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BY THEIR RIGHT NAMES, 
 
 AND OTHER 
 
 STORIES, FABLES, AND MORAL PIECES, 
 
 IN PROSE AND VERSE, 
 SELECTED AND ARRANQED FROM THE 
 
 WRITINGS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 A SKETCH OF HER LIFE, 
 BY MRS. S. J. HALE, 
 
 AUTHOR OP 'SKETCHES OP AMERICAN CHARACTER,' 'LADIES' 
 WREATH,' ETC. ETC. 
 
 " Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er, 
 Scatters, from her pictured urn, 
 Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn." 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 MARSH, CAPEN, LYON, AND WEBB. 
 
 1840. 
 
^ V 
 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1840, by 
 
 Marsh, Capen, Lyon, and Webb, 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 
 
 H 
 
 / 
 
 EDUCATION PBBSS. 
 
oo 
 
 5 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 There is no need of commending this Volume 
 to the attention of the reader, or the approbation 
 of the public. The name of Mrs. Barbauld will 
 be a sufficient guarantee of the worth of the selec- 
 tion. But, as this is the first attempt to bring the 
 productions of her pen, more especially designed 
 for the young, together, a few w^ords on the sub- 
 ject may be expected. 
 
 The ' Evenings at Home' have long held a de- 
 servedly high place in all juvenile libraries ; yet 
 there was one drawback, — one thing lacking, — 
 and that was, a knowledge of the writer. It was 
 understood, that Mrs. Barbauld and her brother 
 had written the books ; but which particular pieces 
 were contributed, by the brother or sister, were 
 not ascertained. It is always a pleasure, and we 
 think quite an advantage, to youthful readers, to 
 know the name and history of their favorite au- 
 thors. To separate, therefore, the articles of 
 these two writers, and give them each a volume, 
 which should be authenticated, was our aim. 
 Mrs. Barbauld's contributions to the ' Evenings 
 at Home' w^ere not sufficient to form a volume. 
 
4 PREFACE. 
 
 But she had always kept the young in remem- 
 brance ; and, in her other pubhshed works, many 
 ingenious fables, instructive dialogues, and other 
 papers, suitable for our purpose, were found. 
 These we have collected, and added a few of her 
 ' Hymns in Prose,' the most beautiful and perfect 
 specimens of this kind of writing which can be 
 found. We hope our young readers will study 
 this volume, thoroughly ; there is scarcely an arti- 
 cle in it, but deserves to be repeatedly read, till the 
 whole is fixed in the heart as well as mind. Then 
 the good Mrs. Barbauld will be considered one 
 of their best and most pleasant friends, who, al- 
 though dead, yet speaketh the words of kindness 
 and instruction. S. J. H. 
 
 Boston J J^ovemher 1, 1839. 
 
 In revising the copy of this interesting selec- 
 tion, for the press, it was found necessary, in or- 
 der to adapt it to the purposes for which it was 
 intended, as one of the volumes of the ' Juvenile 
 Series^ of ' The School Library,' to add 
 many notes and explanations, and modify, in 
 some degree, the text, in order to adapt it for the 
 reading of American children. The Notes of 
 Explanation, thus added, have affixed to them 
 the initials, ' J. W. I.' 
 
 Boston, March, 1840. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Preface, 3 
 
 Sketch of Mrs. Barbauld, 9 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Things by their Right Names, 15 
 
 Hymn, 17 
 
 Alfred, — A Drama, 19 
 
 Hymn, 26 
 
 The Goose and Horse, 29 
 
 The Four Sisters, 30 
 
 Hymn, 37 
 
 On Manufactures, 38 
 
 The Flying Fish, 53 
 
 Hymn, 55 
 
 The Art of Distinguishing, 56 
 
 The Phenix and Dove, 67 
 
 Hymn, 69 
 
 The Manufacture of Paper, 71 
 
 Hymn, 77 
 
 The Young Mouse, 79 
 
 The Wasp and Bee, 80 
 
 The Mask of Nature, 81 
 
 Hymn, 83 
 
 1* 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 The Rich and the Poor, 86 
 
 The River and Brook, 94 
 
 Description of Five Sisters, 95 
 
 On Expense, — A Dialogue, 98 
 
 Earth, 108 
 
 The Pine and the Olive, 112 
 
 Riddles, 114 
 
 The King in his Castle, 124 
 
 A Lecture on the Use of Words, .... 128 
 
 Hymn, 132 
 
 Picnic, 133 
 
 Grimalkin to Selima, . . . ' 137 
 
 On the Uses of History, — Letter I., . . . 142 
 
 Letter H., 149 
 
 Letter IIL, 157 
 
 Letter IV., 160 
 
 Hymn, 168 
 
 On the Classics, 171 
 
 Atalanta, 180 
 
 Arion, 183 
 
 Venus and Adonis, 185 
 
 Hymn, 187 
 
 The Mouse's Petition, 190 
 
 The Baby-House, 191 
 
 A Thought on Death, 194 
 
 To-morrow, 195 
 
 Lines placed over a Chimney-piece, . . 195 
 
 An Address to the Deity, 196 
 
 The Hill of Science, 199 
 
 Verses, written in the Leaves of an Ivory 
 
 Poeket-Book, 211 
 
CONTENTS. 7 
 
 On the Birth of a Friend's Eldest Son, . 212 
 
 A Character, 214 
 
 On Friendship, 214 
 
 Confidence and Modesty,— A Fable, . . . 220 
 
 ThejOak, 222 
 
 Evening, 225 
 
 Winter, 228 
 
 On Plants, 229 
 
 Canute's Reproof to his Courtiers, . . . 233 
 
 Hymns, 235 
 
 Night, 237 
 
 Verses written in an Alcove, 240 
 
 Hymn to Content, 242 
 
 On a Lady's Writing, 244 
 
 Autumn, — A Fragment, 244 
 
 An Autumnal Thought, 245 
 
 To a Dog, 246 
 
 "Ye are the Salt of the Earth," .... 247 
 
 The Unknown God, 250 
 
 Life, 252 
 
 Logogriph, 253 
 
 Dejection, 255 
 
 Lines, written in a Young Lady's Album of 
 
 different-colored paper, 256 
 
 The Death of the Virtuous, 257 
 
 Hymn, 258 
 
 Fragment, 259 
 
 Hymn for Easter Sunday, 260 
 
 Epitaph on a Goldfinch, 262 
 
SKETCH OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 In the year 1743, June 20th, the eldest child 
 and only daughter of Reverend John Aikin 
 and Jane his wife was born. They named her 
 Anna L^titia ; and this Httle girl afterwards 
 became the celebrated Mrs. Barbauld, whose 
 writings have made many children, as well as 
 grown persons, happier and wiser : and we trust 
 the present volume will be prized by its young 
 readers, so long as our language shall be read and 
 understood. 
 
 The family of Rev. Dr. Aikin resided at Kib- 
 worth Harcourt, in Leicestershire, (England,) 
 when Anna Laetitia was born ; and she was 
 brought up in that sequestered village, till she was 
 fifteen years old. Her parents educated their 
 children entirely at home, and their little daughter 
 proved an excellent scholar. She was so eager 
 to learn, that her mother could hardly persuade 
 her to accept of playthings ; she wanted only a 
 book. When she was but two years old, she 
 could read little stories, without much spelling ; 
 and, when three years old, she could read wtII in 
 any book. Such an earnest desire to obtain know- 
 
10 SKETCH OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 ledge will, usually, overcome all difficulties ; and 
 Miss Aikin persuaded her father to teach her 
 Latin and Greek, and allow her to study the same 
 classical authors as her brother John was pursuing. 
 
 Those, who have read the fourth volume of the 
 Juvenile series of ' The School Library,' 
 will recollect, that it contains selections from the 
 writings of Doctor John Aikin, the brother of 
 Mrs. Barbauld. He was three years younger 
 than his sister, and, when they were children, she 
 taught and assisted him in his studies. As he 
 grew older, his opportunities of acquiring learn- 
 ing became better than hers. In those days, girls 
 were not allow^ed many advantages of education ; 
 if they could read and write, it was thought quite 
 enough for women. John became a pupil in his 
 father's school for boys, and had companions in 
 his studies, while his sister was obliged to learn 
 her lessons alone ; and her father, though he heard 
 her recitations, never encouraged her much, for 
 he was afraid she vvould be too fond of her books. 
 It is only a short time, since men have become 
 convinced, of the importance of female education, 
 and that it is the mothers and sisters who form the 
 minds as well as manners of their brothers and 
 sons. Men never can be truly wise, while women 
 are ignorant. 
 
 But Anna Leetitia Aikin had a good brother ; 
 John loved her dearly, and they were compan- 
 ions in their studies, as well as amusements. He 
 always encouraged her Hterary pursuits, and per- 
 suaded her to publish a volume of her poems, in 
 
SKETCH OF MRS. BARBAULD. 11 
 
 1773 ; and, in the same year, he joined with her in 
 forming a small volume of ' Miscellaneous Pieces 
 in Prose,' which was very popular. The follow- 
 ing year, Miss Aikin married the Rev. Roche- 
 mont^arbauld, a descendant of one of the French 
 Protestant families, who fled to England during 
 the persecutions of Louis the Fourteenth. The 
 grandfather of Mr. Barbauld, when a boy, was 
 enclosed in a cask, put on board a vessel, and car- 
 ried to England, where he setded. People w^ere 
 not then allowed, in France, and many other Eu- 
 ropean countries, to choose the mode of worship- 
 ping God, which their own consciences dictated ; 
 and even children were taken from their parents, 
 and otherwise punished, if they were thought to 
 be heretics. We, in our own free country, can 
 hardly understand how such things were allowed. 
 Mr. Barbauld, soon after his marriage with 
 Miss Aikin, opened a select boarding-school for 
 boys, at Palgrave, in Suffolk ; and his wife im- 
 mediately became his assistant. She superin- 
 tended the lessons in reading, in English compo- 
 sition, grammar, geography ; and, what may seem 
 strange for a lady to teach, in the art of declama- 
 tion. She frequently prepared pieces for the 
 young speakers, and always wrote the epilogues, 
 prologues, &c. Many of these boys, committed 
 to her care when young, became distinguished 
 men ; and they always spoke of Mrs. Barbauld's 
 teaching, with the highest respect. One of them, 
 WilHam Taylor, author of the ' English Syno- 
 nyms,' and several other works, acknowledged her, 
 
12 SKETCH OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 with pride and affection, *'the mother of his 
 mind ;" and Dr. Sayres, another of her pupils, 
 thus describes the manner in which she taught 
 Enghsh composition. 
 
 ''On Wednesdays and Saturdays, the boys 
 were called, in separate classes, to her apartment : 
 she read a fable, a short story, or a moral essay, 
 and then sent them back, into the schoolroom, to 
 write it out on the slates, in their own words. 
 Each exercise was separately examined by her, 
 the fauks of grammar" and vulgarisms were cor- 
 rected, "the idle epithets were cancelled, and a 
 distinct reason was always assigned for every 
 correction ; so that the arts of enditing and criti- 
 cising were, in some degree, learned together. 
 Many a lad from the great schools, who excels in 
 Latin and Greek, cannot write, properly, a ver- 
 nacular [or Enghsh] letter, for want of some such 
 discipline." 
 
 Mrs. Barbauld had no children of her own, 
 which she regretted, for she was very fond of 
 children. She, therefore, begged her brother 
 John and his wife, to give her one of their little 
 boys, to bring up as her own, which they finally 
 did. It was for this httle boy, Charles Aikin, 
 that Mrs. Barbauld wrote, ' Early Lessons,' and 
 ' Hymns in Prose,' which were very highly es- 
 teemed. Several of these hymns are inserted in 
 this volume. They are so pure and beautiful, that 
 we think all our readers will rejoice to have the 
 opportunity of perusing them. 
 
 After continuing in the school about eleven 
 
SKETCH OF MRS. BARBAULD. IQ 
 
 years, Mr. and Mrs. Barbauld relinquished it. 
 Their heahh suffered from the confinement ; for 
 it is not an easy task, to teach. They passed a 
 Winter in the south of France, went to Geneva 
 in tire Spring, and then returned to London, much 
 better in health. Soon after, Mr. Barbauld was 
 settled as pastor of a congregation at Hampstead, 
 near London ; and here, Mrs. Barbauld again 
 took up her pen. She had not written much, for 
 several years, and her brother was very urgent, 
 that she should again exert her talents. Accord- 
 ingly, she wrote and published several essays, 
 which were well received, and several poems. 
 She also contributed a number of pieces to those 
 which her brother. Dr. Aikin, was preparing for 
 children. These stories formed the volumes 
 called, 'Evenings at Home.' Most of Mrs. 
 Barbauld 's contributions to the work are inserted 
 in this volume. 
 
 In 1802, Mr. Barbauld and wife removed to 
 Stoke Newington, and took up their abode in that 
 village. The sole motive for this removal was, 
 the mutual desire of Mrs. Barbauld and Dr. Ai- 
 kin, to pass the closing years of their lives in 
 the same neighborhood. It is a beautiful thing, to 
 see a brother and sister so fondly attached to each 
 other. It can only be found in those, who feel 
 sympathy in mental pursuits, as well as in moral 
 feelings. 
 
 In 1808, Mr. Barbauld, after a long illness, 
 died. From this time, till her own death, she 
 devoted herself to her studies, and works of 
 2 VI. 
 
14 SKETCH OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 charity. She died March 9th, 1825, aged eigh- 
 ty-two years. 
 
 When young, Mrs. Barbauld was very beauti- 
 ful ; and she retained traces of her loveliness, to 
 the last. But the beauties of her mind have out- 
 lived all her personal charms. Her dust now 
 moulders in the tomb, but the pure thoughts, she 
 embodied in her writings, still make her name fa- 
 miliar to all who read the English language ; and 
 thus it is, that virtue and genius, when united in 
 doing good, gain on earth immortal fame. 
 
PART FIRST. 
 
 THINGS BY THEIR RIGHT NAMES. 
 
 Charles. Papa, you grow very lazy. Last Win- 
 ter, you used to tell us stories, and now you never 
 tell us any ; and we are all around the fire, quite 
 ready to hear you. Pray, dear papa, let us have 
 a very pretty one. 
 
 Father. With all my heart ; what shall it be ? 
 
 C. A bloody murder, papa ! 
 
 F. A bloody murder ! Well then, — Once upon 
 a time, some men, dressed all alike, 
 
 C. With black crapes over their faces ? 
 
 F. No ; they had steel caps on : — having cros- 
 sed a dark heath, wound cautiously along the 
 skirts of a deep forest, 
 
 C. They were ill-looking fellows, I dare say. 
 
 F. I cannot say so ; on the contrary, they 
 were as tall, personable men as one ever sees : — 
 leaving on their right hand an old ruined tower on 
 
 the hill, 
 
 C. At midnight, just as the clock struck 
 twelve ; was it not, papa ? 
 
 F. No, really ; it was on a fine balmy Sum- 
 
16 THINGS BY THEIR RIGHT NAMES. 
 
 mer's morning : — and moved forwards, one be- 
 hind another, 
 
 O. As still as death, creeping along under the 
 hedges ? 
 
 F. On the contrary, — they walked remarkably 
 upright ; and, so far from endeavoring to be hushed 
 and still, they made a loud noise, as they came 
 along, with several sorts of instruments. 
 
 C But, papa, they would be found out imme- 
 diately. 
 
 F. They did not seem to wish to conceal them- 
 selves ; on the contrary, they gloried in what they 
 were about : — They moved forwards, I say, to a 
 large plain, where stood a neat, pretty village, 
 which they set on fire, 
 
 C. Set a village on fire ? wicked wretches ! 
 
 F. And while it was burning, they murdered, 
 — twenty thousand men. 
 
 C. O fie ! papa ! You do not intend I should 
 believe this ? I thought, all along, you were making 
 up a tale, as you often do ; but you shall not catch 
 me, this time. What ! they lay still, I suppose, 
 and let these fellows cut their throats ! 
 
 F. No, truly ; they resisted as long as they 
 could. 
 
 C How could these men kill twenty thousand 
 people, pray ? 
 
 F. Why not ? the murderers were thirty thou- 
 sand. 
 
 C. O, now I have found you out I You mean 
 
 a BATTLE. 
 
 F. Indeed I do. I do not know of any mwr- 
 dersj half so bloody. 
 
HYMN. 17 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Behold, the shepherd of the flock ; he taketh 
 care for his sheep ; he leadeth them among the 
 clear brooks ; he guideth them to fresh pasture ; 
 if the young lambs are weary, he carrieth them in 
 his arms ; if they wander, he bringeth them back. 
 
 But who is the shepherd's Shepherd ? Who 
 taketh care for him ? Who guideth him in the 
 path he should go ? And, if he wander, who shall 
 bring him back ? 
 
 God is the shepherd's Shepherd ; He is the 
 Shepherd over all ; He taketh care for all ; the 
 whole earth is His fold ; we are all His flocks ; 
 and every herb, and every green field, is the pas- 
 ture which He hath prepared for us. 
 
 The mother loveth her little child ; she bring- 
 eth it up on her knees ; she nourisheth its body 
 with food ; she feedeth its mind with knowledge ; 
 if it is sick, she nurseth it, with tender love ; she 
 watcheth over it when asleep ; she forgetteth it 
 not, for a moment ; she teacheth it how to be 
 good ; she rejoiceth, daily, in its growth. 
 
 But who is the Parent of the mother ? Who 
 nourisheth her with good things, and watcheth 
 over her with tender love, and remembereth her, 
 every moment ? Whose arms are about her, to 
 guard her from harm ? And, if she is sick, who 
 
 shall heal her ? 
 
 2* 
 
18 HYMN. 
 
 God is the Parent of the mother ; He is the 
 Parent of all, for He created all. All the men, 
 and all the women, who are alive in the wide 
 world, are His children : He loveth all. He is 
 good to all. 
 
 The king governeth his people ; he hath a gold- 
 en crown upon his head, and the royal sceptre is 
 in his hand ; he sitteth upon a throne, and sendeth 
 forth his commands ; his subjects fear before him ; 
 if they do well, he protecteth them from danger ; 
 and if they do evil, he punisheth them. 
 
 But who is the Sovereign of the king ? Who 
 commandeth him, what he must do ? Whose hand 
 is stretched out, to protect him from danger ? And 
 if he do evil, who shall punish him ? 
 
 God is the Sovereign of the king ; His crown 
 is a crown of glory, and His throne is in heaven 
 above. He is King of kings, and Lord of lords; 
 if He bid us live, we live ; if He bid us die, we 
 die : His dominion is over all worlds, and the light 
 of His countenance is upon all His works. 
 
 God is our Shepherd ; therefore, we will follow 
 Him : God is our Father ; therefore, we will love 
 Him : God is our King ; therefore, we will obey 
 Him. 
 
ALFRED. A DRAMA. 19 
 
 ALFRED.* 
 
 A DRAMA. 
 
 PERSONS or THE DRAMA. 
 
 Alfred, King rf England. 
 
 Gubba, .... a farmer. 
 
 Gandelin, .... liis wife. 
 
 Ella ail officer of Alfred. 
 
 Scene — Tlie Isle of Athelney. 
 
 Alfred. How retired and quiet is every thing 
 in this little spot ! The river winds its silent wa- 
 ters round this retreat ; and the tangled bushes of 
 
 * Alfred the Great, was a wise and good king of England, 
 who was born, A. D. 849, and died, A. D. 900. His history is 
 said to present " one of the most perfect examples, on record, 
 of the able and patriotic monarch united with the virtuous 
 man." He was so celebrated for his love of truth, that he 
 was called " Alfred the truth-teller." Being obliged to fly 
 from his kingdom, when it was conquered by the Danes, he 
 concealed himself in obscure places; and, on one occasion, 
 took shelter in the cottage of a swineherd, (or keeper of 
 Bwine,) who, not knowing who he was, employed him in va- 
 rious menial offices. Among other things related of him, is 
 that mentioned in this drama. The meekness, wii.h which he 
 bore the angry censures of his hostess, showed, that he was 
 one of those to whom the Scripture refers, when it says, " he 
 that ruleth his own spirit, is better than he that taketh a city." 
 He was soon after restored to his throne, and did every thing 
 in his power, to make his people happy. For a more extend- 
 ed notice of him, see the second volume of ' The Pursuit of 
 Knowledge under Difficulties,' being volume xx. of the lar- 
 ger series of • The School Library.' — J. W. I. 
 
20 ALFRED. A DRAMA. 
 
 the thicket fence it in from the attack of an ene- 
 my. The bloody Danes have not yet pierced 
 into this wild solitude. I believe I am safe from 
 their pursuit. But I hope I shall find some in- 
 habitants here ; otherwise, I shall die of hunger. 
 Ha ! here is a narrow path through the wood ; and 
 I think I see the smoke of a cottage rising between 
 the trees. I will bend my steps thither. 
 
 Scene — Before the cottage. Gubba coming fonoard. 
 Gandelin within. 
 
 Alfred. Good even to you, good man. Are 
 you disposed to show hospitality to a poor travel- 
 ler .? 
 
 Gubba. Why, truly, there are so many poor 
 travellers, nowadays, that, if we entertain them 
 all, we shall have nothing left for ourselves. How- 
 ever, come along to my wife, and we will see what 
 can be done for you. 
 
 Wife, I am very weary ; I have been chopping 
 wood, all day. 
 
 Gandelin. You are always ready for your sup- 
 per, but it is not ready for you, I assure you. The 
 cakes will take an hour to bake, and the sun is yet 
 high ; it has not yet dipped behind the old barn. 
 But who have you with you ? 
 
 Alfred. Good mother, I am a stranger, and 
 entreat you to afford me food and shelter. 
 
 Gandelin. Good mother ! Good wife, if yon 
 please, and welcome. But I do not love stran- 
 gers ; and the land has no reason to love them. 
 It has never been a merry day for Old England, 
 since strangers came into it. 
 
ALFRED. A DRAMA. 21 
 
 Alfred. I am not a stranger in England, though 
 I am a stranger here. I am a trueborn EngUsh- 
 man. 
 
 Gubba. And do you hate those wicked Danes, 
 that eat up our provisions, and burn our houses, 
 and drive away our cattle ? 
 
 Alfred. I do hate them. 
 
 Gandelin. Heartily ! He does not speak hear- 
 tily, husband. 
 
 Alfred. Heartily I hate them ; most heartily. 
 
 Gubba. Give me thy hand, then ; thou art an 
 honest fellow. 
 
 Alfred. I was with king Alfred, in the last bat- 
 tle he fought. 
 
 Gandelin. With king Alfred ? Heaven bless 
 him ! 
 
 Gubba. What is become of our good king } 
 
 Alfred. Did you love him, then ? 
 
 Gubba. Yes, as much as a poor man may love 
 a king ; and kneeled down and prayed for him, 
 every night, that he might conquer those Danish 
 wolves : but it was not to be so. 
 
 Alfred. You could not love Alfred better than 
 I did. 
 
 Gubba. But what is become of him ? 
 
 Alfred. He is thought to be dead. 
 
 Gubba. Well, these are sad times ; Heaven 
 help us ! Come ; you shall be welcome to share 
 the brown loaf with us. I suppose you are too 
 sharpset, to be nice. 
 
 Gandelin. Aye, come with us ; you shall be as 
 welcome as a prince ! But hark ye, husband ; 
 
22' ALFRED. A DRAMA. 
 
 though I am very willing to be charitable to this 
 stranger, (it would be a sin to be otherwise,) yet 
 there is no reason he should not do something to 
 maintain himself. He looks strong and capable. 
 
 Gubba. Why, that's true. What can you do, 
 friend ^ 
 
 Alfred. I am very willing to help you, in any 
 thing you choose to set me about. It will please 
 me best to earn my bread, before I eat it. 
 
 Gubba. Let me see. Can you tie up fagots 
 neatly ^ 
 
 Jllfred. I have not been used to it. I am afraid 
 I should be awkward. 
 
 Gubba. Can you thatch ? There is a piece 
 blown off the cow-house. 
 
 Alfred. Alas, I cannot thatch. 
 
 Gandelin. Ask him if he can weave rushes : 
 we want some new baskets. 
 
 Alfred. I have never learned. 
 
 Gubba. Can you stack hay .'' 
 
 Alfred. No. 
 
 Gubba. Why, here' s a fellow ! and yet he hath 
 as many hands as his neighbors. Dame, can you 
 employ him in the house ? He might lay wood 
 on the fire, and rub the tables. 
 
 Gandelin. Let him watch these cakes, then ; 
 I must go and milk the kine. 
 
 Gubba. And I '11 go and stack the wood, since 
 supper is not ready. ' 
 
 Gandelin. But pray observe, friend ! do not 
 let the cakes burn ; turn them often on the hearth. 
 
 Alfred. I shall observe your directions. 
 
ALFRED. A DRAMA. 23 
 
 ALFRED, alone. 
 
 Alfred. For myself, I could bear it ; but Eng- 
 land ! my bleeding country ; for thee, my heart is 
 wrung with bitter anguish ! From the Humber 
 to the Thames, the rivers are stained with blood. 
 My brave soldiers cut to pieces. My poor peo- 
 ple, — some massacred, others driven from their 
 warm^ homes, stripped, abused, insulted ; and I, 
 whom Heaven appointed their shepherd, unable to 
 rescue my defenceless flock from the ravenous 
 jaws of these devourers ! Gracious Heaven ! if 
 I am not worthy to save this land from the Danish 
 sword, raise up some other hero, to fight with 
 more success than 1 have done, and let me spend 
 my life in this obscure cottage, in these servile 
 offices. I shall be content, if England is happy. 
 
 O ! here come my blunt host and hostess. 
 
 Enter Gubba and Gandelin. 
 
 Gandelin. Help me down with the pail, hus- 
 band. This new milk, with the cakes, will make 
 an excellent supper. But, mercy on us ! how they 
 are burnt ; black as my shoe ; they have not once 
 been turned : you oaf ! you lubber ! you lazy 
 loon ! 
 
 Alfred. Indeed, dame, I am sorry for it ; but 
 my mind was full of sad thoughts. 
 
 Gubba. Come, wife, you must forgive him ; 
 perhaps he is in love. I remember when I was 
 in love with thee 
 
 Gandelin. You remember ! 
 
 Gubba. Yes, dame, I do remember it, though 
 
24 ALFRED. A DRAMA. 
 
 it is many a long year since ; my mother was mak- 
 ing a kettle of furmety* 
 
 Gandelin. I pray thee, hold thy tongue, and 
 let us eat our suppers. 
 
 Alfred. How refreshing is this new milk, and 
 this wholesome bread ! 
 
 Gubba. Eat heartily, friend. Where shall we 
 lodge him, Gandelin ? 
 
 Gandelin. We have but one bed, you know ; 
 but there is fresh straw in the barn. 
 
 Alfred, (aside.) If I shall not lodge like a king, 
 at least, 1 shall lodge like a soldier. Alas ! how 
 many of my poor soldiers are stretched on the 
 bare ground ! 
 
 Gandelin. What noise do I hear ? It is the 
 trampling of horses. Good husband, go and see 
 what is the matter. 
 
 Alfred. Heaven forbid my misfortunes should 
 bring destruction on this simple family ! I would 
 rather have perished in the wood. 
 
 Gubba returns, foUoived by Ella, ivith his sioord 
 drawn. 
 
 Gandelin. Mercy defend us, a sword ! 
 
 Gubba. The Danes ! the Danes ! O do not 
 kill us ! 
 
 JG//a, (kneeling.) My liege, my lord, my sov- 
 ereign ; have I found you ? 
 
 Alfred, {embracing him.) My brave Ella ! 
 
 Ella. I bring you good news, my sovereign ; 
 
 * A corrupt pronunciation of frumenty , which is food made 
 of wheat, boiled in milk. — J. W. I. 
 
ALFRED. A DRAMA. 25 
 
 your troops, that were shut up in Kinwith Castle, 
 made a desperate sally, and the Danes were slaugh- 
 tered. The fierce Hubba* lies gasping on the 
 plain., 
 
 Jllfred. Is it possible .'' Am I yet a king } 
 
 Ella. Their famous standard, the Danish ra- 
 ven,! is taken ; their troops are panic struck ; the 
 English soldiers call aloud for Alfred. Here is a 
 letter, which will inform you of more particulars. 
 (Gives a letter.) 
 
 Gubba, (aside.) What will become of us ! Ah, 
 dame ! that tongue of thine has undone us ! 
 
 Gandelin. O, my poor, dear husband ! we shall 
 all be hanged, that's certain. But who could 
 have thought it was the King ? 
 
 Gubba. Why, Gandelin, do you see, we might 
 have guessed he was born to be a king, or some 
 such great man, because, you know, he was fit 
 for nothing else. 
 
 Jllfred.^ (coming forward.) God be praised, for 
 these tidings ! Hope is sprung up out of the depths 
 of despair. O, my friend ! shall I again shine in 
 arms, — again fight at the head of my brave En- 
 glishmen, and lead them on to victory .'' Our 
 friends shall now lift their heads again. 
 
 Ella. Yes, you have many friends, who have 
 long been obliged, like their master, to skulk in 
 deserts and caves, and wander from cottage to 
 cottage. When they hear you are alive, and in 
 
 * The Danish general. — J. W. I. 
 
 t The standard of the Danes had a raven painted upon it. 
 — J. W. I. 
 
 3 VI. 
 
26 HYMN. 
 
 arms again, they will leave their fastnesses, and 
 flock to your standard. 
 
 Jllfred. I am impatient to meet them ; my peo- 
 ple shall be revenged. 
 
 Guhba and Gandelin^ {throwing themselves at 
 the feet of Alfred.) Oh! my lord ! 
 
 Gandelin. We hope your majesty will put us 
 to a merciful death. Indeed, we did not know 
 your majesty's grace. 
 
 Guhba. If your majesty could but pardon my 
 wife's tongue ; she means no harm, poor woman ! 
 
 Alfred. Pardon you, good people ! I not only 
 pardon you, but thank you. You have afforded 
 me protection, in my distress ; and if ever 1 am 
 seated again on the throne of England, my first 
 care shall be to reward your hospitality. I am 
 now going to protect you. Come ! my faithful 
 Ella ; to arms ! to arms ! My bosom burns, to 
 face once more the haughty Dane ; and here I 
 vow to Heaven, that I will never sheathe the sword 
 against these robbers, till either I lose my life in 
 this just cause, or 
 
 Till dove-like Peace return to England's shore, 
 And war and slaughter vex the land no more. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Come, let us go into the thick shade, for it is 
 the noon of the day, and the Summer sun beats 
 hot upon our heads. 
 
HFMN. 27 
 
 The shade is pleasant and cool ; the branches 
 meet above our heads, and shut out the sun, as 
 with a green curtain ; the grass is soft to our feet, 
 and a-clear brook washes the roots of the trees. 
 
 The sloping bank is covered with flowers ; let 
 us lie down upon it ; let us throw our limbs on the 
 fresh grass, and sleep ; for all things are still, and 
 we are quite alone. 
 
 The cattle lie down to sleep in the cool shade ; 
 but we can do what is better ; we can raise our 
 voices to heaven ; we can praise the great God 
 who made us. He made the warm sun, and the 
 cool shade ; the trees that grow upwards, and the 
 brooks that run murmuring along. All the things 
 that we see are Plis work. 
 
 Can we raise our voices up to the high heav- 
 en ? Can we make Him hear, who is above the 
 stars .'' Yes ; for He heareth us when we only- 
 whisper ; when we breathe out words, softly, with 
 a low voice. He that filleth the heavens is here 
 also. 
 
 May we, that are so young, speak to Him that 
 always was ? May we, that can hardly speak 
 plain, speak to God ? 
 
 We, that are so young, are but lately made 
 alive ; therefore, we should not forget His form- 
 ing hand, who hath made us alive. We, that can- 
 not speak plain, should lisp out praises to Him 
 who teacheth us how to speak, and hath opened 
 our dumb lips. 
 
 When we could not think of Him, He thought 
 
28 HYMPf. 
 
 of US ; before we could ask Him to bless us, He 
 had already given us many blessings. 
 
 He fashioneth our tender limbs, and causeth 
 them to grow ; He maketh us strong, tall, and 
 nimble. 
 
 Every day we are more active than the former 
 day ; therefore, every day we ought to praise Him 
 better than the former day. 
 
 The buds spread into leaves, and the blossoms 
 swell to fruit ; but they know not how they grow, 
 nor who causeth them to spring up from the bosom 
 of the earth. 
 
 Ask them, if they will tell thee ; bid them break 
 forth into singing, and fill the air with pleasant 
 sounds. 
 
 They smell sweet ; they look beautiful ; but 
 they are quite silent ; no sound is in the still air ; 
 no murmur of voices among the green leaves. 
 
