strength of body was exhausted, supported 
 herself by the single vigour of her mind. . That, indeed, con- 
 tinued, even to her last moments, unbroken by the pain of a 
 long illness, or the terrors of-^ approaching death ; and it is a 
 reflection which makes the loss of her so much the more to 
 be lamented. A loss infinitely^evere ! and more severe by 
 the particular conjuncture in which it happened^Jfehe was 
 contracted to a most worthy youth ; the wedding 'day was 
 fixed, and we were all invited. — How sad a change from the 
 highest joy, to the deepe^st sorrow ! Hovt shall I express the 
 v/ound that pierced my Jieart, v^hen I heard Fundanus him- 
 self, (as grief is ever finding out circumstances to aggravate 
 its affliction,) ordering the money he had designed to lay out 
 upon clothes and jewels for her marriage, to be employed in 
 myrrh and spices for her funeral !fMe is a man of great learn- 
 ing and good sense, who has applied himself, from his earliest 
 youth, to the noblest and most elevated studies : but all the 
 maxims of fortitude which he has received from books, or ad- 
 vanced himself, he now absolutely rejects ; and every other 
 virtue of his heart gives place to all a parent's tenderness^ 
 We shall excuse, we shall even approve his sorrow; when we 
 consider what he has lost. He has lost a daughter who resem- 
 bled him in his manners, as well as his person ; and exactly 
 copied out all her father. If his friend Marcellinus shall think 
 proper to write to him, upon the subject of so reasonable a 
 grief, let me remind him not to use the rougher arguments of 
 consolation, and such as seem to carry a sort of reproof with 
 them ; but those of kind and sympathizing humanity. ^Pime 
 will render him more open to the dictates of reason : for as 
 a fresh wound shrinks back from the hand of the surgeon, 
 but by degrees submits to, and even requires the means of its 
 cure ; so a mind, under the first impressions of a misfortune, 
 shuns and rejects all argument? of consolation ; but at length, 
 if applied with tenderness, calmly and wiHingly acquiesces in 
 them. Farewell. - a melmoth's pliny. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 On discretion* 
 
 I HAVE often thought, if the minds of men were laid open, 
 we bhould see but little difference between that of a wise 
 man, and that of a fool. 
 
 There are infirwte reyeries, numberless extravagances- and 
 
Cjhan, 9. Promiscuous Piexes. 141 
 
 a succession of vanities, which puss through both. The great 
 difference is, that the iirst knows how to })ick and cull his 
 thoughts for conversation, by suppressing some, and comniu- 
 nicatiDg others ; whereas the other lets them ail indifferently 
 fly out in words. This sort of discretion, however, has no 
 
 place in private conversation between intimate friends. ^^n 
 
 n^ery often talk like the fwSk - 
 est : for indeed talking with a ffl^nd is nothini^ else than thinks 
 
 such occasions, the wisest men^ery often talk like the 
 
 ins: aiou 
 
 iuL 
 
 Tuliy has therefore very justly exposed a precept, deliver- 
 ed hy 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 sucfi a manner, that, if he 
 becanae his ejiemy, it should not be Jftiis powc^r to hurt hin)^ 
 The first part of this rule, vvhich r^prds our behaviour to- 
 wards an enemy, is indeed very reasonable, as well as very 
 prudential ; but the hitter pjirtof it, which regards our beha- 
 viour tov/arfis a friend, savours more of cunning thrm oi' dis- 
 cretion : and would cut a man off from the greatest pleastjres 
 of lile. which are the freedoms of conversaiion vviih a bosom 
 friendC^^esides that, when a friend is turned mto an enemy^ 
 the world is just enough to accuse the pcrfi'lioasness of rhe 
 friend, rather tium the indiscretion of the person who &0|iided 
 in him. A 
 
 DiscrSion does not only show itself in words, but in all the 
 circumstances of action ; and is like an under-agent of Provi- 
 dence, to guide and direct us in|j|^e ordinary concerns of hfe^/% 
 
 There are many more shining qualities in the mind of man, 
 but there is none so useful as discretian. it is this, indeed, 
 which gives a value to all the rest ; which sets them at work 
 in their^oper times and places ; and turns them to the ad- 
 vantage W the person vvho 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. %; 
 
 Discretion does not only make a man the master oFhis own 
 parts, but of other men's. The discreet man finds out the tfi- 
 ie^ts^ of those he converses with ; and knows how to apply 
 tfif m to proper uses. Accordingly, if we look into particular 
 communities and divisions of men, we ma}^ observe, that it is 
 the discreet man, not the witty, nor the learned, nor the 
 brave, who guides the conversation, ynd gives measures to 
 society .T/A man with great talents, but void of discretion, 
 '^ '":e rolyphemus in tho fable, strong and blind ; endued 
 
142 71ie English Reado Part 1 
 
 with an irresistibie force, which, for want of sight, is of no 
 use to him. 
 
 Though a man has all other perfections, yet if he wants 
 discretion, he will be of no great consequence in the world ; 
 on the contrary, if he has this single talent in perfection, and 
 ^^^^ common share of others, he may do what he pleases in 
 hii'particular station of hfefi 
 
 At the same time that 1 t"k discretion the most useful ta- 
 lent a man can be master of, I look upon cunnifig to be the 
 accomplishment of little, mean, ungenerous minds. Discre- 
 tion points out the noblest ends to us ; and pursues the most 
 proper and laudable methods of attaining them : cunning has 
 only private selfish aims ; and sticks at nothing which may 
 *make them succeed.O^Discretion has large and extended 
 views ; and, hke a w^Pformed eye, commands a whole hori- 
 zon : cunning is a kind of short-sightedness, that discovers the 
 minutest objects which are near at hand, but is not able to dis- 
 cern things at a distance. Discretion, the more it is dis- 
 covered, gives a greater authority to the person who possesses 
 it : cunning, when it is once detected, loses its fc^rce, and 
 makes a man incapable of bringing aboui even thd^ events 
 w^hicli he might have done, had he passed only for a plain 
 manj^Discretion is the perfection of reason ; and a guide to 
 us in all the duties of life : cunning is a kind of inAnct, that 
 only looks out after our immediate interest ana welfare. 
 Discretion is only found in men cf strong sense and good un- 
 derstandings : cunning is <|ften to he met with in brutes them- 
 selves ; and in persons who are but the fewest removes from 
 them. In short, cunning is only the mimic of discretion ; and 
 it may pass upon weak men, in the same manneaa^ vivacity 
 is often mistaken for wit, and gravity, for wisdom. k/ 
 
 The cast of mind which is natural to u discreet man, makes 
 him look forward into futurity, and consider what will be his 
 conditi(M millions of ages hence, as well as what it is at pre- 
 sent, yke knows that the miserj^ or happiness which is re- 
 servedTor him in another world, loses nothing of its reahty by 
 being placed at so great a distance from him. The objects 
 do not appear little to him because they are remote^Jxle 
 Considers, that those pleasures and pains which lie hia 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 whicii he feels at this very initant: 
 For this reason, he is careful to secure to himself tjiat vvhictd 
 is the proper happiness of his nature, and the ultimate desigriS 
 
Chap, 9. \ Promiscuous Pieces, %4 . 
 
 of his beingJj»me carries his thoughts to the end of even 
 action; anaconsiders the most distant, as well as the moi 
 immediate effects of it. He supersedes every little prospec, 
 of gain and advantage which offers itself here, if he does no: 
 •flfcd it consistent with his views of an hereafter. . In a word 
 his hopes are full of immortality ; his sch^^mes are large anc 
 glorious ; and liu conduct suitable to one who knows his tru(. 
 interest, and how to pursue it by proper methodsA addison 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 On the governmerit of our thoughts. 
 
 A MULTITUDE of cases occur, in which we are no less acconn- 
 table for what we think, than for wh^t we do. 
 
 As, firsl;, when the introduction of any train of thought de- 
 pends upon ourselves, and is our voluntary act, by turning our 
 attention towards such objects ^ awakening such passions, or 
 engaging in such employments, as we know must give a pe- 
 culiar determination to our thoughts. Next, when thoughts, 
 by whatever accident they may have been origi 
 are indulged with del 
 mind has been passi _^ 
 
 from Mame ; yet, if it be active in their continuance, the guilt 
 becomes its own. They may have intruded at first, like un- 
 bidden guests ; but if when entered, they are made welcome, 
 and kindly entertained, the case is the same as if they had 
 been invited from the beginning,^ If we are thus accountable 
 to God for thoughts either voluntarily introduced, or de- 
 liberately indulged, we are no less so, in the last place, for 
 those which find admittance into our hearts from supine 
 negligence, Trom total relaxation of attention, from allowing 
 our imagination to rove with entire license, " like the eyes of 
 the fool, tow^ards the end of the earth. 'jflr Our minds are, in 
 this case, thrown open to folly and vanity. They are prosti- 
 tuted to evei^y evil thing which pleases to take possession. 
 The consequences must all be charged ^o our account ; and 
 I in vain we plead excuse from human infiri^it}^ Hence it ap- 
 I jpears, that the great object at which w^e are to aim in govern- 
 ' ing our thoughts, is, to take the most effectual measures fc -t'S ^'^ 
 ' preventing the introduction of such as are sinful ; an---nd hor- 
 hasteniog their expulsion, if they shall have introduce lOns. These 
 j selves without consent of the will. (^ ese have point- 
 
 But when we descend into our breasts, and .' ^d bowl. These, 
 far we have studied to keep this object in viewaterials for the ora- 
 *Vbow oft he hath offended?" In no articloet's tragical song, |p 
 
 n to our thoughts. Next, when thoughts, 
 
 [\i they may have been origir^ily suggested, -ji 
 
 Blj^eration and compiacencyfJj^^^^^S^ ^^^ J 
 
 i^^n their reception, and, therefore, free ^| 
 
 fit be active in their continuance, the guilt ■! 
 
144" The English Reader. Part I. 
 
 morals are men more culpably remiss, than in thfe'mirestrained 
 indulgence they give to fonC} ; and that too, for the most 
 part, without remorse. Since the time that reason began to 
 exert her powers, thought, during our waking hours, has b^en 
 active in ever}^ breast, without a moment's suspension or paus^JT 
 The curre t of ideas has been always flowing. The wheels 
 of the spiritual engine have circulated with perpetual mo- 
 tion. Let me ask, what has been the fruit of this incessant 
 activity, with the greater part of mankind ? Of the innumera- 
 ble hours that have been employed in thought, how few are 
 marked with any permanent or useful effect ? How m my 
 have either passed away in idle dreams ; or have been aban- 
 doned to anxious discontented musings, to unsocial and ma- 
 lii>;nant passions, or to irregular and criminal desires ^Had I 
 po^ver to lay open that storehouse of iniquity which the hearts 
 of too many conceal ; could 1 draw out and read to them a 
 ]i:3t of all the imaginations they have devised, and all the pas- 
 sions tii=^y have indulged in secret ; what a picture of men 
 should 1 present to themselves ! What crimes would they ap- 
 pear to have perpetrated in secrecy, which to their most inti- 
 mate compatiions they durst not reveal Ij^ 
 
 Even when men imagine their thoughts to be innocently 
 employed, they too coaimonly suffer them to run out into ex- 
 travagant imaginations, and chimerical plans of what they 
 would wish to attain, ©r choose to be, if they could frame the ». 
 course of things according to'iheir desire. Though such em- •'•^' 
 ployments of fancy come not under the same description with 
 those which are plainly criminal, yet wholly unblamable they 
 seldom areJ^ Besides the waste of time which they occasion, 
 and the mi^ipplication which they indicate of those intellec- 
 tual powers that were given to us for much nobler purposes, 
 such romantic spccul|^ons lead us always into the neighbour- 
 hood of forbidden regions. They place us on dangerous 
 ground. They are, for the most part, connected with some 
 one bad passion ; and they always nourish a giddy and frivo- 
 lous turn of thoughtyj/They unfit the mind for applying with - 
 .; vigour to rational pursuits, or for acquiescing in sober plans 
 ^ ^ ^^ conduct. From that ideal world in which it allows itself 
 ^^^•^ .'11, it returns to the comm.arce of men, unbent and re- 
 eternitv.vj^ and tainted, averse to discharging the duties, and 
 present wii:^ .^|-^jp.| eT%i for relishing the, pleasures of or- 
 those pains u ^ blajk. 
 
 For this reason 
 is Ih.e proper haj_. 
 
Sfeap. 9. Promiscuous Pieces, 146 
 
 SECTrON VI. 
 
 On the evils which fiow from unrestrained passions. 
 
 When man revolted from his Maker, his passions rebelled 
 against himself f» ?tnd, from being originally the ministers of 
 reason, have become the tyrants of the soul. Hence, in treat- 
 ing of this subject, two things may be assumed as principles : 
 first, that through the present weakness of the understand- 
 ing, our passions are often directed towards improper objects ; 
 and next, that even when their direction is just, and their ob- 
 jects are innocent, they perpetually tend to run into excess ; 
 they always hurry us towards their gratification, with a blind 
 and dangerous impetuosity^^On these two points then turns 
 the whole government of dur passions : first, to ascertain the 
 proper objects of their pursuit ; and next, to restrain them in 
 that pursuit, when they would carry us beyond the bounds 
 of reason. If there is any passion which intrudes itself un- 
 seasonably into our mind, which darkens asd troubles our 
 judgment, or habitually discomposes our temper ; which un- 
 fits us for properly discharging the duties, or disqualifies us for 
 cbeerfully enjoying the comforts of life, we may certainl}'- 
 conclude it to have gained a dangerous ascendantS^T'he great 
 object which we ought to propose to ourselves is, to acquire 
 a firm and steadfast mind, which the infatuation of passion 
 shall not seduce, nor its violence shake ; which, resting on 
 fixed principles, shall, in the midst of contending emotions, re- 
 main free, and master of itself ; able to listen calmly to the 
 voice of conscience, •^*»d prepared to obey its dictates without 
 hesitation. ^J^ 
 
 ^ To obtain, if possible, such command of passion, is one of 
 the highest attainments of the rational nature. Arguments 
 to show its importance crowd upon us from every quarter. 
 If there be any fertile source of mischief to human lite, it is, 
 beyond doubt, the misrule of passion. It is this which poi- 
 sons the enjovment of individuals, overturns the order of so- 
 ciety, and strews the path of life with so many miseries, as to 
 render it indeed the vale of tears^AIl those great scen^,s oi 
 public calamity,^ hich we behold with astonishment and hor- 
 ror, have originated from the source of violent passions. These 
 have overspread the earth with bloodshed. These have point- 
 ed the assassin's dagger, and filled the poisoned bowl. These, 
 in emery age, have furnished too copious materials for the ora- 
 tor'»f)athetic declamation, and for the peet's tragical song,^ 
 N ' ^ 
 
146 ■ The English Reader. Parti. 
 
 When from public life we descend to private conduct, 
 though passion operates not there in so wide and destructive 
 a sphere, we shall find its influence to be no less baneful. I 
 need not mention the black and fierce passions, such as envy, 
 jealousy, and revenge, whose effects are obviously noxious, 
 and whose agitations are immediate misery. 5trB,jt take any of 
 the licentious and sensual kind. Suppose it to have unlimited 
 scope ; trace it throughout its course ; and we shall find that 
 gradually, as it rises, it taints the soundness, and troubles the 
 peace,- of his mind over whom it reigns ; that, in its progress, 
 it engages him in pursuits which are marked either with dan- 
 ger or with shame ; that, in the end, it wastes his fortune, de- 
 stroys his health, or debases h^ character ; and aggravates 
 all the miseries in which it has toolved him, with the con* 
 rluding pangs of bitter remorse, o Through all the stages of 
 this fatal course, how many have heretofore run ? What mul- 
 titudes do we daily behold pursuing it, with blind and head- 
 long steps ? BLAIR. 
 
 SECTION VII. 
 
 0)1 iht proper state of our temper^ with respect to one another. 
 
 It is eviojnt, in the general, that if we consult either pub- 
 lic welfare or private happiness. Christian charity ought to 
 regulate our disposition in mutual intercourse. But as this 
 great principle admits of several diversified appearances, let 
 us consider some of the chief forms under which it ought to 
 show itself in the usual tenor of life* O ^ 
 
 What, first, presents itself to be recommende^^ is a peace- 
 able temper ; a disposition averse to give cSenc^, and desi- 
 rous of cultivating harmony, and amicable intercourse in so- 
 ciety. This supposes yielding and condescending mimners, 
 unwillingness to contend with others about trifles, and, in con- 
 tests that are unavoidable, proper moderation of spirit. Such 
 a temper is the first principle of self-enjoyment. It is the ba- 
 sis of all order and happiness among mankind. flThe positive 
 and contentious, the ru^e and qnarrolsome, are the bane of 
 r^ociety. They seem destmed to blast the small share of com- 
 fort which nature has here allotted to man. But they cannot 
 disturb the peace of others, more than they break their own. 
 The hurricane rages first in their own bosom, before it is let 
 forth upon the world. In the tempests which they raise, they 
 are always tost ; and frequently it is their lot to perish. £* 
 C^ peaceable temper must be supported by a candid one, or 
 
Chap. 9, Promiscuous Pieces. 147 
 
 a dispositiort to view the conduct of others with fairness and 
 impartiality. This stands opposed to a jealous and suspicious 
 temper, which ascribes every action to the worst motive, and 
 throws a black shade over every character. If we would 
 be happy in ourselves, or in our connexions with others, let 
 us guard against this malignant spirit^l^et ue study that 
 charity '* which thinketh no evil ;" that temper which, with- , 
 
 |0ut degenerating into credulitj^ will dispose us to be just ; 
 
 "and which can allow us to observe an error, without imputing 
 it as a crime. Thus we shall be kept free from that continual ir- 
 ritation, which imaginary injuries raise in a suspicious breast ; 
 and shall walk among men as our brethren, not as our enemie» 
 
 But to be peaceable, and to be candid, is not all that is re- 
 quired of a good man. He must cultivate a kind, generous, 
 and sympathizing temper, which feels for distress, wherever 
 it is beheld : which enters into the concerns of his friends, 
 with ardour : and to all with whom he has intercourse, is gen- 
 tle, obUgins:, and humane.^llow amiable appears such a 
 disposition, when contrastea with a malicious or envious tem- 
 per, which wraps itself up in its own narrow interest, looks 
 with an evil eye on the success of otiiers, and, with an un- 
 natural satisfiction, feeds on their disappointments or mise- 
 ries ! How^ little does he know of the true happiness of life, 
 who is a stranger to that intercourse of good oitices and kind 
 aiiections, which, by a pleasing charm, attaches, men to one 
 another, and circulates joy from heart to heart, 1^^^^ 
 - We are not to imagine^ that a benevolent temper finds no 
 exercise, unless when .opportunities offer of performing m 
 tions of high generosity, or of extensive utility. These may 
 seldom occur. The condition of the greater part of mtinkind 
 in a good measure, precludes them. But, in th.^. ordinary 
 round of human affairs, saany occasions daily present them- 
 selves, of mitigating the vexations which others sutler ; of 
 soothing their minds ; of aiding their interest ; of promoting 
 their cheerfulness, or ease. Such occasions may relate to the 
 smaller incidents of hfe.JI But let us remember, that of smvdl 
 incidents the system of miman hfe is chiefly composed. The 
 attentions which respect these, when suggested by real benig- 
 nity of temper, are often more material to the happiness of 
 those around us, than actions which carry the appearance of 
 greater dignity and splendour. No wise or good man ought 
 to account any rules of behaviour as below his regard, which 
 tend to cement^the great brotherhood of mankind in cor^ 
 fortable unioa.^ » 
 
J48 The English Reader^ Part 1. 
 
 Particularly amidst that familiar intercourse which belongs 
 tb domestic life, all the virtues of temper find an ample range. 
 It is very unfortunate, that within that circle, men too often 
 think themselves at liberty, to give unrestrained vent to the 
 aaprice of passion and humour. Whereas there, on the con- 
 trary, more than ali^where else, it concerns them to attend 
 to the government of their heart; to check what is violent in 
 ^ their tempers, and to soften what is harsh in their manners.j|f 
 L^For there the temper is formed. There, the real character 
 displays itself The forms of the world disguise men when 
 abroad. But within his own family, every man is known to 
 %)e what he truly is. — In all our intercourse then with others, 
 particularly in that which is closest and most intimate, let us 
 cultivate a peaceable, a candid, a gentle, and friendly temper. 
 This is the temper to which, by repeated injunctions, our 
 holy religion seeks to form us. This was the temper of 
 Christ This is the temper o|^Heaven. 
 
 SECTIO* VIII.:' 
 Excellence of the holy Scriptures, 
 
 Is it bigotry to believe the sublime truths of the Gospel, 
 with fall assurance of fiith ? I glory in such bigotry. I 
 would not part with it for a thousand worlds. I congratulate 
 Lhe man who is possessed of it : for, amidst all the vicissitudes 
 and calami Lies of the present state, that man enjoys an in- 
 exhaustible fund of consolation, of which it is not in the 
 power of fortune to deprive him.- J^ 
 
 There is not a book on earth, so favourable to all the kind, 
 and all the sublime affections ; or so unfriendly to hatred and 
 persecution, to tyranny, to injustice, and every sort of malevo- 
 lence, as the Gospel. It breathes nothing tbrbugkout, but 
 mercy, benevolence, and peace, fli 
 
 Poetry is sublime, when it avf^kens in the mind any great 
 aiid good affection, as piety, or patriotism. This is one of the 
 noblest effects of the art. The P^ilms are remarkable, be- 
 yond all other writings, for their power of inspiring devout 
 emotions. But it is not in this respect only, that they are 
 sublime. Of the divine nature, they contain the most magni- 
 ficent descriptions, that the soul of man can comprehend. 
 The hundred and fourth Psalm, in particular, displays the 
 power and goodness of Providence, in creating and preserv- 
 ing the world, and the various tribes of animals in fi with 
 sucli majestic brevity and.beauty, as it is ^nn to look for ia 
 
 ny human composition 
 
 md. beauty, as it is tj^q 
 
Chap, 9, -( Promiscuous Piecei, 149* 
 
 J^Such of the doctrines of the Gospel as are level to human 
 capacity, appear to be agreeable to the purest truth, and the 
 soundest nforditj. All the genius and learning of the heathen 
 world ; all the penetration of Pythagoras, Socrates, and Aris- 
 totle, had never been able to produce such a system of moral 
 duty, and so rational an account of Providence and of man, as 
 are to be found in the New Testament. Compcired, indeed, 
 with this, all other moral and theological wisdom 
 
 Losesj discountenanc'd, and like folly shows. beattie 
 
 SECTION IX. 
 
 Reflections occasioned by a review of the blessings pronounced 
 by Christ on his disciples, in his sermon on ihe mount. 
 
 What abundant reason have we to thank God, that this 
 large and instructive disgoiirse of our blessed Redeemer, is so 
 particularly recorded |y the sacred historian. Let every 
 •-S^ne that " hath ears to ^ear," attend to it : for surely no man 
 ever spoke as our Lord did on this occasion. Let us fix our 
 minds in a posture of humble attention, that we may '' receive 
 the law from his mouth. '^^ . 
 
 He opened it with blessings, repeated and most important 
 blessings. But on whom are they pronounced ? and whom 
 are we J;aught to think the happiest of mankind ? The meek 
 and the^ humble ; the penitent and the merciful ; the peaceful 
 and the "pure ; those that hunger and thirst after righteous- 
 ness ; those that labour, but faint not, under persecution ! 
 Lord ! how different are thy maxims from those of the chil- 
 dren of this world^They call the proud happy ; and admire 
 the gay, the rich, the powerful, and the victorious. But let a 
 vain world take its gaudy trifles, and dress up the foolish 
 creatures that^ursue them. May our souls share in that hap- 
 piness, tvhich the l^on of God came to recommend and to 
 procure ! May we obtain mercy of the Lord ; may we be 
 owned as his children ; enjoy his presence ; and inherit his 
 kingdom ! With these enjoyments, and these hopes, we wiii- 
 cheerfully welcome the lowest, or the most painful circum- 
 stances.^ 
 
 Let us be animated to cultivate those amiablfe viriueSj 
 which are here recommended to us ; this humility and meek- 
 ness ; this penitent sense of sin ; this ardent desire after right- 
 eousness ; this compassion and purity ; this peacefuhiess and 
 fortitude of soul ; and, in a word, this uRiversal goodne-:-- 
 ^ ' N£ 
 
150 The Engluh Reader. Part i. 
 
 which becomes us, as we sustain the character of *' the salt 
 of the earth," and '* the light of the world." ^/^ 
 / Is there not reason to lament, that we answer the character 
 no better ? Is there not reason to exclaim with a good man 
 in former times, " Blessed Lord ! eitlier these are not thy 
 words, or we are not Christians !" Oh, season our hearts more 
 effectually with thy grace ! Pour forth that divine oil on our 
 lamps ! Then shall the flame brighten ; then shall the ancient 
 honours of thy religion be revived ; and multitudes be awa- 
 kened and animated, by the lustre of it, " to glorify our Fa- 
 ther in heaven." doddridge. 
 
 SECTION X. 
 
 Schemes of life often illusory, 
 
 Omar, the son of Hassan, had passed seventy five years in 
 honour and prosperity. The fovour of three successive califs* 
 had filled his house with gold and silver ; and whenever he ap- 
 peared, the benedictions of the people proclaimed his passage^^ 
 
 Terrestrial happiness is of short continuance. The brighf^ 
 ness of the flame is wasting its fuel ; the fragrant flower is 
 passing away in its own odours, (The vigour of Omar began- 
 to fail ; the curls of beauty fell from his head ; strength de-? 
 parted from his hands ; and agility from his feet. He gave 
 back to the calif the kejs of trust, and the seals of secrecy : 
 and sought no other pleasure for the remains of life, than the 
 converse of the wise,^ and the gratitude of the good.^ 
 
 The powers of his mind were yet unimpaired. His cham- 
 I)er was filled by visitants, eager to catch the dictates of ex- 
 perience, and officious to pay the tribute of admiration, 
 Caled, the son of the viceroy of Egypt, entered every day 
 early, and retired late. He was beautiful and eloquent : 
 Omar admired his wit, and loved his docility.^*' Tell me,'' 
 said Caled, ** thou to whose voice nations have listened, and 
 whose wisdom is known to the extremities of Asia, tell me 
 how I may resemble Omar the prudent. The arts by which, 
 thou hast gained power and preserved it, are to thee no longet 
 necessary or useful ; impart to me the secret of thy conduct, 
 ?ind teach me the plan upon which thy wisdom has built thy 
 fortune." Jt 
 
 *' Young man," said Omar, *' it is of little use to form plans 
 of life. When I took my first survey of the world, in my 
 twentieth year, having considered the various conditions of 
 mankind, in the hour of sohtude I said thus to myself, leaning 
 v.^->^^t ;^ ceA^i*, wlvich spread i^ '.^rawV?**^ ♦^•^». -«— v ^^ 
 
Chap. 9. Proiiiiscuviu tieceL Ibl 
 
 ^•ifee verity years are allowed to man; 1 ijave yet fifty remaia- 
 ing. Ten years I will allot to the attainment of know^ledge, 
 and ten I will pass in foreign countries ; I shall be learned, 
 and therefore shall he honoured ; erery city will shout at my 
 arrival, and every student will solicit my friendship. Twenty 
 years thus passed, will store my mind with images, which I 
 shall be bu sy , through the rest of my life, in combining and 
 comparing./ I shall revel in inexhaustible accumulations of 
 intellectual ricbe^; I shall find new pleasures for every mo- 
 ment ; and shalt-irever more be w^eary of myself. 1 will not, 
 however, deviate too far from the beaten track of life ; but 
 will try what can be found in female delicacy. 1 will marry 
 a wife beautiful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide : with 
 her I will live twenty years within the suburbs of Bagdat, in 
 
 . every pleasure that wealth can purchase, and fancy can in- 
 vent.mJ will then retire to a rural dwelling ; pass my days 
 in obscurity and contemplation ; and lie silently down on the 
 bed of death. Through my life it shall be my settled resolu- 
 tion, that 1 will never depend upon the smile of princes ; that 
 I will never stand exposed to the artifices of courts ; I will 
 never pant for public honours, nor disturb my quiet with 
 the affairs of state.' Such was my scheme of life, which I 
 impressed indelibly upon my memory."^ 
 
 *' The first part of my ensuing time was to be spent in 
 search of knowledge, and 1 know not how I was diverted from 
 my design. I had no visible impediments without, nor any 
 ungovernable passions within. I regarded knowledge as the 
 highest honour, and the most engaging pleasured yet daj 
 stole upon day, and month glided after month, till I found 
 that seveh years of the first ten had vanished, and left nothing 
 behind ihem^^^l now postponed my purpose of travelling ; 
 for why should I go abroad, while so much remained to be 
 learned at home ? I immured myself for four years, and stu- 
 died the laws of the empire. The fame of my skill reached 
 the judges ; I was found able to &^eak upon doubtful ques- 
 tions f and was commanded to stand at the footstool of the 
 calif. I was heard with attention ; I was consulted with con- 
 fidence ; and the love of praise fastened on my heart.yV 
 
 '' I still p ished to see distant countries ; listened with rap- 
 ture to the relations of travellers ; and resolved some time to 
 sk my dismission, that I might feast my soul with novelty : 
 but my presence was always necessary ; and the stream of 
 business hurried me along. Sometimes I was afraid lest I 
 should be charged with ingratitude : but I still proposed It 
 
 ^ 
 
152 Vie English Reader. Parti. 
 
 travel J and therefore would not confine myself by marriagefiL 
 " In my fiftieth year, 1 began to suspect that the time of 
 (ravelling was past ; and thought it best to lay hold on the 
 felicity yet in my power, and indulge myself in domestic plea- 
 sures. But at fifty no man easily finds a woman beautiful as j 
 the Houries, and wise as Zobeide. I inquired and rejected, 
 consulted and deliberated, till the sixty second year made me 
 ashamed of wishing to marry. I had now not^M^g left but 
 retirement ; and for retirement I never found a time, till dis- 
 ease forced me from public employment. "^^ 
 
 '' Such was my scheme, and such has been its consequence. 
 With an insatiable thirst for knowledge, I trifled away the 
 years of improvement ; with a restless desire of seeing differ- 
 ent countries, I have always resided in the same city ; with 
 the highest expectation of connubial fehcity, i have lived un- '^ 
 married ; and with unalterable resolutions of conter^A^lative 
 retirement, I am going to die within the walls of Bagd^." 
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 SECTION XI. 
 