 The plants and trees are made to give fruit to 
 man ; but man is made to praise God who made 
 him. 
 
 We love to praise Him, because He loveth to 
 bless us ; we thank Him for life, because it is a 
 pleasant thing to be alive. 
 
 We love God, who hath created all beings ; 
 we love all beings, because they are the creatures 
 of God. 
 
 We cannot be good, as God is good to all per- 
 sons every where ; but we can rejoice, that every 
 where there is a God to do them good. 
 
 We will think of God when we play, and when 
 we work ; when we walk out, and when we come 
 
THE GOOSE AND HORSE. 29 
 
 in ; when we sleep and when we wake. His praise 
 shall dwell continually on our lips. 
 
 THE GOOSE AND HORSE. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 A Goose, who was plucking grass upon a com- 
 mon, thought herself affronted by a Horse, who 
 fed near her, and, in hissing accents, thus address- 
 ed him : "I am certainly a more noble and per- 
 fect animal than you, for the whole range and ex- 
 tent of your faculties is confined to one element- 
 lean walk upon the ground, as well as you ; I have, 
 besides, wings, with which I can raise myself in 
 the air ; and, when I please, I can sport in ponds 
 and lakes, and refresh myself in the cool waters : 
 I enjoy the different powers of a bird, a fish, and 
 a quadruped." 
 
 The Horse, snorting somewhat disdainfully, re- 
 plied : ''It is true, you inhabit three elements, but 
 you make no very distinguished figure in any one 
 of them. You fly, indeed ; but your flight is so 
 heavy and clumsy, that you have no right to put 
 yourself on a level with the lark or the swallow. 
 You can swim on the surface of the waters, but 
 you cannot live in them, as fishes do ; you cannot 
 find your food in that element, nor ghde smoothly 
 along the bottom of the waves. And when you 
 
 walk, or rather waddle upon the ground, with your 
 
 3* 
 
'30 THE FOUR SISTERS. 
 
 broad feet, and your long neck stretched out, his- 
 sing at every one who passes by, you bring upon 
 yourself the derision of all beholders. I confess, 
 that I am only formed to move upon the ground ; 
 but how graceful is my make ! how well turned, 
 my limbs ! how highly finished, my whole body ! 
 how great, my strength ! how astonishing, my 
 speed ! I would far rather be confined to one ele- 
 ment, and be admired in that, than be a goost in 
 all." 
 
 THE FOUR SISTERS.* 
 
 I AM one of four sisters ; and, having some rea- 
 son to think myself not well used, either by them 
 or by the world, I beg leave to lay before you a 
 sketch of our history and characters. You will 
 not wonder, that there should be frequent bicker- 
 ings amongst us, when I tell you, that, in our infan- 
 cy, we were continually fighting ; and, so great was 
 the noise, and din, and confusion, in our constant 
 struggles to get uppermost, that it was impossible 
 for any body to live amongst us, in such a scene 
 of tumult and disorder. These brawls, however, 
 by a powerful interposition, were put an end to ; 
 our proper place was assigned to each of us ; and 
 we had strict orders not to encroach on the limits 
 
 * The young reader may need to be informed, that this is 
 an Allegory, or figurative description of the four elements, 
 Fire, Air, Water, and Earth, which are here spoken of as four 
 sisters. — J. W. I. 
 
THE FOUR SISTERS. 31 
 
 of each other's property, but to join our common 
 offices, for the good of the whole family. 
 
 My first sister, (I call her the first, because we 
 have generally allowed her the precedence in rank,) 
 is, 1 must acknowledge, of a very active, sprightly 
 disposition ; quick and lively, and has more bril- 
 liancy than any of us ; but she is hot : every thing 
 serves for fuel to her fury, when it is once raised 
 to a certain degree ; and she is so mischievous, 
 whenever she gets the upper hand, that, notwith- 
 standing her aspiring disposition, if I may freely 
 speak my mind, she is calculated to make a good 
 servant, but a very bad mistress. 
 
 I am almost ashamed to mention, that, notwith- 
 standing her seeming dehcacy, she has a most 
 voracious appetite, and devours every thing that 
 comes in her way ; though, hke other eager, thin 
 people, she does no credit to her keeping. Many 
 a time has she consumed the product of my barns 
 and storehouses ; but it is all lost upon her. She 
 has even been known to get into an oil-shop or 
 tallow-chandler's, when every body was asleep, 
 and lick up, with the utmost greediness, whatever 
 she found there. Indeed, all prudent people are 
 aware of her tricks ; and, though she is admitted 
 into the best families, they take care to watch her, 
 very narrowly. I should not forget to mention, 
 that my sister was once in a country,* where she 
 
 * Persia ; where the element of Fire is worshipped as a 
 deity, to whom temples are erected, in which a fire is kept 
 constantly burning. These temples are generally sumptuous 
 buildings, and the attendants are young females, selected from 
 
32 THE FOUR SISTERS. 
 
 was treated with uncommon respect. She was 
 lodged in a sumptuous building, and had a number 
 of young women of the best famihes to attend on 
 her, and feed her, and watch over her heahh ; in 
 short, she was looked upon as something more 
 than a common mortal. But she always behaved 
 with great severity to her maids ; and, if any of 
 them were negligent of their duty, or made a slip 
 in their own conduct, nothing would serve her, 
 but burying the poor girls alive. I have, myself, 
 had some dark hints and intimations, from the most 
 respectable authority,* that she will some time or 
 other make an end of me. You need not wonder, 
 therefore, if I am jealous of her motions. 
 
 The next sister, I shall mention to you, has so 
 far the appearance of modesty and humility, that 
 she generally seeks the lowest place. She is, 
 indeed, of a very yielding, easy temper, general- 
 ly cool, and often wears a sweet, placid smile 
 upon her countenance. But she is easily ruffled ; 
 and, when worked up, as she often is, by another 
 sister, whom I shall mention to you, by and by, 
 she becomes a perfect fury. Indeed, she is so 
 apt to swell, with sudden gusts of passion, that 
 she is suspected, at times, to be a little lunatic. 
 Between her and my first-mentioned sister, there is 
 a more settled antipathy, than between the The- 
 
 the highest families in the place, whose duty it is to watch 
 and tend this "Sacred Fire." If these young maidens neg- 
 lect their duty, they are punished, by being buried alive. — 
 J. W. I. 
 
 * See 1 Peter iii, 10, 12, and similar passages. — J. W. I. 
 
THE FOUR SISTERS. 33 
 
 ban* pair ; and they never meet, without making 
 efforts to destroy one another. With me, she is 
 always ready to form the most intimate union, but 
 it is not always to my advantage. There goes a 
 story, in our family, that, when we were all young, 
 she once attempted to drown me.f She actually 
 kept me under a considerable time ; and though, 
 at length, I got my head above water, my consti- 
 tution is generally thought to have been essentially 
 affected by it. From that time, she has made no 
 such atrocious attempt, but she is continually mak- 
 ing encroachments upon my property ;j: and, even 
 when she appears most gende, she is very insidi- 
 ous, and has such an undermining way with her, 
 that her insinuating arts are as much to be dread- 
 ed, as open violence. I might, indeed, remon- 
 strate ; but it is a known part of her character, 
 
 * Eteocles and Polynices, sons of CEdipus, king of Thebes, 
 who, on the death of their father, mutually agreed , that they 
 should both enjoy the crown, one reigning one year, and the 
 other the next, and so on ; each being king, every other year. 
 Eteocles, being the elder, first ascended the throne ; but, when 
 his year had expired, he refused to give up the crown to his 
 brother, according to his agreement. This caused a bitter 
 hostility between the two brothers, which was only ended 
 with their lives. Much blood was shed in the wars which 
 took place between them, till they agreed to decide the con- 
 test by a single combat, in which they were both killed, after 
 fighting with the most inveterate fury. — J. W. I. 
 
 t The universal Deluge, recorded in Genesis vii. when the 
 whole earth was covered by the waters, is here referred to. 
 — J.W.I. 
 
 t The sea is constantly encroaching upon the land. — J.W.I. 
 
o4 THE FOUR SISTERS. 
 
 that nothing makes any lasting impression upon 
 her.* 
 
 As to my third sister, I have already mention- 
 ed the ill offices she does me, with my last-men- 
 tioned one, who is entirely under her influence. 
 She is, besides, of a very uncertain, variable 
 temper ; sometimes hot, and sometimes cold, no- 
 body knows where to find her. Her lightness 
 is even proverbial ; and she has nothing to give 
 those who live with her, more substantial than 
 the smiles of courtiers. I must add, that she 
 keeps in her service, three or four rough, bluster- 
 ing bullies,! with puffed cheeks, who, when they 
 are let loose, think they have nothing to do, but 
 to drive the world before them. She sometimes 
 joins with my first sister, and their violence occa- 
 sionally throws me into such a trembling, that, 
 though naturally of a firm constitution, I shake, as 
 if I was in an ague fit. if 
 
 As to myself, I am of a steady, solid temper ; 
 not shining, indeed, but kind and liberal, quite a 
 Lady Bountiful. Every one tastes of my benefi- 
 cence ; and I am of so grateful a disposition, that 
 I have been known to return a hundred-fold, for 
 any present that has been made me. I feed and 
 clothe all my children, and afford a welcome 
 home to the wretch who has no other shelter. I 
 
 * The instability of water, and its inability to retain any 
 impression, is proverbial. — J. W. I. 
 
 tThe Winds. — J. W. I. 
 
 t Referring to earthquakes ; which are caused by the uniting 
 of air and fire, or heat, within the earth. — J. W. I. 
 
THE FOUR SISTERS. 35 
 
 bear, with unrepining patience, all manner of ill 
 usage ; I am trampled upon, I am torn, and 
 wounded with the most cutting strokes ; I am 
 pillaged of the treasures hidden in my most se- 
 cret chambers ; notwithstanding which, I am al- 
 ways ready to return good for evil, and am con- 
 tinually subservient to the pleasure or advantage 
 of others ; yet, so ungrateful is the world, that, 
 because I do not possess all the airiness and ac- 
 tivity of my sisters, I am stigmatized as dull and 
 heavy. Every sordid, miserly fellow is called, 
 by way of derision, one of my children ; and, if 
 a person, on entering a room, does but turn his 
 eyes upon me, he is thought stupid and mean, 
 and not fit for good company. I have the satis- 
 faction, however, of finding, that people always 
 incline towards me, as they grow older ; and that 
 those, who seemed proudly to disdain any afiinity 
 with me, are content to sink, at last, into my bo- 
 som. You will, probably, wish to have some ac- 
 count of my person. I am not a regular beauty ; 
 some of my features are rather harsh and promi- 
 nent, when viewed separately ; but my counte- 
 nance has so much variety of expression, and so 
 many different attitudes of elegance, that those, 
 who study my face with attention, find out, con- 
 tinually, new charms. 
 
 Though I have been so long a mother, I have 
 still a surprising air of youth and freshness, which 
 is assisted by all the advantages of well-chosen 
 ornament, for I dress well, and according to the 
 season. 
 
36 HYMN. 
 
 This is what I have chiefly to say of myself 
 and my sisters. To a person of your sagacity, 
 it will be unnecessary for me to sign my name. 
 Indeed, one who becomes acquainted with any 
 one of the family, cannot be at a loss to discover 
 the rest, notwithstanding the difference in our 
 features and characters. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Come, let us go forth into the fields ; let us 
 see how the flowers spring ; let us listen to the 
 singing of the birds, and sport ourselves upon the 
 new grass. 
 
 The Winter is over and gone, the buds come 
 out upon the trees, the crimson blossoms of the 
 peach and the nectarine are seen ; and the green 
 leaves sprout. 
 
 The hedges are bordered with tufts of primro- 
 ses, and yellow cowslips that hang down their 
 heads ; and the blue violet lies hid beneath the 
 shade. 
 
 The young goslings are running upon the green, 
 they are just hatched, their bodies are covered 
 with yellow down ; the old ones hiss with anger, 
 if any comes near. 
 
 The hen sits upon her nest of straw ; she. 
 watches, patiently, the full time, till the young 
 chickens get strength to break the shell with their 
 bills, and come out. 
 
HYMN. 37 
 
 The lambs sport In the field ; they totter by the 
 side of their dams ; their young limbs, at first, can 
 hardly support their weight. 
 
 If you fall, little lambs, you will not be hurt ; 
 there is spread under you a carpet of soft grass ; 
 it is spread for you and for us. 
 
 The butterflies flutter from bush to bush, and 
 open their wings to the warm sun. 
 
 The young animals, of every kind, are sport- 
 ing about ; they feel themselves happy, they are 
 glad to be alive : they thank Him that has made 
 them alive. 
 
 They may thank Him in their hearts, but we 
 can thank Him with our tongues : our gifts are 
 greater than theirs ; therefore, we ought to praise 
 Him more. 
 
 The birds can warble, and the young lambs 
 can bleat ; but we can open our lips in His praise, 
 we can speak of all His goodness. 
 
 Therefore, we will thank Him, for ourselves, 
 and we will thank Him, for those that cannot 
 speak. 
 
 Trees that blossom, and little lambs that skip 
 about ; if you could, you would say, how good 
 He is ; but you are dumb, and we will say it for 
 you. 
 
 We will not offer you in sacrifice, but we will 
 offer sacrifice for you ; on every hill, and in ev- 
 ery green field, we will offer the sacrifice of thanks- 
 giving, and the incense of praise. 
 
 4 VI. 
 
ON MANUFACTURES. 
 
 ON MANUFACTURES. 
 
 FATHER, HENRY. 
 
 Henry. My dear father, you once observed, 
 tliat we had a great many manvfactures in this 
 country. Pray, vvliat is manufacture ? 
 
 Fallier. A manufacture is something made by 
 the hand of man. It is derived from two Latin 
 words, manus^ the hand, and facere., to make. 
 Manufactures are, therefore, to be distinguished 
 from productions, which are what the bounty of 
 Nature spontaneously afibrds us ; as fruits, corn, 
 marble. 
 
 //. But there is a great deal of trouble with 
 corn. You have often made me take notice, how 
 much pains it costs the farmer, to plough his 
 ground, and put the seed in the earth, and keep 
 it clear from weeds. 
 
 F. Very true. But the farmer does not make 
 the corn ; he only prepares for it a proper soil 
 and situation, and removes every hinderance, aris- 
 ing from the hardness of the ground, or the neigh- 
 borhood of other plants, which might obstruct 
 the secret and wonderful process of vegetation ; 
 but with the vegetation, itself, he has nothing to 
 do. It is not his hand that di aws out the slender 
 fibres of the root, pushes up, by degrees, the 
 green stalk, and the spiky ear ; swells the grain, 
 
ON MANUFACTURES. 39 
 
 and imbrowns it with that rich tinge of tawny rus- 
 set, which informs the husbandman, it is time to 
 ))ut in his sicicle ; all this operation is performed 
 wiihont his care, or even knowledge. 
 
 //. Now^, then, I understand ; corn is a pro- 
 duction^ and bread a manufacture. 
 
 F. Bread is certainly, in strictness of speech, 
 a nianufacture ; but we do not, in general, appl}' 
 the term to any thing, in which the original mate- 
 rial is so little chan,a;ed. If we wanted to speak 
 of bread philosophically, we should say, it is a 
 preparation of grain. 
 
 H. Is sugar a manufiicture ? 
 
 F. No; for the same reason. Besides which, 
 I do not recollect the term being applied to any 
 article of food ; I suppose, from an idea that 
 food is of too perishable a nature, and generally 
 cblained by a ])rocess too simple, to deserve 
 the name. We say, therefore, sugar-works, oil- 
 mills, chocolate-works ; we do not say a beer- 
 manufactory, but a brewery ; but this is only a 
 nicety of language ; for, properly, all those are 
 manufactories, if there is much of art and pains- 
 taking in the process. 
 
 H. Do we say a manufactory of pic^wre^? 
 
 F. No ; but for a different reason. A pic- 
 ture, especially if it belong to any of the higher 
 kinds of painting, is a work of genius. A pic- 
 ture cannot be produced by any given combina- 
 tions of canvass and color. It is the hand, in- 
 deed, that executes, but the head that works. 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds could not have gone, when 
 
40 ON MANUFACTURES. 
 
 he was engaged to paint a picture, and iiired work- 
 men, the one to draw the eyes, another the nose, 
 a third the mouth ; the whole must be the paint- 
 er's own, that particular painter's, and no other ; 
 and no one, who has not his ideas, can do his 
 work. His work is, therefore, nobler, and of a 
 higher species. 
 
 H. Pray, give me an instance of a manufac- 
 ture ? 
 
 F. The making of watches is a manufacture. 
 The silver, iron, gold, or whatever else is used 
 in it, are productions, the materials of the work ; 
 but it is by the wonderful art of man, that they 
 are wrought into the numberless wheels and 
 springs, of which this complicated machine is 
 composed. 
 
 H. Then is there not as much art in mak- 
 ing a watch as a picture ? Does not the head 
 work ? 
 
 F. Certainly, in the original invention of watch- 
 es, as much or more than in painting. But, 
 when once invented, the art of watch-making is 
 capable of being reduced to mere mechanical la- 
 bor, which may be exercised by any man of com- 
 mon capacity, according to certain precise rules, 
 when made familiar to him, by practice. This, 
 painting is not. 
 
 H. But, my dear father, making of books sure- 
 ly requires a great deal of thinking and study ; 
 and yet, I remember, the other day, at dinner, a 
 gentleman said, that Mr. Pica had manufactured 
 a large volume, in less than a fortnight. 
 
ON MANUFACTURES. 41 
 
 F. It was meant to convey a satirical re- 
 mark on his book, because it was compiled from 
 other authors, from whom he had taken a page in 
 one plSce, and a page in anotiier ; so that it was 
 not produced by the labor cf his biain, but cf 
 his iiands. Thus, }ou heard your n:oiher ccni- 
 plain, that the London cream was manufactured ; 
 wiiich was a pointed and concise way cf saying, 
 tliat the cream was not what il ought to be, nor 
 what it was pretended that it was ; for cream, 
 wlien genuine, is a pure produclion ; but, va lien 
 njixed up and adulterated with flour and isinglass, 
 and I know not what, it becomes a manufacture. 
 It was as much as to say, art has been heie, where 
 it lias no business ; wliere it is not beneficial, but 
 hurtful. Much of die delicacy of language de- 
 pends upon an accurate knowledge of the specific 
 meaning cf single terms, and a nice attention to 
 their relative propriety. 
 
 //. Have all nations manufactures ? 
 
 P. All that are in any degree cultivated ; but 
 it very often happens, that countries, naturally 
 the poorest, have manufactures of the greatest ex- 
 tent and variety. 
 
 H. Why so ? 
 
 F. For the same reason, I apprehend, that 
 individuals, who are rich without any labor cf 
 their own, are seldom so industrious and active, 
 as those who depend upon their own exertions ; 
 thus, the Spaniards, who possess the richest 
 gold and silver mines in the world, are in want 
 of many conveniences of hfe, which are enjoyed 
 4* 
 
42 ON MANUFACTURES. 
 
 in London, and Amsterdam, and in the United 
 States. 
 
 H. I can comprehend that. I believe if my 
 uncle Ledger were to find a gold mine under his 
 warehouse, he would soon shut up shop. 
 
 F. I believe so. It is not, however, easy to 
 establish manufactures, in a very poor nation. 
 They require science and genius, for their inven- 
 tion ; art and contrivance, for their execution ; 
 order, peace, and union, for their flourishing ; 
 they require a number of men to combine togeth- 
 er in an undertaking, and to prosecute it with the 
 most patient industry ; they require, therefore, 
 laws and government, for their protection. If you 
 see extensive manufactures in any nation, you 
 may be sure, it is a civilized nation ; you may be 
 sure, property is accurately ascertained and pro- 
 tected. They require great expenses, for their first 
 establishment; costly machines, for shortening man- 
 ual labor ; and money and credit, for purchasing 
 materials from distant countries. There is not a 
 single manufacture, which does not require, in 
 some part or other of its process, productions 
 from different parts of the globe ; oils, drugs, 
 varnish, quicksilver, and the like. It requires, 
 therefore, ships, and a friendly intercourse with 
 foreign nations, to transport commodities, and ex- 
 change productions. We could not be a manu- 
 facturing, unless we were, also, a commercial, 
 nation. They require time, to take root in any 
 place, and their excellence often depends upon 
 some nice and delicate circumstance ; a peculiar 
 
I 
 
 ON MANUFACTURES. 43 
 
 quality, for instance, in the air, or water, or some 
 other local circumstance, not easily ascertained. 
 Thus, I have heard, that the Irish women spin 
 betterthan the English, because the moister tem- 
 perature of their climate makes their skin more 
 soft, and their fingers more flexible. Thus, again, 
 we cannot dye so beautiful a scarlet, as the French 
 can, though with the same drugs, perhaps on ac- 
 count of the superior purity of their air. But, 
 though so much is necessary for the perfection of 
 the more curious and complicated manufactures, 
 all nations possess those which are subservient to 
 the common conveniences of life ; the loom and 
 the forge, particularly, are of the higliest antiquity. 
 H. Yes ; I remember Hector bids Androm- 
 ache return to her apartment, and employ herself 
 in weaving with her maids ;* and I remember the 
 shield of Achilles. f 
 
 * Andromache was daughter to Eetion, king of Thebes, 
 and wife to Hector, son of Priam, the last king of Troy. 
 When Troy was besieged by the Greeks, Hector was ap- 
 pointed captain of the Trojan forces ; and, during the war, 
 which lasted ten years, Andromache remained in Troy, em- 
 ployed in her domestic concerns. The account which is giv- 
 en by the poet Homer, of the parting of Hector and x'^ndro- 
 rnache, when he was going to a battle, is a very tender and 
 pathetic passage. When Troy was destroyed, Hector was 
 slain, and his wife taken prisoner, and carried to Epirus, 
 where she became the wife of the Greek who captured her, 
 and who was named Neoptolemus. This happened, about 
 eleven hundred and eighty-four years before the birth of our 
 Saviour. — J. W. I. 
 
 t Achilles was a Greek hero, who is said to have been, 
 while an infant, dipped by his mother in the river Styx, which 
 rendered him invulnerable, (or incapable of being wounded,) 
 
44 ON MANUFACTURES. 
 
 F. True ; and you likewise remember, in an 
 earlier period, the fine linen of Egypt ; and, to go 
 slill i'urllier back, the working in biass and iron is 
 recorded of Tubal Cain, before the flood.* 
 
 H. Which is the most important, manufactures 
 or agriculture ^ 
 
 F. Agi'iculture is the most necessary, because 
 it is, fiist of all, necessary that man should live ; 
 but, almost all the eiijoynients and comforts of life 
 are produced by manufactures. 
 
 //. Why ai"e we obliged to take so much pains 
 to make ourselves comfortable ? 
 
 F. To exercise our industry. Nature pro- 
 vides the materials for man. She pours out at 
 his feet a profusion of gems, metals, dyes, plants, 
 ores, barks, stones, gums, wax, marbles, woods, 
 roots, skins, earths, and minerals of all kinds. She 
 has likewise given him tools. 
 
 H. I did not know that Nature gave us tools. 
 
 in every part exr.ept the heel, by which she held him. At the 
 siege of Troy, he received a wound in the heel, which caused 
 his death. Fie is said to have been the bravest of all the Greeks 
 in the Trojan war. It is said, that a suit of armor was made 
 for him by Vulcan, one of the heathen deities, who presided 
 over fire, and worked as a blacksmith, in iron, and other met- 
 als. This armor is said to have been proof against all weap- 
 ons. — J. W. I. 
 
 * In the forty-first chapter of Genesis, (verse forty-second,) 
 Pharaoh is said to have arrayed Joseph in vestures of fine 
 linen. This was about one thousand seven hundred and fif- 
 teen years before the birth of our Saviour. 'I'ubal Cain is 
 mentioned in the fourth chapter of Genesis, (verse twenty- 
 sesond.) He lived about fifteen hundred years before the 
 Hood, or three thousuud eight hundred before the birth of our 
 Saviour. — J. W. I. 
 
ON MANUFACTURES. 45 
 
 F. No ! what are those two instruments you 
 carry always about with you, so strong, and yet 
 so flexible, so nicely jointed, and branched out 
 into fire long, taper, unequal divisions, any of 
 which may be contracted or stretched out, at 
 pleasure ; the extremities of which have a feeling 
 so wonderfully delicate, and which are strength- 
 ened and defended by horn ! 
 
 H. The hands. 
 
 F. Yes. Man is as much superior to the 
 brutes, in his outward form, by means of the 
 hand, as he is in his mind, by the gifts of reason. 
 The trunk of the elephant comes, perhaps, the 
 nearest to it, in its exquisite feeling and flexibility ; 
 (it is, indeed, called his hand, in Latin ;) and, ac- 
 cordingly, that animal has always been reckoned 
 the wisest of brutes. When Nature gave man the 
 hand, she said to him, "Exercise your ingenu- 
 ity, and work." As soon as ever man rises above 
 the state of a savage, he begins to contrive and to 
 make things, in order to improve his forlorn con- 
 dition. Thus, you may remember, Thomson rep- 
 resents Industry coming to the poor, shivering 
 wretch, and teaching him the arts of life : 
 
 " Taught I)ini to chip the wood, and hew the stone, 
 Till, by degrees, the finished fabric rose; 
 Tore from his limbs the blood-polluted fur, 
 And wrapt them in the woolly vestment warm. 
 Or bright in glossy silk, and flowing lawn." 
 
 H. It must require a great deal of knowledge, 
 I suppose, for so many curious works. What 
 kind of knowledge is most necessary ? 
 
46 ON MANUFACTURES. 
 
 F. There is not any which may not he occa- 
 sionally employed ; but the two sciences, which 
 most assist the manufactLirer, are mechanics ar.d 
 chemistry: the one, for building mills, working 
 of mines, and, in general, for constructing wheels, 
 wedges, pulleys, &c., either to shorten the la- 
 bor of man, by performing it in less time, or to 
 perform what the strength of man, alone, could 
 not accomplish ; the other, in fusing and working 
 ores, in dying and bleacliing, and extracting the 
 virtues oi" various substances, for particular uses. 
 'J'he making of soap, for instance, is a chemical 
 operation ; and by chemistry, an ingenious gen- 
 tleman found out a way of bleaching a piece of 
 cloth, in eight and forty hours, which, by the com- 
 mon process, would have taken uj) a great many 
 weeks. You have heard of Sir Richard Ark- 
 wright,* who died lately. 
 
 //. Yes, I have heard he was, at first, only a 
 barber, and shaved people for a penny a|)iece. 
 
 F. He did so ; but, having a strong turn for 
 mechanics, he invented, or at least perfected, 
 a machine, l)y which one pair of hands may do 
 the work of twenty or thirty ; and, as in his coun- 
 try every one is free to rise by merit, he acquired 
 the largest fortune in the country, had- a great 
 many iiundreds of workmen under his orders, and 
 
 * An interesting account of Sir Ri:;hard Arkwright, and of 
 his inventions, may lie found in the second volume of a work 
 entitled ' 'liie Pursuit of Knowledge under DilRculties,' form- 
 ing Vol. XX. of the larger series of ' The School, Libra- 
 ry.' —.[. W. I. 
 
ON MANUFACTURES. 47 
 
 had leave given him, by the king, to put 5ir, be- 
 fore liis name. 
 
 H. Did that do him any good ? 
 
 F. *Tt pleased him, 1 suppose, or he would 
 not have accepted of it ; and you will allow, I 
 imagine, that, if titles are used, it does honor to 
 those who bestow them, that they are given to 
 such as have made themselves noticed for some- 
 thing useful. Arkwright used to say, that, if he 
 had time to perfect his inventions, he would put 
 a fleece of wool into a box, and it should come 
 out broadcloth. 
 
 H. What did he mean by that ? was there 
 any fairy in the box, to turn it into broadcloth 
 witii her wand .'' 
 
 F. He was assisted by the only fairies that 
 ever had the power of transformation, — Art and 
 Industry. He meant, that he would contrive so 
 many machines, wheel within wheel, that the 
 combing, carding, and other various operations, 
 should be performed by mechanism, almost with- 
 out the hand of man. 
 
 H. I think, if 1 had not been told, I should 
 never have been able to guess that my coat camie 
 ofi" the back of the sheep. 
 
 F. You hardly would ; but there are manu- 
 factures, in which the mateiial is much more 
 changed, tlian in woollen cloth. What can be 
 meaner, in appearance, than sand and ashes } 
 Would you imagine any thing beautiful could be 
 made out of such a mixture .'' Yet the furiiace 
 transforms ibis into that transparent crysial we 
 
48 ON MANUFACTURES. 
 
 call glass^ than which nothing is more sparkling, 
 more brilliant, more full of lustre. It throws 
 about the rays of light, as if it had life and motion. 
 
 H. There is a glass-shop in town, which al- 
 ways puts me in mind of Aladdin's palace.* 
 
 F. It is certain, that, if a person, ignorant of 
 the manufacture, were to see one of our capital 
 shops, he would think all the treasures of Golcon- 
 daf were centred there, and that every drop of 
 cut glass was worth a prince's ransom. Again, 
 who would suppose, on seeing the green stalks 
 of a plant, that it could be formed into a texture 
 so snowy white, so firm, and yet so flexible, as to 
 wrap round the limbs, and adapt itself to every 
 movement of the body ? Who would guess, this 
 fibrous stalk could be made to float in such light, 
 undulating folds, as in our lawns and cambrics ; 
 not less fine, we presume, than that transparent 
 drapery, which the Romans called ventus textilis, 
 that is, woven wind. 
 
 H. I wonder how any body can spin such fine 
 thread. 
 
 F. Their fingers must have the touch of a 
 spider, that, as Pope says, 
 
 " Feels at each thread, and hves along the line;" 
 
 * Reference is here made to one of the Arabian tales, cal- 
 led ' Aladdin, or the Wonderful Lamp,' in which a palace, 
 built for Aladdin, is spoken of, as being adorned with gold 
 and all manner of precious gems. — J. W. I. 
 
 t A kingdom in the East Indies, celebrated for its many 
 diamond mines, and for its other precious stones. — J. W. I. 
 
ON MANUFACTURES. 49 
 
 and indeed, you recollect that Arachne* was a 
 spinster. Lace is a still finer production, from 
 flax, and is one of those, in which the original 
 material is most improved. How many times the 
 price of a pound of flax, do you think that flax is 
 worth, when made into lace ? 
 
 H. A great many times, I suppose. 
 
 F. Flax, at the cheapest rate, is bought at 
 fourteen pencef a pound. They make lace at 
 Valenciennes, in French Flanders, at the price of 
 ten guineas a yard ; (I believe, indeed, higher, but 
 we will say ten guineas ;) this yard of lace will 
 weigh, probably, not more than half an ounce; what 
 is the value of half an ounce of flax } reckon it. 
 
 H. It comes to one farthing and three quarters 
 of a farthing. 
 
 F. Right ; now tell me how many times the 
 original value of the lace is worth. 
 
 H. Prodigious ! it is worth five thousand 
 seven hundred and sixty times as much as the 
 flax it is made of. 
 
 F, Yet, there is another material that is still 
 more improvable than flax. 
 
 H. What can that be ? 
 
 * A princess, said to have been transformed by Minerva, 
 into a spider, for presuming to vie with her in spinning. — Ed. 
 
 t English Moneij is calculated in pounds, (marked £.,) 
 shillings, pence, and farthings. There are also guineas and 
 crowns. 
 
 A pound contains 20 shillings, and is worth about 4 dollars 87 cents. 
 " shilling " 12 pence, " " . . 2^ " 
 
 "penny " 4farihing3 " " . . 2 " 
 
 " farthing is worth about J " 
 
 *' guinea is worth about 5 dollars 07 cents. A crown, about 1 dollar 
 15 cents. — J. \W. I. 
 
 5 VI. 
 
50 ON MANUFACTURES. 
 
 F. Iron. The price of pig-iron* is ten shillings 
 a hundred weight ; this is not quite one farthing 
 for two ounces. Now you have seen some of the 
 beautiful cut steel, that looks like diamonds. 
 
 H. Yes, I have seen buckles, and pins, and 
 watch-chains. 
 
 F. Then you can form an idea of it ; but you 
 have seen only the most common sorts. U'here 
 was a chain made at Woodstock, in Oxfordshire, 
 and sent to France, which weighed only two 
 ounces, and cost c£170. Calculate, how many 
 times that had increased its value. 
 
 H. Amazing ! it was worth one hundred and 
 sixty-three thousand six hundred times the value 
 of the iron it was made of. 
 
 F. This is what manufactures can do. Here, 
 man is a kind of creator, and, like the great Crea- 
 tor, he may please himself with his work, and say 
 it is good. In the last-mentioned manufacture, 
 tliat of steel, the English have the honor of ex- 
 celling all the world. 
 
 H. What are the chief manufactures of Eng- 
 land ? 
 
 F. It has, at present, a greater variety than I 
 can pretend to enumerate ; but the staple manu- 
 facture is woollen cloth. f England abounds in 
 
 * When iron is melted frntii the ore, it is cost into Ijirire 
 masses called pii^s. Pig-iron, therefore, means the iron in 
 pi^s, or before it is manufactured into any article. — J. W. I. 
 
 t This description of manufactures is entirely confined to 
 those of England. The yonng Amerisau reader must bear 
 this in mind. When Mrs. Barbauld wrote h.'r stories for 
 children, there were no manufactures established in America. 
 
ON MANUFACTURES. 51 
 
 fine pastures and extensive downs, which feed 
 great numbers of sheep ; hence her wool has 
 alwavs been a valuable article of trade ; but the 
 inhabftants did not always know how to work it. 
 Th-^y used to sell it to the Fletnish*or Lombards,] 
 who wrought it into cloth ; till, in the year 1326, 
 Edward the Third invited some Flemish weavers 
 over to teach the art ; but there was not much 
 made ia England, till the reign of Henry the 
 Seventh. Manchester and Birmingham are towns, 
 which have arisen lo great consequence, fi"om small 
 beginnings, within a few years ; the first, for cot- 
 ton and muslin goods, the second, for cutleiy and 
 hardware, in which, at this moment, they excel 
 all Europe. Of late years, too, carpets, beautiful 
 as fine tapestry, have been fabricated. English 
 
 Now, we have many kinds, nearly, if not quite, equal to 
 those of England. — F,d. 
 
 * The Flemish are inhabitants of Flanders, a country bor- 
 dering on the North Sea, or rjennan o^ean, north of France, 
 and opposite that part of England, in whi -h London is situa- 
 ted, 'the land i-, in some parts, a perfjjt level, and, in other 
 puts, consists of nndulatiiig plains. '] \\i soil is very fdrrile, 
 and is well watered by many rivers, and conveniently situa- 
 ted for trade. The iiianuf ictures of lace and fine linen are 
 very considerable. It contains some of the finest cities in 
 the world ; one of which, Ghent, is celebrated for the Treaty 
 of Peace between the laiited States and Great Britain, in 
 December, IS 14. —J. W. I. 
 
 t Tl»3 Lombards were inhabitants of Lombardy, a king- 
 dom whi'"-h anciently comprised the whole northern part of 
 Italy. The name is now commonly given to the v\hole tract 
 of country lying between the Alps and Appennine mountains, 
 though it is properly applicable only to the valley of the River 
 Po. _ J. W. L 
 
52 ON MANUFACTURES. 
 
 clocks and watches are greatly esteemed. The 
 earthenware plates and dishes, which we all use 
 in common, and elegant sets for the tea-table, 
 ornamented with musical instruments, are made in 
 a very extensive manufactory, the seat of which is 
 is at Burslem, in Staffordshire. The principal 
 potteries there belong to one person, an excellent 
 chemist, and a man of great taste ; he, in con- 
 junction with another man of taste, who has since 
 died, has made English clay more valuable than the 
 finest porcelain of China. He has moulded it 
 into all the forms of grace and beauty that are to 
 be met with, in the precious remains of the Greek 
 and Etruscan artists.* In the more common ar- 
 ticles, he has pencilled it with the most elegant 
 designs, shaped it into shells and leaves, twisted 
 it into wicker-work, and trailed the ductile foliage 
 round the light basket. He has filled our cabi- 
 nets and chimney-pieces with urns, lamps, and 
 vases, on which are lightly traced, with the purest 
 simplicity, the fine forms and floating draperies 
 of Herculaneum.f In short, he has given to our 
 
 * The Etruscans were inhabitants of Etruria, a country of 
 Italy, now called Tuscany. They were celebrated for their 
 knowledge of the arts, and for the good taste of their various 
 productions. — J. W. I. 
 
 t Herculaneum was an ancient city, near Naples, which 
 was overwhelmed in the year of our I.ord 79, by an eruption 
 of Mount Vesuvius, a celebrated volcano of Italy. After 
 being buried under the lava for about sixteen hundred and 
 thirty-four years, the city was discovered, twenty-four feet 
 under ground, in the year 1713, by some laborers, who 
 were digging a well. The streets and houses, so far as the 
 lava has been removed, have been found to be perfect, with 
 
THE FLYING FISH. 53 
 
 houses a classic air, and lias made every saloon 
 and every dining-room, schools of lasle. I siioidd 
 add, t^iat there is a great demand abioad for this 
 elegant manufacture. Tiie Empress of Russia 
 has had some magnificent sei'vices of it ; and one 
 was sent to the king of Spain, intended as a pres- 
 ent fj-om him to the archbishop of Toledo, which 
 cost a thousand pounds. 
 
 H. I should like very much to see manufac- 
 tures, now you have told me such curious things 
 about them. 
 
 F. You will do w'ell. There is much more en- 
 tertainment, to a cultivated mind, in seeing a pin 
 made, than in many a fashionable diversion, which 
 young people half ruin themselves to attend. In 
 the meantime, I will give you some account of 
 one of the most elegant of them, which is paper. 
 
 H. Pray do, my dear father. 
 
 F. It shall be left for another evening, hovv- 
 ever, for it is now late. Good night. 
 
 THE FLYING FISH. 
 
 The Flying Fish, says the fable, had originally 
 no wings ; but, being of an ambitious and discon- 
 tented temper, she repined at being always con- 
 
 tlie furniture, utensils, paintings, statues, and other works of 
 art ;ind curiosity, just as tliey were left by the iriliabii;ints, 
 whan they fled f.oin the city to preserve their lives. Tliese 
 vahjahle antiquities are preserved in the museums at Naples, 
 a:id Portici, a small towa \n the uei'jhboihood. — J. W. I. 
 
54 THE FLYING FISH. 
 
 fined to the waters, and wished to soar in the air. 
 " If I could fly, hke the birds," said she, '' I 
 should not only see more of the beauties of Na- 
 ture, but I should be able to escape from those 
 fish, which are continually pursuing me, and 
 which render my life miserable." She, therefore, 
 petitioned Jupiter* for a pair of wings ; and im- 
 mediately she perceived her fins to expand. They 
 suddenly grew to the length of her whole body, 
 and became, at the same time, so strong, as to do 
 the office of a pinion. She was, at first, much 
 pleased with her new powers, and looked, with an 
 air of disdain, on all her former companions ; but 
 she soon perceived herself exposed to new dan- 
 gers. When flying in the air, she was incessantly 
 pursued by the tropic bird, and the albatross ; and 
 when, for safety, she dropped into the water, she 
 was so fatigued with her flight, that she was less 
 able than ever to escape from her old enemies, the 
 fish. Finding herself more unhappy than before, 
 she now begged of Jupiter to recall his present ; 
 but Jupiter said to her, " When I gave you your 
 wings, I well knew they would prove a curse ; 
 but your proud and restless disposition deserved 
 this disappointment. Now, therefore, what you 
 begged as a favor, keep as a punishment !" 
 
 * Jupiter was the supreme deity of the ancient heathens. 
 — J. W. I. 
 
HYMN. 65 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 I HAVE seen the flower withering on the stalk, 
 and its bright leaves spread on the ground ; I 
 looked again, and it sprung forth afresh ; the stem 
 was crowned with new buds, and the sweetness 
 thereof filled the air. 
 
 I have seen the sun set in the West, and the 
 shades of night shut in the wide horizon ; there 
 was no color, nor shape, nor beauty, nor music ; 
 gloom and darkness brooded around. I looked, 
 the sun broke forth again from the East, and gilded 
 the mountain tops ; the lark rose to meet him 
 from her low nest, and the shades of darkness 
 fled away. 
 
 I have seen the insect, being come to its full 
 size, languish and refuse to eat. It spun itself 
 into a tomb, and was shrouded in the silken cone ; 
 it lay, without feet, or shape, or power to move. 
 I looked again, it had burst its tomb ; it was full 
 of life, and sailed on colored wings through the 
 soft air ; it rejoiced in its new being. 
 
 Thus shall it be with thee, O man ! and so 
 shall thy life be renewed. 
 
 Thy body shall return to the dust, whence it 
 came, but thy soul to God, who gave it. 
 
 Who is He that cometh, to burst open the pris- 
 on doors of the tomb ; to bid the dead awake, 
 and to gather his redeemed from the four winds 
 of heaven ? 
 
56 ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 
 
 He descendeth on a fiery cloud ; the sound of 
 a trumpet goetli before Him ; thousands of angels 
 are on His right hand. 
 
 It is Jesus, the Son of God ; the Saviour of 
 men ; the Friend of the good. 
 
 He Cometh in the glory of His Father ; He 
 hath received power from on high. 
 
 JN^ourn not, tlierefore, child of immortality ! 
 for the spoiler, the cruel spoiler, that laid waste 
 the works of God, is subdued : Jesus hath con- 
 quered death. Child of immortality ! mourn no 
 longer. 
 
 We cannot see Him here, but we will love him 
 here ; we must be now on earth, but we will often 
 think on Heaven. 
 
 That happy land is our home ; we are to be 
 here but for a little while, and there forever, even 
 for ages of eternal years. 
 
 A LESSON IN THE ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 
 
 Father. Come hither, Charles ; what is that 
 you see grazing, in the meadow before you .'' 
 
 Charles. It is a horse. 
 
 F. Whose horse is it ? 
 
 C. T do not know ; I never saw it before. 
 
 F. How do you know that it is a horse, if you 
 never saw it before ? 
 
 C. Because it is like other horses. 
 
ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 57 
 
 F. Are all horses alike, then ? 
 
 C. Yes. 
 
 F. If they are all alike, how do you know one 
 horse Trom another ? 
 
 C. They are not quite alike. 
 
 F. But they are so much alike, that you can 
 easily distinguish a horse from a cow ? 
 
 C. Yes, indeed. 
 
 F. Or from a cabbage ^ 
 
 C. A horse from a cabbage ! yes, surely I can. 
 
 F. Very well ; then let us see if you can tell 
 how a horse differs from a cabbage ? 
 
 C. Very easily ; a horse is alive. 
 
 F. True ; and how is every thing called which 
 is alive .'' 
 
 C. I believe all things that are alive are called 
 animals. 
 
 F. Right ; but can you tell me in what respect 
 a horse and a cabbage are alike ? 
 
 C. Nothing, I believe. 
 
 F. Yes, there is one thing in which the slen- 
 derest moss, that grows upon the wall, is hke the 
 greatest man, or the highest angel. 
 
 C. Because God made them. 
 
 F. Yes ; and how do you call every thing that 
 is made ? 
 
 C. A creature. 
 
 F. A horse, then, is a creature, but a living 
 creature ; that is to say, an animal. 
 
 C. And a cabbage is a dead creature ; that is 
 the difference. 
 
 F. Not so, neither ; nothing is dead that has 
 never been alive. 
 
53 ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 
 
 C. What must I call it, then, if it is neither 
 dead nor alive ? 
 
 F. An inanimate creature. There is the ani- 
 mate and the inanimate creation. Plants, stones, 
 metals., are of the latter class ; horses belong to 
 the former. 
 
 C. But the gardener told me, some of my cab- 
 bages were dead, and some were alive. 
 
 F. Very true. Plants have vegetative life, a 
 principle of growth and decay. This is comnion 
 to them, will) all organized bodies ; but they have 
 not sensation ; at least, we do not know they have, 
 they have not life, therefore, in the sense in which 
 animals enjoy it. 
 
 C A hoise is called an animal, then. 
 
 JP. Yes ; but a salmon is an animal, and so is 
 a sparrow. How will you distinguish a horse 
 from these ? 
 
 C. A salmon lives in the water, and swims; a 
 sparrow flies, and lives in the air. 
 
 F. I think a salmon could not walk upon the 
 ground, even if it could live out of the water. 
 
 C. No, indeed ; it lias no legs. 
 
 F. And a bird would not gallop like a horse. 
 
 C. No ; it would hop away upon its two slen- 
 der legs. 
 
 F. How many legs has a horse ? 
 
 C. Four. 
 
 F. And an ox ? 
 
 C. Four, likewise. 
 
 F. And a camel } 
 
 C. Four, still. 
 
ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 59 
 
 F. Do you know any animals which live upon 
 the earth, that have not four legs ? 
 
 C. I think not ; they have all four legs ; except 
 worms, and insects, and such things. 
 
 F. You remember, I suppose, what an animal 
 is called, that has four legs ? you have it in your 
 little books. 
 
 C. A quadruped. 
 
 F. A horse, then, is a quadruped ; by this, 
 we distinguish him from birds, fishes, and insects. 
 
 C. And from men. 
 
 F. True ; but if you had been talking about 
 birds, you would not have found it so easy to dis- 
 tinguish them. 
 
 C. How so ! a man is not at all like a bird. 
 
 F. Yet an ancient philosoplier, named Plato,* 
 could find no way to distinguish them, but by cal- 
 ling man a two-legged animal icithout feathers. 
 
 C. I think he was very silly. They are not at 
 all alike, though they both have two legs. 
 
 F. Another ancient philosopher, called Dioge- 
 nes,! ^^"3s of your opinion. He stript a cock of 
 
 * Plato was a celebrated Greek philosopher, who resided 
 at Athens, and was born about 429, B. C. He died on his 
 eighty-first birthd;iy. His name was given him, (from a 
 GreHk word, signifying broad,) on account of ihe breadth of 
 his chest and forehead. — J. W. I. 
 
 t Diogenes was a celebrated philosopher, who was born 
 in Sinope, the capital of Pontns, in xAsia Minor. He was 
 banished from his native place, for coinin<T false money. He 
 t'.ien went to Athens, and became one of the sect called Cyn- 
 ics, who were fimous for their contempt of riches, the ueg- 
 jigence of their dress, and the length of their beards. He 
 used to walk about the streets of Athens, with a tub upou 
 
60 ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 
 
 his feathers, and turned him into the school where 
 Plato was teaching, and said, " Here is Plato's 
 man, for you." 
 
 C. I wish I had been there ; I should have 
 laughed, very much. 
 
 F. Probably. Before we laugh at others, how- 
 ever, let us see what we can do ourselves. We 
 have not yet found any thing which will distin- 
 guish a horse from an elephant, or from a Nor- 
 way rat. 
 
 C O, that is easy enough. An elephant is 
 very large, and a rat is very small. A horse is 
 neither large nor small. 
 
 F. Before we go any further, look what is set- 
 tled on the skirt of your coat. 
 
 C. It is a butterfly ; what a prodigious large 
 one ! I never saw such a one before. 
 
 F. Is it larger than a rat, think you .'' 
 
 C. No, that it is not. 
 
 F. Yet you called the butterfly large, and you 
 called the rat small. 
 
 C. It is very large for a butterfly. 
 
 F. It is so. You see, therefore, that large and 
 small are relative terms. 
 
 C. I do not well understand that phrase. 
 
 F. It means, that they have no precise and de- 
 terminate signification, in themselves, but are ap- 
 plied differently, according to the other ideas 
 which you join with them, and the different po- 
 
 his head. This tub served him as a house, and a place of 
 repose. He died about 324, B. C, in the ninety-sixth year of 
 his age. — J. W. I. 
 
ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 61 
 
 sitlons in wliich you view them. This butterfly, 
 therefore, is large^ compared with those of its 
 own species, and small, compared with many 
 other 'species of animals. Besides, there is no 
 circumstance, which varies more, than the size 
 of individuals. If you were to give an idea of a 
 horse, from its size, you would certainly say, it 
 was inuch larger than a dog ; yet, if you lake 
 the smallest Shetland horse, and the largest Irish 
 greyliound, you will find them very much upon 
 a par : size, therefore, is not a circumstance, by 
 which you can accurately distinguish one animal 
 from another ; nor yet is color. 
 
 C. No ; there are black horses, and bay, and 
 white, and pied. 
 
 J^. But you have not seen that variety of col- 
 ors, in a hare, for instance. 
 
 C. No, a hare is always brown. 
 
 F. Yet, if you were to depend upon that cir- 
 cumstance, you would not convey the idea of a 
 hare to a mountaineer, or an inhabitant of Sibe- 
 ria ; for he sees them white as snow. We must, 
 therefore, find out some circumstances that do 
 not change, like size and color, and, I may add, 
 shape, though they are not so obvious, nor, per- 
 haps, so striking. Look at the feet of quadru- 
 peds ; are they all alike ? 
 
 C. No ; some have long, taper claws, and some 
 have thick, clumsy feet, without claws. 
 
 F. The thick feet are horny ; are they not .'' 
 
 C. Yes, I recollect they are called hoofs. 
 
 F. And the feet that are not covered with horn, 
 G VI. 
 
62 ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 
 
 and are divided into claws, are called digitated, 
 from digitus, a finger ; because they are parted, 
 like fingers. Here, then, we have one grand di- 
 vision of quadrupeds into hoofed and digitated. 
 Of which division is the horse ? 
 
 C. He is hoofed. 
 
 F. There are a great many different kinds of 
 horses. Did you ever know one that was not 
 hoofed ? 
 
 C. No, never. 
 
 F. Do you think we run any hazard of a stran- 
 ger telling us, — Sir, horses are hoofed, indeed, in 
 your country; but in mine, which is in a different 
 climate, and where we feed them differently, they 
 have claws ? 
 
 C. No, I dare say not. 
 
 F, Then we have found something to our pur- 
 pose ; a circumstance easily marked, which al- 
 ways belongs to the animal, under every variation 
 of situation or treatment. But an ox is hoofed, 
 and so is a sheep ; we must distinguish still fur- 
 ther. You have often stood by, I suppose, while 
 the smith was shoeing a horse. What kind of a 
 hoof has he .'' 
 
 C. It is round, and all in one piece. 
 
 F. And is that of an ox so ? 
 
 C. No, it is divided. 
 
 F. A horse, then, is not only hoofed, but whole 
 hoofed. Now, how many quadrupeds do you think 
 there are, in the world, that are whole hoofed ? 
 
 C. Indeed, I do not know. 
 
 J^. There are, among all animals that we are 
 
A.RT OF DISTINGUISHING. 63 
 
 acquainted with, either in this country, or in any 
 other, only the horse, the ass, and the zebra, 
 which is a species of wild ass. Now, therefore, 
 you see we have nearly accomplished our purpose; 
 we have only to distinguish him from the ass. 
 
 C. That is easily done, I believe. I should be 
 sorry, if any body could mistake my little horse 
 for an ass. 
 
 F. It is not so easy, however, as you imagine. 
 The eye readily distinguishes them by the air and 
 general appearance; but naturalists have been rath- 
 er puzzled, to fix upon any specific difference, 
 which may serve the purpose of a definition. 
 Some have, therefore, fixed upon the ears, others 
 on the mane and tail. What kind of ears has an 
 
 ass 
 
 ? 
 
 C. O, very long, clumsy ears. Asses' ears are 
 always laughed at. 
 
 JP. And the horse ? 
 
 C. The horse has small ears, nicely turned, 
 and upright. 
 
 F. x\nd the mane; is there no difference there .^ 
 
 C. The horse has a fine, long, flowing, mane ; 
 the ass has hardly any. 
 
 F. And the tail ; is it not fuller of hair in the 
 horse, than in the ass ? 
 
 C. Yes. The ass has only a few long hairs, at 
 the end of his tail ; but the horse has a long, bushy 
 tail, when it is not cut. 
 
 F. Which, by the way, it is a pity it ever 
 should be. Now, then, observe what particulars 
 we have found. ^.^ horse is an animal of the quad- 
 
64 ART OF DISTiycriSHII^G. 
 
 ruped kind^ vcholt hoofed, iciik short, erect cars, 
 ajiDicin^ mane^ and a tail covered, in every part^ 
 
 with Ions: hairs. Now. is there any other animal, 
 think you, iu the world, thai answers these partic- 
 ulars ? 
 
 C I do not know. This does not tell us a 
 2;reai deal about him. 
 
 F. And yet, it tells us enough, to distinguish 
 him from all the different tribes of the creation, 
 with which we are acquainted, in any part of the 
 earth. Do you know, now, what we have been 
 making ? 
 
 C. Vhat ? 
 
 F. A DEFiMTiox. It is the business of a 
 definition, to distinguish., precisely, the tiling de- 
 fined, from every other thing, and to do it in as 
 few terms as possible. Its object is, to separate 
 the subject of definition, first, from tliose wiiii 
 which it has only a general resemblance ; then, 
 from those which agree with it in a greater varie- 
 ty of particulars ; and so on, till, by constantly 
 throwing out all which have not the qualities we 
 have taken notice of, we come, at length, to the 
 individual, or the species, we wish to ascertain. 
 It is a kind of chase, and resembles the manner 
 of hunting, in some countries, where they first en- 
 close a very large circle, widi their dogs, nets, 
 and horses ; and then, by degrees, draw their toils 
 closer and closer, driving their game before them, 
 till it is, at length, brought into so narrow a com- 
 pass, that the sportsmen have nothing to do, but 
 to knock down their prey. 
 
ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 65 
 
 C. Just as we have been hunting this horse, 
 till, at last, we hold him fast by his ears and his 
 tail. 
 
 F. 1 should observe to you, that, in the defini- 
 tion naturalists give of a horse, it is generally 
 mentioned, that he has six cutting teeth in each 
 jaw ; because this circumstance of the teeth has 
 been found a very convenient one, for characteriz- 
 ing large classes : but, as it is not absolutely nec- 
 essary, here, I have omitted it ; a definition being 
 the more perfect, the fewer particulars you make 
 use of, provided you can say, with certainty, from 
 those particulars, — The object, so characterized, 
 must be this, and no other, whatever. 
 
 C. But, papa, if I had never seen a horse, I 
 should not know what kind of animal it was, by 
 this definition. 
 
 F. Let us hear, then, how you would give me 
 an idea of a horse. 
 
 C. I would say, it was a fine, large, prancing, 
 creature, with slender legs, and an arched neck, 
 and a sleek, smooth skin, and a tail that sweeps 
 the ground ; and that he snorts and neighs very 
 loud, and tosses his head, and runs as swift as the 
 wind. 
 
 F. I think you learned some verses upon the 
 horse, in your last lesson : repeat them. 
 
 C. The wanton courser, thus with reins unbound, 
 
 Breaks from his stall, and beats the trembling ground ; 
 Pampered and proud, he seeks the wonted tides, 
 And laves, in height of blood, bis shining sides ; 
 6* 
 
G5 ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 
 
 His head, now freed, he tosses to the skies ; 
 His mane, dishevelled, o'er his shoulders flies ; 
 He snuffs the females in the distant plain, 
 And springs, exulting, to his fields again. 
 
 Pope's Homer. 
 
 F. You have said it very well ; but this is not 
 a definition^ it is a description. 
 C. What is the diiFerence ? 
 
 E. A description is intended to give you a 
 lively picture of an object, as if you saw it ; it 
 ought to be very full. A definition, gives no pic- 
 ture to those who have not seen it ; it rather tells 
 you, what its subject is not, than what it is, by giv- 
 ing you such clear, specific marks, that it shall not 
 be possible to confound it with any thing else ; 
 and hence, it is of the greatest use in throwing 
 things into classes. We have a great many beau- 
 tiful descriptions, from ancient authors, so loosely 
 worded, that we cannot certainly tell what animals 
 are meant by them ; whereas, if they had given us 
 definitions, three lines would have shown us their 
 meaning. 
 
 C. I like a description best, papa. 
 
 F. Perhaps so. I believe I should have done 
 the same, at your age. Remember, however, 
 that nothing is more useful, than to learn to form 
 ideas with precision, and to express them with 
 accuracy. I have not given you a definition, to 
 teach you what a horse is, but to teach you to 
 think. 
 
THE PHENIX AND DOVE. 67 
 
 THE PHENIX AND DOVE. 
 
 A Phenix,* who had long inhabited the solitary 
 deserts of Arabia, once flew so near the habita- 
 tions of men, as to meet with a tame Dove, who 
 was sitting on her nest, with wings expanded, and 
 fondly brooding over her young ones, while she 
 expected her mate, who was foraging abroad, to 
 procure them food. The Phenix, with a kind of 
 instdting compassion, said to her, " Poor bird, 
 how much I pity thee ! confined to a single spot, 
 and sunk in domestic cares, thou art continually 
 employed, either in laying eggs, or in providing 
 for thy brood ; and thou exhaustest thy life and 
 strength, in perpetuating a feeble and defenceless 
 race. As to myself, 1 live, exempt from toil, 
 care, and misfortune. I feed upon nothing less 
 
 * A fabled Arabian bird, said to live alone, to the great age 
 of five hundred years, and then to die, when a young phenix 
 arises from its ashes, which, in its turn, lives to a great ag>;, 
 and is succeeded by another, in the same way. It has been 
 supposed, that the fable, respecting this bird, arose from the 
 circumstance, that the palm tree, the Greek name of which 
 is phenix, lives to a great age, and the natives of the East 
 say it is never known to decay, unless it has been injured by 
 some instrument. When this happens, the tree is cut down, 
 and burned on the spot, and the root is covered with the 
 ashes. From this root, a new shoot soon arises, which, in a 
 few years, becomes a strong and vigorous tree. This is, 
 literally, a phenix rising from the ashes of a former one. — 
 J. W. I. 
 
68 THE PHENIX AND DOVE. 
 
 precious than rich gums and spices ; I fly through 
 the trackless regions of the air ; and, when I am 
 seen by men, am gazed at with curiosity and as- 
 tonishment ; I have no one to control my range, 
 no one to provide for ; and, when I have fulfilled 
 my five centuries of life, and seen the revolutions 
 of ages, I rather vanish than die, and a succes- 
 sor, without any care, springs up from my ashes. 
 I am an image of the great sun, whom 1 adore ; 
 and glory in being, like him, single and alone, and 
 having no likeness." 
 
 The Dove replied, " OPhenix ! I pity thee, 
 much more than thou afiectest to pity me ! What 
 pleasure canst thou enjoy, who livest, forlorn and 
 solitary, in a trackless and unpeopled desert ; who 
 hast no mate to caress thee, no young ones to ex- 
 cite thy tenderness and reward thy cares, no kin- 
 dred, no society amongst thy fellows. Not long 
 life, only, but immortality itself, would be a curse, 
 if it were to be bestowed on such uncomfortable 
 terms. For my part, I know that my life will be 
 short, and, therefore, I employ it in raising a nu- 
 merous posterity, and in opening my heart to all 
 the sweets of domestic happiness. I am beloved 
 by my partner ; I am dear to man ; and shall leave 
 evidence behind me, that 1 have lived. As to the 
 sun, to whom thou hast presumed to compare thy- 
 self, that glorious being is so totally different from, 
 and so infinitely superior to, all the creatures upon 
 earth, that it does not become us to liken ourselves 
 to him, or to determine upon the manner of his 
 existence. One obvious difference, however, thou 
 
HYMN. 69 
 
 Riayest remark ; that the sun, though alone, hy 
 his prohfic heat produces all things, and, though 
 he shines so high above our heads, gives us rea- 
 son, every moment, to bless his beams ; whereas 
 thou, swelling with thy imaginary greatness, dream- 
 est away a long period of existence, equally void 
 of comfort and usefulness.'* 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 The rose is sweet, but it is surrounded by- 
 thorns ; the lily of the valley is fragrant, but it 
 springeth up among brambles. 
 
 The Spring is pleasant, but it is soon past ; the 
 Summer is bright, but the Winter destroyeih the 
 beauty thereof. 
 
 The rainbow is very glorious, but it soon van- 
 isheth away ; life is good, but it is quickly swal- 
 lowed up in death. 
 
 There is a place of rest for the righteous. 
 
 In that land, there is an eternal Spring, and light 
 without any cloud. 
 
 The tree of life groweth in the midst thereof, 
 rivers of pleasure are there, and flowers that never 
 fade. 
 
 Myriads of happy spirits are there, and sur- 
 round the throne of God with a perpetual hymn. 
 
 The angels, with their golden harps, sing 
 praises, continually, and the cherubim fly on wings 
 of love. 
 
70 HYMN. 
 
 This country is Heaven ; it is the country of 
 those that are good ; and nothing that is wicked 
 must dwell there. 
 
 The toad must not spit his venom among turtle- 
 doves ; nor the poisonous henbane grow among 
 sweet flowers. 
 
 This earth is pleasant^ for it is God's earth, 
 and it is filled with many delightful things. 
 
 But that country is far better. There, we shall 
 not grieve any more, nor be sick any more, nor 
 do wrong any more ; there, the cold of Winter 
 shall not wither us, nor the heats of Summer 
 scorch us. 
 
 In that country, there are no wars nor quarrels, 
 but all love one another with dear love. 
 
 When our parents die, and are laid in the cold 
 ground, we see them here no more ; but there, we 
 shall embrace them again, and live with them, and 
 be separated no more. 
 
 Tliere, we shall meet all good men, whom we 
 read of in holy books. 
 
 There we shall see Abraham, the called of 
 God, the father of the faithful ; and Moses, after 
 his long wanderings in the Arabian desert ; and 
 Elijah, the prophet of God ; and Daniel, who 
 escaped the lion's den ; and there, the son of 
 Jesse, the shepherd king, the singer of Israel. 
 
 They loved God on earth ; but in that country 
 they will praise Him better, and love Him more. 
 
 There, we shall see Jesus, who has gone be- 
 fore us to that happy place ; and there, we shall 
 behold the glory of the liigh God. 
 
MANUFACTURE OF PAPER. 71 
 
 THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER.* 
 
 Father. I avill now, as I promised, give you 
 an account of the elegant and useful manufacture 
 of paper, the basis of which is, itself, a manufac- 
 ture. This delicate and beautiful substance is 
 made from the meanest and most disgusting mate- 
 rials; from old rags, which have passed from one 
 poor person to another, and, at length, have, per- 
 haps, dropped in tatters from the child of the beg- 
 gar. These are carefully picked up from dung- 
 hills, or bought from servants by Jews, who make 
 It their business to go about and collect them. 
 1 hey sell them to the rag merchant, who gives 
 from two pence to four pencef a pound, accord- 
 ing to their quality ; and he, when he has a suffi- 
 cient quantity, disposes of them to the owner of 
 the paper-mill, who gives them, first, to women to 
 sort and pick, agreeably to their different degrees 
 of goodness ; they also cut out, carefully, with a 
 knife, all the seams, which they throw by, for 
 other purposes. They then put them into the dust- 
 
 * The manner of procuring the rags for the manufacture of 
 paper described in this dialogue, is not the same in America 
 as m Europe. Here, in America, we have no persons so very 
 poor as to be obliged to wear old rags for clothing. Nor are 
 there any Jews, who go about to pick up rags to sell. We 
 should be thankful, that we live in a country where none need 
 be so very poor. — Ed. 
 
 t From three to six cents. — J. W. I. 
 
72 MANUFACTURE OF PAPER. 
 
 ing engine, a large circular wire seive, whence 
 lliey receive some degree of cleansing. The rags 
 are ihen conveyed to the mill. Here, they were 
 formerly beaten to pieces, with vast hammers, 
 which rose and fell, continually, with a most tre- 
 mendous noise, that was heard at a great distance. 
 But now, they put the rags into a large trough or 
 cistern, into which a pipe of clear spring water is 
 constantly flowing. In this cistern, is placed a 
 cylinder, about two feet long, set thick round with 
 rows of iron spikes, standing as near as they can 
 to one another, without touching. At the bottom 
 of the trough, there are corresponding rows of 
 spikes. The cylinder is made to whirl round, 
 wiih inconceivable rapidity, and, with these iron 
 teeth, rends and tears the cloth in every possible 
 direction ; till, by the assistance of the water, 
 which continually flows through the cistern, it is 
 thoroughly macerated, and reduced to a fine pulp ; 
 and, by the same process, all its impurities are 
 cleansed away, and it is restored to its original 
 whiteness. This process takes about six hours. 
 To improve the color, they then put in a little 
 smalt, which gives it a bluish cast, of which most 
 paper has more or less ; the French paper has less 
 of it, than the English. This fine pulp is next put 
 into a copper of warm water. It is the substance 
 of paper, but the form mustnow^be given it. For 
 this purpose, they use a mould, which is made of 
 wire, strong one way, and crossed with that which 
 is finer. This mould they just dip, horizontally, 
 into the copper, and take it out again. It has a 
 
MANUFACTURE OF PAPER. 73 
 
 little wooden frame on the edge, by means of 
 which, it retains as much of the pulp as is want- 
 ed for the thickness of the sheet, and the super- 
 fluity runs off, through the interstices of the wires. 
 Another man instantly receives it, opens the frame, 
 turns oul upon soft flannel cloth, called felt, which 
 is placed on the ground to receive it, the thin sheet, 
 which has now shape, but not consistence. On that 
 is placed another piece of felt, and then another 
 sheet of paper, and so on, till they have made a pile 
 of forty or fifty. They are then pressed with a large 
 screw-press, moved by a long lever, which forci- 
 bly squeezes the water out of them, and gives 
 them immediate consistence. There is still, how- 
 ever, a great deal to be done. The felts are 
 taken off, and thrown on one side, and the paper 
 on the other, whence it is dexterously taken up, 
 with an instrument in the form of a T, three 
 sheets at a time, and hung on lines to dry. There 
 it hangs, for a week or ten days, which, likewise, 
 further whitens it ; and any knots and roughnesses 
 it may have are picked off, carefully, by the wo- 
 men. It is then sized. Size is a kind of glue ; 
 and, without this preparation, the paper would not 
 bear ink ; it would run and blot, as you see it does 
 on gray paper. The sheets are just dipped into 
 the size, and taken out again. The exact degree 
 of sizing is a matter of nicety, which can only be 
 known by experience. They are then hung up 
 again to dry; and, when dry, taken to the finish- 
 ing-room, where they are examined, anew, pres- 
 sed in the dry presses, which gives them their last 
 7 VI. 
 