 The pleasures of virtuous senHbility. 
 ^The good effects of true sensibility on general virtue and 
 happiness, admit ofSno dispute. Let us consider its effect on 
 the happmess of him who possesses it, and the various plea- 
 sures to which it gives him access. If he is master of riches 
 or influence, it affords him the means of increasing his own 
 enjoyment, by relieving the wants, or increasing the comforts 
 of others.J^If he commands not these advantages, yet all the 
 comforts, which he sees in the possession of the deserving, be- 
 come in some sort his, by his rejoicing in the good which they 
 enjoy. Even the face of nature yields a satisfaction to him, 
 which the insensible can never know. The profusion of good- 
 ness, which he beholds poured forth on the universe, dilates 
 his heart with the thought, that innumerable multitudes around 
 him are blest and happy.^ When he sees the labours of men 
 appearing to prosper, an^iews a country flourishing in wealth 
 and industry ; when he beholds the spring (doming forth in its 
 beautv. and reviving the decayed face of nature ; or in autumn 
 behofas the fields loaded with plenty, and the year crowned 
 with all its fruits ; he lifts his afiections with gratitude to the 
 great F'ather of all, and rejoices in the general felicity and joy,||K 
 It may indeed be objected, that the same sensibility ^^.ys ' 
 open the heart to be pierced with many wounds, from the cis- 
 tresses which abound in the world • exposes us to frequent 
 
' ^iap> 9. Projniscuous Pieces* 163 
 
 suffering froni the participation which it commanicates of the 
 sorrows, as well as of the joys of friendship. But let it be 
 considered, that the tender mehincholy of sympathy, is ac- 
 companied with a sensation, which they who feel it would 
 not exchange for the gratifications of the selfish. ^When the 
 heart is strongly moved by any of the kind affections, even 
 when it pours itself forth in virtuous sorrow, a secret at- 
 tractive charm mingles with the painful emotion ; there is a 
 joy in the midst of grief, ^et it be farther considered,, that 
 the griefs which sensibilify introduces, are counterbalanced 
 by pleasures which flow from the same source. Sensibility 
 heightens in general the human powers, and is connected with 
 ac^jteness in ail our feelings^. If it makes us more alive to 
 JLsoine painful sensations, in return, it renders the pleasing ones 
 more viv^id and animated. The selfish man languishes in his 
 narrow circle of pleasures: They are confined to what af- 
 fects his own interest. He is obliged to repeat the same 
 gratifications, till they become Jrrsipid^^But the man of vir- 
 tuous sensibility moves in a wider sphere of felicity. His 
 powers are much more frequently e'alled forth into occupa- 
 tions of pleasing activity. Numbeiiess occasions open to 
 him of indulging his favourite taste, by conveying satisfac- 
 tion to others. Often it is in his power, in one way of 
 other, to sooth the afflicted heart, to carry some consolation 
 into the house afwo.l^In the scenes of ordinary life, in the 
 domestic and social inrei*courses of men, the cordiality of hii 
 affections cheers and gladdens liim. Every appearance, even' 
 description of innocent happiikps, is enjoyed by him. Ever\ 
 native expression of kindness and affection among others, i 
 felt by him, even though he be not the object of it. In a circb 
 , of friends enjoying one another, he is as happy as the happiest.. =' 
 ^/[n a word, he lives in a different sort of world, from wha' - 
 "^ the selfish man inhabits. He possesses a new sense that eij^' 
 ; bles him to behold objects which the selfish cannot see. A* 
 , the same time, his enjoym^gnts are not of that kind which re 
 main merely on the surfi^e of the mind, t^hey penetrate th' 
 heart. They enlarge and elevate, they refine and ennoble it. 
 To all the pleasing emotions of affection, they add the dig 
 nified consciousness of virtue. -^^I^Ghiidren of men ! men forme I 
 by nature to live and to feel as brethren ! how long will y-" 
 continue, to estrange yourselves from one another by compc 
 ■ titionaand jealousies, when ia cordial union ye might b6 p 
 muC'h more blest ? How long will ye seek your h ^pplness i 
 
154 The English Reader, Part K 
 
 selfish gratifJcRtions alone, neglecting those purer ^ndl better 
 sources of joj j which flow from the affections and the heart ? 
 
 BLAIR. 
 
 SECTION XII. 
 
 On the true honour of man. 
 
 The proper honour of man arises not from some of those 
 splendid actions and abilities, which excite high admiration. 
 Courage and prowess, military renown, signal victories and 
 conquests, may render the name of a man famous, without 
 rendering his character truly honourable. To many brave 
 men, to many heroes renowned in story, we look up with won- 
 der. Their exploits are recorcjBd. Their praises are sung. 
 They stand as on an eminence above the rest of mankindA 
 Their eminence, nevertheless, may not be of that sort, before 
 which we bow with inward esteem and respect. Something 
 more is wanted for that purpose, than the conquering arm, 
 and the intrepid mm^. / The laurels of the warrior must at 
 all times be dyed in bloM^and bedewed with the tears of the 
 widow and the orphan. ^ B^t if they have been stained by ra- 
 pine and inhumanity ; if sordid avarice has marked his cha-* 
 racter ; or low and gross sensuality has degraded ifis life ; the 
 great hero sinks into a little man. What, at a disCance, or on 
 a superficial view, we admired, becomes mean, perhaps odious, 
 when we examine it more closely. Wt is like .the Colossal 
 statue, whose immense size struck the spectator afar off with 
 ,.stonishment ; byt when ncarlv viewed, it appears dispropor- 
 tioned, unshapely, and rude.w 
 
 C Observations of the same Kind may be applied to all the 
 
 reputation derived from civil accomplishments ; from the re- 
 
 "^ fined politics of the statesmen ; or the literary efforts of genius 
 
 ^ and erudition. These bestow, and within certain bounds, 
 
 orught to bestow, eminence and distinction on men. They 
 
 discover talents which in themselves are shining ; and which 
 
 become highly valuable, when employed in advancing the 
 
 good of mankind. Offence, they frequently give rise to fame. 
 
 But a distinction is to be made between fame and true honour. 
 
 /The statesman, the orator, or the poet, may be famous ; while 
 
 ^yet the man himself is far from being honoured. We envy 
 
 his abilities. We wish to rival them. But we would not 
 
 choose to be classed with him who possesses them. Instances 
 
 of this sort are too often found in every record of ancient or 
 
 modern history.O i&j 
 
 From all this it follows, that in order to discern where naanmj 
 
J, 9^ Promiscuous Pieces, 155 
 
 true honour lies, we ttjfust look, not to any adventitious cir- 
 cumstance of fortune ;^ot to any single sparkling quality; 
 but to the whole of what forms a man ; what entitles him, as 
 such, to rank high among that class of beings to which he 
 belongs 5 in a word, we must leok to the mind and the soul.*/ 
 A mind superior to fear, to selfish interest and corruption ; a 
 mind governed by the principles of uniform rectitude and in- 
 tegrity ; ^Jie same in prosperity and adversity ; which no 
 bribe can seduce, nor terror overawe ; neither by pleasure 
 melted into effeminacy, nor by distress sunk into dejection : 
 such is the mind which forms the distinction and eminence of 
 man.^^Oiie, wl^o in no situation of life, is either ash.imed or 
 afraid of discharging his duty, and acting his proper part 
 with firmness and constancy ; true to the God whom he wor- 
 ^ips, and true to the faith in which he professes to believe ; 
 full of affection to his brethren of mankind ; faithful to his 
 friends, generous to his enemies, warm with^iMnpHSsion to the 
 unfortunate ; self-denying to little private interests and plea- 
 sures, but zealous for public interest and happiness : magnan* 
 imous, without Joeing proud ; humble, without basing mean ; 
 just, without being W'sh ; simple in his manners, but manly 
 in his feelings ; on whose worSs we can entirely rely ; whose 
 countenance never deceives us ; whose professions of kindness 
 are the effusions of his heart : one, in fine, whom, independent 
 of any views of advantage, we would choose for a superior, 
 could trust yi as a friend, and could love as a brother— this is 
 the man, whom in our heart, above all others, we do, we 
 must honour. c::p>^^^cr> blair. 
 
 ^-^-^ SECTION XIII. 
 
 Uie influence of devotion on the happiness of life, 
 
 AYhatever promotes and strengthens virtue, whatever 
 1ms and regulates the temper, is a source of happiness. 
 I Devotion produces these effects in a remarkable degree. It 
 \ inspires composure of spirit, mildfcss, and benignity; weak- 
 j ens the painful, and cherishes the pleasing emotions ; and, by 
 ; these means, carries on the life of a pious man in a smooth 
 j and phicid tenor. J35» 
 
 ^ Besides exerting this habitual influence on th^ mind, devo- 
 tion opens a %ld of enjoyments, to which the vicious are 
 i entire stran2:ers : enjoyments the more valuable, as they 
 peculiarly belong to retirement, when the world leaves us ; 
 and to adversity, when it becomes our foe. These are the 
 two seasons, for which every wise man would most wish to 
 
 (^ 
 
156 ,The English Reader, Part h 
 
 provide some hidden store of comfort.^ For let him be placed 
 in the most favourable situation whifh the human state ad- 
 mits, the world can neither always amuse him, nor always ' 
 ^ shield him from distress. There will be many hours of 
 ^^Vacuity, and many of dejection, in his life. If he be a stranger 
 to God, and to devotion, how dreary will the gloom of soli- 
 tude often prove ! With what oppressive weight will sickness, 
 disappointment, or old age, fall upon his spirits.^But for 
 those pensive periods, the pious man has a relief prepared. 
 From the tiresome repetition of the common vanities of life, 
 or from the painful corrosion of its cares and sorrows, devo- 
 tion transports him into a new region ; and surround him 
 there with such objects, as are the most fitted to cheer the 
 dejection, to calm the tumults, and to heal the w^ounds of his 
 heart. If the world has been empty and delusive, it gladdens 
 him with the prospect of a higher and better order of things, 
 about to arise. <*1ir men have been ungrateful and base, it 
 displays before him the faithfulness of that Supreme Being, 
 who, though every other friend fl?il, will never forsake him. 
 Let us consult our experience, and we shrdl Ij^^d, that the two. 
 greatest sources of inward joy, arg„^44iBexer^se of love 
 directed towards a deseTving ofye5J<lTnd the -exercise of hope 
 terminating on some high and assured happiness. Both these 
 are supplied by devotion ; and therefore we have no reason 
 to be surprised, if, on some occasions, it fills the hearts of 
 good men with a satisfaction not to be expressed./!^ 
 
 The refined pleasures of a pious mind are, in many re- 
 spects, superior to the coarse grr!tfficatioi^4)f sense. They 
 are pleasures which belong to the highest pbwers and best af- 
 fections of the soul ; whereas the gratifications of sense reside 
 in the lowest region of our nature. To the latter, the soul 
 stoops below its native dignity. The former, raise it above 
 itself The latter, leave always a comfortless, often a mortify- 
 ing, remembrance behind them. The former, are reviewed 
 with applause and delighti;^! he pleasures of sense resemble 
 a foaming torrent, which, after a disorderly cour!=-e, speedily 
 runs out, and leaves an empty and offensive cbcinnel. But the , 
 pleasures of devotion resemble the equabWfcurrent of a P^"^^ , 
 river, which enlivens the fields through which itpasses, an^j 
 diffuses verdure and fertility along its b?ii?ks.#^o thee, (M \ 
 Devotion ! we owe the highest improvement of ^ur nature, 
 ftfid much of the enjoyment of our life. Thou art the support 
 of our virtue, and the re.^t of our sorjs, in this turbulent wmld" 
 Thou composest the thoughts. Thou calmest the passions^J 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
Qfiap, 9, Promiscuous Pieces. ^^* 
 
 Thou exaltest the heart. Thy communications, and thiac 
 only, are imparted to the low, no less than to the high ; to U^ 
 poor, as well as to the^h.a In thy presence, worldly SM. 
 tinctions cease ; and under ^influence, Avorldly sorrows^ are 
 forgotten. Thou art the balm of the wounded mind. Thy 
 sanctuary is ever open to the miserable ; inaccessible only to 
 the unrighteous and Jrnpure. Thou beginnest on earth the 
 temper of heavenr^lJn thee^O^ hosts of angels and blessed 
 spirits eternally rejoice .^^31^^ blair. 
 
 SECTION XIV. 
 The planetary and terrestrial worlds comparatively considered, 
 I /So us, who dwell on its surface, the earth is by far the 
 mo$t extensive orb that our eyes can any where behold : it is 
 also clothed with verdure, distinguished by trees, and adorned 
 with a variety of beautiful decorations ; whereas, to a specta 
 tor placed on one of the planets, it wears a uniform aspect : 
 looks all luminous ; and no larger than a spot. To beings whcy| 
 dwell at still greater distances, it entirely disappears.^ That 
 which we call alternately the morning and the evening star, 
 (as in one part of the orbit she rides foremost in the procession 
 of ni.o;ht, in the other ushers in and anticipates the dawo,) is 
 a planetary world. iLThis planet, and the four others that ito 
 w^onderfully vary their mystic dance, are in themselves dark 
 bodies, and shine only by reflection ; have fields, and seas, and 
 skies, of their own ; are furnished with all accommodations for 
 animal subsistence, and are supposed to be the abodes of m- 
 tellectuarhfe ; all which, together with our earthly habitation, 
 are dependent on that grand dispenser of Divine munificence, 
 the sun ; receive their li2;ht from the distribution of h'= • r^ - 
 and derive their comfort from his benign agency. 
 i^Tlv^s4^5 which seems to perform its dailyfstages i. r > ■ 
 the s^fls in this respect fixed and immoveable : it i- iho 
 great ax4e' of heaven, about which the globe we i V 
 other fSiore spacious orbs, wheel their stated c 
 sun, though seemingly smaller than the dial it iilumiaaief , 4 
 abundantly larger than this whole earth, on which so n#l>y 
 lofty mountains rise, and such vast oceans roll. -4^ A line ex- 
 tending from side to side through the centre of Chat resplcnd 
 ent orb, would measure more than eight hundred thousand 
 miles : a girdle formed to go round its circumference, would 
 require a length of milhons. Were its solid contents to 1 -3 
 estimated, the account would overwhelm our understpi: nir, 
 and be almost beyond the power of language to e:\'pre-c. 
 
 O 
 
P5B Tlie English Reader. Part 1. 
 
 we startled at these reports of philosophy If Are we ready to 
 cry out in a transport of surprise, " How mi|hty is the Being 
 who kindled so prodigious a fira ; and keeps alive, from age to 
 age, so enormous a mass of flame.!" let us attend our philoso- 
 phical guides, and we shall be brought acquainted with 
 speculations more enlarged and more inflaming. 
 (jThis sun with all its attendant planets, is but a very little 
 part of the grand machine of the universe : every star, though 
 in appearance no bigger than the^iamond that glitters upon a 
 lady's ring, is really a vast globe, like the sun in size and in 
 glory ; no less spacious, no less luminous, than the radiant 
 source of day. So that every star, is not barel}' a world, but 
 the centre of a magniiicent system ; has a retinue of worlds, 
 irradiated by its beams, and revolving round its attractive in- 
 fluence, aU which are lost to our sight in unmeasurable wilds 
 of ether. /That the stars appear like so many diminutive, and 
 scarcely distinguishable points, is owing to their immense and 
 inconceivable distance. Immense and inconceivable indeed it 
 is, since a bail, shot from the leaded r^annon, and flying with 
 unabated rapidity, must travel, at this injpetuous rate, almost 
 seven hundred- thousand years, belore it could reach _ the 
 nearest of these twinkling luminaries. 
 
 T\'hile, beholding this vast expanse, 1 learn my own extreme 
 meanness, I would also discover the abject littleness of all 
 terrestrial things. What is the earth, with all her ostentatious 
 scenes, compared with this astonishing grand furniture of the 
 skies ? What, but a dim speck, hardly perceivable in the map 
 of the universes It is observed by a very judicious writer, that 
 if the sun himself, which enlightens this part of the creation, 
 were extinguished, and all the host of planetary worlds, which 
 move about him, were annihilated, they would not be missed 
 by an eye that can take in the whole compass of nature, any 
 more than a grain of sand upon the sea-shore. The bulk of 
 which they consist, and the space which they occupy, are so 
 exceedingly httle ivi comparison of the whole, that their lass 
 would ^.carcely leave a blank in the innnensity of God^s 
 works. /^f then, not our globe only, but this whole system, be 
 so very diminutive, wi)at is a kingdom or a country ? What 
 are u few lords] 'ips, or the 30 mufJi admired patrimonies of 
 those who are siyWd wealthy ? When 1 measure them with 
 my own little pittance, they Svveli into proud and bloated di- 
 mensions : but w hen 1 take the universe for my standard, how 
 scanty is their size I how contemptible their figure ! They 
 shrink into pompous nothings// ADt)isoN. 
 
Chaf, 9. Promiscuous Pieces. 159 
 
 SECTION XV. 
 
 On the power of custom, and the uses to which it may be applied, 
 
 ( There is not a common saying, which has a better turn of 
 sense in it, than what we*' often hear in the mouths of the 
 vulgar, that '' Custom is a second nature." It is indeed able 
 to form the man anew ; and give him inclinations and capa- 
 cities altogether different from those he was born with.4» 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 retir- 
 ed or busy life will grow upon a man insensibly, as he is con- 
 versant in the one or the other, till he is utterly unqualified 
 for relishing that to which he has been for sometiaie disused. 
 Jt. May, a man may smoke, bt'drink, or take snuff, till he is un- 
 Ky able to pass away his time without it ; not to mention how our 
 delight in any particular study, art, or science, rises and im- 
 proves, in proportion to the application which we bestow up-. 
 on it. Thus, what was at first ah exercise, becomes at length 
 an: entertainment. Our employments are changed into diver- 
 sions. The mind grows fond of those actions it is accustoLned 
 to; and is drawn with reluctancy from those paths io which 
 i^ has been used to walk. 
 JA^fif we attentively consider 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 action, in which the choice of others, or his own ne- 
 cessities, may have engaged him. It may perhaps be very dis- 
 agreeable to him, at first ; but use and application w^ll certain- 
 ly render it net only less painful, but pleasing and satisfactory. 
 <r'""In the second place, I would recommend to every one, the 
 /admirable precept, which Pythagoras is said to have given tb 
 his disciples, and which that philosopher must have drawn 
 from the observatit)n I have enlarged upon : " Pitch upon 
 that course of life which is the most excellent, and custom 
 will render it the most delightful." Q Men, whose circum^ 
 stances will permit them to choose the:^ 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 he regarded, than the beiu of any present inclination : 
 since, by the rule above mentioned, inclination will at length 
 come over to reason, though we can never force reason tc- 
 comply with inclination. .V 
 
ifiC* The English Reader* Part 2. 
 
 ^in the third place, this ohservation may teach the most 
 
 sensual and irreligious man, to overlook those hardships and 
 
 difficulties, which are apt to discourage him from the prose- 
 
 aition of a virtuous life. '* The gods," said Hesiod, " have 
 
 >lc>.ced labour before virtue ;. the way to her is at first rough 
 
 :rad difficult, but grows more smooth and easy the farther we 
 
 advance in it." The man who proceeds in it with steadiness 
 
 and resolution, Vv^ill, in a little time, find that " her ways are 
 
 ways of pleasantness, and that all her paths are peace." 
 
 ' To enforce this consideration, we may further observe, that 
 
 J^e practice of religion will not only be attended with that 
 
 pie:isi:re which naturally accompanies those actions to which 
 
 •^ e are habituated, but with those supernumerary joys of 
 
 :, that rise from the consciousness of such a pleasure ; 
 
 ■^-...:. Ibe satisfaction of acting up to the dictates of reason ; 
 
 aiitl from the prospect of a happy immortality. 
 
 9 In the fourth place, we may learn from this observatioa 
 
 which we have mrwle on the mind of man, to take particular 
 
 r^. when v/e are once settled in a regular course of life, how 
 
 JO frequently indulge ourselves in even the most inno- 
 
 :i diversions and entertainments ; since the mind may in- 
 
 r ly fall off from the relish of virtuous actions, and by 
 
 exchange tlKit pleasure which it takes in the per- 
 
 of its doty, for delights of a much inferior and an un- 
 
 [jpGiltabip nature. 
 
 ifj'riiQ last use which I shall make of this remarkable pro- 
 
 ■ >Qiij in human nature, of being delighted with those actions 
 
 V f/hich it is accastomed, is, to show how absolutely neces- 
 
 it is for us to gain habits of virtue in this life, if we 
 
 (1 enjoy the pleasures of the next. The state of bliss we 
 
 V ; li heaven, will not be capable of affecting those minds 
 Vviiich arc net thus qualified for it : we must, in this world, 
 i.iin u relish for truthand virtue, if we would be able to taste 
 hut knowledge and perfection, which are to make us happy 
 -. the next/f The seeds of those spiritual joys and raptures, 
 .vhlch are to rise up and flourish in the soul to all eternity, 
 nust be planted in it during this its present state of probation. 
 .n short, heaven is not to be looked upon only as the reward, 
 ut as the natural effect of a religious hfe.// addison. 
 
 SECTION XVI. 
 
 /fhe pleasures resulting from a proper use cf cur faculties. 
 
 IIUavvy that man, who, unembarrassed by vulgar cares, 
 
 iiv\sler of himself, his time, and fortune, spends his time in 
 
 ?n diin^' him.self wiser ; r.nd his fortune, in mailing others (and 
 
 1 
 
Chap^ 9. Promiscuous Pieces. 161 
 
 therefore himself) happier : who, as the will and under- 
 standing are the two ennobling faculties of the soul, thinks 
 himself not complete, till his understanding is beautified with 
 the valuable furniture of knowledge, as well as his will en^ 
 riched with every virtue ; who has furnished himself with all 
 the advantages to relish solitude and enhven conversation ; 
 who when serious, is not sullen ; and when cheerful, not in- 
 discreetly gay ; whose ambition is, not to be admired for a 
 false glare of greatness, but to be beloved for the gentle and 
 sober lustre of his wisdom and goodness. £«-T he greatest min- 
 ister of state has not more business to dOj ia a public capaci- 
 ty, than he, and indeed every other man, may find in the re- 
 tired and still scenes,of life. Even in his private walks, every 
 thing that is visible convinces him there is present a Being in- 
 visible. Aided by natural philosophy, he reads plain legible 
 traces of the Divinity in every thing h^ meets : he sees the 
 Deity in every tree, as well as Moses did in the burning bush, 
 though not in so glaring a manner : and when he sees him, 
 he adores him with the tribute of a grateful heart. 9 seed, 
 
 SECTION XVIL ' 
 
 Description of candour. 
 
 /True candour is altogether different from that guarded, in- 
 (Offensive language, and that studied openness of behaviour, 
 which we so frequently meet with among men of the world. 
 Smiling, very often, is the aspect, and smooth are the w^ords, 
 of those who inwardly are the most ready to think evil of 
 others. That candour which is a Christian virtue, consists, 
 not in feirness of speech, but in fairness of heart. -^ It may 
 want the blandishment of external courtesy, but su|Tplies its 
 place with a humane and generous liberality of sentimetit. 
 Its manners are unaffected, and its professions cordial. Ex- 
 empt, on one hand, from the dark jealousy of a suspicious 
 mind, it is no less removed, on the other, from that easy cre- 
 dulity which is imposed on by every specious pretence. It is 
 perfectly consistent with extensive knowledge of the world, 
 and with due attention to our own safety^ In that vdrious in- 
 tercourse, which we are obliged to carry on with persons of 
 every different character, suspicion, to a certain degree, is a 
 necessary guard. It is only when it exceeds the bounds of- 
 prudent caution, that it degenerates into vice. There is a 
 proper mean between undistinguished credulity, and universal 
 jealousy, which abound understanding discerns, and which 
 the man of candour studies to preserve^'5 
 
 2. 
 
i6!2 Tae English Reader. ^ Part 1. 
 
 ;^^JJe makes allowance for the mixture of evil with good, 
 Wiich is to be found in every human character. He expects 
 none to be faultless ; and he is unwillins; to believe that there 
 is any vrithout some commendable qualities. In the midst of 
 many defects, he can discover a virtue. Under the influence 
 of personal resentment, he can be just to the merit of an ene- 
 my./- He never lends an open ear to those def^imatory repiorts 
 and tlark suggestions, which, among the tribes of the censori- 
 ous, circulate with so much rapidity, and meet with so ready 
 acceptance. He is not hastj to judge ; and he requires full 
 evidence before he will condemn. As long as an action can 
 be ascribed to different motives, h^ holds R as no mark of sa- 
 gacity to impute it always to the worst, iv^^here there is just 
 ground for doubt, he keeps his judgment undecided ; and, du- 
 ring the period of suspense, leans to the most charitable con- 
 struction which an action can bear. When he must condemn, 
 he condemiis with regret ; and without those aggravations 
 which the severity of others adds to the crime. He listens 
 calmly to the apology of the offender, and readily admits every 
 extenuating circumstance, which equity can suggestyi/How 
 inuch soever he may blame the principles of any sect^/r par- 
 ty, be never confounds, under one general censure, all who 
 belong to that party or sect. He charges them not with such 
 consequences of their tenets, as they refuse and disavow. 
 From one wrong opinion, he does not infer the subversion of 
 all sound principled ; nor from one bad action, conclude that 
 all regard to conscience is overthrown. <OWhen he *' beholds 
 the mote in his brother's eye," he remembers "• the beam in 
 his own." He commiserates human frailty ; and judges of 
 ctheib irxcording to the principles, by which he would think 
 it reasonable that they should judge of him. In a word, he 
 viev/s men and actions in the clear sunshine of charity and 
 good nature; and not in that dark and sullen shade which 
 jealousy and party-spirit throw overall characters. / blair. 
 
 SECTION XVHI. 
 
 On the imperfection of that happiness which rests solely on world- 
 ly pleasures. 
 The vanity of human pleasures, is a topic which might be 
 embellished with the pomp of much description. But I shall 
 itodiously avoid exaggeration, and only point out a threefold 
 ti'.nity in human life, which every impartial observer cannot 
 but admit ; disappointment in pursuit, dissatisfaction in enjoy- 
 mentj unct^rtainty in possession. 
 
Chap. 9, FruiJiiiicuou^y Pieces. 16"6 
 
 jJFirbt, disappointment in parsuit. When we look around 
 tBon the world, we every where behold a busy multitude, in- 
 tent on the prosecution of v.irious designs, which their wants 
 or desires have suggested. We behold them empiojing every 
 metnod which ingeiiuity can devise ; some the patience of 
 industry, some the boldness of enterprise, others the dex- 
 terity of ^trutaiiem, in order to compass their ends^ Of this 
 incessant siir and activity, what is the fruit ? In comparison 
 of the crowd who have toiled in vain, how small is the num- 
 ber of the successful ? Or rather, where is the man who will 
 declare, that in every point he has completed his plan, and at- 
 tained his utmost wdsh l£^o extent of human abilities has 
 been able to discover a path Avhich, in any line of life, leads 
 unerringly to success. " The race is not always to the swift, 
 nor the battle to the stroDg,nor riches to men of understanding.'' 
 We may form our plans with the most profound sagacity, and 
 with the most vigilant caution may guard against dangers on 
 every side. But some unforeseen occurrence comes across, 
 which baffles our wisdom, and lays our labours in the dust. 
 rfWere such disappointments confined to those who aspire 
 at engrossing the higher departments of life, the misfortune 
 would be less. The humiliation of the mighty ^ and the fall 
 of ambition from its towering height, little concern the bulk 
 of mankind. These are objects on which, as_ on distant me- 
 teors, they gaze from afar, without drawing personal instruc- 
 tion from events so much above them. (pBut, alas ! when we 
 descend into the regions of private life, we find disappoint- 
 ment and blasted hope equally prevalent there. Neither the 
 moderation of our views, nor the justice of our pretensions, 
 can ensure success. But " time and chance happen to all.'' 
 Against the stream of events, both the worthy and the unde- 
 serving are obliged to struggle ; and both are frequently over- 
 borne alike by the current. 
 
 Besides disappointment in p^jrsuit, dissatisfaction in enjoy- 
 Oient is a farther vanity, to wf.h the human state is subject. 
 This is the severest of all mortifications ; after having been 
 successful in the pursuit, to be baffled in the enjoyment itself. 
 Yet this is found to be an evil still more general than the for- 
 mer. Some may be so fortunate as to attain what they have 
 pursued ; but none are rendered completely happy by what 
 they have attained. Disappointed hope is misery ; and yet 
 successful hope is only imperfect bliss. Look through all the 
 ranks of mankind. Examine the condition of those w^bo ap- 
 pear most prosperous } and you will find that they are never 
 
164 ITie English Reader. Pari 1^ 
 
 just what they desire to be. Jf retired, they languish for ac- 
 tion ; if busy, they complain of fatigue. If in middle life, they 
 are impatient for distinction ; if in high stations, they sigh afV 
 ter freedom and ease. Something is still wanting to that 
 plenitude of satisfaction, which they expected to acquire. 
 Together with every wish that is gratified, a new demand 
 arises. One void opens in the heart, as another is fdled. On 
 wishes, wishes grow ; and to the end, it is rather the expecta- 
 tion of what they have not, than the enjoyment of what they 
 have, which occupies and interests the most successful. 
 
 ■This dissatisfaction in the midst of human pleasure, springs 
 partly from the nature of our enjoyments themselves, and 
 partly from circumstances which corrupt them. No worldly 
 enjoyments are adequate to the high desires and powers of an 
 immortal spirit. Fancy paints them at a distance with splendid 
 colours ; but possession unveils the fallacy. The eagerness 
 of passion bestows upon them, at first, a brisk and lively rel- 
 ish. But it is their fate always to pall by familiarity, and 
 sometimes to pass from satiety into disgust. Happy would 
 the poor man think himself, if he could enter on all the trea- 
 sures of the rich ; and happy for a short time he might be : 
 but before he had long contemplated and admired his state, 
 his possessions would seem to lessen, and his cares would 
 grow. 
 
 Add to the unsatisfying nature of our pleasures, the attend 
 ing circumstances which never fail to corrupt them. For 
 such as they are, they are at no time possessed unmixed. To 
 human lips it is not given to taste the cup of pure joy. When 
 external circumstances show fairest to the world, the envied 
 man groans in private under his own burden. Some vexation 
 disquiets, some passion corrodes him ; some distress, either 
 felt or feared, gnaws like a worm, the root of his felicity. 
 When there is nothing from without to disturb the prosperous, 
 a secret poison operates within. For worldly happiness ever 
 tends to destroy itself, by corrupting the heart. It fosters the 
 loose and the violent passions. It engenders noxious habits ; 
 and taints the mind with false delicacy, which makes it feel a 
 thousand unreal evils. 
 