74 MANUFACTURE OF PAPER. 
 
 gloss and smoothness ; counted up into quires, 
 made up in reams, and sent to the stationer, from 
 whom we have it, after he has folded it again, 
 and cut the edges ; some, too, he makes to shine 
 like satin, by glossing it with hot plates. The 
 whole process of papermaking takes about three 
 weeks. 
 
 H. It is a very curious process, indeed. I 
 shall almost scruple, for the future, to blacken a 
 sheet of paper with a careless scrawl, now I know 
 how much pains it costs, to make it so white and 
 beautiful. 
 
 F. It is true, that there is hardly any thing we 
 use, with so much waste and profusion, as this 
 manufacture. We should think ourselves confined 
 in the use of it, if we might not tear, disperse, 
 and destroy, it, in a thousand ways ; so that it is 
 really astonishing, whence linen enough can be 
 procured, to answer so vast a demand. As to 
 the coarse brown papers, of which an astonishing 
 quantity is used, by every shopkeeper, in pack- 
 ages, &c., these are made, chiefly, of oakum, that 
 is, old hempen ropes. A fine paper is made, in 
 China, of silk. 
 
 H. I have heard, lately, of woven paper ; 
 pray, what is that } they cannot weave paper, 
 surely ! 
 
 jP. Your question is very natural. In order to 
 answer it, I must desire you to take a sheet of 
 common paper, and hold it up towards the light. 
 Do you not see marks in it .'' 
 
 H. I see a great many white lines, running 
 
MANUFACTURE OF PAPER. 75 
 
 along, lengthwise, like ribs, and snaaller, that 
 cross them. I see, too, letters, and the figure of 
 a crown. 
 
 F. These are the marks of the wires. The 
 size oC the wire prevents so much of the pulp 
 lying upon the sheet in those places, as in others ; 
 consequently, wherever the wires are, the paper 
 is thinner, and you see the light through, more 
 readily, which gives that appearance of white 
 lines. The letters, too, are worked in the wire, 
 and are the maker's name. Now, to prevent 
 these lines, which take off from the beauty of the 
 paper, particularly of drawing paper, there have 
 been lately used, moulds of brass wire, exceed- 
 ingly fine, of equal thickness, and woven, or lat- 
 ticed, one within another ; the marks, therefore, 
 of these, are easily pressed out, so as to be hardly 
 visible ; if you look at a sheet of woven paper, 
 you will see it is quite smooth. 
 
 H. It is so. 
 
 F. I should mention to you, that a discovery 
 has been made, by which they can make paper, 
 equal to any in whiteness, of the coarsest brown 
 rags, and even of dyed cottons ; which they have, 
 till now, been obliged to throw by, for inferior 
 purposes. This is by means of the oxide, or 
 rust, of a metal, called manganese, and oil of vit- 
 riol ; a mixture of which, they just pass through 
 the pulp, v/hile it is in water, (for otherwise, it 
 would injure it,) and in an instant, it discharges 
 the colors of the dyed cloths, and bleaches the 
 brown to a beautiful whiteness. 
 
76 MANUFACTURE OF PAPER. 
 
 H. That is like what you told me, of bleach- 
 ing cloth in a few hours. 
 
 F. It is, indeed, founded upon the same dis- 
 covery. The paper, made of these brown rags, 
 is, likewise, more valuable, from being very tough 
 and strong, almost like parchment. 
 
 H. When was the making of paper found 
 out? 
 
 F, It is a disputed point ; but, probably, in the 
 fourteenth century. The invention has been of 
 almost equal consequence to literature, as that of 
 printing itself ; and shows how the arts and sci- 
 ences, like children of the same family, mutually 
 assist and bring forward each other.* 
 
 * This article gives an interesting account of the process 
 of papermaking as it was at the time Mrs. Barbauld wrote ; 
 but the young reader should be informed, that an almost en- 
 tire revolution has taken place in the process, since that time. 
 The art of making paper was known in the East, in the be- 
 ginning of the eighth century, (about A. D. 700.) It was 
 first composed of silk or cotton. It was not made of linen 
 rags, till about the fourteenth century, (A. D. 1300.) Coarse 
 brown paper was first manufactured in England, A. D. 1588, 
 and writing and printing paper not till the year 1690. It con- 
 tinued to be made in the manner described by Mrs. Barbauld, 
 till about the year 1820, when a papermaking machine was 
 invented ; and now, the greater portion of all the paper used 
 is manufactured by machinery. Instead of the pulp being 
 dipped up in a mould, it is now drawn out from the cistern, 
 (or vat, as it is called,) upon the surface of an endless web 
 of brass wire , carried round two cylinders placed about twelve 
 feet apart, which are constantly revolving, and, at the same 
 time, vibrating with a tremulous motion, which serves to even 
 the pulp upon the wire. The pulp thus forms a long sheet, 
 which passes under a cylinder covered with flannel, which is 
 placed over one of the two cylinders just spoken of, when it 
 
HYMN. 77 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 CffiLD of reason ! whence comest thou ? What 
 hath thine eye observed, and whither has thy foot 
 been wandering ? 
 
 I have been wandering along the meadows, in 
 the thick grass. The cattle were feeding around 
 me, or reposing in the cool shade ; the corn sprung 
 up under the furrows ; the p^ppy? and the hare- 
 bell grew among the wheat : the fields were bright 
 with Summer, and glowing with beauty. 
 
 Didst thou see nothing more ? Didst thou ob- 
 serve nothing besides ? Return again, child of 
 reason, for there are greater things than these. 
 God was among ^he fields ; and didst thou not 
 perceive Him ? His beauty was amongst the 
 meadows ; His smiles enlivened the sunshine. 
 
 I have walked through the thick forest ; the 
 wind whispered among the trees ; the brook fell 
 
 is taken upon a felt-web, and pressed between other cylinders, 
 whence it passes over several heated cylinders, for the purpose 
 of being dried, and is finally wound off in a continued sheet, 
 upon a reel, prepared for the purpose, and then cut into the 
 proper-sized sheets, for use. Instead of the roughnesses and 
 knots being picked off by the women, after the sheets are 
 niade, as mentioned by Mrs. Barbauld, the pulp itself is 
 cleansed from whatever would produce a roughness of the 
 surface of the paper, by means of a machine called a pulp- 
 dresser. The manufacture of paper is a very curious and in- 
 teresting process ; and we recommend to our young readers 
 to visit some paper-mill, when they have opportunity, and 
 witness it for themselves. — J- W. I. 
 7* 
 
T8 HYMN. 
 
 from the rocks, with a pleasant murmur ; the 
 squirrel leapt from bough to bough, and the birds 
 sung to each other, amongst the branches. 
 
 Didst thou hear nothing but the murmur of the 
 brook ? No whispers, but the whispers of the 
 wind ? Return again, child of reason, for there 
 are greater things than these. God was among 
 the trees ; His voice sounded in the murmur of 
 the water ; His music warbled in the shade ; and 
 didst thou not attend ? 
 
 I saw the moon, rising behind the trees ; it 
 was like a lamp of gold : the stars, one after 
 another, appeared in the clear firmament. Pres- 
 ently, I saw black clouds arise, and roll towards 
 the south ; the lightning streamed in thick flashes 
 over the sky ; the thunder growled at a distance ; 
 it came nearer, I felt afraid, for it was loud and 
 terrible. 
 
 Did thy heart feel no terror, but of the thunder- 
 bolt ? Was there nothing bright and terrible, but 
 the lightning } Return, O, child of reason ! for 
 there are greater things than these. God was in 
 the storm, and didst thou not perceive Him ? 
 His terrors were abroad, and did not thine heart 
 acknowledge Him ? 
 
 God is in every place ; He speaks in every 
 sound we hear ; He is seen in all that our eyes 
 behold ; nothing, O, child of reason ! is with- 
 out God : let God, therefore, be in all thy 
 thoughts. 
 
THE YOUNG MOUSE. 79 
 
 THE YOUNG MOUSE. 
 
 A FABLE, 
 
 A YOUNG Mouse lived in a cupboard, where 
 sweetmeats were kept : she dined, every day, up- 
 on biscuit, marmalade,* or fine sugar. Never had 
 any little mouse lived so well. She had often 
 ventured to peep at the family, while they sat at 
 supper ; nay, she had sometimes stole down on 
 the carpet, and picked up the crumbs, and nobody 
 had ever hurt her. She would have been quite 
 happy, but that she was sometimes frightened by 
 the cat, and then she ran, trembling, to her hole, 
 behind the wainscot. One day, she came running 
 to her mother, in great joy. Mother ! said she, 
 the good people of this family have built me a 
 house to live in ; it is in the cupboard ; I am sure 
 it is for me, for it is just big enough : the bottom 
 is of wood, and it is covered all over with wires ; 
 and, I dare say, they have made it on purpose to 
 screen me from that terrible cat, which ran after 
 me so often. There is an entrance just big enough 
 for me, but puss cannot follow ; and they have 
 been so good as to put in some toasted cheese, 
 which smells so deliciously, that I should have 
 run in, directly, and taken possession of my new 
 
 * A sweetmeat, composed of the pulp of quinces, plums, 
 apricots, &c., boiled into a consistence with sugar. — J. W. L 
 
80 THE WASP AND BEE. 
 
 house, but I thought I would tell you first, that 
 we might go in together, and both lodge there to- 
 night, for it will hold us both. 
 
 My dear child, said the old mouse, it is most 
 happy that you did not go in ; for this house is 
 called a trap, and you would never have come 
 out again, except to have been devoured, or put 
 to death, in some way or other. Though man 
 has not so fierce a look as a cat, he is as much 
 our enemy, and has still more cunning. 
 
 THE WASP AND BEE. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 A Wasp met a Bee, and said to him, pray, can 
 you tell me what is the reason, that men are so 
 illnatured to me, while they are so fond of you ? 
 We are very much alike, only that the broad gol- 
 den rings about my body make me much hand- 
 somer than you are ; we are both winged insects, 
 we both love honey, and we both sting people, 
 when we are angry ; yet men always hate me, and 
 try to kill me, though I am much more familiar 
 with them than you are, and pay them visits in 
 their houses, and at their tea-table, and at all their 
 meals ; while you are very shy, and hardly ever 
 come near them. Yet, they build you curious 
 houses, thatched with straw, and take care of 
 and feed you, in the Winter, very often. I won- 
 der what is the reason. 
 
THE MASK OF NATURE. 81 
 
 The Bee said, because you never do them any- 
 good, but, on the contrary, are very troublesome 
 and mischievous ; therefore, they do not Hke to 
 see you ; but they know that I am busy, all day 
 long, in making them honey. You would do bet- 
 ter, to pay them fewer visits, and try to be useful. 
 
 THE MASK OF NATURE. 
 
 Who is this beautiful virgin, that approaches, 
 clothed in a robe of light green ? She has a 
 garland of flowers on her head, and flowers spring 
 up wherever she sets her foot. The snow 
 which covered the fields, and the ice which was 
 in the rivers, melt away when she breathes upon 
 them. The young lambs frisk about her, and the 
 birds warble in their little throats, to welcome her 
 coming ; and, when they see her, they begin to 
 choose their mates, and to build their nests. 
 Youths and maidens, have ye seen this beau- 
 tiful virgin ? If ye have, tell me, who is she, and 
 what is her name r 
 
 Who is this, that cometh from the South, thinly 
 clad in a hght transparent garment ? Her breath is 
 hot and sultry ; she seeks the refreshment of the 
 cool shade ; she seeks the clear streams, the 
 crystal brooks, to bathe her languid limbs. The 
 brooks and rivulets fly from her, and are dried 
 up at her approach. She cools her parched lips 
 
82 THE MASK OF NATURE. 
 
 with berries, and the grateful acid of all fruits ; 
 the seedy melon, the sharp apple, and the red 
 pulp of the juicy cherry, which are poured out, 
 plentifully, around her. The sunburnt haymakers 
 welcome her coming ; and the sheep-shearer, who 
 clips the fleeces of his flock with his sounding 
 shears. When she cometh, let me lie under the 
 thick shade of a spreading beech tree ; let me 
 walk with her in the early morning, when the dew 
 is yet upon the grass ; let me wander with her in 
 the soft twilight, when the shepherd shuts his fold, 
 and the star of evening appears. Who is she 
 that cometh from the South ? Youths and maid- 
 ens, tell me, if you know, who is she, and what 
 is her name ? 
 
 Who is he, that cometh with sober pace, steal- 
 ing upon us unawares ? His garments are red 
 with the blood of the grape, and his temples are 
 bound with a sheaf of ripe wheat. His hair is 
 thin, and begins to fall, and the auburn is mixed 
 with mournful gray. He shakes the brown nuts 
 from the tree. He winds the horn, and calls the 
 hunters to their sport. The gun sounds. The 
 trembling partridge and the beautiful pheasant 
 flutter, bleeding, in the air, and fall dead at the 
 sportsman's feet. Who is he that is crowned with 
 the wheat-sheaf .'' Youths and maidens, tell me, 
 if ye know, who is he, and what is his name .'' 
 
 Who is he, that cometh from the North, clothed 
 in furs and warm wool ^ He wraps his cloak 
 
HYMN. 83 
 
 close about him. His head is bald ; his beard 
 is made of sharp icicles. He loves the blazing 
 fire piled high upon the hearth, and the wine spark- 
 ling in the glass. He binds skates to his feet, and 
 skims ^over the- frozen lakes. His breath is pier- 
 cing and cold, and no little flower dares to peep 
 above the surface of the ground, when he is by. 
 Whatever he touches, turns to ice. If he were 
 to stroke you, with his cold hand, you would be 
 quite' stiff and dead, like a piece of marble. 
 Youths and maidens, do you see him .'' He is 
 coming fast upon us, and soon he will be here. 
 Tell me, if you know, who is he, and what is his 
 name ? 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 See, where stands the cottage of the laborer, 
 covered with warm thatch ! The mother is spin- 
 ning at the door ; the young children sport before 
 her, on the grass ; the elder ones learn to labor, 
 and are obedient ; the father worketh, to provide 
 them food. Either he tilleth the ground, or he 
 gathereth corn, or shaketh the ripe apples from the 
 tree : his children run to meet him, when he com- 
 eth home, and his wife prepareth the wholesome 
 meal. 
 
 The father, the mother, and the children, make 
 a family ; the father is the master thereof. If 
 the family is numerous, and the grounds large, 
 
84 HYMN. 
 
 there are servants to help do the work. All these 
 dwell in one house ; they sleep beneath one roof ; 
 they eat of the same bread ; their hearts are 
 bowed together, night and morning, adoring their 
 Creator : they are very closely united, and are 
 dearer to each other, than any strangers. If one 
 is sick, they mourn together ; and if one is hap- 
 py, they rejoice together. 
 
 Many houses are built together ; many famihes 
 live near one another ; they meet together on the 
 green, and in pleasant walks, and to buy and sell, 
 and in the house of justice ; and they gather to- 
 gether to worship the great God, in companies. 
 If one is poor, his neighbor helpeth him ; if he is 
 sad, he comforteth him. This is a village ; see 
 where it stands, enclosed in a green shade, and the 
 tall spire peeps above the trees. If there be very 
 many houses, it is a town ; it is governed by a 
 magistrate. 
 
 Slany towns, and a large extent of country, 
 make a state or kingdom. It is enclosed by moun- 
 tains ; it is divided by rivers ; it is washed by 
 seas : the inhabitants thereof are countrymen ; 
 they speak the same language ; they make war 
 and peace together ; a king or governor is the 
 ruler thereof. 
 
 Many kingdoms, and countries full of people, 
 and islands, and large continents, and different 
 climates, make up this whole world. God gov- 
 erneth it. The people swarm upon the face of 
 it, like ants upon a hillock. Some are black with 
 with the hot sun; some cover themselves with furs, 
 
HYMN. 85 
 
 against the sharp cold ; some drink of the fruit of 
 the vine ; some, of the pleasant milk of the cocoa- 
 nut ; and others quench their thirst with the run- 
 ning stream. 
 
 All are God's family ; he knoweth every one 
 of them, as a shepherd knoweth his flock. They 
 pray to him in different languages, but he under- 
 stands them all : he heareth them all ; he taketh 
 care of all. None are so great, that he cannot 
 punish them ; none are so mean, that he will not 
 protect them. 
 
 Monarch, that rulest over a hundred states ; 
 whose frown is terrible as death, and whose ar- 
 mies cover the land ; boast not thyself, as though 
 there was none above thee : God is above thee ; 
 his powerful arm is always over thee ; and, if thou 
 doest ill, assuredly he will punish thee. 
 
 Nations of the earth, fear the Lord : families 
 of men, call upon the name of your God. 
 
 8 VI. 
 
PART SECOND. 
 
 THE RICH AND THE POOR. 
 
 A DIALOGUE. 
 
 Mamma ! said Harriet Beechwood, I have just 
 heard such a proud speech of a poor man ! you 
 would wonder, if you heard it. 
 
 Not much Harriet ; for pride and poverty can 
 very well agree together : — but what was it ? 
 
 Why, mamma, you know the charity school, 
 that Lady Mary has set up, and how neat the 
 girls look, in their brown stuff gowns and little 
 straw bonnets. 
 
 Yes, I think it a very good institution ; the 
 poor girls are taught to read, and spell, and sew, 
 and, what is better still, to be good. 
 
 Well, mamma, Lady Mary's gardener, a poor 
 man, who hves in a cottage just by the great house, 
 has a little girl ; and so, because she was a pretty 
 little girl. Lady Mary offered to put her into this 
 school ; and do you know, he would not let her 
 
 go' 
 
 Indeed ! 
 
THE RICH AND THE POOR. 87 
 
 Yes : he thanked her, and said, '' I have only- 
 one httle girl, and I love her dearly ; and, though 
 I am a poor man, I would rather work my fingers 
 to the bone, than she should wear a charity dress. 
 
 I do not doubt, ray dear Harriet, that a great 
 many people will have the same idea of this poor 
 man's behavior, which you have ; but, for my own 
 part, I am inclined to think, it indicates something 
 of a noble and generous spirit. 
 
 Was it not proud, to say she should not wear 
 a charity dress ? 
 
 Why should she ? Would you wear a charity 
 dress ? 
 
 O, mamma, but this is a poor man ! 
 
 He is able to pay for her learning, I suppose ; 
 otherwise, he would certainly do wrong, to refuse 
 his child the advantage of instruction, because his 
 feelings were hurt by it. 
 
 Yes, he is going to put her to Mrs. Primmer's, 
 across the Green ; she will have half a mile to 
 walk. 
 
 That will do her no hurt. 
 
 But he is throwing his money away ; for he 
 might have his little girl taught for nothing ; and, 
 as he is a poor man, he ought to be thankful 
 for it. 
 
 Pray, what do you mean, by a poor man ? 
 
 O, a man, — those men that live in poor houses, 
 and work all day, and are hired for it. 
 
 I cannot tell, exactly, how you define a poor 
 house : but, as to working, your papa is in a pub- 
 lic office, and works all day long, and more hours, 
 
88 THE RICH AND THE POOR. 
 
 certainly, than the laborer does ; and he is hired 
 to do it, for he would not do the work, but for the 
 salary they give him. 
 
 But you do not live like those poor people, 
 and you do not wear a check apron, like the gar- 
 dener's wife. 
 
 Neither am I covered with lace and jewels, 
 like a duchess : there is as much difference be- 
 tween our manner of living and that of many peo- 
 ple, above us in fortune, as between ours and this 
 gardener's, whom you call poor. 
 
 What is being poor, then .'' Is there no such 
 thing .'' 
 
 Indeed, I hardly know how to answer your 
 question. Rich and poor are comparative terms ; 
 and, provided a man is in no want of the necessa- 
 ries of life, and is not in debt, he can only be said 
 to be poor, comparatively with others, of whom 
 the same might be affirmed, by those who are 
 still richer. But, to whatever degree of indigence 
 you apply the term, you must take care not to con- 
 found a poor man with a pauper. 
 
 What is a pauper ? I thought they were the 
 same thing. 
 
 A pauper is one who cannot maintain himself, 
 and who is maintained by the charity of the com- 
 munity. Your gardener was not a pauper ; he 
 worked for what he had, and he paid for what he 
 had ; and, therefore, he had a right to expect that 
 his child should not be confounded with the chil- 
 dren of the idle, the profligate, and the dissolute, 
 who are maintained upon charity. I wish the low- 
 er classes had more of this honorable pride. 
 
THE RICH AND THE POOR. 89 
 
 Is it a crime to be a pauper ? 
 
 To be a pauper is often the consequence of 
 vice ; and, where it is not, it justly degrades a 
 man from his rank in society. If the gardener's 
 daughter were to wear a kind of charity badge, 
 the Jitde girls she plays with would consider her 
 as having lost her rank in society. You would not 
 like to lose your rank, and to be thrust down low- 
 er than your proper place in society. There are 
 several things it would not at all hurt you to do, 
 which you would not choose to do, on this ac- 
 count : for instance, to carry a bandbox through 
 the street. Yet it would not hurt you to carry a 
 bandbox ; you would carry a greater weight in 
 your garden, for pleasure. 
 
 But, I thought gardeners and such sort of people 
 had no rank. 
 
 That is a very great mistake. Every one has 
 his rank, his place in society ; and, so far as rank 
 is a source of honorable pride, there is less differ- 
 ence in rank, between you and the gardener, than 
 between the gardener and a pauper. Between 
 the greater part of those we call different classes, 
 there is only the difference of less and more ; the 
 spending a hundred, or five hundred, or five thou- 
 sand, a year ; the eating off earthenware, or china, 
 or plate : but there is a real and essential difference 
 between the man who provides for his family by 
 his own exertions, and him who is supported by 
 charity. The gardener has a right to stretch out 
 his nervous arm, and to say, " This right hand, 
 under Providence, provides for myself and my 
 
90 THE RICH AND THE POOR. 
 
 family ; I earn what I eat, I am a burden to no 
 one ; and, therefore, if 1 have any superfluity, I 
 have a right to spend it as I please, and to dress my 
 litde girl to my own fancy." 
 
 But do you not think, mamma, that a brown 
 stuff gown and a straw bonnet would be a much 
 more proper dress, for the lower sort of people, 
 than any thing gaudy ? If they are much dres- 
 sed, you know, we always laugh at their vulgar 
 finery. 
 
 They care very litde for your laughing at them ; 
 they do not dress to please you. 
 
 Whom do they dress to please ? 
 
 Whom do you dress to please ? 
 
 You, my dear mamma, and papa. 
 
 Not entirely, I fancy : you tell me the truth, 
 but not the whole truth. Well, they dress to 
 please their fathers and mothers, their young com- 
 panions, and their other friends. 
 
 I have often heard Lady Selina say, that, if all 
 the lower orders were to have a plain, uniform 
 dress, it would be much better ; and that, if a poor 
 person is neat and clean, it is quite enough. 
 
 Better for whom ? Enough for whom ? — for 
 themselves, or for us ? They have a natural love 
 of ornament, as well as we have. It is true, they 
 can do our work as well, in a plainer dress ; but, 
 when the work is done, and the time of enjoyment 
 comes, — in the dance on the green, or the tea-party 
 among their friends, — who shall hinder them from 
 indulging their taste and fancy, and laying out the 
 money, they have so fairly earned, in what best 
 pleases them ? 
 
THE RICH AJsD THE POOR. 91 
 
 But they are not content, without following our 
 fashions ; and they are so ridiculous in their imi- 
 tations of them. I was quite diverted to see Molly, 
 the pastrycook's girl, tossing her head about in a 
 hat and riband which, I dare say, she thought very 
 fashionable ; but such a caricature of the mode, — 
 I was so diverted ! 
 
 You may be diverted, with a safer conscience, 
 when I assure you, that the laugh goes round. 
 London laughs at the country, the Court laughs at 
 the city, and, I dare say, your pastrycook's girl 
 laughs at somebody, who is distanced by herself 
 in the race of fashion. 
 
 But every body says, and I have heard you 
 say, mamma, that the kind of people. I mean, 
 and servants particularly, are very extravagant in 
 dress. 
 
 That, unfortunately, is true. They very often 
 are so ; and, when they marry, they suffer for it, 
 severely. But do you not think many young ladies 
 are equally so ? Did you not see, at your last 
 dancing-school ball, many a girl, whose father can- 
 not give her a thousand pounds, covered with lace 
 and ornaments ^ 
 
 It is very true. 
 
 x\re not some wealthy people sometimes driv- 
 en, by extravagance, to pawn* their plate and jew- 
 els ? 
 
 I have heard so. 
 
 ♦ To pawn, means to give something to another, as a pledge 
 or security for the payment of money, or the fulfilment of a 
 promise. — J. W. I. 
 
92 THE RICH AND THE POOR. 
 
 The only security against improper expense is 
 dignity of mind, and moderation. These are not 
 common, in any rank ; and I do not know, why 
 we should expect them to be more common, among 
 the lower and uneducated classes, than among the 
 higher. To return to your gardener. He has 
 certainly a right to dress his girl as he pleases, 
 without asking you or me ; but I shall think he 
 does not make a wise use of that right, if he lays 
 out his money in finery, instead of providing the 
 more substantial comforts and enjoyments of life. 
 And I should think exactly the same of my neigh- 
 bor, in the great house in the park. 
 
 Have servants a rank ?* 
 
 Certainly ; and you will find them very tena- 
 cious of it. A gentleman's butlerf will not go be- 
 hind a coach ; a lady's maid will not go on an 
 errand. 
 
 Are they not very saucy, to refuse doing it, if 
 they are ordered ? 
 
 No ; if they refuse civilly. They are hired to 
 do certain things, not to obey you in every thing. 
 There are many ranks above, but there are, also, 
 many ranks below, them ; and they have both the 
 right and the inclination to support their place in 
 society. 
 
 But their masters would respect them the more, 
 if they did not stand upon these punctilios. J 
 
 * Degree of dignity. — J. W. I. 
 
 t A servant employed in furnishing the table. — J. W. I. 
 
 t Nice points of exactness, — small niceties of behavior. 
 — J. W. I. 
 
THE RICH AND THE POOR. 93 
 
 But I have told you it is not our approbation 
 they seek. When the lower orders mix with the 
 higher, it is to maintain themselves, and get money ; 
 and, if they are honest, they will do their work 
 faithfully. But it is amongst their equals that they 
 seek for affection, applause, and admiration ; and 
 there they meet with it. It matters very little in 
 what rank a man is, provided he is esteemed, and 
 reckoned a man of consequence there. The feel- 
 ings of vanity are exactly the same in a countess's 
 daughter, dancing at court, and a milkwoman, fig- 
 uring at a country hop. 
 
 But surely, mamma, the countess's daughter 
 will be more really elegant ? 
 
 That will depend very much upon individual 
 taste. However, the higher ranks have so many 
 advantages for cultivating taste, so much money 
 to lay out in decoration, and are so early taught 
 the graces of air and manner to set off those dec- 
 orations, that it would be absurd, to deny their 
 superiority in this particular. But Taste has one 
 great enemy to contend with. 
 
 What is that ? 
 
 Fashion, — an arbitrary and capricious tyrant, 
 who reigns, with the most despotic sway, over 
 that department which Taste, alone, ought to regu- 
 late. It is Fashion, that imprisons the slender 
 nymph in the vast rotunda of the hoop, and loads 
 her with heavy ornaments, when she is conscious, 
 if she dared rebel, she should dance lighter and 
 look better, in a dress of one tenth part of the 
 price. Fashion sometimes orders her to cut off 
 
94 THE RIVER AND THE BROOK. 
 
 her beautiful tresses, and present the appearance of 
 a cropped schoolboy ; and, though this is a sacrifice 
 which a nun, going to be professed, looks upon as 
 one of the severest she is to make, she obeys with- 
 out a murmur. The Winter arrives, and she is 
 cold ; but Fashion orders her to leave off half her 
 clothes, and be abroad half the night. She com- 
 plies, though at the risk of her life. A great deal 
 more might be said about this tyrant ; but, as we 
 have had enough of grave conversation for the 
 present, we will here drop the subject. 
 
 THE RIVER AND THE BROOK. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 There was once a River, which was very 
 large, and flowed through a great extent of coun- 
 try, which it rendered fruitful and pleasant. It 
 was some miles broad, at its mouth ; it was navi- 
 gable, for a long way up the stream, and ships of 
 large burden floated on its bosom. The River, 
 elated with its own consequence, despised all the 
 litde brooks and streams which fell into it ; and, 
 swelling above its banks with pride, said to them, 
 " Ye petty and inconsiderable streams, that has- 
 ten to lose your names and your being in my 
 flood, how little does your feeble tribute increase 
 my greatness ! whether you withhold or bring it, I 
 feel no increase, and shall perceive no diminution." 
 
DESCRIPTION OF TWO SISTERS. 95 
 
 ** Proud stream !" replied a little Brook, which 
 lifted up its head and murmured these words ; 
 " Dost thou not know, that all thy greatness is 
 owing to us, whom thou despisest ?" 
 
 The River, mindless of this reproof, in wanton 
 pride overflowed its banks. But, the next Sum- 
 mer proving a very hot one, all the little streams, 
 were dried up, and the River was so far dried, 
 that men and cattle could wade over it ; and a 
 strong wind bringing a heap of dust across its 
 stream, it was lost in the sands, and never heard 
 of afterwards. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF TWO SISTERS. 
 
 Dear Cousin, — Our conversation, last night, 
 upon beauties, put me in mind of two charming 
 sisters, with whom I think you must be acquaint- 
 ed, as well as I, though they were not in your list 
 of belles. Their charms are very different, how- 
 ever, from those of the belles of your list. The 
 youngest is generally thought the handsomest ; 
 and yet, other beauties shine more in her compa- 
 ny, than in her sister's ; whether it be, that her 
 gay looks diffuse a lustre on all around, while her 
 sister's beauty has an air of majesty, which strikes 
 with awe, or that the younger sets every one she 
 is with, in the fairest light, and discovers perfec- 
 tions which were before concealed, whilst the 
 elder seems only solicitous to set off her own 
 
96 DESCRIPTION OF TWO SISTERS. 
 
 person, and throw a shade upon every one else : 
 yet, what you will think strange, it is she, who is 
 generally preferred for a confidant ; for her sis- 
 ter, with all her amiable qualities, cannot keep 
 a secret. 
 
 O ! what an eye the younger has ! as if she 
 could look a person through ; yet, modest is her 
 countenance, even and composed her pace, and 
 she treads so softly ! " Smooth sliding, without 
 step," as. Milton says. She seldom meets you, 
 without blushing ; her sister cannot blush ; she 
 dresses very gayly, sometimes in clouded silks, 
 which, indeed, she first brought into fashion, but 
 blue is her most becoming color, and she gener- 
 ally appears in it. Now and then, she wears a 
 very rich scarf, or sash, braided with all manner 
 of colors. 
 
 The elder, like the Spanish ladies, dresses in 
 black, in order to set off her jewels, of which she 
 has a greater quantity than any lady in the land, 
 and, if I might judge, much finer. I cannot 
 pretend to give you a catalogue of them ; they 
 are of all sizes, and set in all figures. Her ene- 
 mies say, she does well to adorn her dusky brow 
 with brilliants, and that, without them, she would 
 be but little taken notice of ; but certain it is, she 
 has inspired more serious and enthusiastic pas- 
 sions than her sister, whose admirers are often 
 fops, more in love with themselves than with 
 her. A learned clergyman, some time ago, fell 
 deeply in love with her, and wrote a fine copy 
 of verses on her ; and, what was worse, her 
 
DESCRIPTION OP TWO SISTERS. 97 
 
 sister could not go into company, without hear- 
 ing them. 
 
 One thing they quite agree in, — not to go out 
 of their way or alter their pace, for any body. 
 Once, or twice, indeed, I have heard that the 
 
 younger , but it was a great while ago, and 
 
 she was not so old, then, and so was more com- 
 plaisant. She is generally waked with a fine con- 
 cert of music, the other prefers a good solo. 
 
 But see ! the younger beauty looks pale and 
 sick, — she faints, — she is certainly dying, — a 
 shght blush is still upon her cheek, — it fades, 
 fast, fast. She is gone ; yet a sweet smile over- 
 spreads her countenance. Will she revive ? 
 Shall / ever see her again ? Who can tell me ?* 
 
 * The very young reader may need to be informed, that, by 
 these two sisters, are intended to be represented, Night and 
 Day. Things, which it is wished to conceal, are generally 
 done in the night ; because, when done in the light of day, 
 they cannot so well be kept secret. The "rosy blush of 
 morn," and the " blue vault of heaven," will be called to 
 mind, by one part of the Allegory ; while another will re- 
 mind the reader of " the black and dark night," and " spang- 
 led heavens," studded with stars, as with jewels and brilliants. 
 The latter part of the Allegory will remind many readers of 
 the beautiful hymn, beginning, 
 
 *' Softly, now, the light of day 
 Fades upon my sight away. " — J. W. I. 
 
 9 VI. 
 
98 ON EXPENSE. 
 
 ON EXPENSE. 
 
 A DIALOGUE. 
 
 You seem to be in a reverie, Harriet ; or are 
 you tired with your long, bustling walk through the 
 streets of London .'' 
 
 Not at all, papa ; but I was wondering at some- 
 thing. 
 
 A grown person, even, cannot walk through 
 such a metropolis, without meeting with many 
 things to wonder at. But let us hear the partic- 
 ular subject of your admiration ; was it the height 
 and circumference of St. Paul's, or the Automa- 
 ton, or the magical effect of the Panorama,* that 
 has most struck you ? 
 
 No, papa ; but I was wondering how you, 
 who have always so much money in your pock- 
 ets, can go through the streets of London, all full 
 of fine shops, and not buy things ; I am sure, if I 
 had money, I could not help spending it all. 
 
 As you never have a great deal of money, and 
 
 * St. Paul's Cathedral is a celebrated church in London. 
 The Autontiaton is a machine, that has the power of motion 
 within itself, different kinds of which, are frequently exhibit- 
 ed in large cities and towns. The Panorama is a large pic- 
 ture, arranged in a circle, so that every part of it is at the same 
 distance from the spectator, who is placed in the centre. 
 Those of our readers who have been in Boston or New York, 
 have probably seen Panoramas, such as those of Jerusalem, 
 Niagara, &c. — J. W. I. 
 
ON EXPENSE. 99 
 
 it is given you, only to please yonr fancy with, 
 there is no harm in your spending it in any thing 
 for which you have a mind ; but it, is very well 
 for you, and me, too, that the money does not 
 burwin my pocket, as it does in yours. 
 
 No, to be sure, you would not spend all your 
 money in those shops, because you must buy 
 bread and meat, but you might spend a good deal. 
 But you walk past, just as if you did not see 
 them : you never stop, to give one look. Now 
 tell me really, papa, can you help loishing for all 
 those pretty things that stand in the shop-win- 
 dows ? 
 
 For all ! Would vou have me wish for all of 
 them ? But I will answer you seriously. I do 
 walk by these tempting shops without wishing for 
 any thing, and, indeed, in general, without seeing 
 them. 
 
 Well, that is because you are a man, and you 
 do not care for what I admire so very much. 
 
 No, there you are mistaken ; for, though I may 
 not admire them, so very much as you say you 
 do, there are a vast number of things sold in Lon- 
 don, which it would give me great pleasure to have 
 in my possession. I should greatly like one of 
 Dollond's best achromatic telescopes.* I could 
 
 * A telescope is an optical instrument, used for viewing 
 distant objects, as the moon, stars, and other heavenly bod- 
 ies. There are various kinds of telescopes. That referred 
 to, above, was invented by Mr. John Doilond, who was born 
 in the year 1706^ and died in 1761. It is called the Achromatic 
 (or colorless) Telescope, because it is so constructed as to 
 present images of objects nearly destitute of the colored bor- 
 
100 ON EXPENSE. 
 
 lay out a great deal of money, if I had it to spare, 
 in books of botany, and natural history. Nay, 1 
 assure you, I should by no means be indifferent to 
 the fine fruit exposed at the fruit-shops ; the plums, 
 with the blue upon them, as if they were just ta- 
 ken from the tree, the luscious hothouse grapes, 
 and the melons and pineapples. Believe me, I 
 could eat these things with as good a relish as you 
 could. 
 
 Then, how can you help buying them, when you 
 have money ; and especially, papa, how can you 
 help thinking about them, and wishing for them ? 
 
 London is the best place in the world, to cure 
 a person of extravagance, and even of extrava- 
 gant wishes. I see so many costly things, here, 
 which I know I could not buy, even if I were to 
 lay out all the money I have in the world, that I 
 never think of buying any thing which I do not 
 really want. Our furniture, you know, is old and 
 plain. Perhaps, if there were only a little better 
 furniture to be had, I might be tempted to change 
 it ; but, when I see houses where a whole fortune 
 is laid out in decorating a set of apartments, I am 
 content with chairs, whose only use is to sit down 
 upon, and tables, that were in fashion half a cen- 
 tury ago. In short, I have formed the habit of 
 self-government^ one of the most useful powers a 
 
 der, which is a defect in almost all other telescopes. An in- 
 teresting notice of Mr. DoUond, and his optical experiments, 
 may be found in the second volume of ' Pursuit of Knowledge 
 under DifRculties,'forming the twentieth volume of the larger 
 series of ' The School Library.' — J. W. I. 
 
ON EXPENSE. 101 
 
 man can be possessed of. Self-government be- 
 longs only to civilized man ; a savage has no idea 
 of it. A North American Indian is temperate, 
 when he has no liquor ; but, as soon as liquor is 
 within his reach, he invariably drinks till he is 
 first furious, and then insensible. He possesses 
 no power over himself, and he, literally, can no 
 more help it, than iron can help being drawn by 
 the loadstone.* 
 
 But he seldom gets liquor ; so he has not a 
 habit of drinking. 
 
 You are right ; he has not the habit of drink- 
 ing, but he wants the habit of self-control. This 
 can only be gained, by being often in the midst 
 of temptations, and resisting them. This is the 
 wholesome discipline of the mind. The first time 
 a man denies himself any thing he likes, and which 
 it is in his power to procure, there is a great strug- 
 gle within him, and uneasy wishes will disturb, for 
 some time, the tranquillity of his mind. He has 
 gained the victory, but the enemy dies hard. The 
 next time, he does not wish so much, but he still 
 thinks about it. After a while, he does not think 
 of it ; he does not even see it. A person of 
 moderate fortune, like myself, who lives in a gay 
 and splendid metropolis, is accustomed to see, 
 
 * A loadstone, or magnet, is an ore of iron, which has the 
 property of attracting or drawing to itself, iron or steel. It 
 also possesses the peculiar property of pointing exactly (or 
 nearly so) to the North and South, when suspended, or bal- 
 anced upon a pivot, or point. — J. W. I. 
 9* 
 
102 ON EXPENSE. "^ 
 
 every day, a hundred things, which it would be 
 madness to think of buying. 
 
 Yes ; but suppose you were very rich, papa .'' 
 
 No man is so rich, as to buy every thing his 
 unrestrained fancy might prompt him to desire. 
 Hounds and horses, pictures, and statues, and 
 buildings, will exhaust any fortune. There is 
 hardly any one taste, so simple or innocent, but 
 what a man might spend his whole estate in it, if 
 he were resolved to gratify it, to the utmost. A 
 very wealthy man may just as easily ruin himself, 
 by extravagance, as a private man ; and, indeed, 
 many do so. 
 
 But suppose you were a king ? 
 
 If I were a king, the mischief would be much 
 greater ; for I should ruin, not only myself, but my 
 subjects. 
 
 A king could not hurt his subjects, however, 
 with buying toys, or things to eat. 
 
 Indeed, but he might. What is a diamond, 
 but a mere toy ? But a large diamond is an object 
 of princely expense. That called the Pitt dia- 
 mond was valued at £1,000,000.* It was offered 
 to George the Second, but he wisely thought it 
 
 * The Regent or Pitt Diamond, is so called from its having 
 been purchased by Mr. Pitt, governor of Bencoolen, in the 
 Island of Sumatra, and sold by him to the Regent Duke of 
 Orleans, by whom it was placed among the Crown jewels of 
 France, where it now remains. Its value, as estimated by a 
 commission of jewellers, in the year 1791, is about $2,222,- 
 400. The value given by Mrs. Barbauld, is about $4,875,000. 
 George II., to whom it is said to have been offered, was king 
 of Great Britain, and died in the year 1760. — J. W. I. 
 
ON EXPENSE. 103 
 
 too dear. The dress of the late Queen of France* 
 was thought, by the prudent Necker, a serious ob- 
 ject of expense, in the revenues of that large king- 
 dom; and her extravagance, and that of the King's 
 brothers, had a great share in bringing on the ca- 
 lamities of the kingdom. f As to eating, you could 
 gratify yourself, with laying out a shilling or two 
 at the pastrycook's ;:f but Prince Potemkin, who 
 had the revenues of the mighty empire of Russia 
 at command, could not please his appetite without 
 his dish of sterlet§ soup, which cost, every time 
 it was made, above thirty pounds ;1[ and he would 
 send one of his aids-de-camp|| an errand from Yas- 
 sy to Petersburg, a distance of nearly seven hun- 
 dred miles, to fetch him a tureen of it. He once 
 bought all the cherries of a tree in a greenhouse, 
 at about half-a-crownlT apiece. The Roman em- 
 pire was far richer than the Russian, and, in the 
 
 * Marie Antoinette, the daughter of Maria Theresa, (Em- 
 press of Hungary,) and wife of Louis XVI., King of France. 
 During the French Revolution in 1789 to 1793, she was be- 
 headed, as was also the king, and many of the most eminent 
 persons of France. Necker was minister of finance, or treas- 
 urer, to Louis XVL — J. W. L 
 
 t Alluding to the French Revolution, which took place in 
 the year 1792, when the King and Q,ueen, and many other per- 
 sons, were put to death. — J. W. I. 
 
 t A pastrycook is one whose occupation it is to make and 
 sell pies, cakes, and other articles made of pastry. — J. W. L 
 
 § A fish, found in the Caspian Sea. — J. W. L 
 
 II Military ofiicers, acting as aids or aasbtants to the com- 
 manding general. — J. W. L 
 
 IT See note on page 49, for a table of the value of English 
 money. — J. W. L 
 
104 ON EXPENSE. 
 
 time of the Emperors, was all under the power of 
 one man. Yet, when they had such gluttons as 
 Vitellius and Heliogabalus,* the revenue of whole 
 provinces was hardly sufficient to give them a din- 
 ner. They had tongues of nightingales, and such 
 kind of dishes, the value of which was merely in 
 the expense. 
 
 I think the throat of the poor httle nightingales 
 might have given them much more pleasure, than 
 the tongue. 
 
 True : but the proverb says, "The belly has no 
 ears." In modern Rome, Pope Adrian, a frugal 
 Dutchman, complained of the expense his prede- 
 cessor, Leo X., was at, in peacock-sausages. f 
 The expenses of Louis XIV. were of a more 
 elegant kind ; he was fond of fine tapestry, mir- 
 rors, gardens, statues, and magnificent palaces. 
 These tastes were becoming in a great king, and 
 would have been serviceable to his kingdom, if 
 kept within proper limits. But he could not deny 
 himself any thing, however extravagant, that it 
 came in his mind to wish for ; and, indeed, would 
 have imagined it beneath him, to think at all about 
 the expense ; and, therefore, while he was throw- 
 ing up water, fifty feet high, at his palaces of Ver- 
 
 * Two Emperors of Rome, noted for their gluttony and li- 
 centiousness. Vitellius reigned only one year, and was then 
 put to death, in the year of our Lord 69. Heliogabalus 
 reigned about three years and three months, and was killed 
 by the people, in the year 222. — J. W. I. 
 
 t Leo X., was made Pope in 1513, and died in 1521. 
 Adrian VL, was made Pope ia 1522, and died in 1525. — 
 J. W. L 
 
ON EXPENSE. 105 
 
 sallies and Marly,* and spouting it out of the 
 mouths of dolphins and tritons, thousands of his 
 people, in the distant provinces, were wanting 
 bread. 
 
 I ^m sure I would not have done so, to please 
 my fancy. 
 
 Nor he, neither, perhaps, if he had seen them ; 
 but these poor men and their families were a great 
 way off, and all the people about him looked 
 pleased and happy, and said, he was the most gen- 
 erous prince the world had ever seen. 
 
 Well, but if I had Aladdin's lamp,! I might 
 have every thing I wished for. 
 
 I am glad, at least, I have driven you to fairy- 
 land. You might, no doubt, with the lamp of 
 Aladdin, or Fortunatus' purse, f have every thing 
 you wished for ; but do you know, what the con- 
 sequences would be ? 
 
 Very pleasant, I should think. 
 
 On the contrary, you would become whimsical 
 and capricious, and would soon gtow tired of eve- 
 
 * Louis XIV., King of France, built a magnificent palace 
 at Versailles, furnishing it with beautiful gardens, adorned 
 with statues, canals, fountains, &c. The dolphins were rep- 
 resentations in the shape of those fishes ; and they were so 
 placed, that the waters of the fountain gushed out of their 
 mouths. The Tritons were representations of the fabulous 
 sea deity of that name, who is said to have been the trum- 
 peter of Neptune. — J. W. I. 
 
 t In the Arabian tale of Aladdin, or the Wonderful Lamp, 
 mention is made of an old lamp, the possessor of which was 
 enabled to gratify his wishes in every thing. Fortunatus'a 
 purse was of a similar character. It always contained as 
 much money as its owner needed, for any particular occasion. 
 — J. W. I. 
 
106 ON EXPENSE. 
 
 ry thing. We do not receive pleasure, long, from 
 any thing that is not bought with our own labor. 
 This is^ one of those permanent laws of Nature, 
 which man cannot change; and, therefore, pleasure 
 and exertion will never be separated, even in 
 imagination, in a well-regulated mind. I could 
 tell you of a couple, who received more true en- 
 joyment of their fortune, than Aladdin himself. 
 
 Pray do. 
 
 The couple, I am thinking of, lived, about a 
 century ago, in one of our rich trading towns, 
 which was then just beginning to rise, by manu- 
 facturing tapes and inkle.* They had married, be- 
 cause they loved one another ; they had very little 
 to begin with, but they were not afraid, because 
 they were industrious. When the husband had 
 come to be the richest merchant in the place, he 
 took great pleasure in talking over his small be- 
 ginnings ; but he used always to add, that, poor 
 as he was when he married, he would not have 
 taken a thousand pounds for the table from which 
 his dame and he ate their dinner. 
 
 What ! had he so costly a table before he was 
 grown rich .'' 
 
 On the contrary, he had no table at all ; and his 
 wife and he used to sit close together, and place 
 their dish of pottage upon their knees ; their knees 
 were the table. They soon got forward in the 
 world, as industrious people generally do, and 
 were enabled to purchase one thing after another : 
 first, perhaps, a deal table ; after a while, a ma- 
 
 * A kind of tape. — Ed. 
 
ON EXPENSE. 107 
 
 hogany one ; then a sumptuous sideboard. At 
 first, they sat on wooden benches ; then, they had 
 two or three rush-bottomed chairs ; and, when 
 they were rich enough to have an arm-chair for 
 the Inisband, and another for a friend, to smoke 
 their pipes in, how magnificent they would think 
 themselves ! x\t first, they would treat a neigh- 
 bor with a slice of bread and cheese, and a draught 
 of beer ; by degrees, with a good joint and a pud- 
 ding ; and, at length, with all the delicacies of a 
 fashionable entertainment ; and, all along, they 
 would be able to say, " The blessing of God 
 upon our own industry has procured us these 
 things." By this means, they would relish every 
 gradation and increase of their enjoyments ; where- 
 as, the man born to a fortune, swallows his pleas- 
 ures whole, he does not taste them. Another in- 
 convenience, that attends the man w^ho is born 
 rich, is, that he has not early learned to deny 
 himself. If I were a rich man, though I could 
 not buy every thing I might fancy for myself, yet 
 playthings for you w^ould not easily ruin me, and 
 you would probably have a great deal of pocket- 
 money ; and you would grow up, with a confirmed 
 habit of expense, and no ingenuity; for you would 
 never try to make any thing, or to find out some 
 substitute, if you could not get just the thing you 
 wanted. That is a very fine cabinet of shells, 
 which the young heiress showed you the other 
 day : it is perfectly arranged, and mounted with 
 the utmost elegance ; and yet, I am sure, she has 
 not half the pleasure in it, which you have had 
 
108 EARTH. 
 
 with those little drawers of shells, of your own 
 collecting, aided by the occasional contributions 
 of friends, which you have arranged for yourself, 
 and display with such triumph. And now, to 
 show you, that I do sometimes think of the pleas- 
 ures of my dear girl, here is a plaything for you, 
 which I bought, while you were chatting at the 
 door of a shop, with one of your young friends. 
 A magic-lantern !* how dehghtful ! O, thank 
 you, papa ! Edward, come, and look at my charm- 
 ing magic-lantern. 
 
 EARTH. 
 
 All the different substances, which we behold, 
 have, by the earliest philosophers, been resolved 
 into four elements, — Earth, Water, Jlir, and 
 Fire. These, combined with endless diversity, 
 under the direction of the great First Mover, form 
 this scene of things, — so complex, so beautiful, 
 so infinitely varied ! 
 
 Earth is the element, which, on many accounts, 
 claims our chief notice. It forms the bulk of 
 that vast body of matter, which composes our 
 globe ; and, like the bones to the human body, it 
 
 * An instrument, by means of which small pictures are 
 represented as magnified to a great size. The pictures are 
 painted on glass, and placed between several lenses, of dif- 
 ferent magnifying powers, with a light behind them. The 
 enlarged pictures are then thrown upon the wall or a screen. 
 —J. W. I. 
 
EARTH. 109 
 
 gives firmness, shape, and solidity, to the various 
 productions of Nature. It is ponderous, dull, 
 unanimated, ever seeking the lowest place ; and, 
 except moved by some external impulse, prone to 
 rest iu one sluggish mass. Yet, when fermented 
 into life, by the quickening power of vegetation, 
 in how many forms of grace and beauty does 
 it rise to the admiring eye ! How gay, how vivid 
 with colors ! how fragrant with smells ! how rich 
 with tastes, — luscious, poignant, mild, pungent, 
 or saccharine ! Into what delicate textures is it 
 spread out, in the thin leaf of the rose, or the hght 
 film of the floating gossamer !* How curious, in 
 the elegant ramifications of trees and shrubs, or 
 the light dust which the microscope discovers to 
 contain the seed of future plants. 
 
 Nor has Earth less of magnificence, in the va- 
 rious appearances with which, upon a larger scale, 
 its broad surface is diversified ; whether we be- 
 hold it stretched out into immense plains and vast 
 savannas,! whose level green is only bounded by 
 the horizon ; or moulded into those gentle risings 
 and easy declivities, whose soft and undulating 
 lines court the pencil of the landscape-painter ; 
 or whether, swelled into bulk enormous, it aston- 
 ishes the eye with vast masses of solid rock and 
 long-continued bulwarks of stone. Such are the 
 
 * A fine, filmy substance, like a cobweb, which is often 
 seen in the fields or floating in the air, on clear days, and 
 which is supposed to be spun by the field or flying spider. — 
 J. W. I. 
 
 t A savanna is a large, open meadow, or pasture-ground, 
 destitute of trees. — J. W. I. 
 
 10 VI. 
 
110 EARTH. 
 
 Pyrenees, the Alps, the Andes,* the everlasting 
 boundaries of nations ; which, while kingdoms 
 rise and fall, and the lesser works of Nature change 
 their appearance all around them, stand, immov- 
 able, on their broad basis, and strike the mind with 
 an idea of stabihty, little short of eternal dura- 
 tion. 
 
 If, from the mountains which possess the mid- 
 dle of Earth, we bend our course to the green 
 verge of her dominions, the utmost limits of her 
 shores, where land and water, like two neighbor- 
 ing potentates, wage eternal w^ar, with what steady 
 majesty does she repel the encroachments of the 
 ever-restless ocean, and dash the turbulence of 
 waves from her strong-ribbed sides ! 
 
 Nor do thy praises end here : — With a kind of 
 filial veneration, I hail thee, O universal mother 
 of all the elements, — to man the most mild, the 
 most beneficent, the most congenial ! Man him- 
 self is formed from thee ; on thy maternal breast 
 he reposes, when weary ; thy teeming lap sup- 
 plies him with never-failing plenty ; and when, 
 for a few years he has moved about upon thy sur- 
 face, he is gathered again to thy peaceful bosom, 
 at once his nurse, his cradle, and his grave. 
 
 Who can reckon up the benefits supplied to us 
 by this parent Earth, — ever serviceable, ever in- 
 dulgent ! with how many productions does she 
 
 * Celebrated ranges or chains of mountains. The Pyre- 
 nees divide France from Spain. The Alps are the highest 
 mountains in Europe, and separate Italy from France, Swit- 
 zerland, and Germany. The Andes are an immense chain, 
 which run through the whole continent of America. — J. W. 1. 
 
EARTH. Ill 
 
 reward the labor of the cukivator ! how many- 
 more does she pour out spontaneously ! How 
 faithfully does she keep, with what large interest 
 does she restore, the seed committed to her by 
 the hwsbandman ! What an abundance does she 
 yield, of food for the poor, of delicacies for the 
 rich ! Her wealth is inexhaustible ; and all that 
 is called riches amongst men consists, in posses- 
 sing a small portion of her surface. 
 
 How patiently does she support the various 
 burdens laid upon her ! We tear her with ploughs 
 and harrows, we crush her with castles and pala- 
 ces ; nay, we penetrate her very bowels, and bring 
 to light the veined marble, the pointed crystal, 
 the ponderous ores, and sparkling gems, deep hid 
 in darkness, the more to excite the industry of 
 man. Yet, torn and harassed as she might seem 
 to be, our mother Earth is still fresh and young, 
 as if she but now came out of the hands of her 
 Creator. Her harvests are as abundant, her horn 
 of plenty as overflowing, her robe as green, her 
 unshorn tresses (the weaving foliage of brown for- 
 ests) as luxuriant ; and all her charms as bloom- 
 ing, and full of vigor. Such she remains, and 
 such, we trust, she will remain, till, in some fated 
 hour, the more devouring element of fire, having 
 broken the bonds of harmonious union, shall seize 
 upon its destined prey, and all Nature sink be- 
 neath the mighty ruin. 
 
112 THE PINE AND THE OLIVE. 
 
 THE PINE AND THE OLIVE. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 A Stoic,* swelling with the proud conscious- 
 ness of his own worth, took a solitary walk ; and, 
 straying amongst the groves of Academus,f he 
 sat down between an Olive and a Pine tree. His 
 
 * One of a sect, founded by the philosopher Zeno, who 
 died about the year 264 B. C, in the ninety-sixth year of 
 his age. He was born in the Island of Cyprus, and spent 
 the early part of his life in commercial pursuits. He after- 
 wards spent many years in attending the instructions of the 
 different philosophers of Athens, and, when he had become 
 perfect in every branch of knowledge, and improved from 
 experience as well as observation, he opened a school in 
 Athens, which he taught for forty-eight years. His life was 
 an example, worthy of imitation, of soberness, and modera- 
 tion ; his manners were austere ; and to his temperance and 
 regularity, he was indebted for a continual flow of health, 
 which he always enjoyed. He wished to live in the world, 
 as if nothing was properly his own ; he loved others, and his 
 affections were extended even to his enemies. He felt a 
 pleasure in being kind, benevolent, and attentive, and taught 
 as a duty, patience and resignation under trials, and an indif- 
 ference to pain and suffering. His instructions were given in 
 a portico, or stoa, as it is called in Greek ; hence his follow- 
 ers were termed Stoics. They did not always imitate their 
 master's example. — J. W. I. 
 
 t The groves of Academus were in the vicinity of Athens, 
 about one eighth of a mile from the city. Here the philoso- 
 pher Plato resided, and gave his instructions ; and the name 
 has been appropriated to other places of instruction. Our 
 English word Academy is derived from it. — J. W. I. 
 
THE PINE AND THE OLIVE. 113 
 
 attention was soon excited by a murmur, which he 
 heard among the leaves. The whispers increased ; 
 and, listening attentively, he plainly heard the Pine 
 say to the Olive, as follows : " Poor tree ! I pity 
 the^; thou now spreadest thy green leaves, and 
 exultest in all the pride of youth and Spring ; but 
 how soon will thy beauty be tarnished ! The fruit, 
 which thou exhaustest thyself to bear, shall hardly 
 be shaken from thy boughs, before thou shalt grow 
 dry and withered ; thy green veins, now so full 
 of juice, shall be frozen ; naked and bare, thou v/ilt 
 stand exposed to all the storms of Winter, whilst 
 my firmer leaf shall resist the change of the sea- 
 sons. Unchangeable is my motto ; and, through 
 the various vicissitudes of the year, I shall con- 
 tinue equally green and vigorous as I am at pres- 
 ent." 
 
 The Ohve, with a graceful wave of her boughs, 
 replied, " It is true thou wilt always continue as 
 thou art at present. Thy leaves will keep that 
 sullen and gloomy green, in which they are now 
 arrayed, and the stiff regularity of thy branches 
 will not yield to those storms which will bow down 
 many of the feebler tenants of the grove. Yet, I 
 wish not to be like thee. I rejoice, when Nature 
 rejoices ; and when I am desolate. Nature mourns 
 with me. I fully enjoy pleasure in its season, and 
 I am contented to be subject to the influences of 
 those seasons, and that economy of Nature, by 
 which I flourish. When the Spring approaches, 
 I feel the kindly warmth ; my branches swell with 
 young buds, and my leaves unfold ; crowds of 
 10* 
 
114 RIDDLES. 
 
 singing birds, which never visit thy noxious shade, 
 sport on my boughs ; my fruit is offered to the 
 gods, and rejoices men ; and, when the decay of 
 Nature approaches, I shed my leaves over the 
 funeral of the falling year, and am well contented, 
 not to stand a single exemption from the mournful 
 desolation I see everywhere around me." 
 
 The Pine was unable to frame a reply ; and 
 the philosopher turned away his steps, rebuked 
 and humbled. 
 
 RIDDLES. 
 
 My dear young friends, — I presume you 
 have now all come home for the holy days, and 
 that the brothers, and sisters, and cousins, papas 
 and mammas, uncles and aunts, are all met cheer- 
 fully round a Christmas fire, enjoying the compa- 
 ny of their friends and relations, and eating plum- 
 pudding and mince-pie. These are very good 
 things ; but one cannot always be eating plum- 
 pudding and mince-pie. The days are short, and 
 the weather bad, so that you cannot be much 
 abroad ; and I think you must want something to 
 amuse you. Besides, if you have been employed 
 as you ought to have been, at school, and if you 
 are quick and clever,* as I hope you are, you 
 
 * This word, in our country, has obtained a signification, 
 different from that which it has above, and which is its proper 
 meaning. It is used in England, only in its correct accepta- 
 
RIDDLES, 115 
 
 will want some employment for that part of you 
 which thinks, as well as that part of you which 
 eats ; and you will like better to solve a rid- 
 dle, than to crack a nut. Finding out riddles 
 is the same kind of exercise to the mind, which 
 running, and leaping, and wresding, in sport, are to 
 the body. These are of no use in themselves, — 
 they are not work, but play ; but they prepare 
 the body, and make it alert and active, for any 
 thing it may be called to perform, in labor or war. 
 So does the finding out of riddles, especially if 
 they are good, give quickness of thought, and a 
 facility of turning about a problem every way, and 
 viewing it in every possible light. When Archi- 
 medes, coming out of the bath, cried, in transport, 
 " Eureka /"* (I have found it !) he had been 
 exercising his mind, precisely in the same manner 
 as you will do, when you are searching about for 
 the solution of a riddle. 
 
 tion, meaning fit, suitable, convenient, proper, dexterous, skil- 
 ful, ingenious, adroit. But in this country, it bears the signi- 
 fication of good-natured, well-disposed, honest, possessing a 
 mild or agreeable disposition. — J. W. I. 
 
 * Archimedes, the most celebrated among the ancient geo- 
 metricians, was born at Syracuse, in Sicily, about two hun- 
 dred and eighty-seven years before the birth of our Saviour. 
 Hiero, king of Syracuse, suspecting that an artist had added 
 some common metal to a crown, which he had directed to be 
 made of pure gold, requested Archimedes to ascertain the 
 fact. He discovered the method of solving the question, while 
 he was in the bath, as mentioned in the text. Archimedes 
 was the inventor of several of the most important mechani- 
 cal powers, such as the compound pulley, the endless screw, 
 & '. — J W I. 
 
116 RIDDLES. 
 
 And pray, when you are together, do not let 
 any little Miss or INlaster say, with an affected air, 
 " O ! do not ask me ; I am so stupid, I never 
 can guess." They do not mean, you should think 
 them stupid and dull ; they mean to imply, that 
 these things are too trifling to engage their atten- 
 tion. If they are employed better, it is very 
 well ; but if not, say, " I am very sorry, indeed, 
 you are so dull ; but we that are clever and quick 
 will exercise our wits upon these ; and, as our 
 arms grow stronger by exercise, so will our 
 wits." 
 
 Riddles are of high antiquity, and were the 
 employment of grave men, formerly. The first 
 riddle, that we have on record, was proposed by 
 Samson,* at a wedding feast, to the young men of 
 the Philistines, who were invited upon the occa- 
 sion. The feast lasted seven days ; and, if they 
 found it out within the seven days, Samson was 
 to give them thirty suits of clothes, and thirty 
 sheets ; and, if they could not guess it, they were 
 to forfeit, the same to him. The riddle was ; 
 " Out of the eater came forth meat, and out of 
 the strong came forth sweetness." He had killed 
 a lion, and left its carcass ; on returning, soon 
 after, he found a swarm of bees had made use of 
 the skeleton as a hive, and it was full of honey- 
 comb. Struck with the oddness of the circum- 
 stance, he made a riddle of it. They puzzled 
 about it, the whole seven days, and would not 
 
 * See fourteenth chapter of Judges. — J. W. I. 
 
RIDDLES. 117 
 
 have found it out, at last, if his wife had not told 
 them. 
 
 The Sphinx was a great riddle-maker. Ac- 
 cording to the fable, she was half a woman and 
 half a lion.* She lived near Thebes, and to eve- 
 ry body that came, she proposed a riddle ; and, if 
 they did not find it out, she devoured them. At 
 length (Edipus came, and she asked him, "What 
 is that animal, which walks on four legs in the 
 morning, two at noon, and three at night." QEdi- 
 pus answered, " Man : in childhood, which is the 
 morning of hfe, he crawls on his hands and feet ; 
 in middle age, which is noon, he walks erect on 
 two ; in old age, he leans on a crutch, which serves 
 for a supplementary third foot." 
 
 The famous wise men of Greece did not dis- 
 dain to send puzzles to each other. They are 
 also fond of riddles in the East. There is a 
 pretty one in some of their tales : " What is that 
 
 * The Sphinx was itself a riddle, and is supposed to have 
 had an astronomical allusion to the season of the year when the 
 River Nile begins to rise. Our young readers, who have studied 
 astronomy, know something about the twelve figures called the 
 signs of ihe Zodiac. The sun apparently moves through these 
 signs, passing through one of them, every month. One of 
 them is called the Lion, (Leo,) and the next to it, the Vir- 
 gin, (Virgo.) About the time when the sun leaves the sign 
 Leo , and enters that of Virgo , the Nile begins to rise ; and 
 this union of the Lion and the Virgin explains one meaning 
 of the Egyptian Sphinx. There is now, in Egypt, a large 
 stone figure of a Sphinx, about one hundred and fifty feet long, 
 and sixty-three feet high. It is composed of one stone, with 
 the exception of the paws. The fabulous animal, spoken of 
 in the text, lived in Thebes, in Greece. CEdipus was son to 
 the king of Thebes. — J. W. I. 
 
118 RIDDLES. 
 
 tree, which has twelve branches, and each branch 
 thirty leaves, which are all black on one side and 
 white on the other ?" The tree is the year ; the 
 branches the months ; the leaves, black on one 
 side and white on the other, signify day and night. 
 Our Anglo-Saxon ancestors, also, had riddles, 
 some of which are still preserved in a very an- 
 cient manuscript. 
 