 But put the case in the most flwourable light. Lay aside 
 from human pleasures both disappointment in pursuit, and de- 
 ceitfuiness in enjoyment ; suppose them to be fully attainable, 
 and completely satisfactory ; still there remains to be consid- 
 ered the vanity of uncertain possession and short duration. 
 Were there in worldly things any fixed point of security 
 
Chap, 9. Promise uovs Pieces. 165 
 
 which we could gain, the mhid would then have some basis 
 on which to rest. But our condition is such, that every thing 
 wavers and totters around us. *' Boast not thyself of to-mor- 
 row; for thou Imo'vvest not what a day may bring forth." It 
 is much if, during its course, thou hearest not of somewhat to 
 disquiet or alarm thee. For life never proceeds long in a uni- 
 ^'brm train. I-t is continually varied by unexpected events. 
 ■-le seeds of alteration are every where sown ; and the sun- 
 ciiiae of prosperity commonly accelerates their growth. If 
 our enjoym^ents are numerous, we lie more open on difierc^t 
 sides to be w^ounded. If we have pc&sessed them long, we 
 have greater cause to dread an approaching change. By slow 
 degrees prosperity rises ; but rapid is the progress of evil. It 
 requires no preparation to bring it forward. The edifice 
 which it cost much time and labour to erect, one inauspicious 
 event, one sudden blow, can level with the dust. Even sup- 
 posing the accidents of life to leave us untouched, human 
 bliss must st'dl be transitory ; for man changes of himself. 
 No coiarse of enjoyment can dehght us long. What amused 
 our youth, loses its charm in maturer age. As years advance, 
 our powers are blunted, and our pleasurable feelings decline. 
 
 i/ The silent lapse of time is ever carrying somewhat from us, 
 
 /i4ili at length the period comes, Vv^hen all must be swept away. 
 
 - The prospect of this termination of our labours and pursuits, 
 is sufficient to mark our state with vanity. '' Our days are a 
 hand's breadth, and our age is as nothing." Within that little 
 space is all our enterprise bounded. Vv^e crowd it with toils 
 and cares, witli contention and strife. We project great de- 
 signs, entertain high hopes^ and then leave our plans unfinish- 
 ed, and sink into oblivion. 
 
 ^ / This much let it suffice to have said concerning the vanity 
 ' of the world. That too much has not been said, must appear 
 to every one who considers how generally mankind lean to 
 the opposite side ; and how often, by undue attachment to the 
 prt^sent state, they both feed the most sinful passions, and 
 *' pierce themselves through with many sorrows." blair. 
 
 SECTION XIX. 
 
 IVhat arc the real and solid enjoyments of human life. 
 It must be admitted, that unmixed and complete happiness 
 is unknown on earth. No regulation of condu.et can altogether 
 prevent passions from disturbing our peace, and misfortunes 
 from wounding our heart. But after this concession is made. 
 !vii} it follow, that there is no object on earth which d^^QVY..^ 
 
lee The English Reader. Part I. 
 
 our pursuit, or that all enjoyment becomes contemptible 
 which is not perfect ? Let us survey our state with an impar- 
 tial eye, and be just to the various gifts of Heaven. How 
 vain soever this life, considered in itself, may be, the com- 
 forts and hopes of rehgion are sufficient to give solidity to 
 the enjoyments of the righteous. In the exercise of good 
 affections, and the testimony of an approving conscience ; in 
 the sense of peace and reconciliation with God, through the 
 great Redeemer of mankind ; in the firm confidence of being 
 conducted through all the trials of life, by infinite Wisdom 
 and Goodness ; and in the joyful prospect of arriving, in the 
 end, at immortal feHcity ; they possess a happiness which, de- 
 scending from a purer and more perfect region than this 
 world, partakes not of its vanity. 
 
 Besides the enjoyments peculiar to religion, there are other 
 pleasures of our present state, which, though of an inferior 
 order, mast not be overlooked in the estimate of human life. 
 It is necessary to call attention to these, in order to check that 
 repining and unthankful spirit to which man is always too 
 pronev ..Some degree of importance must be allowed to the 
 comforts of health, to the innocent gratifications of sense, and 
 to the tiitertainment afforded us by all the beautiful scenes 
 of nature ; some to the pijrsuits and harmless amusements of 
 social life ; and more to the internal enjoyments of thought 
 and reflection, and to the pleasures of affectionate intercourse 
 with those whom we love. These comforts are often held in 
 too low estimation, merely because they are ordinary and com- 
 mon ; although that is the circumstance wliich ought, in rea- 
 son, to enhance their value. They lie open, in some degree, 
 to all ; extend through every rank of life ; and fill up r>greea- 
 biy many of those spaces in our present existence, which are 
 not occupied with higher ohjects, or with serious cares. 
 
 From this representation it appears that, notwithstanding 
 the vanity of the world, a considerable degree of comfort is 
 attainable in the present state. Let the recollection of this 
 serve to reconcile us to our condition, and to repress the 
 arrogance of complaints and murmurs. — Whut art thou, O 
 son of man ! who, having sprung but yesterday out of the 
 dust, darest to lift up thy voice against thy Maker, and to ar- 
 raign his providence, because all things are not ordered ac- 
 cording to thy wish ? What title hast thou to find fault with 
 the order of the universe, whose lot is so much beyond wfeat 
 thy virtue or merit gave thee ground to claim ! Is it nothing 
 to thee to have been introduced into this magnificent world; 
 
Chap. 9. Proiniscuous Pieces, 167 
 
 to have been admitted as a spectator of the Divine wisdom 
 and works ; and to have hud access to all the comforts which 
 nature, with a bountiful hand, has poured forth around thee ? 
 Are all the hours forgotten which thou hast passed in ease, in 
 complacency, or joy? Is it a small favour in thy eyes, that 
 the hand of Divine Mercy has been stretched forth to aid 
 thee ; and, if thou reject not its proffered assistance, is ready 
 to conduct thee to a happier state of existence ? When thou 
 coaiparest thy condition with thy desert, blush, and be ashamed 
 of thy complaints. Be silent, be grateful, and adore. Re- 
 ceive with thankfulness the blessings which are allowed thee. 
 Revere that government which at present refuses thee more. 
 Rest in this conclusion, that though there are evils in the 
 world, its Creator is wise and good, and has been bountiful to 
 thee. BLAIR. 
 
 SECTION XX. 
 
 Scale of beings. 
 
 ^Though there is a great deal of pleasure in contemplating 
 the material world ; by which 1 mean, that system of bodies, 
 into which nature has so curiously wrought the m iss of dead 
 matter, with the several relations that those bodies bear to one 
 another ; there is still, methinks, something more wonderful 
 and surprising, in contemplations on the world of life ; by 
 which 1 intend, 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. 
 Jllf we consider those parts of the material world, which lie 
 rae'^nearest to us, and are therefore subject to our observation, 
 and inquiries, it is amazing to consider the infinity of animals 
 I with which they are stocked. Every part of matter is peo- 
 pled ; every green leaf swarms v/ith inhabitants. There is 
 scarcely a single humour in the body of a man, or of any 
 ether nmmal, in which Our glasses do not discover myriads 
 I of living creatures.^ We fed, even in the most solid bodies, 
 |as in marble itself, uiHumerable cells and cavities, which are 
 crowded with imperceptible inhabitants, too Iktle for the naked 
 eye to discover.. On the other hand, if we look into the more 
 j bulky parts of nature, we see the seas, lakes, and rivers, teem- 
 j ing with numberless kinds of living creatures. We f nd every 
 jmeuntain and marsh, wilderness and wood, plentifully stocked 
 jwith birds and beasts; and every part of matter affording' 
 pro|)er necessaries and convieniences, for the livelihood of the 
 multitudes which inhabit it 
 
16'8 The English Reader. Pari 1. 
 
 .J^he author of " the Plurahty of Worlds," draws a very 
 good argument from this consideration, for the peophng of 
 every planet ; as indeed it seems very probable, from the analo- 
 gy of reason, that if no part of matter, with which we are 
 acquainted, lies waste and useless, those great bodies, which 
 are at such a distance from us, are not desert and unpeopled ; 
 but rather, that they are furnished with beings adapted to 
 their respective situations. 
 
 /'-Existence is a blessing to those beings only which are en- 
 dowed with perception ; and is in a manner thrown away upon 
 dead matter, any farther than as 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 
 t}>e- existence of the other. 
 
 /Ointinite Goodness is of so communicative a nature, that it 
 seems to delight in conferring existence upon every degree of 
 perceptive being. As this is a speculation, which I have of- 
 ten pursued with great pleasure to myself, 1 shall enlarge far- 
 ther upon it, by considering that part of the scale of beanos, 
 which comes within our knowledge. i 
 
 ^here are some living creatures, which are raised but just 
 s/bove dead matter. To mention only that species of shell- 
 fish, which is formed in the fashion of a cone ; that grows to 
 the surface of several rocks ; and immediately dies, on being 
 severed from the place where it grew. There are many other 
 creatures but one remove from these, which have no other 
 sense than that of feeling and taste. Others have still an ad- 
 ditional one of hearing ; others of smell ; and^others, of sight. 
 C^t is wonderful to observe, by what a gradual progress the 
 ' world of life advances, through a prodigious variety of spe- 
 cies, before a creature is formed, that is complete in all its 
 senses : and even among these, there is such a different de- 
 gree of perfection, in the sense which one animal enjoys be- 
 yond what appears in another, that though the sense in difiier- 
 €nt animals is distinguished by the same common denomina- 
 tion, it seems almcfet of a different nature. .^If, Jifter this, we 
 look into the several inward perfections of cunning and saga- 
 city, or what we generally call instinct, we find them rising, 
 after the same manner, imperceptibly one above another ; and , 
 receiving additional improvements, according to the species 
 in which they are implanted. This progress in pature is so 
 very graduaf, that the most perfect of an inferior . species^ | 
 
Chap, 9. Promiscuous Pieces, 169 
 
 comes very near to the most imperfect of that which is im- 
 mediately above it. 
 
 t(jThe exuberant and overflowing goodness of the Supreme 
 Being, whose mercy extends to all his works, is plainly seen, 
 as 1 have before hinted, in his having made so very little mat- 
 ter, at least what fails within our knowledge, that does not 
 swarm with life. Nor is his goodness less seen in the diver- 
 sity, than in the multitude of living creatures. Had he made 
 but one species of animals, none of the rest would have en- 
 joyed the happiness of existence : he has therefore, specified^ 
 in his creation, every degree of life, every capacity of being, 
 
 |(The whole chasm of nature, from a plant to a mm, is filled 
 yp with divers kinds of creatures, rising one afler another, 
 by an ascent so gentle and easy, 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 scarcely a degree of perception, which does not 
 appear in some one part of the world of life. Is the good- 
 ness, or the wisdofti of the Divine Being, more manifested in 
 this his proceeding ? 
 
 0A0 There is a consequence, besides those I have already men- 
 iioned, which seems very naturally dedacible from the fore- 
 going considerations, if the scale of being rises by so regu- 
 lar a progress, so high as man, we ma^/, by parity of reason, 
 suppose, that it still proceeds gradually through those beings 
 which are of a superior nature to him ; since there is iniinite- 
 ly greater space and room for different degrees of perfection, 
 between the Supreme Being and man, than between man and 
 the most despicable insect. 
 
 j 4 In this great system of being, there is no creature so w^oa- 
 derfulin its nature, and which so much deserves our particu- 
 lar attention, as man ; who fills up the middle space between 
 the animal and the intellectual nature, the visible and the in- 
 visible world ; and who is that link in the cheiin of being, 
 wliich forms the connexion between both. So that he who, 
 in one respect, is associated with angels and archangels, and 
 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 
 fir worm, thou art my mother and my sister.'' a&dison. 
 
 SECTION XXI. 
 
 Trust in the care of P rovidence recommended. 
 Wan, ct)nsidered in himself, is a very helpless, and a very 
 
i70 The English Reader. Part 1. 
 
 wretched being. He is subject every moment to the greatest 
 calamities and misfortunes. He is beset with dangers on all 
 sides ; and may become unhappy by numberless casualties, \ 
 which he could not foresee, nor have prevented had before-* 
 seen them. 
 
 QX^is our comfort, while we are obnoxious to so many ac- 
 cidents, that we are under the care of one who directs con- 
 tingencies, and has in his hands the management of every 
 thing that is capable of annoying or offending us ; who knows 
 the assistance we stand in need of, and is always ready to be- 
 stow it on those who ask it of him. 
 <The nati^ral homage, which such a creature owes to so in- * 
 finitely wise and good a Being, is a firm reliance on him for 
 the blessings and conveniences of hfe ; and an habitual trust 
 in him, for deliverance out of all such dangers and difficul- 
 ties as may befall us. 
 
 iThe man who always lives in this disposition of mind, has 
 noi the same dark and melancholy views of human nature. 
 as he who considers himself abstractedly from this relation to 
 the Supreme Being. At the same time that he reflects upon -* 
 his own weakness and imperfection, he comforts himself witlj^^ 
 the contemplation of those divine attributes, which are em- •< 
 ployed for his safety, and his welfare. j*He finds his want of 
 foresight made up, by the omniscience of him who is his sup- 
 port. He is nqtt sensible of his own want of strength, when 
 he knows that his helper is almighty. In short, the person 
 who has a firm trust in the Supreme Being, is powerful in his 
 power, wise by his wisdom, happy by his happiness^ He reaps 
 the benefit of every divine attribute ; and lose^'^^his own in- 
 sufficiency in the fulness of infinite perfection, i To make onv,* 
 lives more easy to us, v/e are commanded to put our trust in 
 liim, who is thus able to relieve and succour us ; the Divine 
 Goodness having made such rrteliance a duty, notwithstanding 
 we should have been misera^-e, had it he^ii forbidden us. 
 
 Among several motives, wmch might be mw^e use of to re- 
 commend this duty to us, I shall only tnke notice of those that 
 follow* T 
 
 The^first and strongest is, that we arfli^promised, he will 
 not fail those who put their trust in him. 
 
 But without considering the supernatural blessing, v/hich 
 accompanies this duty, we may observe, that it has a natural 
 tendency to its own reward ; or, in other words, tfiat this 
 firm trust and confidence in the great Disposer of all things, 
 oontribute very much to the getting clear of any affliction, 
 
 ^ 
 
Otop. 9 Promiscuous Pieces. 171 
 
 or to the bearing of it manfully. j^A per«K)n who believes he 
 has his succour at hand, and that he acts in the sight of his 
 friend, often exerts himself beyond his abilities ; and does won- 
 ders, that are not tp be matched by one who is not animated 
 with such a confidence of success. Trust in the assistance 
 of an Almighty Being, naturally produces patience, hope, cheer- 
 fulness, and all other dispositions of mind, which alleviate 
 those calamities that we are not able to remove. \ 
 ^The practice of this virtue administers great comfort to the 
 mind of man, in limes of poverty and affliction ; but most of 
 all, in the hour of death. When the soul is hovering, in the 
 last moments of its separa§on ; when it is just entering on 
 another state of existence, to converse with scenes, and ob- 
 jects, and companions, that are altogether new ; w'hat can 
 «upport her under Sucb tremblings of thought, such fear, such 
 Enxiet}^ such apprehensions, but the casting of all her carey 
 upon HiM, who first gave her being ; who has conducted her 
 through one stage of it ; and who will be always present, to 
 guide and comfort her in her progress through eternity ? ^/ 
 
 ADDISON, 
 
 SECTION XXIL 
 
 Piety and gratitude enliven prosperity. 
 
 Piety, and gratitude to God, contribute, in a high dc* 
 gree, to enliven p^sperity. Gratitude is a pleasing emotion* 
 The sense of bein^distinguished by the kindness of another, 
 gladdens the heart, warms it with reciprocal affection, and 
 gives to any possession which is agreeable in itself, a double 
 
 relish, from its being the gift of a friend^Favours conferred 
 by men, I acknowledge, may prove burdensome. For human 
 ^rirtue is never perfect : and sometimes unre»asonable expecta- 
 
 tions on the one side, sometimes a mortifying sense of de- 
 pendence on the other, corrode in secret the pleasures of bene- 
 fits, and convert the obligations of friendship into grounds of 
 jealousy.^ But nothing of this kind can affect the intercourse 
 of gratitude with Heaven. Its favours are wholly disinter- 
 ested ;.aDd with a gratitude the most cordial and unsuspicious, 
 a good man looks up to that Almighty Benefactor, who aims 
 at no end but the happiness of those whom he blesses, and 
 who desires no return from them, but a devout and thankful 
 heart^ While others can trace their prosperity to no higher 
 source thrm a concurrence of worldly causes; and, often, of 
 mean or trifling incidents, which occasionally favoured their 
 ^^P^Innw; • v/irh what superior satisfaction doe* ■■"" -f^rvant of 
 
172 The English Reader. Part 1. 
 
 God remark the hand of that gracious power which hath 
 raised him up ; which hath happily conducted him through 
 the various steps of hfe, and crowned him with the most fa- 
 rourable distinction beyond his equals ?^ * 
 
 Let us farther consider, that not only gratitude for the past. 
 bat a cheering sense of divine favour at the present, enters 
 into the pious emotion. They are only the virtuous, who in 
 their prosperous days hear this^voice addressed to them, " Go 
 thy way, eat thy bread with joy, and drink thy wine with ia 
 cheerful heart ; for God now acce|Mh thy works." He who 
 is the author of their prosperit}^ gives them a title to enjoy, 
 with complacency, his own gift.^^While bad men snatch the 
 pleasures of the world as by stealth, without countenance 
 from the great Proprietor of the world, the righteous sit 
 openly down to the feast of life, under the smile of approving 
 heaven. No guilty fears damp their joys. The blessing of 
 God rests upon all that tbey possess ; his protection surrounds 
 them ; and hence, '' in the habitations of the righteous, is 
 found the voice of rejoicing and salvation." i\ A lustre un->- 
 fiOTvn to others, invests, in their sight, the whole face of na- 
 ture. Their piety reflects a sunshine from heaven upon the 
 rrosperity of the world ; unites in one point of view, the smil- 
 ing aspect, both of the powers above, and of the objects be- 
 low. Not only have tbey as fall a relish as others, for the in- 
 nocent pleasures of life, but, moreover, in these they hold 
 communion with their divine benefactor.j^n all that is good 
 or fair, they trace his hand. From the beauties of nature, 
 from the improvements of art, from the enjoyments of social 
 life, they raise their affection to the source of all the happiness 
 which surrounds them ; and thus widen the sphere of their^ 
 plensures, by adding intellectual, and spiritual, to earthly joy4^ 
 
 For illustration of what 1 have said on this head, remiirk 
 that cheerful enjoyment of a prosperous state, which king 
 David had when he wrote the twenty-third psalm ; and com- 
 pare the highest pleasures of the riotous sinner, wit^ the hap- 
 py and satisfied spirit which breathes throughout that psalm. — 
 in the midst of the splendour of royalty, with what amiable 
 r«implicity of gratitude does he look up to the Lord as *' his 
 Shepherd ;" happier in ascribing all his success to Divine fa- 
 vour, than to the policy of his councils, or to the force of his 
 arn^jUJ^^^Iow many instances of divine goodness arose -^before 
 him in -pleasing remembrance, when, with such relish, ht; 
 speaks of the '* green pastures and still w;ilers, beside which 
 'jrod had led Jum ; of his cup which he had made to ov'.n-fiiow, 
 
ISr 
 
 Chap, 9. Promiscuous Pieces', 173 
 
 and of the table which he had prepared for him Iq the pre« 
 sence of his enemies !" With what perfect tranquilhty does 
 he look forward to the time of his passing through " the val- 
 ^ley of the shadow of death ;" unappalied by that spectre, 
 *^whose most distant appearance blasts the prosperity of sin- 
 ners^He fears no evil, as long as '' the rod and the staff" of 
 his Divine Shepherd are with him ; and, through all the un- 
 
 t known periods of this and of future existence, commits him- 
 self to his guidance with secure and triumphant hope : '* Sure- 
 ly goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life ; 
 and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever."— What 
 a purified, sentimental enjoyment .of prosperity is here exhibit- 
 ed I How different from that gross relish of worldly plea- 
 sures, which belongs to those who behold only the terrestrial 
 side of things ; who raise their views to no higher objects 
 than the succession of human contingencies, and the weak ef- 
 forts of human abihty ; who have no protector or patron in the 
 heavens, to enliven their prosperity^pr to warm their hearts 
 with gratitude and trust ! '^ blair. 
 
 SECTION XXIII. 
 
 Virtue^ when deeply rooted^ is not subject to the injlue^ice of 
 fortune. 
 
 The city of Sidon having surrendered to Alexander, he 
 ordered Hephestion to bestow the crown on him whom the 
 Sidonians should think most worthy of that honour. Hephes^ 
 tion being at that time resident with two young men of dis- 
 tinction, offered them the kingdom ; but they refused it, tell- 
 ing him that it was contrary to the laws of their country, to 
 admjl any one to that honour, who was not of the royal fami- 
 ly .^^e then, having expressed his admiration of their disin- 
 terested spirit, desired them to name one of the royal race, 
 who might remember that he had received the crown through- 
 their hands. Overlooking many, who would have been am- 
 bitious of this high honour, they made choice of Abdolony- 
 mus, whose singular merit had rendered him conspicuous, 
 even in the vale of obscurit^^^sii^ hough remotely related to the 
 royal family, a series of misfortunes had reduced him to the 
 necessity of cultivating a garden, for a small stipend, in the 
 suburbs of the city. 
 
 While Abdolonymus was busily employed in weeding his 
 garden, the two friends of Hephestion, bearing in their hands 
 the ensigns of royalty, approached him, and saluted him king^,? 
 They informed him that Alexander had appointed him to that 
 
 P 3 
 
174 The Engliah Reader. Fart L 
 
 office ; and required him immediately to exchange his rustic 
 garb, and utensils of husbandry, for the regal robe and scep- 
 tre. At the same time, they admonished him, when he should 
 be seated on the throne, and have a nation in his power, not 
 to forget the humble condition from which he had been raised. pU 
 
 AH this, at the first, appeared to Abdolon3'^mus as an illusion 
 of the fancy, or an insult offered to his poverty. He requested 
 them not to trouble him flirther with their impertinent jests ; 
 and to find some other way of amusing themselves, which 
 might leave him in the peaceable enjoyment of his obscure 
 habitation. — At length, however, they convinced him, that 
 they were serious in their proposal ; and prevailed upon him 
 to accept the regal office, and accompany them to the palace,2! 
 
 No sooner was he in possession of the government, than 
 pride and envy created him enemies ; who whispered their 
 murmurs in every place, till at last they reached the ear of 
 Alexander. He commanded the new-elected prince to be 
 sent for ; and inquired of him, with what temper of mind he 
 had borne his povertj^X^^^ould to Heaven," rephed Abdo- 
 lonymus, "that I.maji^Be able to bear my crown with equal 
 moderation : for when 1 possessed little, I wanted nothing : 
 these hands supplied me with whatever I desired." From this 
 answer, Alexander formed so high an idea of his wisdom, that 
 he confirmed the choice which had been made ; and annexed 
 a neighbouring province to the government of Sidon. 
 
 QUINTUS CURTIUS. 
 
 SECTION XXIV. 
 
 The Speech o/*Fabeicius, a Roman ambassador^ to king Pyrrhus^ 
 who attempted to bribe him to his interests^ by the offer of a 
 great sum of money. ^ -] 
 
 With regard to my poverty, the king has, indeed, been jifet| 
 ly informed. My whole estate consists in a house of but mean 
 appearance, and a little spot of ground ; from which, by my 
 own labour, I dr^iw my support. But if, by any means, thou 
 hast been persuaded to think that this poverty renders me of 
 less consequence in my own country, or in any degree unhap- 
 py, thou art greatly deceived. *I have no reason to complain 
 of fortune : she supplies me with all that nature requires ; and 
 if 1 am without superfluities, I am also free from the desire of 
 them. With these, 1 confess I should be more able to succour 
 the necessitous, the only advantage for which the wealthy are 
 io be envied ; but small as my possessions are, I can still con- 
 tribute »gaicthing to the support of the state j and the assistaD€^ 
 
£]iap* 9. Fromiscuous Pieces, 175 
 
 of my friends. With respect to honours, my coiiiUry places me, 
 poor as I am, upon a level with the richest : for Home knows 
 no quahfications for great employments, but virtue and ability 
 She appoints me to officiate in the most august ceremonies of 
 religion ; she intrusts me with the command of her armies ; she 
 confides to my care the most important negociations. My 
 poverty does not lessen the weight and influence of my coun- 
 sels in the senate. The Roman people honour me for that 
 very poverty, which king Pyrrhus considers as a disgrace. 
 They know the many opportunities I have had to enrich my- 
 self, without censure ; they are convinced of my disinterested 
 zeal for their prosperity : and if I have any thing to complaia 
 of, in the return they make me, it is only the excess of their 
 applause. What value, then, can I put upon thy gold and sil- 
 ver ? What king can add any thing to my fortune ? Always 
 attentive to discharge the duties incumbent upon me, I have a 
 mind free from self-reproach ; and I have an honest fame. 
 
 SECTION XXV. 
 Characi-er of James I. king of England, 
 
 No PRINCE, so little enterprising and so inofl'ensive, w^as ever 
 so much exposed to the opposite extremes of calumny and 
 flattery, of satire and panegyric. And the factions which be- 
 gan in his time, being still continued, have made his charac- 
 ter be as much disputed to this day, as is commonly that of 
 princes who are our contemporaries. Many virtues, how^ever, 
 it must be owned, he was possessed of; but not one of them 
 pure, or free from the contagion of the neighbouring vices. 
 His generosity bordered on profusion, his learning on pedant- 
 ry, his pacific disposition on pusillanimity, his wisdomon cun- 
 ning, his friendship on light fancy and boyish fondness. While 
 be imagined that he w^as onl}^ maintaining his own authority, 
 he may perhaps be suspected in some of his actions, and still 
 more of his pretensions, to have encroached on the liberties of 
 his people. While he endeavoured, by an exact neutrality, to 
 acquire the good will of all his neighbours, he was able to 
 preserve fully the esteem and regard of none. His capacity 
 was considerable, but fitter to discourse on general maxims, 
 than to conduct any intricate business. 
 
 His intentions were just, but ^ore adapted to the conduct 
 of private life, than to the government of kingdoms. Awkward 
 in his person, and ungainly in his manners, he was ill qualified 
 to command respect : partial and undiscerning in his aifections, 
 he was little fitted to acquire general love. Of a feeble tern- 
 
17^ Tite Kuglish Reader. Pari 1. 
 
 per, ru ovc :: i-; o! u fiugai jiidgQient ; exposed to our ridicule 
 from his vanitv, bat exempt from our hatred by his freedom 
 from pride and arrogance. And, upon the whole, it may be 
 pronounced of his character, that all his qualities were sul- 
 lied with weakness, and embelHshed by humanity. Political 
 courage he was certainly devoid of; and from thence chiefly 
 is derived the strong prejudice, which prevails against his per- 
 sonal bravery : an inference, however, which must be own^d, 
 from general experience, to be extremely fallacious. hume. 
 
 SECTION XXVI. 
 
 Charles V. emperor of Germany, resigns his dominions^ and 
 retires from the world. 
 
 This great emperor, in the pleliitude of his power, and in 
 possession of all the honours which can flatter the heart of 
 man, took the extraordinary resolution, to resign his kingdoms ; 
 and to withdrav*^ entirely from any concern in business or the 
 affairs of this world, in order that he might spend the remain- 
 der of his days in retirement and solitude. Though it requires 
 neither deep reflection, nor extraordinary discernment, to dis- 
 cover that the state of royalty is not exempt from cares and 
 disappointments ; though most of those who are exalted to a 
 throne, find solicitude, and satiety, and disgust, to be their per- 
 petual attendants, in that envied pre-eminence ; yet, to descend 
 Toluntarily from the supreme to a subordinate station, and to 
 relinquish the possession of power in order to attain the en- 
 joyment of happiness, seems to be an effort too great for the 
 human mind. Several instances, indeed, occur in history, of 
 monarchs v»^ho have quitted a throne, and have ended their 
 days in^jtetirement. But they were either weak princes, who 
 took this resolution rashly, and repented of it as soon as it was 
 taken : or unfortunate princes, from whose hands some strong 
 rival had wrested their sceptre, and compelled them to descend 
 with reluctance into a private station. Dioclesian is, perhaps, 
 the only prince capable of holding the reigns of gov^ernment, 
 who ever resigned them from deliberate choice ; and w ho con- 
 tinued, during many years, to enjoy the tranquillity of retire- 
 ment, without fetching one penitent sigh, or casting back one 
 look of desire, towards the power or dignity which he had 
 abandoned. 
 
 No w onder, then, that Charles's resignation should fill all 
 Europe with astonishment ; and give rise, both among his con- 
 temporaries, and among the historians of that period, to vari- 
 ous conjectures concerning the motives which determmw i^ 
 
chap, 0. Pi^omkciious Pieces, ill 
 
 prince, whose ruling passion had been uniformly the love of 
 power, at the age of fifty-six, Tvhen objects of ambition operate 
 'with fall force on the mind, and are pursued with the greatest 
 ardour, to take a resolution so singular and unexpected. 
 
 The emperor, in pursuance of his determination, having as- 
 sembled the states of the Low Countries at Brussels, seated 
 himself, for the last time, in the chair of state ; on one side of 
 which was placed his son, and on the other, his sister the 
 queen of Hungary, regent of the Netherlands, with a splendid 
 retinue of the grandees of Spain and princes of the empire 
 standing behind him. The president of the council of Flanders,, 
 by his command, explained, in a few v/ords, his inteiation in 
 calling this extraordinary meeting of the states. He then read 
 the instrument of resignation, by w^hich Charles surrendered 
 to his son Philip all his territories, jurisdiction, and authority 
 \n the Low^ Countries ; absolving his sahjects there from their 
 oath of allegiance to him, w-hich he required them to transfer 
 to Philip his lawful heir ; and to serve him with the same 
 loyalty and zeal that they had manifested, during so long a 
 course of years, in support of his government. 
 
 Charles then rose from liis seat, and leaning on the shoulder 
 ©f the prince of Orange, because he was unable to stand with- 
 out support, he addressed himself to the audience ; and,froD?i 
 a paper which he held in his hand, in order to assist his mem- 
 ory, he recounted, with dignity, but without ostentation, all the 
 great things which he had undertaken and performed, since 
 the commencement of his administration. He observed, that 
 from the seventeenth year of his age, he had dedicated all his 
 thoughts and attention to public objects, reserving no portion 
 of his time for the indulgence of his ease, and very little for 
 the enjoyment of private pleasure ; that either in a pacific or 
 hostile manner, he had visited Germany nine times, Spain six 
 times, France four times, Italy seven times, the Low Countries 
 ten times, England twice, Africa as often, and had made 
 eleven vovc^es by sea ; that while his health permitted him to 
 discharge his duty, and the vigour of his constitution v>^as equal, 
 in any degree, to the arduous ofhce of governing dominions so 
 extensive, he had never shunned labour, nor repined under fa- 
 tigue ; that now, w^hen his health was broken, and his vigour 
 exhausted by the rage of an incurable distemper, his growing 
 infirmities admonished him to retire ; nor v.as he so fond of 
 reigisiQg, as to retain the sceptre in an impotent hand, which 
 was no longer able to protect his subjects, or to render themi 
 h'lp'V*' ~ that instead of a 6overei2:n worn cut with diser»:^ef '^•■•^ 
 
178 Tlie English Rejctde^ Part L 
 
 scarcely half alive, he gave them one in the prime of life, ac- 
 customed alreat^ to govern, and who added to the vigour of 
 youth all the attention and sagacity of maturer years ; that if, 
 during the course of a long administration, he had committed 
 any material error in government, or if, under the pressure of 
 so many and great affairs, and amidst the attention which he 
 had been obliged to give to them, he had either neglected or 
 injured any of his subjects, he now implored their forgiveness ; 
 that, for his part, he should ever retain a grateful sense of 
 their fidelity and attachment, and would carry the remem- 
 brance of it along with him to the place of his retreat, as his 
 sweetest consolation, as v/ell as the best reward for all his 
 services ; and in his last prayers to Almighty God, would pour 
 forth his ardent wishes for their welfare. 
 