 A riddle is a descripton of a thing without the 
 name ; but as it is meant to puzzle, it appears to 
 belong to something else, than what it really does, 
 and often seems contradictory ; but, when you 
 have guessed it, it appears quite clear. It is a 
 bad riddle, if you are at all in doubt, when you 
 have found it out, whether you are right or not. 
 A riddle is not verbal, as charades, conundrums, 
 and rebusses, are : it may be translated into any 
 language, which the others cannot. Addison, 
 would put them all in the class of false wit : but 
 Swift, who was as great a genius, amused himself 
 with making all sorts of puzzles ; and, therefore, I 
 think you need not be ashamed of reading them. 
 It would be pretty entertainment for you, to make 
 a collection of the better ones ; for many are so 
 dull, that they are not worth spending time about. 
 I will conclude, by sending you a few, which will 
 be new to vou. 
 
 I. 
 
 I often murmur, yet I never weep ; 
 
 I always lie in bed, yet never sleep ; 
 
 My mouth is wide, and larger than my head, 
 
 And much disgorges, though it ne'er is fed ; 
 
RIDDLES. 119 
 
 I have no legs, nor feet, yet swiftly run. 
 And the more falls I get, move faster on. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Ye youths and ye virgins, come list to my tale, 
 
 With youth and with beauty my voice will prevail. 
 
 My smile is enchanting, and golden my hair, 
 
 And on earth I am fairest of all that is fair ; 
 
 But my name, — it perhaps may assist you to tell, 
 
 That I 'm banished, alike, both from Heaven and hell. 
 
 There's a charm in my voice, 't is than music more sweet, 
 
 And my tale, oft repeated, untired I repeat. 
 
 I flatter, I soothe, I speak kindly to all, 
 
 And wherever you go, I am still within call. 
 
 Though I thousands have blest, 'tis a strange thing to say. 
 
 That not one of the thousands e'er wishes my stay, 
 
 But when most I enchant him, impatient the more, 
 
 The minutes seem hours till my visit is o'er. 
 
 In the chase of my love I am ever employed , 
 
 Still, still he's pursued, and yet never enjoyed ; 
 
 O'er hills and o'er valleys unwearied I fly, 
 
 But should I o'ertake him, that instant I die ; 
 
 Yet I spring up again, and again I pursue. 
 
 The object still distant, the passion still new. 
 
 Now guess, — and to raise your astonishment most, 
 
 While you seek me you have me, when found I am lost. 
 
 III. 
 
 I never talk, but in my sleep ; 
 I never cry, but sometimes weep ; 
 My doors are open, day and night ; 
 Old age I help to better sight ; 
 I, like chamelion, feed on air. 
 And dust, to me, is dainty fare. 
 
 IV. 
 
 We are spirits all in white. 
 On a field as black as night 
 
120 RIDDLES. 
 
 There we dance, and sport, and play. 
 
 Changing every changing day : 
 
 Yet with us is wisdom found, 
 
 As we move in mystic round. 
 
 Mortals, wouldst thou know the grains 
 
 That Ceres* heaps on Libya's plains, 
 
 Or leaves that yellow Autumn strews. 
 
 Or the stars that Herschel views. 
 
 Or find how many drops would drain 
 
 The wide-scooped bosom of the main, 
 
 Or measure central depths below, — 
 
 Ask of us, and thou shalt know. 
 
 With fairy feet we compass round 
 
 The pyramid's capacious bound. 
 
 Or, step by step, ambitious climb 
 
 The cloud-capt mountain's height sublime. 
 
 Riches though we do not use, 
 
 'T is ours to gain, and ours to lose. 
 
 From Araby the Blestf we came. 
 
 In every land our tongue's the same ; 
 
 And if our number you require. 
 
 Go count the bright Aonian choir.:}: 
 
 Wouldst thou cast a spell to find 
 
 The track of light, the speed of wind. 
 
 Or when the snail, with creeping pace, 
 
 Shall the swelling globe embrace ; 
 
 Mortal, ours the powerful spell ; — 
 
 Ask of us, for we can tell. 
 
 * Ceres was the fabled goddess of the earth, and is said to 
 have invented agriculture, and shown mankind how to make 
 the ground bring forth fruits. Libya comprised a large part 
 of northern Africa. Herschel was a celebrated astronomer, 
 who discovered the planet generally called by his name. 
 
 — J. W. I. 
 
 t Araby, or Arabia, is divided into three portions. Arabia 
 Felix, Happy Arabia, or Araby the Blest, Arabia Deserta, or 
 Desert Arabia, and Arabia Petrasa, or Stony Arabia. — 
 J. W. L 
 
 t The Nine Muses, who were said to dwell on mount Par- 
 nassus, in Greece, which was called, also, the Aonian mount, 
 
 — J. W. L 
 
RIDDLES. 121 
 
 V. 
 
 An unfortunate maid, 
 
 I by love was betrayed, 
 And wasted and pined by my grief ; 
 
 To deep solitudes, then, 
 
 Of rock, mountain, and glen. 
 From the world I retired for relief.* 
 
 Yet there, by the sound 
 
 Of my voice, I am found, 
 Though no footstep betrays where I tread ; 
 
 The poet and lover, 
 
 My haunts to discover, 
 Still leave at the dawn their soft bed. 
 
 If the poet sublime 
 
 Address me in rhyme, 
 In rhyme I support conversation ; 
 
 To the lover's fond moan 
 
 I return groan for groan. 
 And by sympathy give consolation. 
 
 Though I 'm apt, 'tis averred, 
 
 To love the last word. 
 Nor can I pretend 'tis a fiction ; 
 
 I shall ne'er be so rude 
 
 On your talk to intrude 
 With any thing like contradiction. 
 
 The fair damsels of old 
 
 By their mothers were told. 
 That maids should be seen and not heard ; 
 
 The reverse is my case, 
 
 For you'll ne'er see my face; 
 To my voice all my charms are transferred. 
 
 * Echo is said to have been the fabled daughter of the Air 
 and Earth, and to have fallen in love with a youth, named 
 Narcissus. On being despised by him, she is said to have 
 pined away, and, at last, to have been changed into a stone, 
 which still retained the power of voice, so far as to repeat 
 the last word of what she heard. — J. W. I. 
 
 11 VI. 
 
122 RIDDLES. 
 
 VI. 
 
 From rosy bowers, we issue forth, 
 From east to west, from south to north, 
 Unseen, unfelt, by night, by day, 
 Abroad we take our airy way : 
 We foster love and kindle strife. 
 The bitter and the sweet of life : 
 Piercing and sharp, we wound like steel ; 
 Now, smooth as oil, those wounds we heal 
 Not strings of pearl are valued more, 
 Or gems enchased in golden ore ; 
 Yet thousands of us, every day, 
 Worthless and vile, are thrown away. 
 Ye wise, secure with bars of brass 
 The double doors through which we pass ; 
 For, once escaped, back to our cell 
 No human art can us compel. 
 
 VII. 
 
 This creature, though extremely thin, 
 In shape is almost square ; 
 
 Has many heads, on which ne'er grew 
 One single lock of hair. 
 
 Yet several of their tribe there are. 
 Whose case you must bewail. 
 
 Of whom in truth it may be said 
 They 've neither head nor tail. 
 
 In purer times, ere vice prevailed. 
 They met with due regard. 
 
 The wholesome counsels that they gave. 
 With reverence were heard. 
 
 To marriages and funerals 
 
 Their presence added grace. 
 
 And though the king himself were by, 
 They took the highest place. 
 
RIDDLES. 123 
 
 Their business is to stir up men 
 
 A constant watch to keep ; 
 Instead of which, — O sad reverse I — 
 
 They make them fall asleep. 
 
 Not so, in former times, it was, 
 
 Howe'er it came to pass ; 
 Though they their company ne'er left, 
 
 Till empty was the glass. 
 
 The moderns can't be charged with this. 
 
 But may their foes defy. 
 To prove such practices on them, 
 
 Though they 're extremely dry. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 TO THE LADIES. 
 
 Hard is my stem, and dry; no root is found 
 
 To draw nutritious juices from the ground ; 
 
 Yet, of your ivory fingers' magic touch 
 
 The quickening power and strange effect is such. 
 
 My shrivelled trunk a sudden shade extends. 
 
 And from rude storms your tender frame defends. 
 
 A hundred times a day, my head is seen 
 
 Crowned with a floating canopy of green ; 
 
 A hundred times, as struck with sudden blight. 
 
 The spreading verdure withers to the sight. 
 
 Not Jonah's gourd, by power unseen was made 
 
 So soon to flourish, and so soon to fade. 
 
 Unlike the Spring's gay race, I flourish most 
 
 When groves and gardens all their blooms have lost ; 
 
 Lift my green head against the rattling hail. 
 
 And brave the driving snows and freezing gale ; 
 
 And faithful lovers oft, when storms impend, 
 
 Beneath my friendly shade together bend; 
 
 There join their heads, within the green recess, 
 
 And in the close-wove covert nearer press. 
 
 But lately am I known to Britain's isle. 
 
 Enough, — you 've guessed, — I see it by your smile. 
 
124 THE KING IN HIS CASTLE. 
 
 THE KING IN HIS CASTLE. 
 
 My dear Lucy, — Have you made out, who 
 the Four Sisters are ?* If you have, I will tell 
 you another story. It is about a monarch, who 
 hves in a sumptuous castle, raised high above the 
 ground, and built with exquisite art. He takes 
 a great deal of state upon him, and, like Eastern 
 monarchs, transacts every thing by means of his 
 ministers ; for he never appears himself, and, in- 
 deed, hves in so retired a manner, that, though it 
 has often excited the curiosity of his subjects, 
 his residence is hidden from them, with as much 
 jealous care, as was that of Pygmahonf from the 
 Tyrians ; and it has never been discovered, with 
 any certainty, which of the chambers of the cas- 
 tle he actually inhabits, though, by means of his 
 numerous spies, he is acquainted with what passes 
 in every one of them. 
 
 But I must proceed to give you some account 
 of his chief ministers ; and I will begin with two, 
 
 * See page 30. Our young readers were there informed of 
 the meaning of that Allegory ; and we hope, they will be able, 
 of themselves, to find out the meaning of this. — J. W. I. 
 
 t Pygmalion was a king of Tyre, in Phenicia, who lived 
 about nine hundred and fifty years before the birth of our 
 Saviour. He became very odious, on account of his avarice 
 and cruelty, and sacrificed every thing to the gratification of 
 his passions. He even murdered his sister's husband, on 
 account of his wealth, which he coveted. — J. W. I. 
 
THE KING IN HIS CASTLE. 125 
 
 who are mutes. Their office is to bring him 
 quick and faithful intelligence of all that is going 
 forward ; this they perform in a very ingenious 
 manner. You have heard of the Mexicans, who, 
 not liaving the art of WTiting, supplied the defi- 
 ciency by painting every thing they have a mind 
 to communicate ; so that, when the Spaniards 
 came amongst them, they sent regular accounts to 
 the king of their landing, and all their proceedings, 
 in very intelligible language, without writing a sin- 
 gle word. Now, this is just the method of these 
 two mutes ; they are continually employed in 
 making pictures of every thing that passes, which 
 they do with wonderful quickness and accuracy, 
 all in miniature, but in exact proportion, and col- 
 ored after life. These pictures they bring, every 
 moment, to a great gate of the palace, where the 
 King receives them. 
 
 The next I shall mention, are two drummers. 
 These have each a great drum, on which they 
 beat soft or loud, quick or slow, according to the 
 occasion. They often entertain the King with 
 music ; besides which, they have arrived at such 
 wonderful perfection upon their instrument, and 
 make the strokes with such precision, that, by the 
 different beats, accompanied by proper pauses 
 and intervals, they can express any thing they 
 wish to tell ; and the King relies upon them, as 
 much as upon his mutes. There is a sort of cov- 
 ered way, made in the form of a labyrinth, from 
 the station of the drummers to the inner rooms of 
 the palace. 
 
 11* 
 
126 THE KING IN HIS CASTLE. 
 
 There is a pair of officers, — for you must 
 know, the officers go mightily by pairs, — whose 
 department it is, to keep all nuisances from the 
 palace. They are lodged, for that purpose, un- 
 der a shed or penthouse, built, with that view, be- 
 fore the front of the palace. They likewise gather 
 and present to the Monarch, sweet odors, essen- 
 ces, and perfumes, with which he regales himself: 
 they likewise inspect the dishes, that are served 
 up at his table ; and, if any of them are not fit to 
 be eaten, they give notice for their removal ; and 
 sometimes, if any thing offensive is about to en- 
 ter the palace, they order the agents to shut two 
 little doors, which are in their keeping, and, by 
 that means, prevent its entrance. 
 
 The agents are two very active officers, of long 
 reach, and quick execution. The executive part 
 of government is chiefly intrusted to them. They 
 obey the King's commands with a readiness and 
 vigor truly admirable ; they defend the castle from 
 all assaults, and are vigilant, in keeping at a dis- 
 tance every annoyance. Their office is branched 
 out into ten subordinate ones ; but, in cases which 
 require great exertion, they act together. 
 
 I must not omit the beef-eaters.* These stand 
 
 * This word is a corrupt pronunciation of the French word 
 buffetiers, which is derived from buffet, a sideboard, or side- 
 table. These officers belong to the household of the king, 
 and stand by the sideboard, on all occasions of great royal 
 dinners. They are dressed in old-fashioned style, such as 
 w:as in use about three hundred years ago. St. James's pal- 
 ace is one of the palaces of the King of England. — J. W. I. 
 
THE KING IN HIS CASTLE. 127 
 
 in rows, at the great front gate of the palace, much 
 as they do at St. James's, only that they are 
 dressed m white. Their office is to prepare the 
 viands for the King, who is so very lazy, and so 
 much accustomed to have every thing done for 
 him, that, like the King of Bantam,* and some 
 other Eastern monarchs, he requires his meat to 
 be chewed, before it is presented to him. 
 
 Close by the beef-eaters lives the King's orator, 
 a fat, portly gentleman, of something a Dutch 
 make, but remarkably voluble and nimble in his 
 motions, notwithstanding. He dehvers the King's 
 orders, and explains his will. This gendeman is a 
 good deal of an epicure, which, I suppose, is the 
 reason he has his station so near to the beef-eat- 
 ers. He is a perfect connoisseur in good eating, 
 and assumes a right of tasting all the dishes ; and 
 the King pays the greatest regard to his opinion. 
 Justice obliges me to confess, that this orator is 
 one of the most flippant and ungovernable of the 
 King's subjects. 
 
 Among the inferior officers, are the porters, 
 two stout, lusty fellows, who carry the King about, 
 from place to place, (for I am sure you are, by 
 this time, too well acquainted with his disposition, 
 to suppose he performs that office for himself ;) 
 
 * Bantam 13 a kingdom in the Island of Java, in the In- 
 dian Ocean. It was formerly the chief resort of vessels from 
 Europe ; but, owing to its harbors being much choked up, 
 with earth washed down from the mountains, and the growth 
 of coral reefs rendering it inaccessible to large vessels, its 
 trade is now transferred to other places. — J. W. I. 
 
128 A LECTURE ON THE USE OF WORDS. 
 
 but, as most great men's officers have their depu- 
 ties, so these lazy porters are very apt to get their 
 business done by deputy, and to have people to 
 carry them about. 
 
 I should never have done, if I were to mention 
 all the particulars of the domestic establishment 
 and internal economy of the castle, which is all 
 arranged with wonderful art and order ; how the 
 outgoings are proportioned to the income, and 
 what a fellow-feeling there is, between all the 
 members of the family, from the greatest to the 
 meanest. The King, from his high birth, — on 
 which he values himself much, being of a race 
 and lineage, quite different from any of his sub- 
 jects, — and from his superior capacity, claims the 
 most absolute obedience ; though, as is frequent- 
 ly the case with kings, he is, in fact, most com- 
 monly governed by his ministers, who lead him 
 where they please, without his being sensible of 
 it. As you, my dear Lucy, have had more con- 
 versation with this King, than most of your age 
 have been honored with, I dare say, you will be 
 at no loss in pointing him out. I therefore add 
 no more, but that I am Yours, &c. 
 
 A LECTURE ON THE USE OF WORDS. 
 
 My dear mamma, who worked you this scarf ? 
 it is excessively pretty. 
 
 I am sorry for it, my dear. 
 
A LECTURE ON THE USE OF WORDS. 129 
 
 Sorry, mamma ! are you sorry It is pretty ? 
 
 No ; but I am sorry, if it is excessively pretty. 
 
 Why so ? — a tiling cannot be too pretty, can it ? 
 
 If so, it cannot be excessively pretty. Pray, 
 what do you mean by excessively pretty ? 
 
 Why, excessively pretty means, — it means very 
 pretty. 
 
 What does the word excessively come from ? 
 What part of speech is it ? You know your 
 grammar ? 
 
 It is an adverb ; the words that end in ly are 
 adverbs. 
 
 Adverbs are derived from adjectives, by adding 
 ly, you should have said ; excessive, excessively. 
 And what is the noun, from which they are both 
 derived ? 
 
 Excess. 
 
 And what does excess mean ? 
 
 It means too much of any thing. 
 
 You see, then, that it implies a fault, and, there- 
 fore, cannot be applied as a commendation. We 
 say, a man is excessively greedy, excessively lib- 
 eral ; a woman, excessively fine : but not, that a 
 man is excessively wise, a woman excessively 
 faithful to her husband ; because, in these, there 
 is no excess : nor is there in beauty ; that being 
 the true and just proportion which gives pleasure. 
 
 But we say excessively kind. 
 
 We do, because kindness has its limits. A 
 person may be too kind to us, who exposes him- 
 self to a great and serious inconvenience, to give 
 us a slight pleasure. We also may mean by it. 
 
130 A LECTURE ON THE USE OP WORDS. 
 
 exceeding that kindness which we have a claim to 
 expect. But when people use it, as they often 
 do, on the slightest occasion, it is certainly as 
 wrong as excessively pretty. 
 
 But, mamma, must we always consider so 
 much the exact meaning of words ? Every body 
 says, excessively pretty, and excessively tall, and 
 infinitely obliged to you. What harm can it 
 do.? 
 
 That every body does it, I deny ; that the gen- 
 erahty do it, is very true ; but it is, likewise, true, 
 that the generality are not to be taken as a pattern 
 in any thing. As to the harm it does, — in the 
 first place, it hurts our sincerity. 
 
 Why, it is not telling a lie, sure*? 
 
 Certainly I do not mean to say it is ; but it 
 tends to sap and undermine the foundations of our 
 integrity, by making us careless, if not in the facts 
 we assert, yet in the measure and degree in which 
 we assert them. If we do not pretend to love 
 those we have no affection for, or to admire those 
 we despise, at least, we lead them to think we 
 admire them more, and love them better, than we 
 really do ; and this prepares the way for more 
 serious deviations from truth. So much for its 
 concern with morahty. But it has, Hkewise, a very 
 bad effect on our taste. What, think you, is the 
 reason that young people, especially, run into 
 these vague and exaggerated expressions ? 
 
 What is vague, mamma ? 
 
 It means, what has no precise, definite signifi- 
 cation. Young people run into these, sometimes. 
 
A LECTURE ON THE USE OF WORDS. 131 
 
 indeed, from having more feeling than judgement, 
 but, more commonly, from not knowing how to 
 separate their ideas, and tell what it is they are 
 pleased with. They either do not know, or will 
 not give themselves the trouble to mark, the qual- 
 ities, or to describe the scenes, which disgust or 
 please them, and hope to cover their deficiency, 
 by these overwhelming expressions ; as if your 
 dress-maker, not knowing your shape, should make 
 a large loose frock, that would cover you over, 
 were you twice as tall as you are. Now, you 
 would have shown your taste, if, in commending 
 my scarf, you had said, that the pattern was hght, 
 or it was rich, or that the work was neat and true ; 
 but by saying it was excessively pretty, you show- 
 ed, you had not considered what it was you ad- 
 mired in it. Did you never hear of the country- 
 man, who said, "there will be monstrous few 
 apples this year, and those few will be huge little?" 
 Poets run into this fault, when they give unmean- 
 ing epithets, instead of appropriate description ; 
 young ladies, when, in their letters, they run into 
 exaggerated expressions of friendship. You have 
 often admired, in this painting, the variety of 
 tints shaded into one another. Well ! what 
 would you think of a painter, who should spread 
 one deep blue over all the sky, and one deep 
 green over the grass and trees ? would you not 
 say he was a dauber ? and made near objects, and 
 distant objects, and objects in the sun, and objects 
 in the shade, all alike ? I think I have some of 
 your early performances, in which you have col- 
 
132 HYMN. 
 
 ored prints pretty much in this style 3 but you 
 would not paint so now ? 
 
 No, indeed. 
 
 Then do not talk so ; do not paint so, with 
 words. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Child of mortality ! whence comest thou ? why 
 is thy countenance sad, and why are thine eyes 
 red with weeping ? 
 
 I have seen the rose in its beauty ; it spread its 
 leaves to the morning sun. I returned, it vi^as 
 dying upon its stalk ; the grace of the form of it 
 was gone ; its loveliness was vanished away ; the 
 leaves thereof were scattered on the ground, and 
 no one gathered them again. 
 
 A stately tree grew on the plain ; its branches 
 were covered with verdure ; its boughs spread 
 wide, and made a goodly shadow ; the trunk was 
 like a strong pillar ; the roots were like crooked 
 fangs. I returned, the verdure was nipped by the 
 east wind ; the branches were lopped away by the 
 axe ; the worm had made its way into the trunk, 
 and the heart thereof was decayed : it mouldered 
 away, and fell to the ground. 
 
 I have seen the insects sporting in the sunshine, 
 and darting along the stream ; their wings ghtter- 
 ed with gold and purple ; their bodies shone like 
 the green emerald ; they were more numerous 
 
PICNIC. 133 
 
 than I could count ; their motions were quicker 
 than my eye could glance. I returned, they were 
 brushed into the pool ; they were perishing with 
 the evening breeze ; the swallow had devoured 
 them ; the pike had seized them : there were none 
 found, of so great a multitude. 
 
 I have seen man in the pride of his strength ; 
 his cheeks glowed with beauty ; his limbs were 
 full of activity ; he walked, he ran, he rejoiced 
 in that he was more excellent than those. I re- 
 turned, he lay stiff and cold on the bare ground ; 
 his feet could no longer move, nor his hands stretch 
 themselves out ; his life was departed from him ; 
 and the breath out of his nostrils. Therefore do 
 I weep, because death is in the world ; the spoil- 
 er is among the works of God ; all that is made 
 must be destroyed ; all that is born must die. 
 Let me alone, for I will weep yet longer. 
 
 PICNIC. 
 
 Pray, mamma, what is the meaning of picnic 9 
 I have heard, lately, once or twice, of a picnic 
 supper, and I cannot think what it means ; I looked 
 for the word in Johnson's Dictionary, and could 
 not find it. 
 
 I should wonder if you had ; the word was not 
 used in Johnson's time : and, if it had been, I be- 
 lieve he would have disdained to insert it among 
 the legitimate words of the language. I cannot tell 
 12 VI. 
 
134 PICNIC. 
 
 you the derivation of the phrase ;* I believe pic- 
 nic is originally a cant word, and was first applied 
 to a supper or other meal, in which the entertain- 
 ment is not provided by any one person, but each 
 of the guests furnishes his dish. In a picnic sup- 
 per, one supplies the fowls, another the fish, anoth- 
 er the wine, and fruit, &c. ; and they all sit down 
 together, and enjoy it. 
 
 A very sociable way of making an entertain- 
 ment. 
 
 Yes ; and I would have you observe, that the 
 principle of it may be extended to many other 
 things. No one has a right to be entertained 
 gratis in society ; he must expend, if he wishes 
 to enjoy. Conversation, particularly, is a picnic 
 feast, where every one is to contribute something, 
 according to his genius and ability. Different 
 talents and acquirements compose the different 
 dishes of the entertainment, and the greater varie- 
 ty the better ; but every one must bring some- 
 thing, for society will not tolerate any one, long, 
 who lives wholly at the expense of his neigh- 
 bors. Did not you observe how agreeably we 
 were entertained at Lady Isabella's party, last 
 night ? 
 
 Yes : one of the young ladies sung, and anoth- 
 er exhibited her drawings ; and a gentleman told 
 some very good stories. 
 
 * It is derived from the Swedish, and means a club, or as- 
 sembly, where each person contributes to the entertainment. 
 — J. W. I. 
 
PICNIC. 135 
 
 True : and another lady, who is very much in 
 the fashionable world, gave us a great deal of an- 
 ecdote ; Dr. R., who has just returned from the 
 Continent, gave us an interesting account of the 
 state' of Germany ; and, in another part of the 
 room, a cluster was gathered round an Edinburgh 
 student and a young Oxonian,* who were holding 
 a hvely debate on the power of galvanism. But 
 Lady Isabella, herself, was the charm of the 
 party. 
 
 I think she talked very little ; and I do not re- 
 collect any thing she said, which was particularly 
 striking. 
 
 That is true. But it was owing to her address, 
 and attention to her company, that others talked 
 and were heard, by turns ; that the modest were en- 
 couraged and drawn out, and those inchned to be 
 noisy restrained, and kept in order. She blend- 
 ed and harmonized the talents of each ; brought 
 those together, who were hkely to be agreeable 
 to each other, and gave us no more of herself, 
 than was necessary to set off others. I noticed, 
 particularly, her good offices to an accomplished 
 but very bashful lady, and a reserved man of 
 science, who wished much to be known to one 
 another, but who would never have been so, with- 
 out her introduction. As soon as she had fairly 
 engaged them in an interesting conversation, she 
 left them, regardless of her own entertainment, and 
 seated herself by poor Mr. , purely because 
 
 * One who was educated at the University of Oxford, Eng- 
 land. — J. W. I. 
 
136 PICNIC. 
 
 he was sitting in a corner, and no one attended to 
 him. You know, that, in chemical preparations, 
 two substances often require a third, to enable 
 them to mix and unite together. Lady Isabella 
 possesses this amalgamating power : this is what 
 she brings to the picnic. I should add, that, two 
 or three times, I observed she dexterously changed 
 topics, and suppressed stories, which were likely 
 to bear hard on the profession or connexions of 
 some of the company. In short, the party which 
 was so agreeable, under her harmonizing influence, 
 would have had quite a different aspect, without 
 her. These merits, however, might easily escape 
 a young observer. But, I dare say, you did not 
 
 fail to notice Sir Henry B 's lady, who was 
 
 declaiming with so much enthusiasm, in the midst 
 of a circle of gentlemen, which she had drawn 
 round her, upon the beau ideal,* 
 
 No, indeed, mamma ; I never heard so much 
 fire and feeling : and what a flow of elegant lan- 
 guage ! I do not wonder her eloquence was so 
 much admired. 
 
 She has a great deal of eloquence and taste : 
 she has travelled, and is acquainted with the best 
 works of art. I am not sure, however, whether 
 the gentlemen were admiring, most, her declama- 
 tion, or the fine turn of her hands and arms. She 
 has a different attitude for every sentiment. Some 
 observations, which she made upon the beauty of 
 
 * Ideal beauty, perfection, superior excellence. A spe- 
 cies of beauty, created by fancy, or existing in the inaagina- 
 tion, only. — J. W. I. 
 
LETTER FROM GRIMALKIN TO SELIMA. 137 
 
 Statues, seemed to me to go to the verge of what 
 a modest female will allow herself to say upon 
 such subjects ; but she has travelled. She was 
 sensible, that she could not fail to gain by the con- 
 versation, while beauty of form was the subject 
 of it. 
 
 Pray what did , the great poet, bring to 
 
 the picnic ? for I think he hardly opened his 
 mouth. 
 
 He brought his fame. Many would be gratified 
 with merely seeing him, who had entertained them 
 in their closets ; and he, who had so entertained 
 them, had a right to be himself entertained, in that 
 way which he had no talent for joining in. Let 
 every one, I repeat, bring to the entertainment 
 something of the best he possesses, and the pic- 
 nic table will seldom fail to afford a plentiful 
 banquet. 
 
 LETTER FROM GRIMALKIN TO SELIMA. 
 
 My DEAR Selima, — As you are now going 
 to quit the fostering cares of a mother, to enter, 
 young as you are, into the wide world, and con- 
 duct yourself by your own prudence, I cannot 
 forbear giving you some parting advice, in this 
 important era of your hfe. 
 
 Your extreme youth, and, permit me to add, 
 the giddiness incident to that period, make me 
 particularly anxious for your welfare. In the 
 12* 
 
138 LETTER FROM GRIMALKIN TO SELIMA. 
 
 first place, then, let me beg you to remember, 
 that life is not to be spent in running after your 
 own tail. Remember, you were sent into the 
 world to catch rats and mice. It is for this, you 
 are furnished with sharp claws, whiskers to im- 
 prove your scent, and with such an elasticity and 
 spring in your limbs. Never lose sight of this 
 great end of your existence. When you and your 
 sister are jumping over my back, and kicking and 
 scratching one another's noses, you are indulging 
 the propensities of your nature, and perfecting 
 yourselves in agility and dexterity. But remem- 
 ber, that these frolics are only preparatory to the 
 grand scene of action. Life is long, but youth is 
 short. The gayety of the kitten will most as- 
 suredly go off. In a ^ew months, nay even weeks, 
 those spirits and that playfulness, which now ex- 
 hilarate all who behold you, will subside : and I 
 beg you to reflect, how contemptible you will 
 be, if you should have the gravity of an old 
 cat, without that usefulness, which alone can in- 
 sure respect and protection, for your maturer 
 years. 
 
 In the first place, my dear, obtain a command 
 over your appetites, and take care, that no tempt- 
 ing opportunity ever induces you to make free 
 with the pantry or larder of your mistress. You 
 may possibly slip in and out, without observation ; 
 you may lap a little cream, or run away with a 
 chop, without its being missed : but, depend upon 
 it, such practices, sooner or later, will be found 
 out ; and if, in a single instance, you are discov- 
 
LETTER FROM GRIMALKIN TO SELIMA. 139 
 
 ered, every thing which is missing, will be charg- 
 ed upon you. If Mrs. Betty or Mrs. Susan 
 chooses to regale herself with a cold breast of 
 chicken, which was set by, for supper, — you will 
 have clawed it ; or a raspberry cream, — you will 
 have lapped it. Nor is this all. If you have 
 once thrown down a single cup, in your eager- 
 ness to get out of the storeroom, every china plate 
 and dish that is ever broken in the house, — you 
 will have broken it ; and, though your back prom- 
 ises to be pretty broad, it will not be broad enough 
 for all the mischief that will be laid upon it. 
 Honesty, you will find, is the best pohcy. 
 
 Remember, that the true pleasures of life con- 
 sist in the exertion of our own powers. If you 
 were to feast, every day, upon roasted partridges, 
 from off Dresden china, and dip your whiskers 
 in syllabubs and creams, it could never give you 
 such true enjoyment, as the commonest food pro- 
 cured by the labor of your own paws. When 
 you have once tasted the exquisite pleasure of 
 catching and playing with a mouse, you will de- 
 spise the gratification of artificial dainties. 
 
 I do not, with some moralists, call cleanliness 
 a half virtue, only. Remember, it is one of the 
 most essential to your sex and station ; and if 
 ever you should fail in it, I sincerely hope Mrs. 
 Susan will bestow upon you a good whipping. 
 
 Pray, do not spit at strangers, who do you the 
 honor to take notice of you. It is very uncivil 
 behavior, and I have often wondered, that kittens 
 of any breeding should be guilty of it. 
 
140 LETTER FROM GRIMALKIN TO SELIMA. 
 
 Avoid thrusting your nose into every closet 
 and cupboard, — unless, indeed, you smell mice ; 
 in which case, it is very becoming. 
 
 Should you live, as I hope you will, to see the 
 children of your patroness, you must prepare 
 yourself to exercise that branch of fortitude which 
 consists in patient endurance ; for you must ex- 
 pect to be lugged about, pinched, and pulled by 
 the tail, and played a thousand tricks with ; all 
 which you must bear, without putting out a claw ; 
 for you may depend upon it, if you attempt the 
 least retahation, you will forever lose the favor of 
 your mistress. 
 
 Should there be favorites in the house, such as 
 tame birds, dormice, or a squirrel, great will be 
 your temptations. In such a circumstance, if the 
 cage hangs low, and the door happens to be left 
 open, — to govern your appetite, I know, will be a 
 difficult task. But remember, that nothing is 
 impossible to the governing mind ; and that there 
 are instances upon record, of cats, who, in the 
 exercise of self-government, have overcome the 
 strongest propensities of their nature. 
 