 Then turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees and 
 kissed his father's hand, ''if," says he, •' I had left you, by my 
 death, this rich inheritance, to which I have made such large 
 additions, some regard would have been justly due to my 
 memory on that account ; but now, when I voluntarily resign 
 to you what I might have still retained, I may well expect the 
 warmest expressions of thanks on your part. Wifo these, 
 however, I dispense ; and shall consider your concern for the 
 welfare of your subjects, and your love of them, as the best 
 and most acceptable testimony of your gratitude to me. It 
 is in your power, by a wise and virtuous administration, to 
 justify the extraordinary proof which I give this day of my 
 paternal aifeciion, and to demonstrate that you are worthy of 
 the confidence which I repose in you. Preserve an inviola- 
 ble regard for religion ; maintain the Catholic faith in its pu- 
 rity ; let the laws of your country be sacred in your eyes ; 
 encroach not on the rights and privileges of your people ; and 
 if the time shall ever come, when you shall wish to enjoy the 
 tranquillity of private life, may you have a son endowed with 
 such qualities, that you can resign your sceptre to him, with 
 as much satisfaction as I give up mine to you." i 
 
 As soon as Charles had finished this long address to his 
 subjects, and to their new sovereign, he sunk into the chair, 
 exhausted and ready to faint with the flitigue of so extraordi- ' 
 nary an effort. During his discourse, the whole audience 
 melted into tears ; some from admiration of his magnanimity ; 
 others softened by the expressions of tenderness towards his 
 SOD, Mud of love to hi«^ people ; and all were affected with the 
 deepest sorrow, ;>*■ losing a sovereign, who had distinguished 
 the Neitierlands, his native country, with particular marks of 
 his rei'iird and attnc.hmpnf- 
 
Chap. 9. Promiscuous Pieces. 179 
 
 SECTION XXVIL 
 
 Tlie same subject continued, 
 
 A FEW weeks after the, resignation of the Netherlands, 
 Charles, in an assembly no less splendid, and with a ceremonial 
 equally pompons, resigned to his son the crowns of SpSfe, with 
 all the territories depending on them, both in the old and in 
 the new world. Of all these vast possessions, he reserved 
 nothing for himself, but an annual pension of a hundred thou- 
 sand crowns, to defray ^he charges of his family, and to afford 
 him a small sum for acts of beneficence and charity^^^g^ 
 
 Nothing now remained to detain him from Jh at xetreat for 
 which he langTiished. Every thing having been prepared 
 some time for his voyage, he set out for Zuitburgh in Zealand, 
 where the fleet had orders to rendezvous.Jl3fc his way thither, 
 he passed through Ghent : and after stoppingHiere a few days, 
 to indulge that tender and pleasing melancholy, which arises 
 in the mind of every man in the decline of life, on visiting the 
 place j^f his nativity, and viewing the scenes and objects fa- 
 miliar to him in his early youth, he pursued his journey, ac- 
 companied by his son Phihp, his daughter the arch-duchess, 
 his sisters the dowager queens of France and Hungary, Maxi- 
 mihan his son-in-law, and a numerous retinue of the Flemish 
 nobihty.^^^efore he went on board, he dismissed them, with^ 
 marks of his attention or regard ;%j\d taking leave of Phihp 
 with all the tenderness of a father who embraced his son for 
 the last time, he set sail under convoy of a large fleet of Span- 
 ish, Flemish, and English ships.^,^^' 
 
 His voyage was prosperous and agreeable ; and he arrived 
 at Laredo in Biscay, on the eleventh day after he left Zealand. 
 As soon as he landed, he fell prostrate on the ground ; and 
 considering himself now as dead to the world, he kissed the 
 earth, and said, "Naked came i out of my mother's womb, 
 and naked 1 now return to thee, thou common mother of man- 
 kiiKr^pJPi^m Laredo he proceeded to Valladohd. There he 
 tookalast and tender leave of his two sisters ; whom he would 
 not permit to accompany him to his sohtude, though they en- 
 treated it with te irs : not only that they might have the con- 
 solation of contributing, by their attendance and care, to miti- 
 gate or to sooth his sufferings, but that they mij^ht reap in- 
 struction and benefit, by joining with him in those pious ex- 
 ercises, to which he had consecrated the remainder of his daya-^ 
 
 From Valladolid, he continued his journey to Plazencia iii 
 Estremadura. He had passed through that city a great many 
 
180 The E'Pglhh Reader . Part I: 
 
 years before ; and having been struck at that time with the 
 delightful situation of the monastery of St. Justus, belonging 
 to the order of St. Jerome, not many miles distant from that 
 place, he had then observed to some of his attendants, that this 
 was a spo t to which Dioclesian might have retired with plea- 
 surep^Khe impression had remained so strong on his mind, 
 thaihe pitched upon it as the place of his retreat. It was 
 seated in a vale of no great extent, watered by a small brook, 
 and surrounded by rising grounds, covered with lofty trees. 
 From the nature of the soil, as well as the temperature of the 
 climaji!^ was esteemed the most healthful and delicious si- 
 tuation in Spain.,^^.©«ie months before his resignation, he had 
 sent an architect thither, to add a new apartment to the mo- 
 nastery, for his accommodation ; but he gave strict orders that 
 the style of the buiying should be such as suited his present 
 station, rather than his former dignity. It consisted only of 
 six rooms, four of them in the form of friars' cells, with naked 
 walls ; the other two, each twenty feet square, were hung with 
 brown cloth, and furnished in the most simple raanner.^^jy^^y 
 were all on a level with the ground ; with a door on one side 
 into a garden, of which Charles himself had given the plan, 
 and had tilled it with various plants, which he proposed to 
 cultivate with his own hands. On the other side, they com- 
 municated v/ith the chapel of the monastery, in whibh.he was 
 to perform his devotion^j^lnto this humble retreat, hardly 
 sulhcient for the comfortable accommodation of a private 
 gentleman, did Charles enter, with twelve domestics only. 
 He buried there, in solitud^e^nd silence, his grandeur, his am- 
 bition, together with* all those vast projects, which, during half 
 a century, had alarmed and agitated Europe ; iilhng every 
 kingdom in it, by turns, with the terror of his arms, and the 
 
 dread of being subjected to his power. ^ 
 
 In this retirement, Charles formed ?uch a plan of life for 
 himself, as would have suited the condition of a private person 
 of a moderate iortune. His table was neat but phiin ;«tj^ do- 
 mestics few ; his intercourse with them f »mlliar ; all the cum- 
 bersome and ceremonious forms of attendance on his person 
 were entirely abolished, as destructive of that socinl ease and 
 tranquillity, which he courted, in order to sooth the remain- 
 der of his days. As the mildness of the clim-^te, too;ether with 
 his deliverance from the burdens and cares of governm«-'nt, 
 procured him, at first, a considerable remission from the acute 
 pains with which he had been long tonnented, he enjoyed, 
 perhaps, more complete ^jalistaction in this humble solitude. 
 
(^lap, 9. Promiscuous Pieces, 181 
 
 than all his grandeur had ever yielded him. The ambitious 
 thoughts and projects which had so long engrossed and dis- 
 quieted him, were quite effaced from his mind. Far from 
 taking any part in the political transivstions of the princes of 
 Europe, he restrained his curiosity even from any inquiry con- 
 cerning them ; and he seemed to view the busy scene which 
 he had abandoned, with all the contempt and indifference 
 arising from his thorough experience of its vanity, as well as 
 from the pleasing reflection of having disentangled himself 
 from its carei?. dr. ROBERTsOiV; 
 
PART II. 
 
 ■PIECES W POETRY. 
 
 ^ 
 
 CHAP. I. 
 
 6EIECT SENTENCES AND PARAGRAPHS 
 
 SECTION I. 
 SHORT AND EASY SENTENCES 
 
 Education, 
 
 JL IS education forms the common mind ; 
 Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclin'd. 
 
 Candour, 
 With pleasure let us own our errors past ; 
 And make each day a critic on the last 
 
 Reflection, 
 A SSnl without reflection, like a pile 
 Without inhabitant, to ruin runs. 
 Secret Virtue, 
 The private path, the secret acts of men, 
 If noble, far the noblest of their lives. 
 
 Necessary knozdedge easily attained. 
 Our needful knowledge, like our needful food, 
 Unhedg'd, lies open in life's common field ; 
 And bids ail welcome to the vital feast. 
 
 Disappointment, 
 Disappointment lurks in many a prize, 
 As bees in jflow'rs ; and stings us with success. 
 
 Virtuous eletation. 
 The mind that would be happy, must be great; 
 Great in its wishes ; great in its surveys. 
 / Extended views a narrow mind extend. 
 Natural and fanciful life, 
 Whfl^ives to nature, rarely can be poor; 
 W^ho hves to fancy, never can be rich ; 
 
 In the first chapter, the Compiler has exhibited a considerable variety 
 f poetical construction, for the young reader's preparatory exercises. 
 
es; \ 
 
 Giap. 1. Select Sentences^ <J-c. 183 
 
 Charity. 
 
 In faith and hope the world will disagree ; 
 
 »But all mankind's concern is charity. 
 The prize of Virtue, 
 What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, 
 The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, 
 Is virtue's prize. 
 
 Sense and modesty connected. 
 Distrustful sense with mode^^t caution speaks ; 
 It still looks home, and short excursions makes ; 
 But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks. 
 
 Moral discipline solvMry, 
 Heav'n gives us friends to blesa rae present scene 
 Resumes them to prep ire us for the next. 
 All evils natural are moral goo Is ; 
 All discipline, indulgence, on the whole. 
 Present blessings undervalued. 
 Like birds, whose beauties languish, half conceal'd. 
 Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes 
 Expanded shine with -azure, green, and gold. 
 How blessings brighten as they take their flight I 
 
 Hope. . 
 Hope, of all passions most beft^iends us here ; 
 Passions of prouder name befriend us less. 
 Joy has her tears, and transport has her death ; 
 Hope, hke a cordial, innocent, though strong, 
 Man's heart, at once, inspirits and serenes. 
 Happiness modest and tranquil. 
 
 — : -N' ever man was truly blest, 
 
 But it compos'd, and gave him such a cast ^ 
 As folly might mistake for want of joy ; 
 A cast unlike the triumph of the proud ; 
 A ^'odest aspect, and a smile at heart. 
 
 True greatness. 
 Who noble ends by noble means obtains, 
 Or faihng, smiles in exile or in chains, 
 Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed 
 Like Socrates, that man is great indeed. 
 
 The tear of sympathy. 
 No radiant pearl, which crested fortune wears, 
 No gem, that twinkling hangs from beauty's ears.. 
 
184 The English Reader. Part 2. 
 
 Nor the bright stars, which night's blue arch adorn, 
 Nor rising suns that gild the vernal morn, 
 Shine with such lustre, as the tear that breaks, 
 For others' wo, down Virtue's manlv cheeks. 
 
 SECTION IL 
 
 VERSES IN WHICH THE LINES ARE OF DIFFERENT 
 LENGTH. 
 
 Bliss of celestial Origin, 
 
 Restless mortals toil for nought ; 
 Bliss in vain from eartli is sought j 
 Bliss, a native of the sky, 
 Never wanders. Moitah, try ^ 
 There you cannot seek sn vain ; 
 For to seek her is to gain. 
 
 The Passions, 
 The passions are a num'rous crowdj> 
 Imperious, positiye, and loud. 
 Curb these licentious sons of strife ; 
 Hence chiefly rise the storms of life : 
 If they grow mutinous, and rave, 
 They are thy masters, thou their slave. 
 
 Trust in Providence recommended* 
 'Tis Providence alone secures, 
 In ev'ry change, both mine and yours. 
 Safety consists not in escape 
 From dangerj^of a frightful shape : 
 An earthquakle may be bid to spare 
 The man that's strangled by a hair. 
 Fate steals along with siient tread, 
 Found oft'nest in what least we dread ; 
 Frowns in the storm with angry brow, 
 -But in the sunshine strikes the blow. 
 
 Epitaph, 
 How lov'd, kow valu'd once, avails thee not. 
 To whom related, or by whom begot : 
 A heap of dust alone remains of thee ; 
 Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be, 
 
 Fame, 
 All fame is foreign, but of true desert ; 
 Pkiyp round the head, but comes not to the heart- 
 
hap. 1. Select Sentences, fyc, 186 
 
 One self-approving hour, whole years outweighs 
 Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas ; 
 And more true joy Marcellus exil'd feels, 
 Than Caesar with a senate at his heels. 
 Virtue the guardian of youth, 
 Down the smooth stream of life the striplinq; darts, 
 Gay as the morn ; bright glows the vernal sky, 
 Hope swells his sails, and Passion steers his course. 
 Safe glides his little bark along the shore, 
 Where Virtue takes her stand : but if too far 
 He launches forth beyond discretion's mark. 
 Sudden the tempest scowls, the surges roar, 
 Blot his fair day, and plunge him in the deep. 
 
 Sunrise, 
 But yonder comes the pow'rful king of day, 
 Rejoicing in the east. The less'ning cloud. 
 The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow, 
 Illum'd with fluid gold, his near approach 
 Betoken glad. Lo, now, apparent all 
 Aslant the dew-bright earth, and coloured air. 
 He looks in boundless majesty abroad ; 
 And sheds the shining day, that burnish'd plays 
 On rocks, and hills, and tow'rs, and wand'ring streams^ 
 High gleaming from afar. 
 
 Self- government. 
 May I govern my passions with absolute sway ; 
 And grow wiser and better as life wears away. 
 
 Shepherd. 
 On a mountain, stretch'd beneath a hoary willow, 
 Lay a shepherd sv\'ain, and view'd the rolhng billow- 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 VERSES CONTAINING EXCLAMATIONS, INTERROGATIONS^ 
 AND PARENTHESES. 
 
 ^ Competence. 
 
 A COMPETENCE IS all we can enjoy : 
 Oh ! be content, where Heav'n can give no mere ! 
 
 Reflection es'^ntial to happiness. 
 Much joy not only speaks small happiness, 
 Bm happiness that shortly must expire. 
 Can joy unbottom'd in reflection, stand ? 
 And, in a tempest, can reflection live ? 
 0^2 
 
R<56 Tlie English Reader. Part 2. 
 
 Friendship, 
 Can gold gain friendship ? Impudence of hope I 
 As well mere man an angel might beget. 
 Love, ciod love only, is the lorin for love. 
 Lorcjazo ! pride repress ; nor hope ro find 
 A friend, but what has found a friend in thee. 
 All like the purchase ; fevi^ the price will pay : 
 And this makes friends such miracles below. 
 
 Patience, 
 Beware of desp'rate steps. The darkest day 
 (Live till to-morrow) will have pass'd away. 
 
 Luxury, 
 
 — — — O luxury ! 
 
 Bane of elated life, of affluent states. 
 What dreary change, what ruin is not thine ! 
 How doth thy bowl intoxicate the mind ! 
 To the soft entrance of thy rosy cave, 
 How dost thou lure the fortunate and great! 
 Dreadful attraction ! 
 
 Virtuous activity 
 p\ Seize, mortals ! seize the ti?ansient hour; 
 Improve each moment as it flies : 
 Life's a short summer — man a tiow'r ; 
 He dies — Alas ! — ^how soon he dies ! 
 
 The source of happiness. 
 Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense, 
 Lie in three words, health, peace, and competence : 
 But health consists with temperance alone ; 
 And peace, O virtue ! peace is all thy own. 
 
 Placid emotion. 
 Who can forbear to smile with nature ? Can 
 The stormy passions in the bosom roll, 
 Wliile ev'ry gale is peace, and ev'ry grove 
 Is melody ? 
 
 Solitude'^, 
 O sacred solitude ; divine retreat ! 
 Choice of the prudent ! envy of the great ! 
 By thy pure stream, or in thy waying shade, 
 We court frur wisdom, that celestial maid : 
 The genuine offspring of her lov'd embrace, 
 (Strangers on earth,) are innocence a-nd peace^ 
 
 ' By solitude here js meoiit; a i.err|:orary seclusioD from tbe worin 
 
 m 
 
Chap. 1. Select Sentciiceci, S^^c. 187 
 
 There from th'i ways of iiien laid safe ashore, 
 We smiie to liear the dist-at tempest roar ; 
 There, bless'd with health, with business unperplex'd, 
 1 liis life wc rehsh, and ensure the next. 
 
 Presume not on to-morrow. 
 In human hearts what bohier thoughts can rise, 
 1 han man's presumption on to-morrow's daw^n ? ' 
 Where is to-morrow ? In another w'orld. 
 For numbers this is certain ; the reverse 
 Is sure to none. 
 
 D.im vivimus A'ivamiis. 
 Whilst ice live let us live. 
 " Live, while you hve," the epicure w^.ould say, 
 *' And seize Uie pleasures of the present day." 
 *' Live, w^hile you Hve," the sacred preacher cries 
 *' And give to God each moment as it flies." 
 Lord ! in my views, let both united be ; 
 I live in pleasure, when I hve to thee ! — doddridge. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 VERSES IN VARIOUS FORMS. 
 
 Hie security of Virtue. 
 Let cow^ard guilt, wath pallid fear, 
 
 To shelt'ring caverns fly. 
 And justly dread the vengeful fate, 
 
 That thunders through the sky. 
 Protected by that hand, whose law, 
 
 The threat'ning storms obey, 
 Intrepid virtue smiles secure, 
 
 As in the blaze of day. 
 
 Resignation. 
 And Oh ! by error's force subdu'd, 
 
 Since oft my stubborn will 
 Prepost'rous shuns the latent good, 
 
 And grasps the specious ill, 
 Not to my wish, but to my want, 
 
 Do thou thy gift? apply ; 
 Unask'dp '-\,-i> '<^od thou knowest grant ; 
 
 What ill, though ask'd, deny. 
 Compassion. 
 I have f jund out a gift for my fair ; 
 
 I have found where the wood-pigeons breed ; ; 
 But ]ei me that plunder forbear ! 
 
 She will say, ^tis a barbarous deed. 
 
The English Reader. Part 2^ 
 
 For he ne'er can be true, she averr'd, 
 
 Who can rob a poor bird of its young : 
 And I lov'd her the more, when I heard 
 
 Such tenderness fall from her tongue. 
 
 Epitaph. 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
 
 A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 
 Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
 
 And melancholy mark'd him for her own. 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 
 
 Heav'n did a recompense as largely send : 
 He gave to mis'ry all he had — a tear ; 
 
 He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend 
 No further seek his merits to disclose, 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
 (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. 
 
 Joy and sorrow connected. 
 Still, where rosy pleasure leads, 
 See a kindred grief pursue ; - 
 Behind the steps that mis'ry treads. 
 Approaching comforts view. 
 The hues of bliss more brightly glow, 
 Chastis'd by sable tints of wo ; 
 And blended form, with artful strife, 
 The strength and harmony of life. 
 
 The golden mean. 
 He that holds fast the golden mean, 
 And lives contentedly between 
 
 The little and the great, 
 Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, 
 Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's doar^ 
 
 Imbitt'ring all his state. 
 The tallest pines feel most the pow'r 
 Of wint'ry bl.ist ; the loftiest tow'r 
 
 Comes heaviest to the ground. ., 
 
 The bolts that spare the mountain'b side, 
 His cloud-capt eminence divide ; 
 
 And spread the ruin round. 
 
 Moderate views and aims recommended* 
 With passions unruffled, untainted with prid?, 
 By reason my life let me square ; 
 
 I 
 
Chap. 1. Select Sentences, 4'C, 189 
 
 The wants of my nature are cheaply supplied ; 
 
 And the rest are but folly iind care. 
 How vaiatv; through infinite trouble and strife, 
 
 The many their labours employ ! 
 Since all that is truly delightful in life, 
 
 . Is what all, if they please, may enjoy. 
 Attachment to life. 
 
 The tree of deepest root is found 
 
 Least willing still to quit the ground : 
 ^Tw^as t^ierefore said, by ancient sages, 
 That love of life increas'd with years, 
 
 So much, that in our later stages. 
 
 When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, 
 The greatest love of life appears. 
 
 Virtue's address to pleasure,'^ 
 Vast happiness enjoy thy gay allies ! 
 
 A youth of follies, an old age of cares ; 
 Young yet enervate, old 3^et never wise, 
 
 Vice wastes their vigour, and tlieir mind impaifs. 
 Vain, idle, delicate, in thoughtless ease, 
 
 Reserving woes for age, their prime they spend ; 
 All wretched, hopeless, in the evil days, 
 
 Vrith sorrow to the verge of life they tend. 
 Griev'd with the present, of the past ashamed, 
 
 They live and are despis'ii ; they die, no more are 
 nara'd. 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 VERSES IN WHICH SOUND COPJIESPONBS TO SIGNIFICA- 
 TION. 
 
 Smooth and rough lerse. 
 S©FT is the strain when zephyr gently blows, 
 And the smooth stream in smoother numbers tlows. 
 But when loud surges lash the sounding shore. 
 The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar, 
 
 SIgtv motion imitated, 
 "VV hen Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 
 The line too labours, and the words move slow. 
 
 Sii'ift and easy motion. 
 Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain. 
 Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. 
 
 * SensTial pleasure. 
 
190 Tlie English Reader. Part 2'. 
 
 Felling trees in a woody 
 LoufI sounds the axe, redoubling strokes on strokes; 
 On all sides Ground the forest hurls her oaks 
 Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brown ^ 
 Then rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down. 
 Sound of a how-string, 
 
 ^ The string let fly 
 
 Tvvang'd short and sharp, like the shrill swallow's cry. 
 
 The Pheasant, 
 See ! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, 
 And mounts exulting on triumphant wings. 
 
 Scylla and Charyhdis, 
 Dire Scjlla there a scene of horror forms, 
 And here Gharybdis fills the deep with storms. 
 When the tide rushes from her rumbling cares, 
 The rough rock roars ; tumultuous boil the waves 
 
 Boisterous and gentle sounds. 
 Two craggy rocks projecting to the main, 
 The roaring winds tempestuous rage restrain : 
 Within, the waves in softer murmurs glide ; 
 And ships secure without their halaers ride. 
 Laborious and impetuous motion. 
 With many a weary step, and many a groan, 
 Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone : 
 The huge round stone resulting with a bound, 
 Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground 
 
 Regidar and slow movement. 
 First march the heavy mules securely slow ; 
 O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks they go. 
 
 Motion slow and difficult, 
 A needless Alexandrine ends the song, 
 That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 
 
 Ji rock torn from the brow of a mountain. 
 Still gath'ring force, it smokes, and urg'd amain, mk 
 
 W^hirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain wi 
 
 Extent and violence of the waves. 
 The waves behind impel the waves before. 
 Wide-rolling, foaming high, and tumbling to the shore* 
 
 Pensive numbers, 
 in these deep solitudes and awful cells. 
 Where heov'nly pensive contemplntion dwells. 
 And ever-musing melancholy reigns. 
 
 1 
 
Chap. 1. Select Sentences, ^c. mt 191 
 
 Battle. 
 
 — Arms on armour clashing bray'd 
 
 Horrible discord ; and the madding wheels 
 Of brazen fury rag'd. 
 
 Sound imitating reluctance. 
 For who, to dumb forge t&lness a prey, ^ 
 
 ^ This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned ; ^ 
 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
 Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind ? 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 PARAGRAPHS OF GREATER LENGTH. 
 
 Connubial affection. 
 The love that cheers hfe's latest stage, 
 Proof against sickness and old age, 
 PreservM by virtue from declension, 
 Becomes not weary of attention : 
 But lives, when that exterior grace, 
 Which first inspired the flame, decays. 
 'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, 
 To faults compassionate, or blind ; «i, 
 And Will with sympathy endure ^ stor'd, 
 
 Those evils it would gladly cure. ; 
 But angry, coarse, and harsh ex^ haste. 
 Shows love to be a mere profe 
 Proves that the heart is none 
 Or soon expels him if it is. '^^JL 
 
 Swarms of fiyinsf , 
 Thick in yon stream of lis-^'^' P^^.^? ^ . 
 Upward and downward, ^^^^^ ^'^^ P^"' 
 The quiv'ring nations sl^ ^egam ; 
 Fiercl winte? sweeps tL^^^^^J* S"^^^'^ 
 Ev'n so, luxurious men, u^lL^^/^^^^ ' 
 An idle summer life, in fortune ?' . ^^g^ 
 A season's glitter ! Thus they flm^*°* JT 
 From toy to toy, from vanity to vice "^ 
 
 From toy to toy, from vanity to vice 
 Till, blown away by death, oblivi^.i 
 Behind, and strikes them from ^: * 
 Beneficence its own eyes 
 My fortune (for Til mention ali, ' 
 And more than you tiare tell) is ? 
 Yet ev'ry friend partakes my stCtiRicK 
 And want goes smiling from my 
 
192 A The English Reader. Part 2. 
 
 Will forty shillings warm the breast 
 Of worth or industry distress'd ! 
 This sum I cheerfully impart ; 
 "lis fourscore pleasures to my heart : 
 And you may make, by means like these, 
 Five talents ten, whene'er you please. 
 "Tis true, my little purse grows light ; 
 ^ut then I sleep so sweet at night ! 
 This • nd specific will prevail, 
 When dil the doctor's opiates fail. 
 
 Virtue the best treasure. 
 
 Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul, 
 Is the best gift of Heav'n : a happiness 
 That, even above the smiles and frowns of fate. 
 Exalts great nature's favourites : a wealth 
 That ne'er encumbers ; nor to baser hands 
 rp Can be transferr'd. It is the only good 
 The ro^'^ J^'^^^^ boasts of, or can call his own. 
 Within ttf^ ^^^ ^^^ ^y ^^^^^ ^"^ baseness earn'd. 
 And ships secu?e end one much-neglected use, 
 
 , worth our care ; (tor nature s wants 
 ' without opulence supplied ;) 
 With ^f^yj'J^f'fy As to produce the soul ; 
 Up the bigh hill he he. ^^ -^ ^j^^-^. ^^-^^^^ y ,^^ 
 The huge round stone r ^ ^^^^ ^^^^^^ 
 Thunders impetuous "O^Mgj^(>g^ 
 
 Regular am 
 First march the heavy m^.^templatwn. 
 O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er c.^ ^j^^ ^^^.^^^ clouds, 
 
 Motion slow an^^) solid gloom. 
 A needless Alexandrine ends tl:orld lies lost in sleep, 
 That, like a wounded snake, f^eb prions night, 
 A rock torn from icr sedate compeer ; 
 Still gath'ring force, it th' intrusive cares of day, 
 Whirls, leaps, and ^.eddling senses all aside. 
 Extent h y^ ^.V^"^ vanities of life ! 
 
 The waves behind imf' ^'\^^ ^i^'^v"? •^'''" V.n.onnf ^ 
 Wide-rolling, foaming hi^ ? and what is your amount? 
 ^ p^^itment, and remorsp. 
 
 In these deep solitude. ^^] ^f ^'^ ^^^''^t"^ ''''"''' 
 Where heav'nly pen^^, disjointed visions past 
 
 Andever-musing melat^f^^^' '^'f ''^^'hT h W round 
 hopes, to run the giddy rouml. 
 
C^ap. 2. Narrative Pieces, 193 
 
 Pleasure of^iety, 
 A Deity believed, is joy begun ; 
 A Deity ador'd, is joy advanc'd ; 
 A Deity belov'd, is joy matur'd. 
 Each branch of piety delight inspires : 
 Faith builds a bridge from this world to the next, 
 O'er death's dark gulf, and all its horror hides ; 
 Praise, the sweet exhalation of our joy, 
 That joy exalts, and makes it sweeter still ; 
 ^ay'r ardent opens heav'n, lets down a stream 
 Of glory, on the consecrated hour 
 Of man in audience with the Deity. 
 
 CHAP. 11. 
 
 NARRATIVE PIECES. 
 
 jr^ SECTION I. 
 
 The hears and the bees. 
 As two young bears, in wanton mood, 
 Forth issuing from a neighbouring wood, 
 Came where th' industrious bees had storM, 
 In artful cells, their luscious hoard ; 
 OV ijoy'd they seiz'd, with eager haste. 
 Luxurious on the rich repast. 
 Alarm'd at t his, the Httle crew 
 About thoBjears vindictive flew, y 
 The beasi^ unable to sustain ~^ * 
 Th' unequal combat, quit the plain , 
 Half-blind with rage, and mad with pain. 
 Their native shelter they regain ; 
 There sit, and now, discreeter grown^ 
 Too late their rashness they bemoan ; 
 And this by dear experience gain, ^^ 
 
 That pleasure's ever bought with pain.^|fc 
 So when the gilded baits of vice Jf 
 
 Are plac'd before our longing eyes, 
 With greedy haste we snatch our fill, 
 And swalloi^pwn the latent ill : 
 But when e'^erience opes our eyes, 
 Away the fancied pleasure flies; 
 ft flies, but oh I too late we find, 
 U leaves a real sting behind.- -merrick 
 R 
 
^^ The English Reader, Part 2 » 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 The nightingale and the glow-worm. 
 
 A NIGHTINGALE, that all daj long 
 Had cheer'd the village with his song, 
 Nor yet at eve his note suspended, 
 Nor yet when eventide was ended. 
 Began to feel, as well he might, 
 The keen demands of appetite ; 
 When, looking eagerly around. 
 He spied fir off, upon the ground, 
 A something shining in the dark. 
 And knew the glow-worm by his spark. 
 So, stooping down from hawthorn top, 
 He thought to put him in his cro{jTf|^^ 
 The w^orm, aware of his intent, •^ 
 Harangued him thus, right eloquent— 
 
 ' Did you admire my lamp,' quoth he^ 
 ^ As much as I your minstrelsy, 
 You would abhor to do m.e wrong. 
 As much as I to spoil your song ; 
 For 'twas the self-same pow'r divine, 
 Taught you to sing, and me to shine ; 
 That you with music, I with light, ^^^ 
 Might beautifr and cheer the night. ^ 
 
 The songsier*heard his short or^lSron, 
 And, warbling out his approbation, 
 Releas'd him, as mv story tells. 
 And found a supper somewhere else. 
 