 If you would make yourself agreeable to your 
 mistress, you must observe times and seasons. 
 You must not startle her, by jumping upon her in 
 a rude manner ; and, above all, be sure to sheathe 
 your claws, when you lay your paw upon her lap. 
 
 You have, like myself, been brought up in the 
 country, and I fear you may regret the amuse- 
 ments it affords ; such as catching butterflies, 
 climbing trees, and watching birds from the win- 
 
LETTER FROM GRIMALKIN TO SELIMA. 141 
 
 dows, which 1 have done, with great delight, for a 
 whole morning together. But these pleasures are 
 not essential. A town life has, also, its gratifica- 
 tions. You may make many pleasant acquain- 
 tancffes in the neighboring courts and alleys. A 
 concert upon the tiles, in a fine moonhght Sum- 
 mer's evening, may, at once, gratify your ear and 
 your social feelings. Rats and mice are to be 
 met with, every where : and, at any rate, you have 
 reason to be thankful, that so credhable a situation 
 has been found for you ; without which, you must 
 have followed the fate of your poor brothers, and, 
 with a stone about your neck, have been drowned 
 in the next pond. 
 
 It is only when you have kittens yourself, that 
 you will be able to appreciate the cares of a 
 mother. How unruly have you been, when I 
 wanted to wash your face ! how undutiful, in gal- 
 loping about the room, instead of coming immedi- 
 ately, when I called you ! But nothing can sub- 
 due the affections of a parent. Being grave and 
 thoughtful in my nature, and having the advantage 
 of residing in a literary family, I have mused 
 deeply on the subject of education ; I have pored, 
 by moonlight, over Locke, and Edgeworth, and 
 Mrs. Hamilton, and the laws of association : but, 
 after much cogitation, I am only convinced of 
 this, that kittens will be kittens, and old cats, old 
 cats. May you, my dear, be an honor to all 
 your relations, and to the whole feline race. May 
 you see your descendants of the fiftieth generation. 
 And, when you depart this life, may the lamenta- 
 
142 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 tions of your kindred exceed, in pathos, the mel- 
 ody of an Irish howl. 
 
 Signed by the paw of your affectionate mother, 
 
 Grimalkin. 
 
 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 LETTER I, 
 
 My dear Lydia, — I was told, the other day, 
 that you had not forgotten a promise of mine, to 
 correspond with you, upon some subjects which 
 might be worth discussing, and relative to your 
 pursuits. I have often recollected it, also ; and, 
 as promises ought not only to be recollected, but 
 fulfilled, I will, without further preface, throw to- 
 gether some thoughts on History, — a study that I 
 know you value, as it deserves ; and I trust it 
 will not be disagreeable to you, if you should find 
 some observations, which your own mind may 
 have suggested, or which you may recollect to 
 have heard from me, in some of those hours w^hich 
 we spent together, with mutual pleasure. 
 
 Much has been said of the uses of History. 
 They are, no doubt, many ; yet they do not apply, 
 equally, to all persons. But it is quite sufficient 
 to make it a study worth our pains and time, that 
 it satisfies the desire, which naturally arises in ev- 
 ery intelligent mind, to know the transactions of 
 the country, or of the globe, in which he lives. 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 143 
 
 Facts, as facts, interest our curiosity, and engage 
 our attention. 
 
 Suppose a person placed in a part of the world, 
 where he was a total stranger ; he would natural- 
 ly ask, who are the chief people of the place, 
 what family they are of, whether any of their an- 
 cestors have been famous, and for what.* If he 
 see a ruined abbey, he will inquire what the build- 
 ing was used for ; and if he be told, it is a place 
 where people got up at midnight to sing psalms, 
 and scourged themselves in the day, — he will ask, 
 how there came to be such people, or why there 
 are none now.f If he observes a dilapidated cas- 
 tle, which appears to have been battered by vio- 
 lence, he will ask, in what quarrel it suffered, and 
 why they built, formerly, structures so different 
 from any we see now. If any part of the inhab- 
 itants should speak a different language from the 
 rest, or have some singular customs among them, 
 he would suppose they came, originally, from 
 some remote part of the country, and would in- 
 
 * (Questions, such as these, might be interesting to an En- 
 glish person, or one born in any country governed like England, 
 where men are respected and thought much of, on account of 
 their high birth, and their long line of eminent ancestors ; but 
 in our own country, where every one is judged by his own mer- 
 its, and not by those of his parents, such questions would 
 not often be thought of. TVe should inquire, what good 
 things the person himself had done ; for what he had made 
 himself famous : and our respect for him would be in propor- 
 tion to his own good conduct, and the services he had render- 
 ed to his fellow-creatures. — J. W. I. 
 
 t There are such people, now ; though, we trust, none in 
 our happy country. — J. W. I. 
 
144 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 form himself, if he could, of the cause of their 
 peculiarities.* 
 
 If he were of a curious temper, he might con- 
 tinue his inquiries, till he had informed himself, to 
 whom every estate in the parish belonged ; what 
 hands they had gone through ; how one man gain- 
 ed this field, by marrying an heiress, and the oth- 
 er lost that meadow, by a ruinous lawsuit. He 
 might feel delighted, on hearing the relation of the 
 opposition, made by an honest yeoman to an over- 
 bearing rich man, on the subject of an accustom- 
 ed pathway, or right of common. If he should 
 find the town or village divided into parties, he 
 would take some pains to trace the original cause 
 of their dissension, and to find out, if possible, 
 who had the right on his side. Circumstances 
 would often occur, to excite his attention. If he 
 saw an ancient bridge, he would ask when, and 
 by whom, it was built. If, in digging in his gar- 
 den, he should find utensils of a singular form and 
 construction, or a pot of money, with a stamp and 
 legend quite different from the common coin, he 
 \vould be led to inquire, when they were in use, 
 and to whom they had belonged. His curiosity 
 would extend itself, by degrees. If a brook ran 
 through the meadows, he would be pleased to 
 trace it, till it swelled into a river, and to trace the 
 river, till it lost itself in the sea. He would ask, 
 
 * Perhaps those, among whom these " singular customs" 
 existed, were the original inhabitants of the country ; and 
 those, whose customs differed from them, were the new com- 
 ers " from some remote part." — J. W. I. 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 145 
 
 whose seat he saw upon the edge of a distant for- 
 est, and what sort of country lay behind the range 
 of hills, that bounded his utmost view. If any 
 strangers came to visit, or reside in the place 
 where he lived, he would question them about the 
 country from which they came, their connexions 
 and alliances, and the remarkable transactions that 
 had taken place within their memory, or that of 
 their parents. The answers to these questions 
 would, insensibly, grow up into History, which, as 
 you see, does not originate in abstruse specula- 
 tion, but grows, naturally, out of our situation and 
 relative connexions. It gratifies a curiosity, which 
 all feel, in some degree, but which spreads and en- 
 larges itself with the cultivation of our powers, till, 
 at length, it embraces the whole globe which we 
 inhabit. To know is as natural to the mind, as 
 to see is to the eye ; and knowledge is, itself, 
 an ultimate end. But, though this may be es- 
 teemed an ultimate and sufficient end, the study 
 of history is important to various purposes. Few 
 pursuits tend more to enlarge the mind. It gives 
 us, and it, only, can give us, an extended knowl- 
 edge of human nature ; not human nature as it 
 exists in one age, or climate, or particular spot of 
 earth, but human nature under all the various cir- 
 cumstances by which it can be aiiected. It shows 
 us, what is radical and what is adventitious ; that 
 man is still man, in Turkey and in Lapland ; as a 
 vassal in Russia, or a member of a wandering 
 tribe in India ; in ancient Athens, or modern 
 13 VI. 
 
146 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 Rome ; yet, that his character is susceptible of 
 violent changes, and becomes moulded into infi- 
 nite diversities, by the influence of government, 
 climate, civilization, wealth, and poverty. By 
 showing us how man has acted, it shows us, to a 
 certain degree, how he will ever act, in given cir- 
 cumstances ; and general rules and maxims are 
 drawn from it, for the service of the lawgiver and 
 the statesman. 
 
 Here, I must observe, however, with regard to 
 events J that a knowledge of History does not seem 
 to give us any great advantage in foreseeing and 
 preparing for them. The deepest politician, with 
 all his knowledge of the revolutions of past ages, 
 could probably no more have predicted the course 
 and termination of the late French Revolution,* 
 than a common man. The state of our own na- 
 tional debt has baffled calculation ; the course of 
 ages has presented nothing like it. Who could 
 have pronounced, that the struggle of the Ameri- 
 cans would be successful ? that of the Poles, 
 unsuccessful ? Human characters, indeed, act 
 
 * The Revolution in France, during which the King and 
 Q,ueen, and many of the best people in the country, were put 
 to death, had taken place only a short time before Mrs. Bar- 
 bauld wrote this article. The national debt of Great Britian, 
 mentioned in the next sentence, is the sum which that coun- 
 try owed to different persons, and which appears to be every 
 year increasing. It now amounts to a very large sum, being 
 about thirty-five hundred millions of dollars. The struggle 
 of the Americans, next spoken of, means the Revolutionary 
 War, which had been ended only a short time before this 
 piece was written. — J. W. I. 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 147 
 
 always alike ; but events depend upon circum- 
 stances, as well as characters ; and circumstances 
 are infinitely various, and changed by the slightest 
 causes. A battle, won or lost, may decide the 
 fate 'T)f an empire ; but a battle may be won or 
 lost, by a shower of snow being blown to the east 
 or the west ; by a horse (the general's) losing his 
 shoe ; by a bullet or an arrow taking a direction, 
 a tenth part of an inch one w^ay or the other. The 
 whole course of the French affairs might have 
 been changed, if the King had not stopped to 
 breakfast,* or if the postmaster of Varennes had 
 not happened to know him. These are particu- 
 lars, which no man can foresee ; and, therefore, 
 no man can, with precision, foresee events. 
 
 The rising up of certain characters, at particu- 
 lar periods, ranks among those unforeseen circum- 
 stances, that powerfully influence events. Often 
 does a single man, as Epaminondas, ennoble his 
 country, and leave a long track of light after him, 
 to future ages. And who can tell, how much 
 even. America owed to the accident^ of being 
 served by such a man as Washington ? There 
 are always many probable events. All that his- 
 
 * The circumstances, here mentioned, were wellkuown oc- 
 currences, which took place during the journey of Louis XIV., 
 from Versailles to Paris. — J. W. I. 
 
 t There was no accident in the case. Washington was 
 raised up for his important station, by Him, who " doeth ac- 
 cording to His will in the army of heaven, and among the in- 
 habitants of the earth ;" who knows what is best, and who 
 always does what is right ; and without whose permission, 
 not a sparrow falleth to the ground. — J. W. I. 
 
148 ON THE USLS OF HISTORY. 
 
 tory enables the politician to do, is, to predict that 
 one or other of them will take place. If so and 
 so, it will be this ; if so and so, it will be that ; 
 but which, he cannot tell. There are, always, 
 combinations of circumstances, which have never 
 met before, from the creation of the w^orld, and 
 which mock all power of calculation. But let the 
 circumstances, and the cliaracters upon the stage, 
 be known, and History will tell him what to expect 
 from them. It will tell him, with certainty, for 
 instance, that a treaty extorted, by force, from 
 distress, will be broken, when opportunity offers ; 
 that a powerful nation will make its advantage of 
 the divisions of a weaker, which applies for its 
 assistance. 
 
 It is another advantage of History, that it stores 
 the mind whh facts, that apply to most subjects 
 which occur in conversation, among enlightened 
 people. Whether morals, commerce, languages, 
 or polite literature, be the object of discussion, it 
 is History that must supply her large storehouse 
 of proofs and illustrations. A man or a woman 
 may decline, without blame, many subjects of ht- 
 erature ; but to be ignorant of History is not per- 
 mitted to any one of a cultivated mind. It may 
 be reckoned, among its advantages, that this study 
 naturally increases the love of every man to his 
 country. We can only love what we know ; it 
 is by becoming acquainted with the long line of 
 patriots, heroes, and distinguished men, that we 
 learn to love the country which has produced 
 them. 
 
ON THE USES OP HISTORY. 149 
 
 But I must conclude this letter, already, per- 
 haps, too long, though I have not arrived at the 
 end of my subject. It will give me, soon, another 
 opportunity of subscribing myself, 
 
 * Your ever affectionate friend. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 I LEFT off, my dear Lydia, with mentioning, 
 among the advantages of an acquaintance with 
 History, that it fosters the sentiments of patri- 
 otism. 
 
 What is a man's country ? To the unlettered 
 peasant, who has never left his native village, that 
 village is his country, and, consequently, all of it 
 he can love. The man who mixes in the world, 
 and has a large acquaintance with the characters 
 existing, along with himself, upon the stage of it, 
 has a wider range. His idea of a country extends 
 to its civil poKty, its military triumphs, the elo- 
 quence of its courts, and the splendor of its capi- 
 tal. All the great and good characters, he is ac- 
 quainted with, swell his idea of its importance, 
 and endear to him the society of which he is a 
 member. But how wonderfully does this idea 
 expand, and how majestic a form does it put on, 
 when History conducts our retrospective view 
 through past ages ! How much more has the 
 man to love, how much to interest him, in his 
 country, in whom her image is identified with the 
 13* 
 
150 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 virtues of an iVlfred,"* with the exploits of the 
 Henrys and Edwards, with the fame and fortunes 
 of the Sidneys and Hampdens, the Lockes and 
 Mikons, who have ilkistrated her annals ! He 
 learns to value himself upon his ancestry, and to 
 feel interested for the honor and prosperity of the 
 whole line of descendants. Could a Swiss, think 
 you, be so good a patriot, who had never heard 
 of the name of William Tell ? or the Hollander, 
 who should be unacquainted with the glorious 
 struggle, which freed his nation from the tyrrany 
 of the Duke of Alva ? or the American, who had 
 never heard of Washington ? 
 
 The Enghshman, conversant with History, has 
 been long acquainted with his country. He knew 
 her, in the infancy of her greatness ; has seen 
 her, perhaps, in the wattled hutsf and slender 
 canoes, in which Caesar discovered her ; he has 
 watched her rising fortunes, has trembled at h$r 
 dangers, rejoiced at her deliverances, and shared, 
 with honest pride, triumphs, that were celebrated 
 ages before he was born. He has traced her grad- 
 ual improvement, through many a dark and turbu- 
 lent period, many a storm of civil warfare, to 
 the fair reign of her liberty and law, to the ful- 
 
 * See page 19, for a notice of Alfred, The other names 
 given in this sentence, are those of celebrated Englishmen, 
 who made for themselves a reputation which will last, as 
 long as the world shall endure. — J. W. I. 
 
 t Huts made by the binding or interweaving of twigs or 
 pliable branches, one with another, forming a sort of net- 
 work. — J. W. I. 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 151 
 
 ness of her prosperity, and the amplitude of her 
 fame. 
 
 Or, should our patriot hav^e his lot cast in some 
 age and country which has declined from this high 
 station of pre-eminence ; should he observe the 
 gathering glooms of superstition and ignorance, 
 ready to close, again, over the bright horizon ; 
 shonld Liberty lie prostrate at the feet of a des- 
 pot, and the golden stream of commerce, diverted 
 into other channels, leave nothing but beggary 
 and wretchedness around him ; — even then, in 
 these ebbing fortunes of his country. History, like 
 a faithful meter, would tell him, how high the tide 
 had once risen : he would not tread, unconscious- 
 ly, the ground where the Muses and the Arts had 
 once resided, like the goat that stupidly browses 
 upon the fane of Minerva.* Even the name of 
 his country will be dear and venerable to him. 
 He will muse over her fallen greatness, sit down 
 under the shade of her never-dying laurels, build 
 his little cottage amidst the ruins of her towers 
 and temples, and contemplate, with tenderness and 
 respect, the decaying age of his once illustrious 
 parent. 
 
 But, if an acquaintance with History thus in- 
 creases a rational love of our country, it also tends 
 
 * There were several fanes (or temples) dedicated to Mi- 
 nerva, who was the heathen goddess of wisdom. The prin- 
 cipal of these were, that called the Parthenon, at Athens, and 
 one at a place called Sunium, parts of both which are still to 
 be seen. They are in ruins, and the grass grows among their 
 broken columns, and goats and other animals graze there. — 
 J. W. I. 
 
152 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 to check those low, illiberal, vulgar prejudices, 
 which adhere to the uninformed of every nation. 
 Travelling will also cure them ; but to travel is 
 not within the power of every one. There is no 
 use, but a great deal of harm, in fostering a con- 
 tempt for other nations ; in an arrogant assump- 
 tion of superiority, and the clownish sneer of igno- 
 rance, at every thing in laws, government, or man- 
 ners, which is not fashioned after our partial ideas 
 and familiar usages. A well-informed person 
 will not be apt to exclaim, at every event out of 
 the common way, that nothing like it has ever hap- 
 pened, since the creation of the world ; that such 
 atrocities are totally unheard of in any age or na- 
 tion ; — sentiments we have all of us so often 
 heard, of late, on the subject of the French Revo- 
 lution : when, in fact we can scarcely open a page 
 of History, without being struck with similar and 
 equal enormities. Indeed, party spirit is very 
 much cooled and checked, by an acquaintance 
 with the events of past times. 
 
 When we see the mixed and imperfect virtue 
 of the most distinguished characters ; the variety 
 of motives, some pure and some impure, which 
 influence political conduct ; the partial success 
 of the wisest schemes, and the frequent failure of 
 the fairest hopes ; we shall find it more difficult 
 to choose a side, and to keep up an interest tow- 
 ards it, in our minds, than to restrain our feelings 
 and language within the bounds of good sense and 
 moderation. This, by the way, makes it partic- 
 ularly proper that ladies j who interest themselves 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 153 
 
 in the events of public life, should have their minds 
 cultivated, by an acquaintance with History, with- 
 out which, they are apt to let the whole warmth 
 of their natures flow out upon party matters, in 
 an ardor, more honest than wise, more zealous 
 than candid. 
 
 With regard to the moral uses of History, what 
 has just been mentioned may stand for one. 
 It serves, also, by exercise, to strengthen the 
 moral feelings. The traits of generosity, hero- 
 ism, disinterestedness, and magnanimity, are scat- 
 tered over it, like sparkhng gems, and arrest the 
 attention of the most common reader. It is won- 
 derfully interesting, to follow the revolutions of a 
 great state, particularly when they lead to the suc- 
 cessful termination of some glorious contest. Is 
 it true ? a child asks, when you tell him a won- 
 derful story, that strikes his imagination. The 
 writer of fiction has the unlimited command of 
 events and of characters ; yet that single circum- 
 stance of truth, — that the events, related, really 
 came to pass, that the heroes, brought upon the 
 stage, really existed, — counterbalances, with re- 
 spect to interest, all the privileges of the former, 
 and, in a mind a little accustomed to exertion, will 
 throw the advantage on the side of the historian. 
 
 The more History approaches to biography, 
 the more interest it excites. Where the materials 
 are meager and scanty, the antiquarian and the 
 chronologer may dwell upon the page ; but it will 
 seldom excite the glow of admiration, or draw 
 the dehcious tear of sensibility. I must acknowl- 
 
154 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 edge, however, in order to be candid, that the 
 emotions, excited by the actions of our species, 
 are not always of so pleasing or so edifying a na- 
 ture. The miseries and the vices of man form 
 a large part of the picture of human society. The 
 pure mind is disgusted by depravity, the existence 
 of which it could not have imagined to itself ; and 
 the feeling heart is cruelly lacerated, by the sad 
 repetition of wrongs and oppressions, chains and 
 slaughter, sack and massacre, which assail it in 
 every page. Till the mind has gained some 
 strength, so frightful a picture should hardly be 
 presented to it. Chosen periods of History may 
 be selected for youth, as the society of chosen 
 characters precedes, in well-regulated education, 
 a more indiscriminate acquaintance with the world. 
 In favor of a more extended view, I can only say, 
 that truth is truth ; man must be shown, as the 
 being he really is, or no real knowledge is gained. 
 If a young person were to read only the Beauties 
 of History^ or, according to the scheme of Mad- 
 ame Genlis, stories and characters, in which all 
 that was vicious should be left out, he might as 
 well, for any real acquaintance with life he would 
 gain, have been all the while reading ' Sir Charles 
 Grandison,' or the 'Princess of Cleves.'* 
 
 One consoling idea will present itself, with no 
 small degree of probability, on comparing the an- 
 nals of past and present times, — that of a tendency 
 to amehoration ; at least, it is evidently found in 
 those countries with which we are most connected. 
 * Two novels, so called. — J. W. I. 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 155 
 
 But the only balm that can be poured, with full 
 effect, into the feeling mind, which bleeds for the 
 folly and wickedness of man, is the behef, that all 
 events are directed and controlled by Supreme wis- 
 dom and goodness. Without this persuasion, the 
 world becomes a desert, and its devastators, the 
 wolves and tigers that prowl over it. 
 
 It is needless to insist on the uses of History, 
 to those, whose situation in life gives them room 
 to expect, that their actions may one day become 
 the objects of it. Besides the immediate neces- 
 sity, to them, of the knowledge it supplies, it af- 
 fords the strongest motives for their conduct, of 
 hope and fear. The solemn award, the incor- 
 ruptible tribunal, and the severe, soul-searching 
 inquisition, of posterity, is calculated to strike an 
 awe into their souls. They cannot take refuge 
 in oblivion ; it is not permitted them to die : they 
 may be the objects of gratitude or detestation, as 
 long as the world stands. They may flatter them- 
 selves, that they have silenced the voice of truth ; 
 they may forbid newspapers, and pamphlets, and 
 conversation ; but an unseen hand is, all the while, 
 tracing out their history, and, often, their minutest 
 actions, in indelible characters ; and it will soon 
 be held up, for the judgement of the world at large. 
 
 Lastly, this permanency of human characters 
 tends to cherish in the mind the hope and behef 
 of an existence after death. If we had no notices, 
 from the page of history, of those races of men 
 that have lived before us, they would seem to be 
 completely swept away ; and we should no more 
 
156 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 think of inquiring what human beings filled our 
 places upon the earth, a thousand harvests ago, 
 than we should think about the generations of cat- 
 tle, which, at that time, grazed in the marshes of 
 the Tiber,* or the venerable ancestors of the goats 
 that are browsing upon Mount Hymettus ; — no 
 vestige would remain, of one any more than of 
 the other, and we might, more pardonably, fall into 
 the opinion, that they both had shared a similar 
 fate. But, when we see illustrious characters 
 continuing to live on, in the eye of posterity, 
 their memories still fresh, and their noble actions 
 shining with all the vivid coloring of truth and 
 reality, ages after the very dust of their tombs 
 is scattered, high conceptions kindle within us ; 
 and feeling one immortality, we are led to hope 
 for another. We find it hard to persuade our- 
 selves, that the man, who, like Antoninusf or Soc- 
 
 * The Tiber is a small river of Italy, which rises in the Ap- 
 penine Mountains, and runs through Rome. It is a muddy 
 stream, and would have been an insignificant one, had it not 
 been celebrated by the Roman poets. Hymettus is a moun- 
 tain, about two miles from the city of Athens, celebrated for 
 the quantity and excellence of the honey, there collected by 
 the bees, which is still held in great estimation. — J. W. J. 
 
 t There were two emperors of Rome, named Antoninus, 
 both of whom were wise and good rulers. Antoninus, sur- 
 named Pius, (on account of his remarkable filial affection,) 
 was born about the year of our Lord 86, and died in 161, 
 aged seventy-four years, deeply lamented by the whole king- 
 dom. It has been said of him, that " he is almost the only 
 monarch that has lived, without spilling the blood of his coun- 
 trymen or his enemies." He was succeeded by Antoninus, 
 who was also called Marcus Aurelius, who was born, A. I). 
 121, and died in 180, in the fifty-ninth year of his age. This 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 157 
 
 rates,* fills the world with the sweet perfume of his 
 virtue, the martyr or the patriot, to whom posterity 
 is doing the justice which was denied him by his 
 contemporaries, should, all the while, himself, be 
 blotted out of existence, that he should be bene- 
 fiting mankind, and doing good, so long after he 
 is capable of receiving any, that we should be so 
 well acquainted with him, and that he should never 
 know any thing of us. That one, who is an ac- 
 tive agent in the world, instructing and informing 
 it, inspiring friendship, making disciples, should 
 be nothing, — this does not seem probable ; the 
 records of time suggest to us eternity. — Farewell. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 My dear Lydia, — We have considered the 
 uses of History ; I would now direct your atten- 
 tion to those collateral branches of science, which 
 are necessary for the profitable understanding of 
 it. It is impossible to understand one thing well, 
 without understanding, to a certain degree, many 
 other things ; there is a mutual dependence, be- 
 
 emperor was also a philosopher, and is said to have been 
 " one of the best emperors who ever governed Rome." — 
 J. W. I. 
 
 * Socrates was the most celebrated philosopher of antiqui- 
 ty. He was born at Athens, where he resided, and instruc- 
 ted a number of illustrious pupils, by his exemplary life, as 
 well as by his doctrines. He was falsely accused of crimes, 
 by his enemies, and condemned to drink hemlock, (which is 
 a deadly poison.) He died about four hundred years before 
 t!ie birth of our Saviour, in the seventieth year of his age. — 
 J. W. J. 
 
 14 VI. 
 
158 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 tween all parts of knowledge. This is the reason 
 that a child never fully comprehends what he is 
 taught ; he receives an idea, but not the full idea, 
 perhaps not the principal, of what you wish to 
 teach him. But, as his mind opens, this idea 
 enlarges, and receives accessory ideas, till, slow- 
 ly, and by degrees, he is master of the whole. 
 This is particularly the case, in History. You 
 may recollect, probably, that the mere adventure 
 was all you entered into, in those portions of it, 
 which were presented to you at a very early age. 
 You could understand nothing of the springs of 
 action, nothing of the connexion of events with 
 the intrigues of cabinets, with religion, with com- 
 merce ; nothing of the state of the world, at dif- 
 ferent periods of society and improvement ; and, 
 as little could you grasp the measured distances 
 of time and space, which are set between them. 
 This, you could not do, not because the history 
 was not related with clearness, but because you 
 were destitute of other knowledge. 
 
 The first studies, which present themselves as 
 accessories, in this light, are geography and chro- 
 nology, which have been called the two eyes of 
 History. When was it done ? Where was it 
 done ? are the two first questions you would 
 ask, concerning any fact that was related to you. 
 Without these two particulars, there can be no 
 precision or clearness. 
 
 Geography is best learned, along with History ; 
 for, if the first explains History, the latter gives 
 interest to geography, which, without it, is but a 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 159 
 
 dry list of names. For this reason, if a young 
 person begin with Ancient History, I should think 
 it advisable, after a slight general acquaintance 
 with the globe, to confine his geography to the 
 perio'd and country of which he is reading ; and 
 it would be a desirable thing, to have maps, adapt- 
 ed to each remarkable period in the great empires 
 of the world. These should not contain any 
 towns, or be divided into any provinces, which 
 were not known at that period. A map of Egypt, 
 for instance, calculated for its ancient monarchy, 
 should have Memphis marked on it, but not Al- 
 exandria, because the two capitals did not exist 
 together. A map of Judea, for the time of Sol- 
 omon, or any period of its monarchy, should not 
 exhibit the name of Samaria,* nor the villages of 
 Bethany and Nazareth. But each country should 
 have the towns and divisions, as far as they are 
 known, calculated for the period the map was 
 meant to illustrate. Thus geography, civil geog- 
 raphy, would be seen to grow out of History ; and 
 the mere view of the map would suggest the po- 
 htical state of the world, at any period. 
 
 It would be a pleasing speculation, to see how 
 the arbitrary divisions of kingdoms and provinces 
 vary, and become obsolete, and large towns flour- 
 ish, and fall again into ruins ; while the great nat- 
 ural features, the mountains, rivers, and seas, re- 
 main unchanged, by whatever names we please 
 
 * Samaria was built during the time of the Israelitish mon- 
 archy, by Omri, king of Israel. See 1. Kings, xvi. 24. — 
 J. W. I. 
 
160 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 to call them, whatever empire encloses them with- 
 in its temporary boundaries. The young student 
 should make it an invariable rule, never to read 
 History, without a map before him ; to which 
 should be added plans of towns, harbors, &,c. 
 These should be conveniently placed under the 
 eye, separate, if possible, from the book he is 
 reading, that, by frequent glancing upon them, 
 the image of the country may be indelibly im- 
 pressed on his imagination. 
 
 We are now, some few breaks and chasms ex- 
 cepted, pretty well acquainted with the outline of 
 the globe, and with those parts of it, with which 
 we are connected by our commercial or political 
 relations ; but we are still profoundly ignorant of 
 the interior of Africa, and imperfectly acquainted 
 with that of South America, and the western part 
 of North America. We know little of the cen- 
 tral parts of Asia, and have, as yet, only touched 
 upon the great continent of New Holland. 
 
 Yours affectionately. 
 
 LETTER. IV. 
 
 Dear Lydia, — Geography addresses itself to 
 the eye, and is easily comprehended ; to give a 
 clear idea of chronology is somewhat more diffi- 
 cult. It is easy to define it, by saying, ft gives 
 an answer to the question, — when was it done ? 
 But the meaning of the lohen is not quite so ob- 
 vious. A date is a very artificial thing ; and the 
 world had existed for a long course of centuries, 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 161 
 
 before men were aware of its use and necessity. 
 When is a relative term ; the most natural applica- 
 tion of it is, — how long ago, reckoning backwards 
 from the present moment ? Thus, if you were to 
 ask an Indian, when such an event happened, he 
 would probably say, — So many harvests ago, when 
 I could but just reach the boughs of yonder tree ; 
 in the time of my father, grandfather, great-grand- 
 father ; — still making the time, then present to 
 him, the date from which he sets out. Even 
 where a different method is well understood, we 
 use, in more familiar life, this natural kind of 
 chronology, — The year before I was married ; 
 when Henry, who is now five years old, was 
 born ; the Winter of the hard frost. These are 
 the epochs, which mark the annals of domestic 
 life, more readily, and with greater clearness, so 
 far as the real idea of time is concerned, than the 
 year of our Lord, as long as these are all within 
 the circle of our personal recollection. But when 
 events are recorded, the relater may be forgot- 
 ten, and the time when again occurs : When did 
 the historian live .'* I understand the relative 
 chronology of his narration ; I know how the 
 events of it follow one another ; but what is their 
 relation to general chronology ; to time, as it re- 
 lates to me and to other events ? 
 
 Chronology supplies a common measure, by 
 which I may compare the relator of an event 
 with myself, and his now or ten years ago^ with 
 the present now or ten years, reckoning from the 
 time in which I live. 
 14* 
 
162 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 In order to find such a common measure, men 
 have been led, by degrees, to fix upon some one 
 known event, and to make that the centre, from 
 which, by regular distances, the different periods 
 of time are reckoned, instead of making the pres- 
 ent time, which is always varying, and every man's 
 own existence, the centre. 
 
 The first approach to such a mode of compu- 
 ting time, is, to date by the reigns of kings ; which, 
 being public objects of great notoriety, seem to 
 ofter themselves, with great advantage, for such 
 a purpose. The Scripture, which is the earliest 
 of histories, has no other than this kind of succes- 
 sive dates : " And it came to pass, in the fourth 
 year of the king Hezekiah." " And the time that 
 Solomon reigned in Jerusalem, over all Israel, 
 was forty years. And Solomon slept with his 
 fathers ;" " and Rehoboam his son reigned in his 
 stead." From this method, a regular chronology 
 might certainly be deduced, if we had the whole 
 unbroken series ; but, unfortunately, there are 
 many gaps and chasms in History ; and you easily 
 see, that, if any links of the chain are w^anting, 
 the wiiole computation is rendered imperfect. 
 
 We want, therefore, a universal date, like a 
 lofty obelisk, seen by all the country round, from 
 and to which every distance should be measured. 
 The most obvious, that offers itself for this pur- 
 pose, is the creation of the world, an event equal- 
 ly interesting to all ; to us the beginning of time, 
 and from which, therefore, time would flow regu- 
 larly down, in an unbroken stream, from the ear- 
 
on THE USES OF HISTORY. 163 
 
 liest to the latest generations of the human race. 
 This would, probably, therefore, have been made 
 use of, if the date of the creation, itself, could be 
 ascertained with any exactness ; but, as chronolo- 
 gers differ, by more than a thousand years, as to 
 the time of that event, it is necessary, previously, 
 to mention what system is made use of, which 
 renders this era obscure and inconvenient. It 
 has, therefore, been found more convenient, to 
 take some known event, within the limit of well- 
 authenticated history, and to reckon, from that 
 fixed point, backwards and forwards. As we 
 cannot find the head of the river, and know not 
 its termination, we must raise a pillar upon its 
 banks, and measure our distances from that, both 
 up and down the stream. This event ought to 
 be important, conspicuous, and as interesting as 
 possible, that it may be generally received ; for 
 it would spare a great deal of trouble, in compu- 
 tation, if all the world would make use of the 
 same date. 
 