 Hence, jarring sectaries may learn 
 Their real int'rest to discern ; 
 That brother should not war with brother, 
 And vCry and devour each other : 
 But siflj^nd shine by sweet consent, 
 Till life's poor transient night is spent ; 
 Respecting, in each other's case, ^ 
 The gifts of n dure and of grace.C# 
 
 Those Christians be-^^t deserve tM name. 
 Who studiously make peace their aim : 
 Peace, both the duty and the prize 
 Of him that creeps, and him that flies, — ©owfer 
 
efiap. 2. Narrative Pieces. . 196 
 
 SECTION III: 
 
 The trials of virtue. 
 
 Plac'd on the verge of 3/outh, my mind 
 
 Life's op'ning scene survey'd : 
 I view'd its ilJs of various kind, 
 
 Aflflicted and afraid. 
 But chief my fear the dangers mov'd 
 
 That virtue's path enclose : 
 My heart the wise pursuit approv'd ; 
 
 But O. what toils oppose ! 
 For see, ah see 1 while yet her ways 
 
 With doubtful step I tread, 
 A hostile world its terrors raise. 
 
 Its snares delusive spread. 
 O how shall I, with heart prepar'd, 
 
 Those, terrors learn to meet ? 
 How, from the thousand snares to guard 
 
 Mj unexperienc'd feet ? 
 As thus I mus'd, oppressive sleep 
 
 Soft o'er my temples drew 
 Oblivion's veiL — The wat'ry deep, 
 
 An object strange and nevv', 
 Before me rose : on the v.ide shore 
 
 Observant as I gtoocl, 
 The gathering storms around me roar 
 
 And heave the boihog flood. 
 Near and more near the billovv^s rise 5 
 
 Ev'n now my steps they lave ; 
 And death to my affrighted eyes 
 
 Approach'd in every w^ave. 
 What hope, or whither to retreat 1 
 
 Each nerv^e at once unstrung.; 
 Chill fear had fetter' d fast my feet, 
 
 And chain'd my speechless tongue. 
 ! felt my heart within me die ; 
 
 When sudden to mine ear 
 A voice, descending from on high, 
 
 Reprov'd my erring fear. 
 'What tho' the swelling surge thou see 
 
 Impatient to devour ; ^ 
 Rest, mortal, rest on God's decree > 
 
 And thankful own his pow'r. 1 
 
 i 
 
196 The English Reader. 
 
 Know, when he bade the deep, appear^ 
 
 * Thus far,' th' Almighty said, 
 
 * Thus far, no farther, rage ; and here 
 
 * Let thy proud waves be stay'd.- '^ 
 I heard ^ and lo ! at once controll'd^ 
 
 The waves, in wild retreat, 
 Back on themselves reluctant roll'd, 
 
 And murm'ring left my feet. 
 Deeps to assembling deeps in vain 
 
 Once more the signal gave : 
 The shores the rushing weight sustain, 
 
 And check th* usurping wave. 
 Convinc'd, in nature's volume wise, 
 
 The imagM truth I read ; 
 And sudden from my waking eyes 
 
 Th' instructive vision fled. 
 Then why thus heavy, O my soul ! 
 
 Say why, distrustful still. 
 Thy thoughts with vain impatience roll 
 
 O'er scenes of future ill ? 
 Let faith suppress each rising fear, 
 
 Each anxious doubt exclude : 
 Thy Maker's will has plac'd thee here, 
 
 A Maker wise and good I 
 He to thy ev'ry trial knows 
 
 Its just restraint to give ; 
 Attentive to behold tby woes, 
 
 And faithful to relieve. 
 Then why thus heavy, O my soul ! 
 
 Say why, distrustful still. 
 Thy thoughts with vain impatience roll 
 
 O'er scenes of future ill ? 
 Th^' griefs unnumber'd throng thee round, 
 
 Still in thy God confide. 
 Whose finger marks the seas their bound, 
 
 And curbs the headlong tide. — merrick. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 The youth and the philosopher^ 
 
 *A Grecian youth of talents rare, 
 Whom Plato's philosophic cnre 
 
 Part 2 
 
Chap, 2. Narrative Pieces. 197 
 
 Had formed fornrtue's nobler view, 
 
 By precept and^ example too, 
 
 Would often boast his matchless skill, 
 
 To curb the steed, and guide the wheel ; 
 
 And as he pass'd the gazing throng, 
 
 Wnh graceful ease, and smack'd the thong, 
 
 The idiot wonder they express'd, 
 
 Was praise and transport to his hreast.^^i 
 
 At length, quite vain, he needs would show 
 His master what his art could do ; 
 And bade his slaves the chariot lead 
 To Academas' sacred shade. 
 The trembling grove confessed its fright, 
 The wood-nymphs started at the sight ; 
 The muses drop the learned lyre, 
 And to their inmost shades retire. X^ 
 Ho«iie^l|j^the youth, with forwarder f/-"' J 
 Bows t(^he sage, and mounts the car. ^ 
 The lash resounds, the coursers spring, 
 The chariot marks the rolling ring ; 
 And gathering crowds, with eager eyes, 
 And shouts, pu rsue him as hejdi^es.^ 
 
 Triumphant fo the goal return' "^ 
 With nobler thirst his bosom burn'i 
 And now along th' indented plain 
 The self-same track he marks again, 
 Pursues with care the nice design, 
 Nor ever deviates from the line. 
 Amazement seiz'd the circling crowd ; 
 The ygkths with emulation glow'd ; 
 Ev'n bl=5rded^.^e_s hail'd the bov^ 
 And all^but Plato gaz'Twith joy.^ 
 For he, deep-judging sage, behe^ 
 With pain the triumphs of the field : 
 And when the charioteer drew nigh, 
 
 ir eyes, 
 ies. ^ 
 
 rn'T: 
 
 And, flush'd with hope, had caught his eyeuL^^ 
 "Alas I unhappy youth,'' he cry^ " W^^ 
 " Expect no praise from me," (ami sigh^'d,) gf^ 
 *' With indignation* I survey >. 
 
 Such skill and jud^nent thrown away 
 The time profusely squandered there, ^ 
 On vu]- .ir arts beneath thy care, 
 If well empioy'd, at- less expense, 
 
 Had taught thee honour, virtue, sense ; 
 
 R ^. ' 
 
!98 The English Reader. Part 2, 
 
 And rais'd thee from a coachman's fate 
 To govern men, and guide the sttsJe^'j^wHiTEHEAD. 
 
 SECTION V. w^^ 
 Discourse between Adam and Eve, retiring to res^L 
 Now came still ev'ning on, and twilight gray 
 Had in hej. sober liv'ry all things clad. 
 Silence a#isompanied ; for beast and bird, 
 They to their grassy couch, these to their nests 
 Were slunk ; all but the wakeful nightingale. 
 She all night long her am'rous descant sung : 
 Silence was pleas'd. Now glow'd the firmament 
 With living sapphires : Hesperus, that led 
 The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon. 
 Rising in clouded majesty, at length, 
 Apparent queen -unveil'd her peerless light, - 
 And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw'^^-^ 
 
 When Adam thus to Eve : " Fair consort, th' hour 
 Of night, and all things now retir'd to rest. 
 Mind us of like repose ; since God hath set 
 Labour and r^, as day and night, to men 
 Successive ; SiLthe timely dew of ajeep, 
 Now falling wiS?feoft slumb'rous w^eight, inclines 
 Our eye-lids. Other creatures all day long 
 Rove idle unemploy'd, and less need rest : 
 Man hath his daily work of body or mind 
 Appointed, which declares his dignity, 
 And the regard of Heav'n on all his ways ; 
 While other animals unactive range, ^ 
 
 And of their doings God takes no account. ^L 
 To-morrow, ere ^esh morning streak the ^dst 
 With ii.^st approach of light, we must be risin, 
 And at our pleasailt labour ; to reform / /) 
 
 Yon ilow'ry arbours, yonder alleys green, / i^ 
 
 .. Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown^. 
 That mock our scant manuring, and require 
 More bands lhaifc|urs to lop their v/anton growth. 
 Those blossoms aiso, and those dropping gums, ^^ 
 That lie bestrewn, unsightly -^tl^^^linsmooth, ) 
 
 Ask riddance, if we mean to tre^ with ease. a^*. 
 Mean while, as nature wills, nigKi bids us rest."^" 
 
 7'o whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorn'd 
 ♦* My author and (i!<^)Oser, what thou bidst 
 Unargu'd 1 pbey ; so God ordaias. 
 
 1 
 
€kap. 2. Narrative Pieces, 19$ 
 
 With thee conversing I forget^^ all time ; 
 
 All seasons and their change, all please alike. 
 
 Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
 
 With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun 
 
 Whej^rst on this delightful land he spreads 
 
 His (M^t beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flow'r 
 
 Ghst'rm^ with dew ; fragrantthe fertile earth 
 
 After soft show'rs ; and swea^the coming on 
 
 Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night, 
 
 With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, ^^ 
 
 And these the gems of heav'n, her starry train [jKi 
 
 But neither breath of morn, when she ascends^ 
 
 With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun 
 
 On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flow'r, 
 
 Glist'ring with dew ; nor fragrance after show'rs ; 
 
 Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent night 
 
 With this her solemn bird ; nor walk by moon, 
 
 Or glitt'ring star light, — without thee is sweet. 
 
 But wherefore all night long shine these ? for whom 
 
 This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes '^i-""^ 
 
 To whom our gen'ral ancestor reply'd : ?^ 
 
 *' Daughter of God and man, accomplish'd Eve, 
 These havjB their course to finish round the earth. 
 By morrow ev'ning ; and from land to land, r 
 
 In order, tnough to nations yet unborn, 
 Minist'ring light prepar'd, they set and rise ; 
 Lest total darkness should by night regain^^ 
 Her old possession, and extinguish life# »* 
 In nature and all things ; which these soft fires 
 Not only enlighten, but, with kindly heat 
 Of various influence, foment and warm. 
 Temper or nourish ; or in part shed down 
 Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow 
 On earth, made hereby apter to receive gy^r 
 Perfection from the sun's more potent ray. Jr 
 These then, though unbeheld in deep of night. 
 Shine not in vain; nor think, though men were none, 
 That heav'n would want spectators, God want praise \ 
 Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 
 Unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleept 
 Ail these with ceaseless praise his works behold. 
 Both day and n%ht. How often, from the steep 
 Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard 
 Celestial voices to the midnight air, "^ ' 
 
^00 T7?e English Reader. Part 2. 
 
 Sole, or responsive each to others' note, 
 Singing their ^re^t Creator ? Oft in beads, 
 While ttiev keep watch, or nightly rounding walk 
 With heav'nlj touch of iristramental sounds, 
 In full harmonic number join'd, their songs ^ 
 
 Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to heny^nJW 
 Thus talkinj^ hand in hand alone they pass'd *^ 
 
 'Wr- 
 
 ;re ar 
 
 On to their blissful bovv'r. 
 — The 
 
 arriv'd, both stood. 
 
 Bothiurn'd 
 
 Thel 
 
 Which tlfey beheld, the nnoon's resplendent globe. 
 
 liurn'd ; and under open sky ador'd 
 The ^(ji that made both sky, air, earth, and heav'n, 
 tffe " ■ ■ 
 
 And starr}^ pole. " Thou also mad'st the night. 
 Maker Omnipotent, and thou the day, 
 Which we, in our appointed work employ'd. 
 Have iinish'd, happy in our mutual help, 
 And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss 
 Ordain'd by thee ; and this delicious place 
 For us too large, where thy abundance wants 
 Pfrrt^ykers, and uncropt fldls to the grouod. 
 But thou hast promis'd from us two a race, 
 To fill the earth, who shall with us extol 
 Thy goodness inffnite, both when we wake, ■ 
 And when v^e seek, as now, thy gift of sleep/'- 
 
 MILTONtsi 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 P.eligion and Death* 
 
 
 Lo ! a form divinely bright 
 Descends, and bursts upon my sight ; 
 A seraph of ill^slrlous birth ! 
 (Religion was her name on earth ;) 
 Supremely sweet her radiant face, 
 An4J|(ooming with celestial grace ! 
 Thr© shining cherubs form'd her train, 
 Wav'd their light wings, and reach'd the plain . 
 Faith, with sublime and piercing eye, 
 And pinions flu tt' ring for the sky ; 
 Here Hope, that smiling angel stands, 
 And golden anchors grace her hands ; 
 There Charity in robes of white, ^ 
 
 Fairest an-d fav'rite maid of light. iJ^.,*''^^ 
 
 The seraph spoke — *' 'Tis Rein's porf. 
 To govern and to guard the heart : 
 
Chap, 2. Karrative pieces, 901 
 
 To lull the wayward soul to rest. 
 When hopes and fears distract the breast. 
 Reason may calm this doubtful strife, 
 And steer thy bark through various life : 
 But when the storms of death are nigh, 
 And midnight darkness veils the sky, 
 Shall Reason then direct thy sail, 
 Dispe^fe^e clouds, or sink the gale ? 
 Stranger, this skill alone is mine, 
 Skill that transcends his scanty line.'^ 
 
 " Revere thyself— thou'rt near ained 
 To angels on thy better side. 
 How various e'er their ranks or kinds, 
 Angels are but unbodied minds : 
 When the partition-walls decay, 
 Men emerge angels from their clay. 
 YeS) whe%Jhp frailer body dies. 
 The soul asSrts her kindred skies. 
 But minds, though sprung from heav'niy race^ 
 Must first be tutor'd for the place : 
 The joys abov^e are understood. 
 And relish'd only by the good. 
 Who shall assume this guardian care ; 
 Who shall secure their birth-iight there ? 
 Souls are my charge — to me 'tis giv'n jq. 
 To train them for their native heav'n.'^^f 
 
 '' Know then- — who bow the early knee. 
 And gif^ the willing heart to me ; 
 Who wisely, when Tempation waits, 
 Elude her frauds, and spurn her baits ; 
 Who dare to own my injur'd cause. 
 Though fools deride my sacred laws ; 
 Or scorn to deviate to the wrpng, 
 Though persecution lifts her^^ thong ; 
 Though all the sons of hell conspire ^* 
 
 To raise the stake and light the fire ; 
 Know, that for such superior souls. 
 There lies a bliss beyond the poles : 
 W^here spirits shine with purer ray, 
 And brighten to meridian day ; 
 Where love, where boundless friendship rules \ 
 (No friends that change, no love that cools ;) 
 Where rising floods of knowledge roll, 
 And pour, and pour upon the soul J^^^ 
 
£02 The English Reader, Part 2 
 
 " But Where's the passage to the skies ?— ■ 
 The road through death's black valley lies^ 
 Nay do not shudder at my tale ; 
 
 fho' dark the shades, yet safe the vale, 
 his path the best of men have trod ; 
 And who'd decline the road to God ? 
 Oh ! 'tis a glorious boon to die 1 
 This ftivour can't be priz'd too high.ijKSy 
 
 While thus she spoke, my looks ejqpress'd 
 The rajjfcjres kindling in my breast.; 
 My soul ^fix'd attention gave ; 
 When the stern monarch of the grave, 
 With haughty strides approach'd : — amaz'd 
 I stood, and trembled as I gaz'd. 
 The seraph calm'd each anxious fear, 
 And kindly wip'd the filling tear ; 
 Then hasten'd v/ith expanded wing^ 
 To meet the pale, terrific king, ^jr 
 But now what milder scenes arise ! 
 The tyrant drops his hostile guise ; 
 He seems a youth divinely fair, 
 In graceful ringlets waves his hair; 
 His wings their whit'ning plumes display, 
 His burnish'd plumes reiiect the day ; 
 Lig^|flows his shining azure vest, 
 And a^the angel stands confess'd. 
 
 I view'd the change with sweet surprise ; 
 And, Oh ! I panted for the skies : \ 
 Thank'd heav'n, that e'er I drew my bVeath ; 
 Anfl triumph'd in the thoughts of death. — cotton. 
 
 CHAP. 111. 
 DIDACTIC PIECES. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 The vanity of wealth. 
 fifo more thus brooding o'er yon heap, 
 With av'rice painful vigils keep ; 
 Still nnenjoy'd the present store, 
 Still endless sighs are breath'd for more, 
 Ohi quit the shadow, catch the prize, 
 Which not all India's treasure buys 1 
 To purchase heav'n has gold the pow'r ? 
 Ca^ gold remove the mortal hour ? 
 
Chap. 3. Didactic Pieces, 203 
 
 In life^an love be bought with gold ? 
 Are Iwlndship 's pleasures to be sold ? 
 No— all that's worth a wish — -a thought, 
 Fair virtue gives unbrib'd, unbought. 
 Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind ; 
 Let nobler views engage thy mincL^^^^. johnson. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 Kothing formed in vain. 
 
 f ^ jyoimng jormea in van 
 
 ALet no preMning impious railer tax 
 Creative wisdom ; as if aurht was fori 
 
 Creative wisdom ; as if aught was form'd 
 
 In v^ain, or not for admirable ends. 
 
 Shall little haughty ignorance pronounce 
 
 His works unwise, of which the smallest part 
 
 Exceeds the narrow vision of her mind ? 
 
 As if, upon a full-proportion'd dome, 
 
 On swelling columns heav'd the pride of art ! 
 
 A critic-fly, whose feeble ray scarce spreads 
 
 An inch around, with blind presumption bold, 
 
 Should dare to tax the structure of the whole^^^ 
 
 And lives the man, whose universal eye 
 
 Has swept at once th' unbounded scheme of things | 
 
 Blark'd their dependence so, and firm accord, 
 
 As with unfaultVing accent to conclude, 
 
 That this availeth nought ? Has any seen 
 
 The mighty chain of beings, less'ning down 
 
 From infioite perfection, to the brink 
 
 Of dreary nothing, desolate abyss ! 
 
 From which astonish'd thought, recoiling, turns? 
 
 Till then alone let zealous praise ascend, 
 
 And hymns of holy wonder to that power, 
 
 Whose wisdom shines as lovely in our minds, 
 
 As on our smiling eyes his servant sun. — Thomson. 
 
 ^-4 SECTION III. 
 On pride. 
 Of all the causes, which conspire to blind 
 M,m's erring jud,!:ment, and misauide tne mind, 
 What the weak head with strongest bias rules, 
 Is priois the neve^-failing vice of fools. 
 VvMuner nature Ifes in v orth deny'd. 
 She gives in large recruit? of needful pride t 
 For, as in bodies, thus in s >"ls, we tind ' 
 What wants in blood and spuits, sweilM witlj^TiniS. 
 
§04 The English Reader. Part % 
 
 Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence. 
 And fills up all the mighty void of sense. JUi 
 If once right reason drives that cloud away, 
 Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. 
 Trust not yourself; but, your defects to know, 
 Make u§e .of ev'ry friend— and ev'ry foe. 
 A little learning is a dangerous thing ; 
 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring : 
 There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain ; 
 And drinking largely sobers us again.M % 
 
 Fir'd at first sight with what the muse imparts, 
 In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, 
 While, from the bounded level of our mind. 
 Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind ; 
 But more advanc'd, behold, with strange surprise, 
 New distant scenes of endless science rise ! 
 So, pleas'd at first the tow'ring Alps we try, 
 Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky ; 
 Th' eternal snows appear already past, 
 Vnd the first clouds and mountains seem the last; 
 
 ut,'those attain'd, we tremble to survey 
 The growing labours of the lengthen'd way ; 
 Th' increasing prospect tires our wand'ring eyes ; 
 Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise. -^pope. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 Cruelty to brutes censured, 
 I WOULD not enter on my list of friends, 
 (Though grac'd with polish'd manners and fine sense, 
 Yet wanting sensibility,) the man 
 Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. 
 An inadvertent step may crush the snail, 
 That crawls at evening in the public path ; . 
 
 But he that has humanity, forevvarn'd. 
 Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.^Bl^ 
 The creeping vermin, loathsome to the signt, 
 And charg'd perhaps with venom, that intrudes 
 A visiter unwelcome into scenes 
 Sacred to neatness and repose, th' alcove, 
 The chamber, or refectory, may die. 
 A necessary act incurs no blame. ^ 
 Not so, when held within their pi^Tper bounds., 
 And guiltless of offence they range the air, 
 Or take their pastime in the spacious field. 
 
Oiap. 3. Didactic Pieces. 205 
 
 There they are privileg'd. And he that hunts 
 
 Or harms them there, is guilty of a wrong 5 
 
 Disturbs th' economy of nature's realm, 
 
 Who when^ie form'd, design'd them an abode.^^ 
 
 The sum is this : if man's convenience, health,^^ 
 
 Or safety, interfere, his rights and claims, 
 
 Are ggramount, and must extinguish theirs. 
 
 Else they^r^all — the meanest things that are. 
 
 As free to live and to enjoy that life, 
 
 As God was free to form them at the first, ^^>^ 
 
 Who, in his sovereign wisdom, made them all.^^ 
 
 Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons 
 
 To love it too. The spring time of our years 
 
 Is soon dishonour'd and defil'd, in most. 
 
 By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand 
 
 To check them. But, alas • none sooner shoots 
 
 If unrestrain'd, into luxuriant growth, 
 
 Than cruelty, most dev'Hsh of them all.j^ 
 
 Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule 
 
 And righteous limitation of its act, 
 
 By which heav'n moves in pardoning g^nlty man : 
 
 And he that shows none, being ripe in years. 
 
 And conscious of the outrage be commits, 
 
 Shall seek it, and not find it in his turn. — cowper. 
 
 SECTION V. 
 Jl paraphrase on the latter part of the 6ih chapter of S. 
 
 MatthezzK" 
 When my breast labours with oppressive care. 
 And o'er njCcheek descends the falling tear ; 
 While all my warring passions are at strife, 
 - Oh ! let me listen to the words of life ! 
 Raptures deep-felt his doctrine did impart, 
 And thus he rais'd from earth the droopmg heart, \ 
 
 '' Think not, when all your scanty stores ''afford. 
 Is spread at once upon the spariiig board ; 
 Think not, ^len worn the homely robe appears^ 
 While on the^roof the howling tempest bears ; 
 What farthj^ shall this feeble life sustain, 
 And what shall clothe these shiv'ring limbs again,. 
 Say, does not life its nourishment exceed ? ^JJF 
 And the fair body its investing weed ? ^ 
 
 Behold ! and look away your low despair-^ 
 See the 1 3 of the barren air : 
 
 S 
 
'^06 The English Reader, Part Z 
 
 To them, nor stores, nor granaries, belong ; 
 Nought, but the woodland, and the pleasing song ; 
 Yet, your kind heav'nly Father bends his eye 
 Ori^j^ least wing that flits along the sky.^J(!^ 
 To nrai they sing when spring renews the plain ; \ 
 To him they cry, in winter's pinching reign ; S 
 
 Nor is their music, nor their plaint in vain;. ^^ J 
 He hears the gay, and the distressful calllfj^ 
 And with unsparing bounty fills them all.'' 
 
 ^ Observe the rising lily's snowy grace ; 
 Obserce^ the various vegetable race : 
 They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow ; 
 Yet see how warm they blush ! how bright they glow ! 
 What regal vestments can with them compare ! 
 What king so shining ! or what queen so fair !" 
 
 " If ceaseless, thus, the fowls of heav'n he feeds ; 
 If o'er the fields such lucid robes he spreads ; 
 Will he nokfigre for you, ye faithless, say ? 
 Is he unwise: or, are ye less than they ?" — Thomson. 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 The death of a good man a strong incentive to virtue. 
 The chamber where the good man meets his fate. 
 Is privileg'd be}'ond the common walk 
 Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heav'n. 
 Fly, ye profme ! if not, draw near with awe, 
 Receive the blessing, and adore the chance, 
 That threw in this Bethesda your disease : 
 If unrestor'd by this, despair your cure. J^i 
 For, here, resistless demonstration dwells ; 
 A death-bed's a detector of the heart. 
 Here tk-'d dissimulation drops her mask, 
 l^hro' life's grimace, that mistress of the scene ! 
 Here real, and apparent, arc the same. 
 You see the man ; you see his hold on heav'n, 
 If sound his virtue, as Philander''s souiid^ 
 Heav'n waits not the last moment ; ownsHier friends 
 On this side death ; and points them out to .men ; 
 A lecture, silent, but of sov'reign pow'r ! 
 To y\Ce^ confusion : and to virtue, peace. 
 
 What^er farce the boastful hero plays, 
 Virtue alone has majesty in death ; 
 And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns ./--young. 
 
Chap. S. Didactic Pieces 207 
 
 SECTION V?I. 
 
 Reflections on a future state, from a review of winter:, 
 'Tis done ! dread winter spreads his latest glooms^ 
 And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year. 
 How dead the vegetable kingdom lies ! 
 How dumb the tuneful ! Horror wide extends 
 His desolate dom.aa. Behold, fond man ! 
 See here thy pictur'd life : pass some few years,. 
 Thy flow'ring spring, thy saminer's ardent strength« 
 Thy sober autumn f.ding into age, 
 And pale concludi'ng winter comes at last, 
 And shuts the scene^^Mh! whiiher now are fled 
 Those dreams of greatness ? those unsolid hopes 
 Of happiness ? those longings after fame "^ 
 Those restless cares ? those busy bustling days ? 
 Those gay-spent, festive nights ? those veering thoughtSj 
 Lost between good and ill, that shar'd thy life ttb^ 
 All now are vanish' d 1 Virtue sole survives, ^^J^ 
 Immortal, never-failing friend of man, ^-^"^^ 
 
 His guide to happiness on high. And see ! 
 'Tis come, the glorious morn ! the second birth 
 Of heav'n and earth ! awak'ning natiiie hears 
 The new-creating word ; and starts to life, 
 In evVy heighten'd f^rm, from pain and death 
 For ever free. The great eternal scheme, 
 Involving all^ and in a perfect whole ^ 
 
 Uniting as the prospect wider spreads, ^ 
 To reason's eye refin'd clears up apace.lj^ 
 Ye vainly wise ! Ye blind presumptuous ! now^ 
 Confounded in the dust, adore that Power, 
 And Wisdom oft arraign'd : see now the cause 
 Why unassuming worth in secret liv'd, 
 And died neglected : why the good man's share ^ 
 
 In life was gall, and bitterness of soul : 
 Why the lone widow and her orphans pin'd 
 In starving solitude ; w^hile luxury, 
 In palaces lay straining her low thought, 
 To form unreal wants : why heav'n-born truth. 
 And moderation fair, wore the red marks 
 Of superstition's scourge : why licensed pain. 
 That cruel spoiler, that embosom'd foe, 
 Imbitter'd all our bliss.Jp^e good distress'd ' 
 
208 Tke English Reade'r. Part 2, 
 
 Ye noble few ! who here unbending stand 
 Beneath Hfe's pressure, yet bear up awhile, 
 And what your bounded view which only saw 
 A Httle part, deem'd evil, is no more : 
 The storms of wint'ry time will quickly pass, 
 And one unbounded spring encircle ally — Thomson. 
 
 SECTION VIII. 
 
 Adainh advice to Eve, to avoid tempiatiof^ 
 ^iO WOMAN, best are all things as the v/ill 
 Of God ordain'd them ; his creating hand 
 Nothing imperfect or deficient left 
 Of all that he created, much les^nf^n, 
 Or aught that might his happy state secure, 
 Secure from outward force. Within himself 
 The danger lies, yet lies within his pow*r : 
 
 / 
 
 AgaMjj^iis will he can receive no harm. 
 
 tBiftTjWleft free the will ; for what obeyi 
 Reason, is free, and reason he made right ; 
 But bid her well beware, and still erect. 
 Lest, by some fair appearing good surpris'd, 
 She dictate f il.se, and misinform the will T 
 
 To do what God expressly hath forbid. ^ 
 
 Not then mistrust, but tender love, enjoins 
 That I should mind thee oft ': and mind thou me. 
 Firm we subsist, yet possible to swerve. 
 Since reason not impossibly may meet • 
 Some spe^lMI object by the foe saborn'd, 
 And f^ll into deception unaware. 
 Not keeping strictest watch, as she was warn'd. 
 Seek not temptation then, which to avoid 
 Were better, and most likely if from me 
 Thou sever not ; trial will come unsought. 
 W^ouldst thou approve thy constancy ? approve 
 First thy obedience ; th' other who can know, 
 Not seeing thee attempted, who attest ? 
 But if thou think, trial unsought may find 
 Us both securer than thus warn'd thou seem'st, 
 Go ; for thy stay, not free, absents thee more : 
 Go in thy native innocence ; rely 
 On what thou hast of virtue, summon all ; 
 For God towards thee hath dH^ his part : do thine.'* 
 
 ^ MILTON 
 
Chap. St Didactic Pieces, i 
 
 SECTION IX. 
 
 On procrastinMion, 
 #Be wise to-day ; His madness rtp defer : 
 Next day the fatal preGedent vyill plead ; 
 Thus on, till wisdom is push'd'O^^^ . 
 
 Procrastination is the thief oif lime. 
 Year after year it steals, till all are fled ; 
 And, to the mercies of a moment leaves 
 
 J 'he vast concerns tff an eternal scene. 
 Of man's miraculous imstakes, this hears 
 The palm, " Tha:t all men are ahout to live :'* 
 For ever on the brink of being born. 
 All pay themsehes the compliment to think, 
 They, one day, &hall not drivel ; and their pride 
 On this reversion takes up ready praise ; 
 At least, their own ; their future selves applauds ; 
 How excellent that life they ne'er will lead ! 
 Time lodg'd in their own hands is folly's v<fils ; 
 That lodg'd in fate's, to wisdom they consign ; 
 The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone 
 'Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool ; 
 ^And scarce in human wisdom to do more. 
 •^All promise is poor dilatory man ; 
 And that thro' ev'ry stage. When young, indeed, 
 In full content, we soaoetimes nobly rest, 
 Unanxious for oursielves ; and only wish, 
 As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. 
 At thirty, man suspects himself a fool ; 
 Knows it at forty, and reforms bis plan ; 
 At iifty, chides his infamoas delaj^ ; 
 Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; 
 In all the magnanimitj^ of thought, 
 Resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same. 
 H^And why? Because he thinks himself immortal. 
 All men think all men mortal, but themselves ; 
 Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate 
 Strikes thro' their wounded hearts the sudden dread 
 But their hearts wounded, Ittte the v/ounded air. 
 Soon close ; where, past the shaft, no trace is found 
 As from the wing no scar the sky retains ; 
 The parted wave no furrow from the keel ; 
 So dies in human hearts the thought of death. 
 S 2 
 
 I 
 
^10 The English Reader. Part 2, 
 
 Ev'n with the tender tear which Nature sheds 
 
 O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. — young. 
 
 SECTION X. % 
 
 That philosophy^ which stops at secondary causes^ reproved. 
 
 /Mappy the man who sees a God employ'd 
 
 hi all the good and ill that checker life I 
 
 Resolving all events, with their effects 
 
 And manifold results, into the will 
 . And arbitration wise of the Supreme. I 
 
 Did not his eye rule all things, and intend 
 ' The least of our concerns ; (since from the least 
 
 The greatest oft originate ;) could chance 
 
 Find place in his dominion, or dispose 
 
 One lawless particle to thwart his plan ; 
 
 Then God might be surpris'd, and unforeseen 
 
 Contingence might alarm him, and disturb 
 ^The smooth and equal course of his affairs. 
 fjThis truth, philosophy, though eagle-ey'd 
 
 In nature's tendencies, oft o'erlooks ; 
 
 And having found his instrument, forgets 
 
 Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, 
 
 Denies the pow'r that wields it. God proclaims '^ 
 
 I His hot displeasure against foolish men 
 
 That live an atheist life ; involves the heav'n 
 
 In tempests ; quits bis grasp upon the winds, 
 
 And gives thein vA\ Iheir fury ; bids a plague 
 
 Kindle a tiery boil upon the skin, 
 7 And putrefy the breath of blooming he.-ilth ; 
 ^He calls for faniinc;, and the meagre licnd 
 
 Blows mildew liom h-etr/een bis shriverd lips, 
 
 Aiid taints tfio gouh^n e::r ; he springs his mines 
 
 And desolates a nation at a blast : 
 
 Forth ste|>s live spruce philosopher, and tells | j- 
 
 Of homogencal and discordaut springs 
 
 And principles ; cf causes, how they work 
 
 B) necessary laws their sure effects. 
 
 Of action and re -action. \^]e has found 
 
 Thf^ source of the disease that nature feels ; 
 
 And bids the world take heart and banish fear. 
 
 1 hou fool ! will thy discov'ry of the cause 
 
 Suspend tb' effect, or heal it ? Has not God 
 
 Still wrought by means since first he made the world ? 
 
 And did he not of old employ hi? moans 
 
Chap, 3. Didactic Pieces, 211 
 
 To drown it ? What is his creation less 
 
 Than a capacious reservoir of means, 
 
 Form'd for his use, and ready at his will ? 
 
 Go, dress tlwne eyes with eye-salve ; ask of him, 
 
 Or ask of whomsoever he has taught ; 
 
 And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. — cowper. 
 
 4 SECTION XI. 
 
 Indignant sentiments on national prejudices and hatred; and 
 ' J on slavery, 
 
 POh, for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
 Some boundless contiguity of shade. 
 Where rumour of oppression and deceit. 
 Of unsuccessful or successful war. 
 Might never reach me more ! My ear is pain'd, 
 My soul is sick with ev'ry day's report 
 Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fiU'd. 
 There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart ; 
 It does not feel for man. The nat'ral bond 
 Of brotherhood is sever'd, as the flax 
 That falls asunder at the touch of fire, f 
 He finds his fellow guilty of a skin I 
 
 Not colon r'd like his own ; and having pow'r 
 T' enforce the wrong, for such a wopthy cause 
 Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 
 Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
 Abhor each other. Mountains interpos'd, 
 Make enemies of nations, who had else. 
 Like kindred drops, been mingled into one.? 
 Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; 
 And worse than all, and most to be deplor'd, 
 As human nature's broadest, foulest blot. 
 Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
 With stripes, that mercy, with a bleeding hearty 
 Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. CJ 
 Then what is man ! And what man seeing this, 
 And haviug human feelings, does not blush 
 And hang his head, to think himself a man ? 
 1 would not have a slave to till my ground, 
 To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 
 And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
 That sinews boughi and sold have ever earn'd C 
 No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
 Just estimation priz'd above all price : 
 
212 The English Reader. Part 2. 
 
 I had much rather be myself the slave, 
 
 And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 
 
 We have no slaves at home — then why abroad ? 
 
 And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave 
 
 That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. 
 
 Slaves cannot breathe in England : if their lungs 
 
 Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 
 
 They touch our country, and their shackles fall.^ 
 
 That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
 
 And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, 
 
 And let it circulate through ev'ry vein % 
 
 Of all your empire ; that where Britain's power 
 
 Is felt, mankind m^.y feel her mercy too. — gowper. 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 DESCIUPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 l^ie morning in summer. 
 |The meek-ey'd morn appears, mother of dews, 
 At first faint gleaming in the dappled east ; 
 Till far o'er ether spreads the wid'ning glow ; 
 And from before the lustre of her face 
 White break the clouds away. With quicken'd step 
 Brown night retires : young day pours in apace, 
 And opens all the lawny prospect wide. 
 vThe dripping rock, the mountain's misty top, 
 ^well on the" sight, and brighten with the dawn. 
 Blue, thro' the dusk, the smoking currents shine ; 
 And from the bladed field the fearful hare 
 Limps, awkward : while along the forest-glade 
 The wild deer trip, and often turning gaze 
 At early pjp^nger. Music awakes 
 The native voice of undissembled joy ; 
 sAnd thick around the vVoodland hymns arise. 
 Tious'd by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves 
 His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells ; 
 And from the crowded fold, in order, drives 
 His flock to taste the verdure of the morn. 
 Falbel J luxurious, will not man awake ; 
 And, springing from the bed of sloth, enjoy 
 The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour. 
 
Chap, 4. Descriptive Pieces. 213 
 
 To meditation due and sacred song ? 
 C-f or is there anght in sleep can charm the wise ? 
 To lie in dead oblivion, losing half 
 
 The fleeting moments of too short a life ; ^ 
 
 Total extinction of th' enlightened soul ! 
 Or else to feverish vanity alive, 
 Wilder'd, and tossing thro' distempered dreams ? 
 Who viould, in such a gloomy state, remain ^.^ 
 
 Longer than nature craves ; when ev'ry muse 
 And every blooming pleasure waits without, 
 To bless the wildly devious morning walk ? — Thomson^ 
 
 SECTION 11. 
 
 Rural sounds^ as xsdcII as rural sights^ delightful, 
 
 'Nor rural tights alone, but rural sounds 
 Exhilarate the spirit, and restore ^* 
 
 The tone of languid natore. Mighty v/inds. 
 That sw^eep the skirt of some flir-spreading wood 
 Of ancient growth, make music, not unlike 
 The dash of ocean on his winding shore, 
 And lull the spirit while they iiil the mind, 
 Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast. 
 And ail their leaves fast flutt'ring all at once^. 
 Nor less composure waits upon the roar 
 Of distant floods ; or on the softer voice 
 Of neighboring fountain ; or of rills that slip 
 Through the cleft rock, and, chimiog as they fall 
 Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length 
 In matted grass, that, with a livelier green. 
 Betrays the secret of their silent course. 
 Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds ; 
 But animated nature sweeter stiil, 
 To sooth and satisfy the human ear.p 
 Ten thousand warblers cheer the d^, and one 
 The live-long night. Nor these alone, whose notes 
 Nice finger'd art must emulate in vain ; 
 But cawing rooks, and kites that swam sublime, 
 In still repeated circles, screaming loud, 
 The jay, the pye, and ev'n the boding owl 
 That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. 
 Sounds inharmonious in themselves, and harsh, 
 Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, 
 And only there, pleM<2 higl^ly for their sake, — cowper 
 
^H The English Reader. Part 2. 
 
 SECTION III. ;^ 
 
 The rose. 
 ^Tar rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower, 
 Which Mary to Anna convey 'd ; 
 The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, 
 And weigh'd down its beautiful head. 
 ^The cup was all filFd, and the leaves were all wet. 
 And it seem'd to a fanciful view, 
 To weep for the buds it had left with regret, 
 On the flourishing bush where it grew. 
 J I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was 
 
 For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd ; 
 And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas I 
 I snapp'd it — it fell to the ground. 
 ^And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part, 
 Some act by the dehcate mind, 
 Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart, 
 Already to sorrow resign'd, 
 /^Fhis elegant rose, had I shaken it less. 
 
 Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile : 
 And the tear that is wip'd with a Uttle address, 
 Mav be follow'd perhaps by a smile. — cowper. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 Care of birds for their young, 
 
 ^As thus the patient dam assiduous sits, 
 Not to be tempted from her tender task. 
 Or by sharp hunger, or by smooth delight, 
 Tho' the whole loosen'd spring around her blows, 
 Her sympathising partner takes his stand 
 High on th' opponent bank, and ceaseless sings 
 The tedious time aw'ay ; or else supplies 
 Her place a moment, while she sudden flits 
 To pick the scanty meaL^Th' appointed time 
 With pious toil fulfilled, the callow young, 
 Warm'd and expanded into perfect life, 
 Their brittle bondage break, and come to light, 
 A heljdess family, demanding food 
 With constant clamour. O what passions then, 
 What melting sentiments of kindly care, 
 On the new parents seize !> A^vlay they fly 
 Affectionate, and undesiring bear 
 
Chap, 4. Descnptke Pieces. 9XB 
 
 The most delicious morsel to their young ; 
 
 Which equally distributed, again 
 
 The search begins. Even so a gentle pair, 
 
 By fortune sunk, but form'd of gen'rous mould, 
 
 And charmed with cares beyond the vulgar breast. "^ 
 
 In some lone cot amid the distant woods, 
 
 Sustain'd alone by providential Heav'n, 
 
 Oft, as they weeping eye their infant train. 
 
 Cheek their own appetites, and give tliem all. — Thomson. 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 liberty and slavery contrasted. Part of a letter written from 
 
 Italy by Addison, 
 J How has kind Heav'n adorned the happy land, 
 
 And scattered blessings with a wasteful hand 1 
 
 But what avail her unexhausted stores, 
 
 Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores, 
 
 With all the gifts that heav'n and earth impart, 
 
 The smiles of nature, and the charms of art, 
 
 While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, 
 
 And tyranny usurps her happy plains ? 
 
 The poor inhabitant beholds in vain 
 
 The redd'ning orange, and the swelling grain; 
 
 Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, 
 
 And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines.^ 
 
 Oh, Libert3% ^^^o\x pow'r supremely bright, 
 
 Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight 1 
 
 Perpetual pleasures in thy presence reign ; . 
 
 And smihng plenty leads thy wanton train. 
 
 Eas'd of her load, subjection grows more light; 
 
 And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight. 
 
 Thou mak'^t the gloomy face of nature gay ; 
 
 Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day.^ 
 On foreign mountains, may the sun refine 
 
 The grape's soft juice, and mellov*- it to wine \ 
 
 With citron groves adorn a distant soil. 
 
 And the fat olive swell with floods of oil : 
 
 j;j^e envy not the warmer clime, that lies 
 
 \n -^si degrees of more indulgent skies ; 
 
 Nor at tUfc cc^rseness of our heav'n repine, 
 
 Tho' o'er our heads the ii^z^n Pleiad? shine : 
 
 'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, 
 
 And makes her barren rocks, and her bleak mountains smile. 
 
f 16 The English Reader, Part 2 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 Charity, A paraphrase on the \3th chapter of the Jirst 
 epistle to the Corinthians, 
 • Did sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue, 
 Than ever man pronounc'd or angel sung ; 
 Had 1 all knowle-ilge, human and divine, 
 That thought can reach, or science can define 9 
 And had I pow'r to give that knowledge birth. 
 In all the speeches of the babbling earth ; 
 Did Shadracb's zeal my glowing breast inspire. 
 To weary tortures^ and rejoice in fire ; 
 Or had I laith hke that which Israel saw, 
 When Moses gave them miracles, and law : 
 Yet, gracious charity, indulgent guest, *^ 
 
 Were not thy pow'r exerted in my breast ; 
 Those speeches would send up unheeded pray'r ; 
 That scorn of life would be but wild despair ; 
 A cynsbMl's sound were better than mj voice ; 
 My faith were form ; my eloquence were noise-^ 
 
 Charity, decent, modest, easy, kind, 
 Softens the high, and rears the abject mind ; 
 Knows with just reins, and gentle hand, to guide 
 Betwixt vile shame, and arbitrary pride. 
 Not soon proYok'd, she easily forgives ; 
 And much-she suffers, as she much believes. 
 Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives ; 
 She l3uilds our quiet, as she forms our lives ; 
 Lays the rough paths of peevish nature even ; 
 And opens in each heart a little heav'n.J 
 
 Each other gift, which God on man bestows, 
 Its proper bounds, and due restriction knows ; 
 To one fix'd purpose dedicates its pow'r ; 
 And finishing its act, exists no more. 
 Thus, in obedience to what Hcav'n decrees, 
 Knowledge shall fail, and prophecy shall cease; 
 But lasting charity's more ample sway, 
 Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay. 
 In happy triumph shall for ever live ; 
 And endless good diffuse, and endless praise reQeiv,.4^ 
 
 As through iho artist's intervening glass, 
 Our eye observes the distn'^t ];Linets pass ; 
 A little v/e discover ; but allow, 
 That more remains unseen, than art can show; 
 
0iap. 4. Descriptive Pieces, £17 
 
 So whilst our inind its knowledge would improve^ 
 (Its feeble eye intent on things above,) 
 High as we may, we lift our reason up, 
 By faith directed, and confirm'd by hope ; 
 Yet are we able only to gurvey, 
 Dawnings of beams, and promises of day ; 
 Heav'n's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled sight ; 
 Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light. /*^ 
 
 But soon the mediate clouds shall be dispeli'd 5 
 The Sun shall soon be face to face beheld, 
 In all his robes, with all his glory on, 
 Seated sublime on his meridian throne. 
 Then constant faith, and holy hope shall die, 
 One lost in certainty, and one in joy : 
 Whilst thon, more happy pow'r, fdir charity. 
 Triumphant sister, greatest of the three. 
 Thy office, and thy nature still the same, 
 Lasting thy lamp, and unconsum'd thy flame, 
 Shalt still survive — 
 
 Shalt stand before the host of heav'n confest. 
 For ever blessing, and for ever blest. —prior. 
 
 SECTION VIL 
 Picture of a good man, 
 (Some angel guide my pencil^ while 1 draw^ 
 What nothing else than angel can exceed, 
 A man on earth devoted to the skies ; 
 Like ships at sea, while in, above the world. 
 With aspect mild, and elevated eye, 
 Behold him seated on a mount serene, 
 Above the fogs of sense, and passion's storm : 
 All the black cares, and tumulis of this life. 
 Like harmless thunders, breaking at his ieet, 
 Excite his pity, not impair his peace.^ 
 Earth's genuine sons, the sceptred, and the slave. 
 A mingled mob! a w^and'ring herd! he sees, 
 Bewilder'd in the vale ; in all unlike ! 
 His full reverse in all ! What higher praise ? 
 What stronger demonstration of the right ? 
 
 The present all their care ; the future his. 
 When public welfare calls, or private want, 
 They give to fame ; his bounty he conceals. 
 Their virtues varnish nature ; his exalt. 
 Mankind's esteem thej court ; and he his «w». < 
 
fl8 The English Reader. Part 2 
 
 Theirs the wild chase of false felicities ; 
 His, the compos'd possession of the true. 
 Alike throughout is his consistent piece. 
 All of one colour, and an even thread ; 
 While party-colour'd shades of happiness, 
 With hideous gaps between, patch up for fBeii3§ » 
 A madman's robe ; each puff of fortune blows 
 The testers by, and shows their nakednessj^ 
 
 He sees with other eyes than theirs : where they 
 Behold a sun, he spies a Deity ; 
 What makes them only smile, makes him adore. 
 Where they see mountains, he but atoms sees ; 
 An empire in his balance, weighs a grain. 
 They things terrestrial worship as divine : 
 His hopes immortal blow them by, as dust, 
 That dims his siglit and shortens his survey, 
 Which longs, in infinite, to lose all bound. C^^ 
 Titles and honours (if they prove his fate) 
 H^e lays aside to find his dignit}^ ; 
 No dignity they find in aught besides. 
 They triumph in externals, (which conceal 
 Man's real glory,) proud of an eclipse : 
 Himself too much he prizes to be proud ; 
 And nothing thinks so great in man, as man» 
 Too dear he holds his interest, to neglect 
 Another's welfare, or his right invade ; 
 Their interest, like a lion, lives on prey^ 
 1 hey kindle at the shadow of a wrong , 
 W^rcng he sustams willi temper, looks on heaven, 
 Nor stoops to think his^ injurer his foe : 
 Nought, but v/hat wounds his virtue, wounds his peace. 
 A cover'd heart their character dt: fends ; 
 A cover'd heart denies him half his praisevj^ 
 * With nakedness his innocence agrees ! 
 While their broad foliage testifies their fall ! 
 Their no-joys end, where his full feast begins.: 
 His joys create, theirs murder, future bliss. 
 ''J o triumph in existence, his alone ; 
 And his alone triumphantly to think 
 His true existence is not yot begun. 
 His glorious course was, yesterday, complete : 
 Death, then, was welcome ; yet life still is sweet. — YOifrrG 
 
Chap, 4. Descriptive Pieces* 
 
 SECTION VIII. 
 
 The pleasures of retirement 
 •O KNEW he bat his happiness, of men 
 The happiest he ! who, far from public rage, 
 Deep in the vale, with a choice few retir'd. 
 Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life. 
 What tho' the dome be wanting, whose proud gate, 
 Rach morning, voriiits out the sneaking crowd 
 Of flatterers false, and in their turn abus'd ? 
 Vile intercourse ! What though the glittering robe. 
 Of ev'ry hue reflected lighj; c:ui give, 
 Or floated loose, or stiif with ni-izy gold. 
 The pride and gaze of fools, oppress him not ? 
 What tho', from utmost land and se-a purvey'd,^ 
 For him each rarer tribnttry life 
 Bleeds not, and his iiisati it? tabh^ heaps 
 With luxury and death ? Wl. it ihq' his bonl 
 Flames not with costly juice ; nor .sank in beds 
 Oft of gay care, he tosses out the night. 
 Or melts the thon'7;ht]ess hours in idle stole ? 
 What tho' he knows not those fantastic joys. 
 That still amuse the wanton, still deceive ; 
 A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain ; 
 Their hollow moments undelighted ull ? 
 Sure peace is his ; a solid life estranged 
 To disappointmeat, and fdllacious hope.^ 
 Rich in content, in nature's bounty rich9^ 
 In herbs and fruits ; whatever greens the spring, 
 When heaven descends in showers ; or bends Jhe bough 
 When summer reddens, and when autumn beams ; 
 Or in the wintry glebe whatever lies 
 Conceard^ and flutens with the richest sap : 
 These are not wanting ; nor the riiilky drove, 
 Luxuriant, spread o'er ail the lowing vale ; 
 Nor bleating mountains ; nor the chide of streams * 
 And hum of bees, inviting sleep sincere 
 Into the guiltless breast, beneath the shade, 
 Or thrown at large amid the fragrant ha}' ; 
 Nor aught besides of prospect, grove, or song, 
 Dim grottos, gleaming lakes, and fountains ciear,^ 
 Here too dwells simple truth ; plain innocence ; 
 Unsullied beauty ; sound unbroken youth. 
 Patient of labour, with a little pleased ; 
 
229 The English Reader. Part 2, 
 
 Health ever blooming ; unambitious toil ; 
 Calm contemplation, and poetic ease. — Thomson, 
 
 SECTION IX. 
 
 The pleasure and henejit of an improved and well-directed 
 imagination. 
 
 ' Oh ! blest of Heaven, who not the languid songs 
 Of luxury, the siren ! not the bribes 
 Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils 
 Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave 
 Those ever blooming sweets, which, from the store 
 Of nature, fair imagination culls, 
 To charm th' enliven'd soul ! What tho' not all 
 Of mortal offspring can attain the height 
 Of envy'd life ; tho' only few possess 
 Patrician treasures, or imperial state ; 
 Yet nature's care, to all her children just, 
 IVith richer treasures, and an ampler state, 
 Endows at large whatever happy man 
 Will deign to use them.^His the city's pomp, 
 The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns 
 'The princely dome, the column, and the arch, 
 The breathing marble and the sculptur'd gold. 
 Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, 
 His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the spring 
 Distils her dews, and from the silken gem 
 its lucid leaves unfolds : for him, the hand 
 Of autumn tinges every fertile branch 
 With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. 
 Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings : 
 And iftill new beauties meet his lonely walk, 
 And loves unfelt attract him.2 Not a breeze 
 Flies o'er tlie meadow ; not ja cloud imbibes 
 The setting sun's effulgence ; not a strain 
 From all the tenants of the warbHng shade 
 Ascends ; but whence his bosom can partake 
 Fresh pleasure, unreprov'd. Nor thence partakes 
 Fresb pleasure only ; for th' attentive mind, 
 By this harmonious action on her' powers, 
 Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft 
 in outward things to meditate the charm 
 Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home^ 
 'J'o Hnd a kindred order ; to exert 
 Within herself thi3 elegance of lavq. 
 
Chap* 5. Pathetic Pieces, 221 
 
 This fair inspired delight : her tempered powers 
 
 Refine at length, and everj' passion wears 
 
 A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. 
 
 But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze 
 
 On nature's form, where, negligent of all 
 
 These lesser graces, she assumes the port 
 
 Of that Eternal Majesty that weigh'd 
 
 The world's foundations, if to these the mind 
 
 Exalts her daring eye ; then mightier far 
 
 Will be the cliange, and nobler. Would the forms 
 
 Of servile custom cramp her gen'rous pow'rs ? 
 
 Would sordid policies, the barb'rous growth 
 
 Of ignorance and rapine, bow^ her dovi^n 
 
 To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear ; 
 
 Lo ! she appeals to nature, to the winds 
 
 And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course, 
 
 The elements and seasons : all declare 
 
 For what th' eternal maker has ordain'd 
 
 The pow'rs of man : we feel within ourselves 
 
 His energy divine : he tells the heart, 
 
 He meant, he made us to behold and love 
 
 What he beholds and loves, the general orb 
 
 Of life and being ; to be great like Him, 
 
 Beneficent arvl active. Thus the men 
 
 Whom nature's works instruct, with God himself 
 
 Hold converse ; grow familiar, day by day, 
 
 With his conceptions ; act upon his plan ; 
 
 And form to his, the relish of their souls.— akenside, 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 SECTION I 
 
 The hermit. 
 At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still. 
 
 And mortals the sweets of forgetful ness prove ; 
 When nought but the torrent is heard on the hilJ, 
 
 And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove ; 
 Twas thus by the cave of the mountain afar, 
 
 While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began \ 
 No more with himself or with nature at war, 
 
 He thought as a sage, tho' he felt us a. mac 
 T 2 
 
^2 . Tlie English Reader. ' Part 2* 
 
 ^^ Ah ! why, all abandoned to darkness and wo j 
 
 Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? 
 For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, 
 
 And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral. i 
 
 But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay, 
 
 Mourn, sweetest compldner, man calls thee to mourn ; 
 O sooth 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 ; 
 Bat lately 1 mark'd, when majestic on high 
 
 She shone, and the plimets were lost in her blaze. 
 Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue 
 
 1 he path that conducts thee to splendour again : 
 But man's faded glory what change shall renew ! 
 
 Ah fooi ! to exult in a glory so vain l" 
 
 
 
 '^ 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more : 
 
 I mourn ; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you f 
 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 mouldering urn I 
 
 O when shall day dawn on the night of the grave I'' 
 
 *• 'Twas thus hy the glare of false science betray'd. 
 
 That leads, to bewilder ; and dazzles, to blind ; 
 My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, 
 
 Destruction before L»ne, and sorrow behind. 
 G pity, great Father of light, then 1 cried. 
 
 Thy creature who fain would not wander from thee ! 
 Lo, humbled in dust, 1 relinquish my pride : 
 
 From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.'' 
 
 ^ And darkness and doubt are now fljing away ; 
 Ko longer I roam in conjecture forlorn : 
 
 ' n — »; 
 
 So breaks on the travel lei», fiint and astra}^ 
 'i he bright and the balmy effulgence of m( 
 
 See truth, love, and morcy, in triumph dcocending, 
 Afid natiire all i!!:lovving in t^den's iirst bloom ! 
 
 On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending. 
 And beauty* iauuortai awakes from the tomb,''— beat ti 15. 
 
 I 
 
^ap. 5. Pathetic Pieces. 223 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 The beggar'' s petition, 
 l^' Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, 
 
 Whose trembhng limbs have borne him to your door ; 
 Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ; 
 
 Oh ! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. 
 These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak, 
 
 These 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. 
 Yon house, erected on the rising ground, 
 
 With tempting aspect drew me from vciy road \ 
 For plenty there a residence has found. 
 
 And grandeur a magnificent abode. 
 Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor ! 
 
 Here, as 1 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 I take me to your hospitable dome ; 
 
 tKeen 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 1 sprigbtlj 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, 
 fs cnst abmdon'd on the world's wide stage, 
 
 And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam. 
 My teritler wife, sweet soother of my care ! 
 
 Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, 
 
224 The English Reader. Part 2. 
 
 Fell:, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair ; 
 
 And left the world to wretchedness and me. 
 Pit}^ the sorrows of a poor old man, 
 
 Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door ; ;.w 
 Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ; — 
 
 Oh ! give relief, and Heav'n will bless your store- 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 Unhappy close of life. 
 How shocking must thy summons be, O Death ! 
 To him that is at ease in his possessions ! 
 Who counting on long years of pleasure here, 
 Is quite unfurnish'd for the world, to come ! 
 In that dread moment, how the frantic soul 
 Raves round the walls of her clay tenement ; 
 Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help ; 
 But shrieks in vain ! How wishfully she looks 
 On all she's leaving, now no longer hers • Jr 
 A little longer ; yet a little longer ; /^^^ 
 O might she stay to wash away her stains ; 
 And fit her for her passage ! Mournful sight ! 
 Her very eyes weep blood ; and ev'ry groan 
 She heaves is big with horror. But the foe, 
 Like a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose, 
 .Pursues her close, thro' ev'ry lane of life ; 
 Nor misses once the track ; but presses on, 
 Till, forc'd at last to the tremendous verge, 
 At once she sinks to everlasting ruin. — r. blair. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 y Elegy to pity. 
 
 Hail, lovely pow'r ! whose bosom heaves the sigh^ 
 
 When fancy paints the scene of deep distress ; 
 Whose tears spontaneous crystallize the eye, 
 ,When rigid fate denies the pow'r to bless. 
 Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey 
 
 From flow'ry meads, can with that sigh compare f 
 Not dew-drops glitt'ring in the morning ray, 
 
 » Seem near so beauteous as that falling tear. 
 Devoid of fear, the fm'ns around thee play ; 
 
 Emblem of peace, the dove before thee flies ; 
 No blood-stain'd traces mark thy blameless way.; 
 Beneath fhy feet no hapless insect dies. 
 
 ^ 
 
Chap. 5. Pathetic Pieces. 225 
 
 Come, lovely nymph, and range the mead with me, 
 
 To spring the partridge from the guileful foe ; 
 From secret snares the struggling bird to free ; 
 
 And stop the hand «prais'd to give the blow. 
 And when the air with heat meridian glows, 
 
 And nature droops beneath the conqu'ring gleam. 
 Let us, slow wand'ring where the current flows, 
 
 Save sinking flies that fli^at along the stream. 
 Or turn to nobler, greater tasks thy care, 
 
 To me thy sympathetic gifts impart ; 
 Teach me in friendship's griefs to bear a share, 
 
 And justly boast the gen'rous feeling heart. 
 Teach me to seoth the helpless orphan's grief; 
 
 With timely aid the widow's woes assuage ; 
 To mis'ry's moving cries to yield relief; 
 
 And be the sure resource of drooping age. 
 So when the genial spring of life shall fade, 
 
 And sinking nature own the dread decay. 
 Some soul congenial then may lend its aid, 
 
 And gild the close of life's e^^entful day. 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during ft@ 
 solitary abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez, 
 
 I AM^monarch of all I survey, 
 
 My right there is none to dispute ; 
 From the centre all round to the sea, - 
 
 I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
 Oh solitude 1 where are the charms. 
 
 That sages have seen in thy face ? 
 Better dwell in the midst of abirms. 
 
 Than reign in this horrible place. 
 
 I am out of humanity's reach, 
 
 I must finish my journey alone ; 
 Never hear the sweet music of speechjL 
 
 I start at the sound of my own. 
 The beasts that roam over the plain, 
 
 My form with indifl'erence see : 
 They are so unacquainted with man, 
 
 Their tameness is shocking to me. 
 
 t 
 
The English Readers Part 2 ^ 
 
 Society, friendship, and love. 
 
 Divinely bestow'd upon man, 
 Oh had { the wings of a dove, 
 
 How soon would 1 taste you again! i 
 
 My sorrows 1 then might assuage 
 
 In the ways of religion and t/uth ; 
 Might learn from the wisdom of age, 
 
 And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. 
 
 Religion ! "what treasure untold 
 
 Resides in that heavenly word I 
 More precious than silver or gold, 
 
 Or all that this earth can afford. 
 But the sound of the church-going bell 
 . These valiies and rocks never heard ; 
 Ne'er sigh'd at the sound of a knell, 
 r smil'd when a sabbath appear'd. 
 
 ^l 
 
 e winds that have made me your sport. 
 
 Convey to this desolate shore. 
 Some cordial endearing report 
 
 Of a land 1 shall visit no more. 
 My friends, do they now and then send 
 
 A wish or a thought after me ? 
 O tell me I yet have a friend. 
 
 Though a friend I am never to see. 
 
 How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 
 
 Compar'd with the speed of its flighty 
 The tempest itself lags behind. 
 
 And the swift-winged arrows of light. 
 When I think of my own native land, 
 
 in a jnoment I seem to be there ; 
 But, alas ! recollection at hand 
 
 Soon hurries me back to despair. 
 
 But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, 
 
 The beast is laid down in his lair ; 
 Even here is a season of res>t, 
 
 And i to my cabin repair. 
 There's mercy in every place ; 
 
 And mercy — encouraging thought! 
 Gives even affliction a grace. 
 
 And reconciles man to his lot- — cowper. 
 
3. Fathetic Pieces, 227 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 Gratitude, 
 When all thy mercies, O my God ! 
 
 i\iy rising soul surveys, 
 Transported with the view, I'm lost 
 
 In wonder, love, and praise. 
 O how shall words, with equal warmth, 
 
 The gratitude declare. 
 That glows within my ravish'd heart ? 
 
 But thou canst read it there. 
 Thy providence my life sustain'd, 
 
 And all my w^ants redresfe. 
 When in the silent womb I lay, 
 
 And hung upon the breast. 
 To all my weak complaints and cries, 
 
 Thy mercy lent an ear, 
 Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learn' d 
 
 To form themselves in pray'r. 
 Unnumber'd comforts to my soul 
 
 Thy tender care bestow'd, 
 Before my infant heart conceiv'd 
 
 From whom those comforts tlow'd. 
 Wheny in the slipp'ry paths of youth, 
 
 With heedless steps, t ran. 
 Thine arm, unseen, convey'd me safe, 
 
 J^ A*nd led me up to man. 
 Through hidden dangers, toils, and deaths, 
 
 It gently clear'd my way ; 
 And through the pleasing snares of vice, 
 
 More to be fear'd than they. 
 When worn with sickness, oft h<ist thou, 
 
 With health renew'd my fa<3^ ; 
 And, when in sins and sorm^V'^ sunk, 
 
 K e vi V ' d my • s o u 1 wiS^ra c e . 
 Thy bounteous hand, with worldly blisg, 
 
 Hc^s made my cup run o'er-;*^ 
 And, in a kind and f lithful friend. 
 
 Has doubled all my store. ,, 
 Ten thousand thousand precious gilw 
 
 My daily thanks employ ; 
 
f28 The English Reader. Parit 
 
 Nor is the least a cheerful heart 
 
 That tastes those gifts with joy. 
 Through ev'ry period of mj life, 
 
 Thy goodness Pll pursue ; 
 And, after death, in distant worlds, 
 
 The glorious theme renew. ^ 
 When nature faiL% and day and night 
 
 Divide thy works no more, 
 My ever-grateful heart, O Lord ! 
 
 Thy mercy shall adore. \ 
 Through all eternity, to thee \ 
 
 A joyful song IMl raise, 
 For O ! eternity's too short 
 
 To utter all thy praise.— ^addisojt. 
 
 SECTION VII. 
 A man perishing in the snow ; from whence reflections art 
 raised on the miseries of life. 
 As thus the snows arise ; and foul and fierce, 
 All winter drives along the darkened air ; 
 In his own loose-revolving field, the swain 
 Disaster'tl stands ; sees other hills ascend, 1 j 
 
 Of unknown joyless brow ; and other scenes, ' 
 
 Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain ; 
 Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid 
 Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on, 
 From hill to dale, still more and more astray ; 
 Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, 
 Stung with the thoughts of home ; the thoughts of hoiflC 
 Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth 
 In many a vain attempt.- How sinks his soul I 
 What black despair, what horror fills his heart ! 
 When, for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd 
 His tufted cottage rising through the snow, 
 He meets the roughness of the middle waste, 
 Far from the tnick, and blest abode of man^ 
 While round liim uviht resistless closes fast, 
 And ev'ry tempest liowling o'er his head, '^ 
 
 Renders the savage wilderness more wild. 
 Then throng the busy shapes into his mind, 
 Of cover'd pits, unfathom ibly deep, 
 A dire descent, beyond th" pow'r of frost * 
 Of faithlcBS bogs ; of precipices huge, 
 
Oiap. 6. Pathetic Pieces. 
 
 Smooth'd up with snow ; and what is land, unknow, 
 What water, of the still unfrozen spring, 
 In the loose marsh or solitary lake, 
 Hf Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. 
 These check his fearful steps ; and down he sinks 
 Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, 
 Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, 
 Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots 
 Through the wrung bosom of the dying man.> 
 His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. . 
 In vain for him th' officious wife prepares 
 The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm ; 
 In vain his little children, peeping out 
 Into the mingled storm, demand their sire, 
 With tears of artless innocence. Alas 1 
 Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold ; 
 Nor friends, nor sacred home, . On every nerve 
 The deadly winter seizes ; shiitp up sense ; 
 And, o'er his inmost vitals creepintc cold, 
 Lays him along the «;now3 a stiffen'd corse, . 
 Strelch'd out and bleaching in the northern blast. 
 
 Ah, little think the gay licentious proud. 
 Whom pleasure, pow'r, and affluence surround ; 
 They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, 
 And wrmton, often cruel riot, waste ; 
 Ah little think they, while they dance along., 
 How many feel, this v^ery moment, death, 
 And ail the sad variety of pain ! 
 How many sink in the devouring flood, 
 Or more devouring flame ! How many bleed, 
 By shameful variance betwixt man and man ! 
 How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms. 
 Shut, from the common air, and common use 
 Of their own limbs 1 How many drink the cup 
 Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread 
 Of misery ! Sore pierc'd by wintry winds, 
 How many shrink into the sordid hut 
 Of cheerless poverty ! How many shake 
 With all the fiercer tortures of the mind. 
 Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse ! 
 How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop 
 Ml deep retir'd distress ! How many stand 
 Around the de;\th-bed of their dearest friends, 
 And point the parting ang^^iish ! Thought;, foad m» 
 
1 
 
 ^^^ The English Reader. Part. 2. 
 
 Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, 
 That one incessant struggle render life, 
 Que scene of toil, of suiffering, and of fate, 
 Vice in his high career would stand appalKd, 4 
 
 And heedless rambling impulse learn to think ^ 
 The conscious heart of charity would warm, 
 And her wide wish benevolence dilate ; 
 The social tear would rise, the social sigh ; 
 And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, 
 Refining still, the social passions work. — Thomson. 
 
 SECTION VIII. 
 
 A morning hymn. 
 These are thy glorious works, parent of good, 
 Almighty, thine this universal frame, 
 Thus wond'rous ftiir ; thyself how wond'rous then! 
 Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens 
 To us, invisible, or dimly seen 
 In these tliy lower works ; yet these declare 
 Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine* 
 Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons ^ of light, 1.\ 
 Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs 
 And choral symphonies, day without night, 
 Circle his throne rejoicing ; ye, in heaven, 
 On earth, join all ye creatures to extol 
 Him first. Him last. Him midst, ftnd without end. 
 Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, 
 \f better thou belong not to the dawn. 
 Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling moFD 
 Witli thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, 
 While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
 Thou sun, of this great world, both eye and soul, 
 Acknowledge him thy greater, sound his praise 
 In thy etermd course, both when thou climb'st, 
 And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou falls't* 
 Mo )n, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st, 
 With the fix'd stars, itixW in their orb that flies ; 
 And ye five other wan'dring fires that move 
 In mystic dance, not without song, resound 
 J^is praise, who out of darkness call'd up light. 
 Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth 
 Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run 
 Fcrf>etual circle, multiform, and mix 
 And nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change 
 
I Chap. 6. Promiscuous Pieces* 231 
 
 Vary to our great maker still new praise.^ 
 Ye mists and exhalations that now rise 
 From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray, 
 Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, 
 In honour to the world's great author rise ! 
 Whether to deck with clouds th' uncoloar'd sky, 
 Or wet the thirsty earth with ibliing shovv'rs, 
 Rising or failin<j: still advance his praise. 
 ,) Mis praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow 
 Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye piuea. 
 With ev'ry plant, in sign of worship wave. ^ 
 Fountains, and ye that wjirble as ye tlow 
 Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise., 
 Join voices, ail ye living souls ; ye birds 
 That singing, up to heaven's g^ite ascend, 
 Bear on your win-s 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 \ be silent, morn or even, 
 To hill or valley, fountain, or fresh shade 
 Made vocal by my spng, and taught his praise. 
 Hail, unive;rsal Lord 1 be bounteous still 
 To give us only good ; and if the night 
 Has gather'd aught of evil, or conceai'd, 
 Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. — -MiLTOJf. 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 Ode to content. 
 
 G THOU, the nymph with placid eye ' 
 O seldom found, yet ever nigh ! 
 
 Receive my tenip'rate vow : 
 Not all the storms that shake the pole 
 Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul, 
 
 And smooth, unalter'd brow, 
 O come, in simplest vest array 'd, 
 With all thy sober cheer display'd. 
 
 To bless my longing sight ; 
 
The English Reader. Part 2 
 
 Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace, 
 
 Thy meek regard, thy matron grace, 
 
 And chaste subdu'd delight. 
 
 No more by varying passions beat^ 
 O gently guide my pilgrim feet 
 
 To find thy hermit cell ; 
 Where in some pure and equal sky. 
 Beneath thy soft indujgent eye, 
 
 The modest virtues dwell. 
 
 Simpiicity in attic vest, 
 
 And Innocence, with candid breastj 
 
 And clear undaunted eye ; 
 And Hope, who points to distant years, 
 Fair op'ning thro' this vale of tears 
 
 A vista to the sky. 
 
 There Health, thro' whose calm bosom sage 
 The temp'rate joys in even tide, 
 
 That rarely ebb or flow ; 
 And Patience tliere, th}^ sister meek, 
 Presents her mild, unvarying cheek, 
 
 To meet the oller'd blow. 
 
 Her iniioence .taught tlie Phrygian sage 
 A tyrant master's wanton rage, - 
 
 With sellled smiles, to meet : 
 Inur'd to toil and bitter bread, 
 He bow^'d his meek submitted head, 
 
 And kiss'd thy sainted feet. 
 
 But thou, O nym\)h, retir'd and coy ! 
 In what brown hamlet dost thou joy 
 
 To tell thy tender tale ? 
 The lowliest children o£ the ground, 
 Moss-rose and violet blossom round, 
 
 And lily of the vale. 
 
 say what soft propitious hour 
 
 1 best may .choose to hail thy pow'r, 
 
 And court thy gentle sway ? 
 When autumn, friendly to the muse, 
 Shall thy own modest tints diffuse, 
 
 And shed thy milder day ? 
 
 When eve, her dewy star beneath, 
 Thy balmy s])int loves to breathe. 
 
Chap* 6. Promiscuous Pieces. 23S 
 
 And ev'ry storm is laid ? 
 if such an hour was e'er thy choice, 
 Oft let me hear thy soothing voice, 
 
 Low whisp'ring through the shade.-— barbaulD. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 The shepherd and the philosopher. 
 Remote from cities liv'd a swain, 
 Unvex'd with ail the cares of gain : 
 His head was silver'd o'er with age, 
 And long experience made him sage ; 
 In summer's heat and winter's cold. 
 He fed his flock and penn'd the fold ; 
 His hours in cheerful labour flew. 
 Nor envy nor ambition knew : 
 His wisdom and his honest fame 
 Through all the country rais'd his name. 
 
 A deep philosopher (whose rules 
 Of moral life were drawn from schools) 
 The shepherd's homely cottage sought, 
 And thus explor'd his reach of thought. 
 
 '' Whence is thy learning ? Hath thy toil 
 O'er books consum'd the midnight oil ? 
 Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey'd. 
 And the vast sense of Phito weighed ? 
 Hath Socrates thy soul refin'd, 
 And hast thou.fathom'd T'llly's mind ? 
 Or, like the wise Ulysses, thrown, 
 By various fates, on realms unknown, 
 Hast thou through many cities stray'd. 
 Their customs, laws, and manners weigh'd V^ 
 
 The shepherd modestly replied, 
 *' I ne'er the paths of learning tried ; 
 Nor have I roam'd in foreign parts, 
 To read mankind, their hxw's and arts^; 
 For man is practis'd in disguise, 
 He cheats the most di.'Cerning eyes. 
 Who by that search sriall wiser grow ? 
 By that ourselves we never know. 
 The little knowledge I have s:ain'i4, 
 Was all from simjjle nature drain 'd ; 
 Hence my life's maxims took their rise. 
 Hence grew mv settled hate of vice, 
 . U Z 
 
f 34 Ttie English Reader. Part 2. 
 
 The daily labours of the bee 
 4wake my soul to industry. 
 vVho can observe the careful ant, 
 And not provide for future want ? 
 My dog (the trustiest of his kind) 
 With gratitude inflames my mind : 
 1 mark his true, his faithful way 
 And in my service copy Tray. 
 In constancy and nuptial love, 
 1 learn my duty from the dove. 
 The hen, who from the chilly air. 
 With pious wing, protects her care, 
 And ev'ry fowl that flies at large, 
 Instructs me in a parent's charge." 
 
 " From nature too I take my rule^ 
 To shun contempt and ridicule. 
 I never, with important air, 
 In conversation overbear. 
 Can grave and formal pass for wise. 
 When men the solemn owl despise ? 
 My tongue within my lips I rein ; 
 For who talks much must talk in vain. 
 We from the wordy torrent fly : 
 Who listens to the chatt'ring pye ? 
 Nor would I, with felonious flight. 
 By stealth invade my neighbour's right : 
 Rapacious animals we hate ; 
 Kites, hawks, and wolves, deserve their fatey 
 Do not we just abhorrence And 
 Against the toad and serpent kind ? 
 But envy, calumny, and spite, 
 Bear stronger venom in their bite. 
 Thus ev'ry object of creation 
 Can furnish hints to contemplation ; 
 And, from the most minute and mean, 
 A virtuous mind am morals glean." 
 
 '' Thy fiiTie is just," the sage replies ; 
 *' Thy virtue proves thee truly wise. 
 Pride often guides the autlior's pen, 
 Books as aftected are as men : 
 But he who studies nature's laws. 
 From certain truth his maxims drawls ; 
 And those, without our schools, suffice 
 To make men moruJ^ ^^^od. and wise.''— -gay,. 
 
Chap. 6. Promiscuous Pieces. S35 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 The road to happiness open to all men. 
 
 Oh happiness! our being's end and aim ! 
 
 Good, pleasure, ease, content ! wbate'er thy name ; 
 
 That something still which prompts th' eternal sigh^ 
 
 For which we be^^^r to live, or dare to die : 
 
 Which still so netr us, yet beyond us lies, 
 
 O'erlookM, seen double, by the fool and wise ; 
 
 Plant of celestial seed, if dropt below, 
 
 Saj^ in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow ? 
 
 Fair op'ning to some court's propitious shine, 
 
 Or deep with diamonds in the tlaming mine ? 
 
 Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield. 
 
 Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field ? 
 
 Where grows ? w here 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 w^here to be found, or ev'rj^ where ; 
 
 ^Tis never to be bought, but always free ; 
 
 And, fled from monarchs, St. John ! dwells with thee. 
 
 Ask of the learn'd the way. The learn'd are blind; 
 This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind : 
 Some place the bliss in action, some in ease ; 
 Those callit pleasure, and contentment these : 
 Some sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in pain ; 
 Some swell'd to gods, confess ev'n virtue vam , 
 Or indolent, to each extreme they fdl, 
 To trust in ev'ry thing, or doubt of all. 
 
 Who thus define it, say they more or less 
 Than this, that happiness is happiness ? 
 Take nature's path, and mad opinions leave ; 
 All states can reach it, and all heads conceive ; 
 Obvious her goods, in no extreme they dwell ; 
 There needs but thinking right, and meaning well ^ 
 And mourn our various portions as w^e please. 
 Equal is common sense, and common ease. 
 
 Remember, man, " the universal cause 
 Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws ;" 
 And makes what happiness we justly call, 
 Subsist not in the good of one, but all, — fope. 
 
236 The English Reader. Part % 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 The goodness of Providence. 
 The Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
 And feed me' with* a shepherd's care ; 
 His preg*ence sli^ll m/^wants supply 
 And guQrd me with a w^tcljful eye ; 
 My napn-day \^^alks jje shall attend, 
 And all my midnight hours defendlf 
 When in the sultry glebe I fliint, 
 Or on the thirsty mountains pant ; 
 To fertile vales, and dewy meads, 
 My weary wand'ring steps he leads • 
 Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, 
 Amid the verdant landscape flow. ' 
 Tho' in the paths of death I tread, 
 With gloomy horrors overspread, 
 My stedfast heart shall fear no ill ; 
 For thou, O Lard, art with me still : 
 Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, 
 And guide me through the dreadful shade. 
 Tho' in a bare and rugged way, 
 Through devious lonely wilds I stray. 
 Thy bounty shall my pains beguile ; 
 The barren wilderness shall smile, 
 With sudden greens and herbage crown'd, 
 And streams shall murmur all around. — addison 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 The Creator^s works attest his greatness 
 The spacious firmament on high, 
 With all the blue ethereal sky. 
 And spangled heav'ns, a shining frame,,' 
 Their great original proclaim : 
 Th' unwearied sun, from day to day. 
 Does his Creator's pow'r display, 
 And publishes to ev'ry land, 
 The work of an Almighty hand. 
 Soon as the ev'ning shades prevail. 
 The moon takes up the ;vond'rous tale, 
 And, nightly, to the list'ning earthy 
 Repeats the story of her birth, r. 
 
Chap, 6. Promiscuous Pieces, 237 
 
 Whilst all the stars that round her burn. 
 
 And all the planets in their turn, 
 
 Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
 
 And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
 
 What though, in solemn silence, all 
 
 Move round the dark terrestrial ball ! 
 
 What the' nor real voice nor sound. 
 
 Amid their radiant orbs be found ! 
 
 In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
 
 And utter forth a glorious voice, 
 
 For ever singing as they shine, 
 
 '* The hand that made us is Divine.'' — addison. 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 An address to the Deity, 
 €> thou! whose balance does the mountains weigh ; 
 Whose will the v»ild tumultu(5us seas obey ; 
 Whose breath can turn those wat'ry worlds to flame. 
 That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame ; 
 Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls^ 
 And on the boundless of thy goodness calls, 
 
 O ! give the winds all past offence to sweep, 
 To scatter wide, or bury in the deep. 
 Thy powT, my weakness, may I ever see, 
 And wholly dedicate my soul to thee. 
 Reign o'er my will ; my passions ebb and flow 
 At thy command, nor human motive know t 
 If anger boil, let anger be my praise. 
 And sin the graceful indignation raise. 
 My love be warm to succour the distress'd, 
 And lift the burden from the soul oppress'd. 
 O ma}^ my understanding ever read 
 This glorious volume which thy wisdom made ! 
 May sea and land, ;ind earth and beav'n, be join'd. 
 To bring tli' eternal Author to my mind ! 
 When oceans roar, or awful thunders roll, 
 May thoughts of thy dread vengeance shake my soul! 
 When earth's in bloom, or planets proudly shine. 
 Adore, my heart, the Majesty divine I 
 
 Grant I may ever at the morning ray, 
 Open with pray'r the consecrated day ; 
 Tune thy great praise, and bid my soul arise. 
 And with the mounting sun ascend the skies ; 
 
238 The English Reader. Part 2:, 
 
 As that advanc^es, let mj zeal improve, 
 And glow with ardour of consummate love j 
 Nor cease at eve, but with the setting sun 
 My endless worship shall be still begun. 
 
 And oh ! permit the gloom of solemn night, 
 To sacred thought may forcibly invite. 
 When this world's shut, and awful planets rise, 
 Call on our minds, and raise them to the skies ; 
 Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight, 
 Ahd show all nature in a milder light ; 
 How ev'ry boist'rous thought in calm subsides ! 
 How the smooth'd spirit into goodness glides! 
 Oh how divine ! to tread the milky way, 
 To the bright palace of the Lord of Day ; 
 His court admire, or for his favour sue, 
 Or leagues of friendship with his saints renew : 
 Pleas'd to look down and see the world asleep ; 
 While I long vigils to its Founder keep ! 
 
 Canst thou not shake the centre ? Oh control, 
 Subdue by force, the rebel in my soul ; 
 Thou, who canst still the raging of the flood, 
 Restrain the various tumults of my blood ; 
 Teach me, with equal tirmness, to sustain 
 Alluring pleasure, and assaulting pain. 
 O may I pant for thee in earfi desire ! 
 And with strong faith foment the holy fire i 
 Stretch out my soul in hope, and grasp the prize, 
 Which in eternit}/'s deep bosom lies 1 
 At the great day of recompense behold, 
 Devoid of fear, the fatal book unfold '. 
 Then wafted upward to the blissful seat, 
 From age to age my grateful song repeat ; 
 My Light, my Life, my God, my Saviour see, 
 And rival angels in the praise of thee 1 — young, 
 
 SECTION VIL 
 
 llie pursuit of happiness often ill'directed. 
 The midnight moon serenely smiles 
 
 O'er nature's soft repose ; 
 No low'ring fcloud obscures the sky, 
 
 Nor ruffling tempest blows. 
 Now ev'ry passion sinks to rest, 
 
 The throbbing heart lies still ; 
 
Chap. 6. PromiscufAis Pieces, 
 
 And varying schemes of life no more 
 
 Distract the lab'ring will. 
 In silence hush'd to reason's voice, 
 
 Attends each mental pow'r : 
 Come, dear Emipu, and enjoy 
 
 Reflection's fav'rite hour. 
 Come ; while the peaceful scene invites. 
 
 Let's search this ample round ; 
 Where shall the lovely tle^ling form 
 
 Of happiness be found ? 
 Doe-^ it amidst the frolic mirth 
 
 Of gay assemblies dwell ; 
 Or hide beneath the solemn gloom. 
 
 That shades the hermit's cell ? 
 How oft the laughing brow of joy 
 
 A fJick'ning heart conceals 1 
 And, through the cloister's deep recess, 
 
 Invading sorrow steals. 
 In vain, through beauty, fortune, wit, 
 
 The fugitive we trace ; 
 It dwells not in the fdthless smile 
 
 That brightens Clodia's face. 
 Perhaps +he jo^^ to these deny'd> 
 
 The heart in friendship finds : 
 Ah ! dear delusion, gay conceit 
 
 Of visionary minds 1 
 Howe'er our varying notions rove. 
 
 Yet ail agree in one, 
 To place its being in some state. 
 
 At distance from our own. 
 O blind to each indulgent aim, 
 
 Of power supremely wise. 
 Who f uicy happiness in aught 
 
 i he hand oi lleav'n denies ! 
 v^ain is alike the joy we seek, 
 
 And vain what we possess, 
 Unless harmonious reason tunes 
 
 The passions into peace. 
 To temper'd wishes, just desires^ 
 
 Is happiness confin'd : 
 
240 The English Reader. 
 
 And, deaf to folly's call, attends 
 The music of the mind. — carter. 
 
 SECTION VIIL 
 
 The Fire 'Side, 
 
 Bear Chloe, while the busy crowd, 
 The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, 
 
 In folly's maze advance ; 
 Tho' singularity and pride 
 Be call'd our choice, well step aside, 
 
 Nor join the giddy dance. 
 
 FVom the gay world, we'll oft retire 
 To our own family and fire. 
 
 Where love our hours employs ; 
 No noisy neighbour enters here. 
 No intermeddling stranger near. 
 
 To spoil our heart-felt joys. 
 If solid happiness we prize, 
 Within our breast this jewel lies \ 
 
 And they are fools who roam : 
 The world has nothing to bestow 
 From our own selves our joys must flow 
 
 And that dear hut, our home. 
 Of rest was Noah's dove bereft, 
 When with impatient wing she left 
 
 That safe retreat, the ark ; 
 Giving her vain excursion o'er, 
 I'he disappointed Dird once more 
 
 Explor'd the s*>cred bark. 
 Tho' fools spurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs, 
 We, who improve his golden hours, 
 
 By sweet experience know. 
 That marriage rightly understood, 
 Gives to the tender and the good 
 
 A paradise below. 
 Our babes shull richest comfort bring ; 
 If tntor'd right, they'll prove a spring 
 
 Whence pleasures ever rise : 
 We'll form their minds, with studious care. 
 To all that's manly, good, and fi\ir, 
 
 And train them for the skies. 
 
 Part 2\ 
 
 i 
 
Ckap. 6, Promiscuous Pieces. 241 
 
 While they our wisest hours engage, 
 They'll joy our youth, support our age, 
 
 And crown our hoary hatrs : 
 They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day, 
 And thus our fondest loves repay, 
 
 And recompense our eares. 
 No horrow'd joys I they're all our own, 
 While to the world we live unknown. 
 
 Or by the wori 1 forgot : 
 Monarchs ! we envy not your state ; 
 We look with pity on the great, 
 
 And bless our humbler lot. 
 Our portion is not large, indeed ! 
 But then how little do we need I 
 
 For nature's calls are few : 
 In this the art of living lies, 
 To want no more than may suiBce, 
 
 And make that little do. 
 We'll therefore relish, with content, 
 Whate'er kind Providence has sent, 
 
 iNor aim beyond our pow^'r ; 
 For if our stock be very small 
 ^Tis prudence to enjoy it all. 
 
 Nor lose the preibent hour. 
 To be resign'd, when ills betide, 
 Patient when favours are denitid, 
 
 And pleas'd with favours giv'n : 
 Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part ; 
 This is that intense of the hearty 
 
 Whose fragrance smells to heav'n. 
 We'll ask no long protracted treat, 
 Since winter-life is seldom sweet ; 
 
 But when our feast is o'er, 
 Grateful from t^;b]e we'll arise, 
 Nor grudge our sons, with envious ejes, 
 
 The relics of our store. 
 Thus, hand in hand, thro' life we'll go ; 
 Its checker'd paths of joy and wo, 
 
 With cauiious steps, we'll tread ; 
 Quit its vuin scenes without a tear, 
 Wirhoat a trouble or a fear, 
 
 And mingle ^vita the dead. 
 X 
 
£4e The English Reader. Part S. 
 
 While conscience, like a faithful friend, 
 Shall thro' the gloomy vale attend, 
 
 And cheer our dying breath ; 
 Shall, when all other comforts cease, 
 Like a kind angel whisper peace. 
 
 And smooth the bed of death. — cotton. 
 
 SECTION IX. 
 
 Providence vindicated in the present state of man* 
 Meav'n from all creatures hides the book of fate, 
 All but the page prescribed, their present state ; 
 From brutes what men, from men what spirits know ; 
 Or who could suffer being here below ? 
 The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
 -Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? 
 Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food. 
 And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood. 
 Oh blindness to the future 1 kindly giv'n. 
 That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n ; 
 Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 
 A hero perish, or a sparrow fall ; 
 Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, 
 And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 
 
 Hope humbly then ; with trembling pinions soar ; 
 Wait the great teacher Death ; and God adore. 
 What future bliss he gives not thee to know. 
 But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
 Hope springs eternal in the human breast : 
 Man never is, but always to be blest. 
 The soul, uneasy, and confin'd from home, 
 Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 
 
 Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untntor'd mind 
 Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ; 
 His soul proud science never taught to stray 
 Far as the Solar Walk or Milivy Way ; 
 Yet simple nature to his hope has giv'n. 
 Behind the cloud-topt hill, a hnmbler heav'n ; 
 Some safer ivorld in depth of woods embraced, 
 Some happier island in the wat'ry waste ; 
 Where slaves once more their native land behold, 
 ]So fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 
 To BE, contents his natural desire ; 
 .He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire : 
 
gfettjo, 6. Promiscuous Pieces. 246 
 
 But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 
 His faithful dog shall bear him company. 
 
 Go, wiser thou ! and in thy scale of sense, 
 Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; 
 Call imperfection what thou fanciest stich ; 
 Say here he gives too little, there too much. — 
 in pride, in reas'ning pride, our error lies ; 
 All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. 
 Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes ; 
 Men would be angels, angels would be gods. 
 Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell^ 
 Aspiring to be angels, men rebel : 
 And who but wishes to invert the laws 
 Of ORDER, sins against th' eternal cause. — pope, 
 
 SECTION X. 
 
 Selfishness reproved. 
 
 Has God, thou fool! work'd solely forthygood^ 
 Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food ? 
 Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, 
 For him as kindly spreads the ilow'ry lawn. 
 Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings ? 
 Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. I 
 
 Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat ? 
 Loves of his own, and raptures swell the note* 
 The bounding steed you pompously bestride. 
 Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. 
 Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain ? 
 The birds of heav'n shall vindicate their grpin. 
 Thine the full harvest of the golden year ? 
 Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer. 
 The hog, that ploughs not, nor obeys thy call, 
 Lives on the labours of this lord of all. 
 
 Know, nature's children all divide her care ; 
 The fur that warms a monarch, warm'd a bear. 
 While man exclaims, " See all things for my use !*' ^ 
 '' See man for mine '.■' replies a pamper'd goose. 
 And just as short of reason he must fall, 
 Who thinks all made for one, not one for all. 
 
 Grant that the pow'rful still the weak control 5 •• 
 Be man the wit and tyrant of the whole : 
 Nature that tyrant checks ; he only knows. 
 And helps another creature's wants and woes. 
 
244 The English Reader, Part 2. 
 
 Say, will the falcon, stooping from above, 
 Smit with her varying plumage, spare the ^ove ? 
 Admires the jay, the insect's gilded wings ? 
 Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings ? 
 Man cares for all : to birds he gives his woods. 
 To beasts his pastures, and to fish his floods ; 
 For some his interest prompts him to provide, 
 For more his pleasures, yet for more his pride* 
 All fed on one vain patron, and enjoy 
 Th' extensive blessing of his luxury. 
 That very life his learned hunger craves, 
 He saves from famine, from the savage saves : 
 Nay, feasts the animal he dooms his feast ; 
 And, till he ends the being, makes it blest : 
 Which sees no more the stroke, nor feels the pam« 
 Than favourM man by touch ethereal slain. 
 The creature had his feast of life before ; 
 Thou too must perish, when thy feast is o'er! — pope. 
 
 SECTION XL 
 Human frailty^ 
 
 ^Weak and irresolute is man ; 
 
 The purpose of to-day. 
 Woven with pains into his plan, 
 
 To-morrow rends away. 
 The bow well bent, and smart the spring. 
 
 Vice seems already slain ; 
 But passion rudely snaps the string, 
 ^ And it revives again. 
 Some foe to his upright intent 
 
 Finds out his weaker part ; 
 Virtue engages his assent. 
 
 But pleasure wins his heart. 
 
 ?'Tis here the folly of the wise, 
 Through all his art we view ; 
 And while his tongue the charge deniee, 
 His conscience owns it true. 
 ^Bound on a voyage of awful length, 
 And dangers little known, 
 A stranger to superior strength, '- 
 Man vainlv trusts his own 
 
Chap. 6. Promiscuous Pieces. 
 
 ^ But oars alone can ne'er prevail 
 ^ To reach the distant coast ; 
 
 The breath of heav'n must swell the sail, 
 Or ail the toil is lost. — cowrER. 
 
 SECTION XII 
 
 Ode to peace, 
 
 ^boME, peace of mind, delightful guest . 
 Return, and make thy downy nest 
 
 Once more in this sad heart : 
 Nor riches I, nor pow'r pursue, 
 Nor hold forbidden joys in view ; 
 
 We therefore need not part. 
 Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me. 
 From av'rice and ambition free, 
 j^^nd pleasure's fatal wiles ; 
 For whom, alas ! dost thou prepare 
 The sweets that I was wont to share^ 
 
 The banquet of thy smiles ? 
 The great, the ga}^ shall they partake 
 The heav'n that thou alone canst make ; 
 
 And wilt thou quit the stream, 
 ^frhat murmurs through the dewy mead, 
 The grove and the sequester'd shade. 
 
 To be a guest with them ? 
 For thee I panted, thee I priz'dj 
 For thee I gladly sacritic'd 
 
 Whate'e*^ I lov'd before ; 
 And shall I see thee start away, 
 And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say 
 
 Farewell, we meet no more ?■ — cowper. 
 
 SECTION XIIL 
 
 Ode to adversity. 
 
 Daughter of Heav'n, relentless power, 
 Thou tamer of the human breast, 
 Whose iron scourge, and tort'ring hour. 
 The bad affright, afflict the best ! 
 Bound in thy adamantine chain, 
 The proud are taught to taste of pain, 
 And purple tyrants vainly groan 
 With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alotie, 
 X.2 
 
 ^ 
 
S46 'The English Reader. Part 2 
 
 When firsc thy sire lo send on earth ^ 
 
 Virtue, his darhng child, designed, ^ 
 
 To thee he gave the heav'nly birth, 
 And bade to form her infant mind. 
 Stern rugged nurse ! thy rigid lore 
 With patience many a year she bore. 
 What sorrow was, thou bads't her know ; 
 And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' 
 
 f 
 
 Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly 
 y elf-pleasing folly's idle broody 
 Wild laughter, noise, and thoughtless joy, 
 And leave us leisure to be good. 
 Light they disperse ; and with them go 
 The summer-friend, the flatt'ring foe. 
 By vain prosperity receiv'd, 
 To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'i 
 
 Wisdom, in sable garb array 'd, 
 Immers'd in rapt'rous thought profound, 
 And melancholy, silent maid, 
 With leaden eye that loves the ground, f 
 
 Still on thy solemn steps attend ; ^-^ 
 
 Warm charity, the gen'ral friend, ^ 
 
 With justice to herself severe, * 
 
 And pit}', dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear. 
 
 Oh, gentl3^, on tby suppliant's head, 
 Dread power, lay thy chast'ning hand ] 
 Not in tby gorgon terrors clad, '^' 
 Nor circled witli the vengeful band, 
 (As by the impious thou art seen,) 
 With thund'j'ing voice, and threat'ning mien 
 With screaming horror's fun'ral cry, 
 Despair, and Ml disease, and ghastly poverty. 
 
 Thy form Ijonign, propitious, wear, 
 Thy milder influence i nap art ; 
 Thy y)biiosopliic train be there, 
 To soften, not to wound my heart. 
 The gen'rous spark extinct revive ; 
 Teach me to love, and to forgive ; 
 Exact my own defects to scan ; 
 What others are to feel ; and know myself a man. — ciVAy. 
 
 
Cfiap. 6. Pt^onnscitoiis Pieces. 247 
 
 SECTION XIV. 
 
 The creation required to praise its Author* 
 
 Begin, my soul, th' exalted lay ! 
 Let each enraptur'd thought obey, 
 
 And praise th' Almighty's name : 
 Lo ! heaven and earth, and seas, and skies^ 
 In one melodious concert rise, ' 
 
 To swell th' inspiring theme. 
 Ye fields of light, celestial plains, 
 Where gay transporting beauty reignSj 
 
 Ye scenes divinely fair ! 
 Your Maker's, wond'rous pow'r proclaim. 
 Tell how he form'd your shining frame. 
 
 And breath'd the fluid air. 
 Ye angels, catch the thrilling sound 1 
 While all th' adoring thrones around 
 
 His boundless mercy s^ing : 
 Let ev'ry list'ning saint above 
 W^ake all the tuneful soul of love. 
 
 And touch the sweetest string. 
 Join, ye loud spheres, the vocal choir ; 
 Thou dazzling orb of liquid tire. 
 
 The mighty chorus aid : 
 Soon as gray ev'ning gilds the plain, 
 Thou, mooa, protract the melting strain^ 
 
 And praise him in the shade. • 
 Thou heav'n of heav'ns, his vast abode ; 
 Ye clouds, proclaim your forming God, 
 
 Who call'd yon worlds from night : 
 " Ye shades dispel 1" — th' Eternal said ; 
 At once th' involving darkness fled. 
 
 And nature sprung to hght. 
 Wiiate'er a blooming world contains, 
 That wings the air, that skims the plains. 
 
 United praise bestow : 
 Ye dragons, sound his awful name 
 To heav'n aloud ; and roar acclaim^ 
 
 Ye swelhng deeps below. 
 Let ev'ry element rejoice ; 
 Ye thunders burst with awful voice 
 
 '^0 HIM who bids you roll : 
 
248 The English Reader, Part 2, 
 
 His praise in softer notes declare. 
 Each whispering breeze of yielding air> 
 And breathe it to the soul. 
 
 To him ye grateful cedars, bow ; 
 Ye tow'ring mountains, bending low. 
 
 Your great Creator own ; 
 Tell, when affrighted nature shook, 
 How Sinai kindled at his look, 
 
 And trembled at his frown. 
 
 Ye flocks that haunt the humble vale, 
 Ye insects fluttering on the gale. 
 
 In mutual concourse rise ; 
 Crop the gay rose's vermeil bloom, 
 And waft its spoils, a sweet perfume. 
 
 In incense to the skies. 
 
 Wake all ye mounting tribes, and sing f 
 Ye plumy warblers of the spring, 
 
 Harmonious anthems raise 
 To HIM who shap'd your finer mould. 
 Who tipp'd your glitt' ring wings with gold^ 
 
 And tun'd your voice to praise. 
 
 Let man, by nobler passions sway'd. 
 The feeling heart, the jutlging head, 
 
 In heav'nly praise employ ; 
 Spread his tremendous name around, 
 Till heav'n's broad arch rings back the sound^ 
 
 The gen'ral burst of joy. 
 
 Ye whom the charms of grandeur please, 
 ^ Nurs'd on the downy lap of ease, 
 
 Fall prostrate at his throne ; 
 Ye princes, rulers, all adore ; 
 Praise him, ye kings, who makes your powV 
 
 An image of his own. 
 
 Ye fliir, by nature form'd to move, 
 O praise th' eternal source of love, 
 
 With youth's enliv'ning fire : 
 Let age take up the tuneful lay, 
 Sigh his bless'd name — then soar away. 
 
 And ask an angel's lyre. — ogilme^ 
 
Chap* 6. Promiscuovs Pieces, 249 
 
 SECTION XV. 
 
 The universal prayei^. 
 
 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 uuderstood, 
 
 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 p 
 
 To see the good from ill ; 
 And binding nature fost in fate, 
 
 Left free the human wiil. .^? 
 What conscience dictates to be done, 
 
 Or warns me not to do, 
 This teach me more than kell to shurk. 
 
 That more than heav'n pursue. 
 What blessings thy free bountj^ gives, 
 
 Let me not cast away ; 
 For God is paid, when man receives 
 
 T enjo} B to cbey. 
 Yet not to earth's contracted spaa 
 
 Thy goodness let me bound, 
 0r think the Lord alone of man, 
 
 When thousand w^orlds are round. 
 Let not this weak, unknowing hand 
 
 Presume thy bolts to throw ; 
 And deal damnation round the land, 
 
 On each I judge thy iv>e. 
 If I am right, thy grace impart, 
 
 Still in the right to stay ; 
 If I am wrong, oh teach my heart 
 
 To iind that better way ! 
 Save me alike from foolish pride^ 
 
 Or impious discontent, 
 At aught thy wisdom has denied, 
 
 Or aught thy goodness lent. 
 Teach me to feel another's wo, 
 
 To hide the fault I see ; 
 
250 TJie English Reader. Part 2 . 
 
 That raercy I to others show, 
 That mercy show to me. 
 
 Mean tho' I am, not wholly so, 
 
 Since quicken'd by thy breath ; 
 O lead me whereso'er I go, 
 
 Thro' this day's life or death 
 
 This day, be bread and peace my lot : 
 
 All else beneath the sun 
 Thou know'st 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 ail beings raise I 
 
 All nature 'a incense rise. — pope. 
 
 SECTION XVL 
 
 Conscience^ 
 
 O treach'rous conscience I while she seems to sleep 
 
 On rose and myrtle, lull'd with syren song ; 
 
 While she seems, nodding o'er her charge, to drop 
 
 On headlong appetite the slacken'd rein. 
 
 And give us up to license, unrecalPd, 
 
 Unmark'd ; — see, from behind her secret stand, 
 
 The sly informer minutes ev'ry fault. 
 
 And her dread diary with horror fills. 
 
 Not the gross act alone employs her pen ; 
 
 She reconnoitres fancy's airy band, 
 
 A watchful foe ! the formidable spy, 
 
 List'ning o'erhears the whispers of our camp 5 
 
 Our dawning purposes of heart explores, 
 
 And steals our embryos of iniquity. 
 
 As all rapacious usurers conceal 
 
 Their doomsday-book from all-consuming heirs , 
 
 Thus, with indulgence most severe, she treats 
 
 Us spendthrifts of inestimable time ; 
 
 Unnoted, notes each moment misapply'd ; 
 
 In leaves more durable than leaves of brass, 
 
 Writes our whole history ; which death shall read 
 
 In ev'ry pale delinquent's private ear ; 
 
 And judgment publish ; publish to more worlds 
 
 Than this ; and endless age in groans resound.-— youno 
 
€hap. 6. Promiscuous Pieces. ^5l 
 
 SECTION XVII. 
 
 On an infant. 
 
 To the dark and silent tomb, 
 Soon 1 hasten'd from the womb : 
 Scarce the dawn of life began, 
 Ere I measur'd out my span. 
 I no smiling pleasures knew ; 
 I no gay delights could view : 
 Joyless sojourner was I, 
 Only born to weep and die.— 
 Happy infant, early bless'd ! 
 Rest, in peaceful slumber, rest ; 
 Early rescu'd from the cares, 
 Which increase with growing years. 
 No delights are worth thy stay, 
 Smiling as they seem, and gay ; 
 Short and sitjkly are they all, 
 Hardly tasted ere they pall. 
 All our gaiety is vain, i^-- 
 
 All our laughter is but pain , 
 Lasting onlyvand divine, 
 Is an innocence like thine. 
 
 SECTION XVIII. 
 
 Tke Cuckoo, 
 Hail, beauteous stranger of the wood. 
 
 Attendant on the spring I 
 Now heav'n repairs thy rural seat, 
 
 And woods thy welcome sing. 
 Soon as the daisy decks the green, 
 
 Thy certain voice we hear : 
 K.ist thou a star to guide thy path. 
 
 Or mrirk the rolling year ? 
 Delightful visitant ! with thee 
 
 1 bait the time of ^owVs, 
 When heav'n is fill'd with music sweet 
 
 Of birds among the bowVs. 
 
 The school-boy, wandVinginthe wood!^ 
 
 To pull the flowVs so gay. 
 Starts, thy curious voxce to hear, 
 
 And imitates thy lay. 
 
f52 The English Pleader. Pari 2, 
 
 Soon as the pea puts on the bloom, 
 
 Thou fly'st the vocal vale, 
 An annual guest, in other lands, 
 
 Another spring to hail. 
 Sweet bircM thy bow'r is ever green. 
 
 Thy sky is ever clear ; 
 Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 
 
 No winter in thy year ! 
 O could I fly, I'd % with thee ; 
 
 We'd make, with social wing, 
 Our annual visit o'er the globe, 
 
 Companions of the spring. — logan. 
 
 SECTION XIX. 
 
 Day, A pastoral in three parU 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 In the barn the tenant cock. 
 
 Close to Partlet perch'd on high, 
 Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock ^) 
 
 Jocund that the morning's nigh. 
 
 Swiftly, from the mountain's brow. 
 
 Shadows, nurs'd by night retire ; 
 And the peeping sun-beam, now 
 
 Paints with gold the village spire. 
 Philomel forsakes the thorn, 
 
 Plaintive where she prates at night , 
 And the lark to meet the morn. 
 
 Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. 
 From the low-roofd cottage ridge. 
 
 See the chatt'ring swallow spring , 
 Darling through the one-arch'd bridge^ 
 
 (^ck she dips her dappled wmg. 
 Now the pine-tree's waving top 
 
 Gently greets the morning gale ; 
 Kidli!ig\s, now, begin to crop 
 
 Daisies, on the dewy dale. 
 From the balmy sv/eets, imcloy'd, 
 
 (R.estless ti)l her task be done^) 
 Now the busy bee's employ'd, 
 
 Sipping dew before the sun. 
 
Chap, 6. Promiscuom Pieces. 253 
 
 Trickling through the crevic'd rock. 
 
 Where the limpid stream distils, 
 Sweet refreshment waits the flock, 
 
 When 'tis sun-drove from the hills. 
 
 Colin's for the promis'd corn 
 
 (Ere the harvest hopes are ripe) 
 Anxious ; — whilst the huntsman's horn, 
 
 Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe. 
 
 Sweet— O sweet, the warbling throng. 
 
 On the white emblossom'd spray ! 
 Nature's universal song 
 
 Echoes to the rising day. 
 
 NOON. 
 
 Fervid on the glitt'ring flood, 
 
 Now the noontide radiance glows : 
 Drooping o'er its infant bud, 
 
 Not a dew-drop's left the rose. 
 
 By the brook the shepherd dines, 
 
 From the fierce meridian heat, 
 Sheltered by the branching pines. 
 
 Pendent o'er his grassy seat. 
 
 Now the flock forsakes the glade, 
 
 Where unchecked the sun-beams fall, 
 
 Sure to find a pleasing shade 
 By the ivy'd abbey wail. 
 
 Echo, in her airy round, 
 
 O'er the river, rock, and hill. 
 Cannot catch a single sound, 
 
 Save the clack of yonder mill. 
 
 Cattle court the zephyrs bland, 
 
 Where the streamlet wanders cool 5 
 Or -with languid silence stand 
 
 Midway in the marshy pool. 
 
 But from mountain, dell, or stream, 
 
 Not a flutt'ring zephyr springs ; 
 Fearful lest the noontide beam 
 
 Scorch its soft, its silken wings. 
 
 Not a leaf has leave to stir. 
 
 Nature's lull'd — berene — and still t 
 V 
 
 m^ 
 
t54 The English Reader. Part 2, 
 
 Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur, 
 
 Sleeping on the heath-clad hill. 
 Languid is the landscape round, 
 
 Till the fresh descending shovv'r, 
 Grateful to the thirsty ground, 
 
 Raises ev'ry fainting flow'r. 
 Now the hill — the hedge — are green, 
 
 Now the warblers' throats in tune 5 
 Blithsome is the verdant scene, 
 
 Brighten'd by the beams of Noon ! 
 
 EVENING, 
 
 O'ejl the heath the heifer strays 
 
 Free — (the furrow'd task is done ;) 
 Now the village windows blaz2, 
 
 Burnish'd by the setting sun. 
 Now he sets behind the hill, 
 
 Sinking from a golden sky : 
 Can the pencil's mimic skill 
 
 Copy the refulgent dye ? 
 Trudging as the ploughmen go, 
 
 (To the smoking hamlet bound,) 
 Giant-like their shadows grow 
 
 Lengthen'd (T'er the level ground. 
 
 Where the rising forest spreads 
 Shelter for the lordly dome ! 
 
 To their high-built airy beds, 
 See the rooks returning home ! 
 
 As the lark, with vary'd tune, 
 Carols to the ey'ning load ; 
 
 Mark the mild resplendent moon, 
 Breaking through a parted cloud 
 
 Now the hermit owlet peeps 
 
 From the barn or twisted brake ; 
 
 And the blue mist slowly creeps, 
 Curhng on the silver lake. 
 
 As the trout in speckled pride, 
 Playf'.l from its bosom springs ; 
 
 To the banks a ruffled tide 
 Verges in successive rings. 
 
Ohap, 6. Promiscuous Pieces, ' SSB- 
 
 Tripping through the silken grass 
 
 O'er the path-divided dale, 
 Mark the rose-complexion'd lass 
 
 With her well-pois'd milking pail ! 
 Linnets with unnumbered notes, 
 
 And the cuckoo bird with two, 
 Tuning sweet their mellow throats, 
 
 Bid the setting sun adieu. — ^cunningham. 
 
 SECTION XX.. 
 
 The order of nature. 
 See, thro' this atr, this ocean, and this earthj 
 Ail matter quick, and bursting into birth. 
 Above, how high progressive life may go ! 
 Around, how wide ! how deep extend below : 
 Vast chain of being ! which from God began, 
 Nature ethereal, human ; angel, man ; 
 Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can seSj 
 No glass can reach ; from infinite to thee, 
 From thee to nothing. — On superior pow'rs 
 Were we to press, inferior might on ours ; 
 Or in the full creation leave a void, 
 Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroyed ! 
 From nature's chain whatever link you strike. 
 Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. 
 
 And, if each system in gradation rollj 
 Alike essential to th' amazing whole. 
 The least confusion but in one, not all ' 
 That system only, but the whole m.ust falL • 
 Let earth, unbalanc'd from her orbit fly, 
 Planets and suns run lawless thro' the sky ; 
 Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurl'd, 
 Being on being wreck'd, and world on world ; 
 Heav'n's whole foundatioDS to their centre nod,. 
 And nature tremble to the throne of God. 
 All this dread order break — for whom ? for thee ? 
 Vile u^orm ! Oh madness ! pride ! impiety I 
 
 What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, 
 Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head ? 
 What if the head, ihe eye, or ear repin'd 
 To serve mere eaf;incs to the ruling mind ^, 
 Just as absurd for any part to claim 
 Tc be another, \n this gen'ral frame 
 
256 The English Reader. Part %. 
 
 Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains. 
 The great directing mind of ai^l ordains. 
 
 All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
 Whose body nature is, and God the soul : 
 That, chang'd thro' all, and yet in all the same, 
 Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame ; 
 Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 
 Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees; 
 Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent. 
 Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; 
 Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 
 As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 
 As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, 
 As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : 
 To him no high no low, no great no small ; 
 He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. 
 
 Cease then, nor order imperfection name : 
 Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
 Know thy own point : this kind, this due degree 
 Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee. 
 Submit. — In this or any other sphere, 
 Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear : 
 Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r, 
 Grin the natal, or the mortal hour. 
 All nature is but art, unknown to thee ; 
 All chance, direction, which thou canst not see ; 
 All discord, harmony not understood ; 
 All partial evil, universal good ; 
 And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite. 
 One truth is clear, — whatever is, is right. — pope. 
 
 SECTION XXI. 
 
 Conjidence in Divine protection. 
 How are thy servants blest, O Lord 1 
 
 How sure is their defence ! 
 Eternal wisdom is their guide, 
 
 Their help Omnipotence. 
 In foreign realms, and lands remote, 
 
 Supported by thy care, 
 Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt, 
 
 And breath'd in tainted air. 
 Thy mercy sweeten'd cv'ry soil, 
 
 Made cv'ry region please ; 
 
Chap, 6. Promiscuous Pieces. £67 
 
 The hoary Alpine hills it warm'd, 
 
 And smooth'd the Tyrrhene seas. 
 Think, O my soul, devoutly think. 
 
 How with affrighted eyes, 
 Thou saw'st the wide extended deep 
 
 In all its horrors rise ! 
 Confusion dwelt in ev'ry face, 
 
 And fear in ev'rj^ heart, 
 When waves on waves, and gulfs in gulfs, 
 
 O'ercame the pilot's art. 
 Yet then, from all my griefs, O Lord, 
 
 Thy mercy set me free ; 
 While in the confidence of pray'r 
 
 My soul took hold on thee. 
 For tho' in dreadful whirls we hung 
 
 High on the broken wave, 
 I knew thou wert not slow to hear, 
 
 Nor impotent to save. 
 The storm was laid, the winds retir'd. 
 
 Obedient to thy will ; 
 The sea that roar'd at thy command, 
 
 At thy command was still. 
 
 In midst of dangers, fears, and deaths. 
 
 Thy goodness I'll adore ; 
 And praise thee for thy mercies past. 
 
 And humbly hope for more. 
 My life, if thou preserve my life. 
 
 Thy sacrifice shall be ; 
 And death, if death must be my doom, 
 
 Shall join my soul to thee. — addisok. 
 
 SECTION xxn. 
 
 Hymn on a review of the seasons. 
 
 These, as they change, Almighty Father! these, 
 Are but the varied God. The roihng year 
 Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring 
 Thy beauty walks. Thy tenderness and love. 
 Wide flush the fields ; the soft'ning air is balm ; 
 Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles. 
 And ev'ry sense, and ev'ry heart is joy. 
 Then comes Thy glory in the suuimfer"months, 
 Y 2 
 
^68 The English Reader. Part 2, 
 
 With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun 
 Shoots full perfection thro' the swelling year ; 
 And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; 
 And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, 
 By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispVing gales. 
 Thy bounty shines in autumn unconiin'd, 
 And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
 In winter, awful Thou 1 with clouds and storms 
 Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roU'd, 
 Majestic darkness 1 On the whirlwind's wing, 
 Riding sublime. Thou bidst the world adore ; 
 And humblest nature with Thy northern blast. 
 
 Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine, 
 Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train, 
 Yet so delightful mix'.d, with such kind art. 
 Such beauty and beneficence combin'd ; 
 Shade, unperceiv'd, so soft'ning into shade. 
 And all so forming an harmonious whole. 
 That as they still succeed, the}^ ravish still. 
 But wand'ring oft, with brute unconscious gaze, 
 Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty hand, 
 That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres y 
 Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming,-^ thence 
 The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring ; 
 Flings from the sun direct the flaming day ; 
 Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; 
 And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, 
 With transport touches ctil the springs of life. 
 
 Nature, attend ! join every living soul, 
 Beneath the spacious temple of the sky : 
 In adoration join ! and, ardent, raise 
 
 One general song ! 
 
 Ye, chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, 
 
 At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all. 
 
 Crown the great hymn ! 
 
 J'or me, vv'hen 1 forget the darling theme, 
 
 Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray 
 
 Russets the plain ; inspiring autumn gleams ; 
 
 Or winter rises in the black'ning east ; 
 
 Be my tongue mute, my foncy paint no more, 
 
 And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat 1 
 
 vShould fate command me to the farthest verge 
 Of tlie green earth, to distant barb'rous climes, 
 Rivers unknown to song ; where first thQ sun 
 
Ckap. 6. Promiscuous Pieces, 25S 
 
 Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
 Flames on th' AtlAntic isles ; 'tis nought to me ; 
 Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
 In the void waste as in the citj full ; 
 And where he vitd breathes there must be joy-. 
 When e'en at last the solemn hour shall come, 
 And wing my mvstic flight to future worlds, 
 I cheerful vvili obey ; there, with new pow'rs. 
 Will rising wonders sing : 1 cannot go 
 Where universal love not smiles around. 
 Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; 
 From seeming evil still educing good, 
 And better thence again, and better still. 
 In infinite progression. But I lose 
 Myself in him, in light inefiable ! 
 Come then, expressive silence, muse his praise. Thomson. 
 
 SECTION XXIIL 
 
 On solitude, 
 
 O SOLITUDE, romantic maid ! 
 
 Whether by nodding towers you tread 
 
 Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom. 
 
 Or hover o'er the yawning tomb. 
 
 Or clim.b the Andes' clifted side. 
 
 Or by the Nile's coy source abide. 
 
 Or, starting from your half-year's sleep 
 
 From Hecla view the thawing deep, 
 
 ^r, at the purple dawn of day, 
 
 'AfGmor's marble wastes survey ; 
 You, recluse, again I woo. 
 And again your st^ps pursue, ^p^ 
 
 Flum'd conceit himself sur^^^ymgj 
 Folly with her shadow playing, 
 Purse-proud elbowing insolence. 
 Bloated empiric, puff 'd pretence, 
 Noise that through a trumpet speaks, 
 Laughter in loud peals that breaks. 
 Infusion, with a fopling's face, 
 (l|lV>rant of time and place,) 
 Sparks of iire dissension blowing, 
 Ductile, court-bred Hattery bowing. 
 Restraint's stiff neck, grimace's leei, 
 Squint-ev'd censure's aitful sneer, 
 
-6^> The English Reader, Part 2, 
 
 Ambition's buskins, steep'd in blood, 
 Fly thy presence^ Solitude ! C 
 
 Sage reflection, bent witB years, 
 Conscious virtue, void of fears, 
 Muffled silence, wood-nymph shy, 
 Meditation's piercing eye, 
 Halcyon peace on moss rechn'd, 
 Retrospect that scans the mmd, 
 Rapt earth-gazing reverj^, 
 Blushing artless modesty, 
 Health that snuffs the morning air, 
 Fuil-ey'd truth with bosom bare, 
 Inspiration, nature's child. 
 Seek the solitary wild. T 
 When all nature's hush'd asleep, 
 Nor love, nor guilt, their vigils keep, 
 Soft you leave your cavern'd den, 
 And wander o'er the works of men ; 
 But when Phosphor brings the dawn. 
 By her dappled coursers drawn. 
 Again you to the wild retreat. 
 And the early huntsman meet, 
 Where, as you pensive pass along, 
 You catch the distant shepherd's song, 
 Or brush from herbs the pearly dew, 
 Or the rising primrose view, 
 Devotion lends her heaven-plum'd wings 
 You mount, and nature vvith you sings, <^— 
 But when mid-day fervours glow, ^^ 
 
 To upland airy shades you go, 
 Where never sim-burnt woodman came, 
 Nor sportsman chas'd the timid game : 
 And there, beneath an oak reclin'd, 
 With drowsy waterfolls behind, 
 You sink to rest. 
 Till the tuneful bird of night, 
 From the neighb'ring poplar's height, 
 Wake you with her solemn strain, ^ 
 And teach pleas'd echo to complain • y^ 
 
 With you roses brighter bloom, 
 Sweeter every sweet perfume ; 
 Purer ever}' fountain flows, ; 
 
 Stronger every wilding gF-ows, 
 
 1 
 
Chap, 6. Promismious Pieces, 261 
 
 Let those toil for gold who please, 
 Or, for fame renounce their ease. 
 What is fame ? An empty bubblie ; 
 Gold ? a^s|jining, constant trouble. 
 Let them for their country bleed I 
 What was Sidney's, Raleigh's meed? 
 Man's not worth a moment's pam: 
 Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain, ^f^ 
 Then let me, sequester'd fair, 
 To your sybil grot repair ; 
 On yon hanging cliif it stands, 
 Scoop'd by natiTre's plastic hands, 
 Bosom'^d in the gloomy shade 
 Of cypress not with age decay'd ; 
 Where the owl still hooting sits. 
 Where the bat incessant Hits -^^j^' 
 There in loftier strains I'll sing 
 Whence the changing seasons spring; 
 Tell how storms deform the skies, 
 Whence the weaves subside and rise. 
 Trace the cornel's biasing tail, 
 YVeigh the planets in a scale ; 
 Bend, grer^t God, before thy shrine : 
 The bournless macrocosm's tbine.^^ 
 
 Since in each scheme of hfe I've faiPd, 
 And^^isappointment seems entail'd ; 
 Since all on earth I valiied most, 
 My guide, my stay, my friend is ioa^t ^ 
 O Solitude, now give me rest, 
 And hiish the temi^st in my breast. 
 O gently deign ic guide my feet 
 To your hermi '-trodden seat ; ^^ 
 
 'Where I may live, at last my own, ^>^ 
 Where I at^'ast may die unknown. «^f 
 K spoke : ^he turn'djier magic ray ; 
 And ^huF she said, gr seem'd to say ; 
 
 Youth, yoi're mistaken, if you think to find 
 In shade^^ a medVine for a troubled mind : 
 Wan gji'ef will haunt you \vheresoe'er you go, 
 Sigh ^1 the breeze, and in the streamlet fiow. 
 Thffe, pale inaction pines his hfe away ; 
 Ani satiate mourns the quick return of day : 
 
j2 The English Reader. Part 2 
 
 There, naked frenzy laughing wild with pain, 
 Or bares the blade, or plunges in the main : 
 There, superstition broods o'er all her fears, 
 And yells of demons in the zephyr hears./^ 
 But if a hermit you're resolv'd to dwell, 
 And bid to social life a last farewell ; 
 
 'Tis impious. ~; 
 
 God never made an independent man ; 
 
 'Twould jar the concord of his general plan. 
 
 See every part of that stupendous whole, 
 
 *' Whose body nature is, and God the soul ;" 
 
 To one great end the general good conspire, 
 
 From matter, brute, to man, to seraph, fire.^^ 
 
 Should man through nature solitary roam, 
 
 His will his sovereign, every where his home. 
 
 What force would guard him from the lion's jaw ? 
 
 What swiftness wing him from the panther's paw ? 
 
 Or should facte lead him to some safer shore, 
 
 Where panthers never prowl, nor lions roar, 
 
 Where liberal nature all her charms bestows, 
 
 Suns shine, birds «ing, flowers bloom, and water flows, 
 
 Fool, dost thou think he'd revel on the store. 
 
 Absolve the care of Heaven, nor ask for more ? 
 
 Though waters flow'd, flow'rs bloom'd, and Phoebus shone* 
 
 He'd sigh, he'd murmur, that he was alone. 
 
 For know, the Maker on the human breast 
 
 A sense of kindred, country, man, impress'd.^2 
 
 Though nature's works the'ruling mind declare, 
 And well deserve inquiry's serous care. 
 The God (whate'er misanthropy\nay say,) 
 Shines, beams in man with most uXclouded ray. 
 What boots it thee to fly from pole to pole ? 
 Hang o'er the sun, and with the plants roll ? I 
 What boots throAigh space's furthest b6\(^rns to roam ? 
 If thou, O manra stranger art at home.\ 
 Then know thyself, the human mind surv^r ; 
 The use, the pleasure, will the toil repay. /^ 
 
 Nor study only, practice what you know ; \ 
 Your Ufe, your knowledge, to mankind you owt. 
 With Plato's olive wreacii the bays entwine ; 
 Those who in study, should in practice shine. \ 
 Say, does the learned lord of Hagley's shade, \ 
 
 Charm man so much by mossy fountains laid. 
 
Chap* 6. Promiscuous Pieces. f 63 
 
 As when arous'd he stems corruption's course, 
 
 And shakes the senate with a Tully's force ? 
 
 When freedom gasp'd beneath a Cesar's feet, 
 
 Then pii4:>lic virtue might to shades retreat : 1? , 
 
 But where she breathes, the least may useful be, 
 
 And freedom, Britain, still belongs to theey^ 
 
 Though man's ungrateful, or though fortune frown } 
 
 Is the reward of worth a song, or crown ? 
 
 Nor yet unrecompens'd are virtue's pains ; 
 
 Good Allen lives, and bounteous Brunswick reigns. 
 
 Gn each condition disappointments wait. 
 
 Enter the hut, and force the guarded gate, j^,"^^ 
 
 Nor dare repine though early friendship bleed : 
 
 From love, the world, and all its cares, he's freed. 
 
 But know, adversity's the child of God : 
 
 Whom Heaven approves of most, must feel her rod.^^f*~* 
 
 When smooth old Ocean, and each sterm's asleep, 
 
 Then ignorance may plough the watery deep : 
 
 But when the demons of the tempest rave, 
 
 Skill must conduct the vessel through the wave. 
 
 Sidney, what good man envies not thy blow ? 
 
 Who would not wish Anytus* for a foe ? 
 
 Intrepid virtue triumphs over fate : 
 
 The good can never be unfortunate ; 
 
 And be this nr^xim graven in thy mind ; y 
 
 The height of virtue is, to serve mankind.j^ 
 
 But when old age has silver'd o'er thy head, 
 When memory fails, and all thy vigour's fled, 
 Then mayst thou seek the stillness of retreat, 
 Then hear aloof the human tempest beat ; 
 Then will I greet thee to my woodland cave, 
 Allay the pangs of age, and smooth thy grave^^^^GRAlNGgR. 
 
 * One of the accusers of Socrates, 
 
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