 The Greeks reckoned by Olympiads,* but not 
 till more than sixty years after the death of Alex- 
 ander the Great. f The Olympic games were the 
 most brilliant assembly in Greece. The Greeks 
 were very fond of them. They began, seven hun- 
 
 * Or periods of four years, reckoning from one celebration 
 of the Olympic games, to another. — J. W. I. 
 
 t " Macedonia's madman," — a celebrated king of Mace- 
 donia, who was born about three hundred and fifty-five years 
 B. C, and died, in the thirty-second year of his age, B. C, 
 323. — J. W. I. 
 
164 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 dred and seventy-six years before Christ, and 
 each Olympiad includes four years. 
 
 The Roman era was the building of their city, 
 the ' Eternal City,' as they loved to call it. 
 
 The Mohammedans* date from the Hegira, or 
 flight of Mohammed from Mecca, his birthplace, 
 to Medina, A. D. 622 ; and they have this ad- 
 vantage, that they began almost immediately to 
 use it. 
 
 The era, used all over the Christian world, is 
 the birth of Christ. This was adopted, as a date, 
 about A. D. 360. 
 
 Julius Scaligerf formed an era, which he called 
 the Julian period, being a cycle of seven thou- 
 sand nine hundred and eighty years, produced by 
 multiplying several cycles into one another, so as 
 to carry us back to a period seven hundred and 
 sixty-four years before the creation of the world. 
 This era, standing out of all history, like the 
 
 * Followers of Mohammed, a celebrated impostor, who 
 was born at Mecca, in Arabia, A. D. 569, and died at Me- 
 dina, in the same country, A. D. 632. He was the founder of 
 a system of religious belief, which is still adhered to by the 
 Turks. This system he began to promulgate, A. D. 609, 
 and continued to preach it till A. D. 622, when, owing to a 
 conspiracy formed against his life, he fled from Mecca to Me- 
 dina, where he was well received. It is from thia flight, (for 
 this is the meaning of the word Hegira,) that the Mohamme- 
 dans commence their reckoning. — J. W. I. 
 
 t The Julian period was not formed by Julius Scaliger, but 
 by his son, Joseph Justus Scaliger, who was born A. D. 1540. 
 It is so called, because it contains a certain number of Julian 
 years, or years arranged according to a mode of reckoning 
 introduced by Julius Caesar, emperor of Rome. — J. W. I. 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. J 66 
 
 fulcrum which Archimedes* wished for, and in- 
 dependent of variation or possibihty of mistake, 
 was a very grand idea ; and, in measuring every- 
 thing by itself, measured it by the eternal truth of 
 the l^ws of the heavenly bodies. But it is not 
 greatly employed, the common era serving all or- 
 dinary purposes. 
 
 You will, perhaps, ask, if we have no eras, what 
 have we to reckon by .'' We have generations 
 and successions of kings. Sir Isaac Newton, 
 who joined wonderful sagacity to profound learn- 
 ing and astronomical skill, made very great re- 
 forms in the ancient chronology. He pointed out 
 the difference between generations and successions 
 of kings. A generation is not the hfe of man ; 
 it is the time that elapses before a man sees his 
 successor ; and this, reckoning to the birth of 
 the eldest son, is estimated at about thirty years. 
 The succession of kings would seem, at first 
 sight, to be the same, and so it had been reckon- 
 ed : but Newton corrected it, on the principle, 
 that kings are often cut off, prematurely, in tur- 
 bulent times, or are succeeded, either by their 
 brothers, or by their uncles, or others, older than 
 themselves. The lines of kings of France, Eng- 
 
 * Archimedes was the most celebrated among ancient geo- 
 metricians, and was born about two hundred and eighty-sev- 
 en years before the birth of our Saviour. He is said to have 
 been the inventor of many mechanical powers, such as the 
 compound pulley, the endless screw, and others ; and is re- 
 ported to have said, he would move the earth, if he had a 
 point, or fulcrum, without it, on which to stand, and place 
 his lever. — J. W. I. 
 
166 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 land, and other countries, within the range of ex- 
 act chronology, confirmed this principle. He 
 therefore rectified all the ancient chronology, ac- 
 cording to it ; and, with the assistance of astro- 
 nomical observations, he found reason to allow, 
 as the average length of a reign, about eighteen 
 or twenty years. 
 
 But after all, great part of the chronology of 
 Ancient History is founded upon conjecture, and 
 clouded with uncertainty. 
 
 Although I recommend to you a constant at- 
 tention to chronology, I do not think it desirable 
 to load your memory with a great number of spe- 
 cific dates, both because it would be too great a 
 burden on the retentive powers, and because it is, 
 after all, not the best way of attaining clear ideas, 
 on the subjects of History. In order to do this, 
 it is necessary to have in your mind, the relative 
 situation of other countries, at the time of any 
 event recorded in one of them. For instance, 
 if you have by heart the dates of the accession 
 of the kings of Europe, and want to know, wheth- 
 er John lived at the time of the Crusades, and in 
 what state the Greek empire was, you cannot tell 
 without an arithmetical process, which, perhaps, 
 you may not be quick enough to make. Nay, 
 you may read separate histories, and yet not bring 
 them together, if the countries be remote. Each 
 exists in your mind, separately, and you have, at 
 no time, the state of the world. But you ought 
 to have an idea, at once, of the whole world, as 
 far as History will give it. You do not see, truly, 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 167 
 
 what the Greeks were, except you know that the 
 British Isles were then barbarous. 
 
 A few dates, therefore, perfectly learned, may 
 suffice, and will serve as landmarks, to prevent 
 your -going far astray in the rest : but it will be 
 highly useful to connect the histories you read, in 
 such a manner, in your own mind, that you may 
 be able to refer from one to the other, and form 
 them all into a whole. For this purpose, it is 
 very desirable to observe, and retain in your 
 memory, certain coincidences, which may link, 
 as it werfe, two nations together. Thus you 
 may remember, that Haroun al Raschid* sent to 
 Charlemagnef the first clock that was seen in 
 Europe. 
 
 It may be desirable to keep one kingdom as a 
 measure for the rest. Take, for this purpose, 
 first, the Jews, then, the Greeks, the Romans, 
 and, because it is so, your own country : then har- 
 monize and connect all the other dates with these. 
 
 That the literary history of a nation may be 
 connected with the political, study also biography, 
 and endeavor to link men of science and litera- 
 ture, and artists, with political characters. 
 
 These are some of the kind of dates, which make 
 every thing lie in the mind, in its proper order ; 
 
 * A celebrated caliph (or ruler) of the Saracens, a people 
 of Asia, who flourished about the year 786. — J. W. 1. 
 
 t Charlemagne, (or Charles the Great,) emperor of the 
 West, ruled over an immense empire, which included France, 
 a great part of Germany, Italy, Caledonia, Navarre, Arragon, 
 the Netherlands, and manv other countries. He died in the 
 vear 814. — J. W. I. 
 
168 HYMN. 
 
 they also take fast hold of it. If you forget the 
 exact date, by years, you have nothing left ; but, 
 of circumstances, you never lose all idea. As 
 we come nearer to our own times, dates must be 
 more exact. A few years, more or less, signify 
 little in the destruction of Troy, if we knew it ex- 
 actly ; but the conclusion of the American war 
 should be accurately known, or it will throw other 
 events near it into confusion. 
 
 Painting is a good auxiliary ; and though, in 
 this country. History is generally read before we 
 see pictures, they mutually illustrate one another. 
 Painting also shows the costume. In France, 
 where pictures are more accessible, there is more 
 knowledge generally diffused of common History. 
 Many have learned Scripture History, from the 
 rude figures on Dutch tiles. Farewell ; and be- 
 lieve me, yours affectionately. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Come, let us walk abroad ; let us talk of the 
 works of God. 
 
 Take up a handful of sand ; number the grains 
 of it ; tell them, one by one, into your lap. 
 
 Try, if you can count the blades of grass in the 
 field, or the leaves on the trees. 
 
 We cannot count them, they are innumerable ; 
 much more, the things which God has made. 
 
HYMN. 169 
 
 The fir groweth on the high mountain, and the 
 gray willow bends above the stream. 
 
 The thistle is armed with sharp prickles ; the 
 mallow is soft and woolly. 
 
 The hop layeth hold with her tendrils, and 
 claspeth the tall pole ; the oak hath firm root in 
 the ground, and resisteth the Winter storm. 
 
 The daisy enamelleth the meadows, and grow- 
 eth beneath the foot of the passenger ; the tulip 
 asketh a rich soil, and the careful hand of the gar- 
 dener. 
 
 The iris and the reed spring up in the marsh ; 
 the rich grass covereth the meadows ; and the 
 purple heathflower enliveneth the waste ground. 
 
 The water-lilies grow beneath the stream ; their 
 broad leaves float on the water : the wallflower 
 takes root in the hard stone, and spreads its fra- 
 grance amongst the broken ruins. 
 
 Every leaf is of a difierent form ; every plant 
 hath a separate inhabhant. 
 
 Look at the thorns that are white with blos- 
 soms, and the flowers that cover the fields, and 
 the plants that are trodden in the green path. The 
 hand of man hath not planted them ; the sower 
 halh not scattered the seeds from his hands, nor 
 the gardener digged a place for them with his 
 spade. 
 
 Some grow on steep rocks, where no man can 
 climb ; in shaking bogs,* and deep forests, and 
 
 * Bogs are marshes or morasses, composed of loose, wet 
 soil, which shakes, when any one walks over it. — J. W. I. 
 15 VI. 
 
170 HYMN. 
 
 desert islands ; they spring up every where, and 
 cover the bosom of the whole earth. 
 
 Who causeth them to grow every where, and 
 bloweth the seeds about in winds, and mixeth 
 them with the mould, and watereth them with soft 
 rains, and cherisheth them with dews ? Who fan- 
 neth them with the pure breath of heaven, and giv- 
 eth them colors, and smells, and spreadeth out 
 their thin, transparent leaves ? 
 
 How doth the rose draw its crimson from the 
 dark brown earth, or the lily its shining white ? 
 How can a small seed contain a plant ? How 
 doth every plant know its season, when to put 
 forth ? They are marshalled in order ; each one 
 knoweth his place, and standeth up in his own 
 rank. 
 
 The snowdrop and the primrose make haste to 
 lift up their heads above the ground. When the 
 Spring cometh, they shoot forth ! The carnation 
 waiteth for the full strength of the year ; and the 
 hardy laurestine cheereth the Winter months. 
 
 Every plant produceth its like. An ear of corn 
 will not grow from an acorn ; nor will a grape 
 stone produce cherries : but every one springeth 
 from its proper seed. 
 
 Who preserveth them alive, through the Win- 
 ter, when the snow is on the ground, and the sharp 
 frost bites on the plain ? Who soweth a small 
 seed, and a little warmth in the bosom of the earth, 
 and causeth them to spring up afresh, and sap to 
 rise through the hard fibres ? 
 
 The trees are withered, naked, and bare ; they 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 171 
 
 are like dry bones. Who breaiheth on them with 
 the breath of Spring, and they are covered with 
 verdure, and green leaves sprout from the dead 
 wood ? 
 
 Lt), these are part of His works, and a little 
 portion of His wonders. 
 
 There is little need that I should tell you of 
 God, for every thing speaks of Him. 
 
 Every field is like an open book : every paint- 
 ed flower hath a lesson written on its leaves. 
 
 Every murmuring brook hath a tongue : a voice 
 is in every whispering wind. 
 
 They all speak of Him who made them : they 
 all tell us. He is very good. 
 
 We cannot see God, for He is invisible ; but 
 we can see His works, and worship His footsteps 
 in the green sod. 
 
 They that know the most will praise God the 
 best ; but which of us can number half His works .'' 
 
 ON THE CLASSICS. 
 
 The authors, known by the name of the Greek 
 and Roman Classics, have laid the foundation of 
 all that is excellent in modern literature ; and are 
 so frequently referred to, both in books and con- 
 versation, that a person of a cultivated mind can- 
 not easily be content, without obtaining some 
 knowledge of them, even though he should not be 
 able to read them in their original tongues. A 
 
172 ON THK CLASSICS. 
 
 clear and short account of these authors, in a 
 chronological series, together with a sketch of the 
 character of their several productions, for the use 
 of those who have either none, or a very superfi- 
 cial knowledge, of the languages they are written 
 in, is, as far as 1 know, a desideratum, which, it 
 is much to be wished that some elegant scholar 
 should supply. In the mean time, a few general 
 remarks upon them may be not unacceptable. 
 
 In the larger sense of the word, an author is 
 called a Classic, when his work has stood the test 
 of time, long enough to become a permanent part 
 of the literature of his country. Of the number 
 of writings, which, in their day, have attained a 
 portion of fame, very few, in any age, have sur- 
 vived, to claim this honorable distinction. Every 
 circumstance, which gave temporary celebrity, 
 must be forgotten ; party must have subsided ; the 
 voice of friends and of enemies must be silent ; 
 and the writer, himself, must have long mouldered 
 in the dust, before the gates of immortality are 
 opened to him. It is in vain, that he attempts to 
 flatter or to soothe his contemporaries ; they are 
 not called to the decision ; his merits are to be 
 determined by a race he has never seen. The 
 judges are not yet born, who are to pronounce on 
 the claims of Darwin and of Covvper. The severe 
 impartiality of posterity stands aloof from every 
 consideration, but that of excellence, and from her 
 verdict there is no appeal. 
 
 It is true, indeed, that, amidst the revolutions 
 of ages, particularly before the invention of print- 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 173 
 
 ing, accidental circumstances must often have had 
 great influence in the preservation of particular 
 writings ; and we know and lament, that many are 
 lost, which the learned world would give treasures 
 of gold to recover. But it cannot easily happen, 
 that a work should be preserved, without superior 
 merit ; and, indeed, we know, from the testimony 
 of antiquity, that the works which have come 
 down to us, and which we read and admire, are, 
 in general, the very works, which, by the Greeks 
 and Romans, themselves, were esteemed most 
 excellent. 
 
 It is impossible to contemplate, without a sen- 
 timent of reverence and enthusiasm, these venera- 
 ble writings, which have survived the wreck of 
 empires, and, what is more, of languages ; which 
 have received the awful stamp of immortality, and 
 are crowned with the applause of so many succes- 
 sive ages. It is wonderful, that words should live 
 so much longer than marble temples ; words, 
 which, at first, are only uttered breath ; and, when 
 afterwards enshrined, and fixed in a visible form, 
 by the admirable invention of writing, committed 
 to such frail and perishable materials : yet the light 
 paper bark floats down the stream of time, and 
 lives through the storms which have sunk so many 
 stronger-built vessels. Homer* is read, though 
 
 * Homer was a celebrated poet of antiquity, whose poem 
 called the ' Iliad ' describes the war in which Troy was des- 
 troyed, Troy was a celebrated city, (called also Ilium,) sit- 
 uated in the western part of Asia Minor, and on the shores 
 15* 
 
174 ON THE CLASSICS. 
 
 the grass now grows, where Troy once stood ; 
 and nations, once despised as barbarous, appreci- 
 ate the merit of Cicero's orations, on the banks of 
 the Thames,* when the long honors of the Consu- 
 late are vanished, and the language of Rome is no 
 longer spoken on the shores of the Tiber. f 
 
 Still green with bays, each ancient altar stands, 
 
 Above the reach of sacrilegious hands ; 
 
 Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage, 
 
 Destructive war, and all-involving age. 
 
 See, from each clime, the learned their incense bring, 
 
 Hear, in all tongues, consenting paeans ring ! 
 
 It is owing to the preservation of a few books, 
 of the kind we are speaking of, that, at the revival 
 of letters, J the world had not to go back to the very 
 
 of the Grecian Archipelago. It was besieged by the Greeks 
 for ten years, and was finally destroyed, about one thousand 
 one hundred and eighty-four years before the birth of our 
 Saviour.— J. W. I. 
 
 * The natives of Britain were despised, as barbarians, by 
 the Romans. London, Oxford, (where is a celebrated univer- 
 sity,) and other cities, are now situated on the river Thames, 
 (pronounced Terns.) — J. W. I. 
 
 t The Tiber is a small river, which runs through the city 
 of Rome. The rulers of the Roman empire were once called 
 Consuls, and their office the Consulate. — J. W. I. 
 
 t Before the invention of the art of printing, books were 
 very scarce, and few persons were able to obtain them. 
 Consequently, there was much ignorance in the world. And 
 many of the books which were written, were destroyed by 
 the ignorant barbarians, who, at one time, spread nearly over 
 the world. The few that were not thus destroyed were pre- 
 served in convents, by the monks, who were then almost the 
 only persons who had any learning. These times of general 
 ignorance are frequently termed the dark ages ; and the pe- 
 riod when people began to pay attention to learning is called 
 " the revival of letters." — J. W. I. 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 176 
 
 beginnings of science. When the storm of bar- 
 baric rage had passed over, and spent itself, they 
 were drawn from the mould of ruins, and dust of 
 convents, and were of essential service, in forming 
 the ta%te, and giving a direction to the recovered 
 energies of the human mind. Oral instruction can 
 benefit but one age, and one set of hearers ; but 
 these silent teachers address all ages and all na- 
 tions. They may sleep, for a while, and be neg- 
 lected ; but, whenever the desire of information 
 springs up in the human breast, there they are, 
 with their mild wisdom, ready to instruct and please 
 us. The philosopher opens, again, his school ; 
 his maxims have lost nothing of their truth ; the 
 harmony of the poet's numbers, though locked up 
 for a time, becomes again vocal ; and we find that, 
 what was nature and passion, two thousand years 
 ago, is nature and passion still. 
 
 Books are a kind of perpetual censors, on men 
 and manners; they judge, without partiality, and re- 
 prove, without fear or affection. There are times, 
 when the flame of virtue and liberty seems almost 
 to be extinguished amongst the existing generation ; 
 but their animated pages are always at hand, to re- 
 kindle it. The despot trembles on his throne, and 
 the bold, bad man turns pale in his closet, at the 
 sentence pronounced against him, ages before he 
 was born. 
 
 In addition to their intrinsic value, there is 
 much incidental entertainment, in consulting au- 
 thors, who flourished at so remote a period. 
 Every little circumstance becomes curious, as we 
 
176 ON THE CLASSICS. 
 
 discover allusions to customs, now obsolete, or 
 draw indications of the temper of the times, from 
 the various slight hints and casual pieces of infor- 
 mation, which may be gathered up by the ingen- 
 ious critic. - Sometimes, we have the pleasure 
 of being admitted into the cabinet of a great man, 
 and leaning, as it were, over his shoulder, while 
 he is pouring himself out in the freedom of a con- 
 fidential intercourse, which was never meant to 
 meet the eye, even of his contemporaries. At 
 another time, we are delighted to witness the con- 
 scious triumph of a genius, who, with a generous 
 confidence in his powers, prophecies his own 
 immortahty, and to feel, as we read, that his 
 proud boast has not been too presumptuous. 
 Another advantage of reading the ancients is, that 
 we trace the stream of ideas to their spring. It 
 is always best to go to the fountain head. We 
 can never have a just idea of the comparative 
 merit of the moderns, without knowing how much 
 they have derived from imitation. It is amusing 
 to follow an idea, from century to century, and 
 observe the gradual accession of thought and sen- 
 timent ; to see the jewels of the ancients new set, 
 and the wit of Horace sparkling with additional 
 lustre, in the lines of Pope.* 
 
 The real sources of History can only be known 
 by some acquaintance with the original authors. 
 This, indeed, will often be found to betray the 
 
 * Horace was one of the ancient poets, who died about 
 eight years before the birth of our Saviour. Pope was a 
 modern poet, who died A. D. 1744. — J. W. I. 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 177 
 
 deficiency of our documents, and the difficulty of 
 reconciling jarring accounts. It will sometimes 
 unclothe, and exhibit in its original bareness, what 
 the art of the moderns has dressed up, and rounded 
 into form. It will show the unsightly chasms and 
 breaks, which the modern compiler passes over 
 with a light foot ; and, perhaps, make us skeptical 
 with regard to many particulars, of which we for- 
 merly thought we had authentic information. But 
 it is always good, to know the real measure of 
 our knowledge. That knowledge would be great- 
 er, if the treasures of antiquity had come to us, 
 undiminished. But this is not the case. Besides 
 the loss of many, mentioned with honor by their 
 contemporaries, (ew authors have come down to 
 us, entire ; and, of some exquisite productions, 
 only fragments are extant. The full stream of 
 narration is sometimes suddenly checked, at the 
 most interesting period, and the sense of a bril- 
 liant passage is clouded by the obscurity of a sin- 
 gle word. The literary productions have come 
 to us, in a similar state with the fine statues of 
 antiquity, of which some have lost an arm, others 
 a leg ; some a little finger, only ; scarce any have 
 escaped some degree of mutilation ; and, some- 
 times, a trunk is dug up, so shorn of its hmbs, that 
 the antiquaries are puzzled to make out to what 
 god or hero it originally belonged. To the fre- 
 quent loss of part of an author, must be added, 
 the difficulty of deciphering what remains. 
 
 Ancient manuscripts are by no means easy to 
 read. You are not to imagine, when you see a 
 
178 ON THE CLASSICS. 
 
 fair edition of Virgil,^ or Horace, divided into 
 verses, and accurately pointed, that you see it in 
 any thing h'ke its original state. The oldest man- 
 uscripts are written wholly in capitals, and with- 
 out any separation of letters into w^ords. Passing 
 through many hands, they have suffered from the 
 mistakes or carelessness of transcribers ; by which 
 so great an obscurity is thrown on many passages, 
 that, very often, he who makes the happiest guess 
 is the best commentator. But this very obscurity 
 has usefully exercised the powers of the human 
 mind. It became a great object, at the revival 
 of letters, to compare different readings ; to elu- 
 cidate a text by parallel passages ; to supply, by 
 probable conjecture, what was necessary to make 
 an author speak sense ; and, by every possible 
 assistance, of learning and sound criticism, togeth- 
 er with typographical advantages, to restore the 
 beauty and splendor of the classic page. Verbal 
 criticism was, at that time, of great and real use ; 
 and those who are apt to undervalue it are little 
 aware, how much labor was requisite, to reduce 
 the confused or mutilated work of a thousand 
 years back, to form and order. 
 
 This task was well fitted for an age recently 
 emerged out of barbarism. The enthusiastic ad- 
 miration with which men were struck, on viewing 
 the masterpieces of human genius, and even the 
 
 * Virgil was the most distinguished poet of ancient Rome, 
 and was born at Mantua, about the year 70, B. C. He is 
 sometimes called the Mantuan bard, from the place of his 
 birth. — J. W. 1. 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 179 
 
 superstitious veneration with which they regarded 
 every thing belonging to them, tended to form 
 their taste, by a quicker process, than if they had 
 been left to make the most of their own abilities. 
 By de§^ees, the moderns felt their own powers ; 
 they learned to imitate, and perhaps to excel, what 
 before they idolized. But a considerable period 
 had passed, before any of the modern languages 
 were thought worthy of being the vehicle of the 
 discoveries of science, or even of the effusions of 
 fancy. Christianity did not, as might have been 
 expected, bring into discredit the pagan philoso- 
 phy. Aristotle reigned in the schools, where he 
 was regarded with a veneration fully equal to what 
 was expressed for the sainted fathers of the 
 Church ; and, as to the mythology of the ancients, 
 it is so beautiful, that all our earher poetry has 
 been modelled upon it. Even yet, the predilec- 
 tion for the Latin language is apparent, in our in- 
 scriptions, in the public exercises of our schools 
 and universities, and the general bent of the stud- 
 ies of youth. In short, all our knowledge and all 
 our taste has been built upon the foundation of the 
 ancients ; and, without knowing what they have 
 done, we cannot estimate, rightly, the merit of our 
 own authors. 
 
 It may naturally be asked, why the Greek and 
 Ptoman writers, alone, are called by the name of 
 Classics. It is true, the Hebrew writers might 
 be esteemed so, if we did not receive them upon 
 a higher ground of merit. As to the Persian and 
 Arabic, with other languages of countries once 
 
180 ON THE CLASSICS. 
 
 highly cultivated, their authors are not taken into 
 the account ; partly, because they are understood 
 by so few, and partly, because their idioms and 
 modes of expression, if not of feeling, are so re- 
 mote from ours, that we can scarcely enter into 
 their merits. Their writings are comprehended 
 under the name of Oriental literature. It has 
 been more cultivated, of late, particularly by Sir 
 William Jones ; and our East India connexions 
 will continue to draw attention that way. But 
 curiosity is gratified, rather than taste. We are 
 pleased, indeed, with occasional beauties ; some- 
 times a pure maxim of morality, and sometimes 
 a glowing figure of speech ; but they do not enter 
 into the substance of the mind, which ever must 
 be fed and nourished by the Classic literature of 
 Greece and Rome. 
 
 I shall subjoin a few specimens of the mytho- 
 logical stories of the ancients. 
 
 ATALANTA. 
 
 Atalanta was a beautiful young woman, ex- 
 ceedingly swift of foot. She had many lovers ; 
 but she resolved not to marry, till she could meet 
 with one who should conquer her in running. A 
 great many young men proposed themselves, and 
 lost their lives ; for the conditions were, that, if 
 they were overcome in the race, they should be 
 put to death. At length, she was challenged by 
 Hippomenes, a brave and handsome youth. 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 181 
 
 ^' Do you know," said Atalanta, " that nobody- 
 has yet been found, who excels me in swiftness, 
 and that you must be put to death, if you do not 
 win the race ? I should be sorry to have any more 
 young- men put to death." 
 
 " I am not afraid," said Hippomenes ; " I think 
 I shall win the race, and win you, too." 
 
 So the ground was marked out, and the day 
 appointed, and a great number of spectators 
 gathered together ; and Atalanta stood, with her 
 garments tucked up, and Hippomenes by her, 
 waiting, impatiently, for the signal. At length, it 
 was given ; and immediately, they both started at 
 the same instant, and ran with their utmost speed 
 across the plain. But Atalanta flew Hke the wind, 
 and soon outstripped the young man. Then Hip- 
 pomenes drew from his vest a golden apple, which 
 had been given him by Venus,* from the gardens 
 of the Hesperides, and threw it from him, with all 
 his force. The virgin saw it glittering, as it rol- 
 led across the plain, and ran out of the course to 
 pick it up. While she was doing so, Hippome- 
 nes passed her, and the spectators shouted for joy. 
 However, Atalanta redoubled her speed, soon 
 overtook Hippomenes, and again got before him. 
 Upon this, Hippomenes produced another golden 
 apple, and threw it, as before. It rolled a great 
 
 * Venus was the fabled goddess of love. The Hesperideg 
 were three fabulous nymphs, who were said to have the care 
 of gardens, where there were golden apples, and other trees 
 bearing golden fruit. They were assisted in the charge of 
 the garden, by a dragon, who never slept. — J. W. I. 
 
 16 VI. 
 
182 ON THE CLASSICS. 
 
 way out of the course, and the virgin was thrown 
 very far behind, by picking it up. She had great 
 difficulty, this time, to recover her lost ground ; 
 and the spectators shouted, " Hippomenes will 
 win ! Hippomenes will win !" But Atalanta was 
 so light, so nimble, and exerted herself so much, 
 that, at length, she passed him, as before, and 
 flew, as if she had wings, towards the goal. And 
 now she had but a little way to run ; and the peo- 
 ple said, '' Poor Hippomenes ! he will lose, after 
 all, and be put to death, like the rest ; — see, see, 
 how she gains ground of him ! how near the goal 
 she is ! Atalanta will win the race." Then Hip- 
 pomenes took another golden apple, — it was the 
 last he had, — and prayed to Venus to give him 
 success, and threw it behind him. Atalanta saw 
 it, and considered, a moment, whether she should 
 venture to delay herself, again, by picking it up. 
 She knew she ran the risk of losing the race ; but 
 she could not withstand the beautiful glittering of 
 the apple, as it rolled along ; and she said to her- 
 self, '•'• I shall easily overtake Hippomenes, as I 
 did before." But she was mistaken ; for they 
 had now so little a way to run, that, though she 
 skimmed along the plain like a bird, and exerted 
 all her strength, she was too late. Hippomenes 
 reached the goal before her : she was obliged to 
 own herself conquered, and to marry him, accord- 
 ing to the agreement. 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 183 
 
 ARION. 
 
 Arion was a poet of Lesbos,* who sung his 
 own verses to his harp. He had long been at 
 the court of Periander, tyrant of Corinth,f and 
 had acquired great riches, with which he was de- 
 sirous to return to his native country. He there- 
 fore made an agreement with a captain of a ship, 
 to carry him to Mitylene in Lesbos, and they set 
 sail. But the captain and crew, tempted by the 
 wealth which he had onboard, determined to seize 
 his gold, and throw him into the sea. When poor 
 Arion heard their cruel intention, he submitted to 
 his fate, for he knew he could not resist, and only 
 begged they would allow him to give them one 
 tune upon his harp, before he died. This they 
 compHed with ; and Arion, standing on the deck, 
 drew from his harp such melodious strains, accom- 
 panied with such moving verses, that any body 
 but these cruel sailors would have been touched 
 with them. When he had finished, they threw 
 him into the sea, where they supposed he was 
 swallowed up. But that was not the case ; for a 
 dolphin, which had been drawn towards the ship 
 
 •A large island in thevEgean Sea, now called Metelin. 
 Mitylene, mentioned in the New Testament, was one of the 
 chief cities of this island. — J. W. I. 
 
 t Corinth, (frequently mentioned in the New Testament, 
 and where St. Paul resided for a year and a half,) was a 
 celebrated city of Greece. Periander was its ruler. The 
 word tyrant did not formerly have the bad signification which 
 it now has ; but merely meant an absolute ruler. — J. W. I. 
 
184 ON THE CLASSICS. 
 
 by the sweetness of Arion's voice, swam to him, 
 took him gently upon his back, conveyed him 
 safely over the waves, and landed him at Tsena- 
 rus,* whence he returned to Periander. Perian- 
 der was very much surprised to see him come 
 again in such a forlorn and destitute condition, 
 and asked him the reason. Arion told his story. 
 Periander bade him conceal himself, till the sail- 
 ors should return from their voyage, and he 
 would do him justice. When the ship returned 
 from its voyage, Periander ordered the sailors to 
 be brought before him, and asked them what they 
 had done with Arion. They said, he had died 
 during the voyage, and that they had buried him. 
 Then Periander ordered Arion to appear before 
 them, in the clothes he wore, when they cast him 
 into the sea. At this plain proof of their guilt, 
 they were quite confounded, and Periander put 
 them all to death. It is said, further, that the 
 dolphin was taken up into the heavens, and turned 
 into a constellation. It is a small constellation, 
 of moderate brightness, and has four stars, in the 
 form of a rhombus. You will find it south of the 
 Swan, and a little west of the bright star Altair.f 
 
 * A promontory, or cape, of Laconia, a country on the south- 
 ern part of Greece, and forming the most southern point of 
 Europe. It is now called Cape Matapan. — J. W. I. 
 
 t The ancient astronomers arranged the stars into groups, 
 which are called constellations. To these constellations 
 they assigned names, according to their fancy, or from the ap- 
 pearance which they imagined the stars presented to the eye. 
 The twelve signs, or constellations, of the Zodiac, — the Ram, 
 the Bull, the Twins, &,c., are familiar to our readers ; and 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 185 
 
 VENUS AND ADONIS. 
 
 T-HE goddess Venus loved Adonis, a mortal. 
 Beautiful Venus loved the beautiful Adonis. She 
 often said to him, " O Adonis ! be content to He 
 crowned with flowers by the fresh fountains, and 
 to feed upon honey and nectar, and to be lulled 
 to sleep by the warbling of birds ; and do not 
 expose your life by hunting the tawny lion, or 
 the tusky boar, or any savage beast. Take care 
 of that life, which is so dear to Venus !" But 
 Adonis would not listen to her. He loved to rise 
 early in the morning, while the dew was upon the 
 grass, and to beat the thickets with his well-trained 
 hounds, whose ears swept the ground. With his 
 darts, he pierced the nimble fawns, and the kids 
 with budding horns, and brought home the spoil 
 upon his shoulders. But one day he wounded a 
 fierce, bristly boar ; the arrow stuck in his side, 
 and made the animal mad with pain : he rushed 
 upon Adonis, and gored his thigh with his sharp 
 tusks. Beautiful Adonis fell to the ground, like 
 a lily that is rooted up by a sudden storm : his 
 blood flowed, in crimson streams, down his fair 
 
 so, probably, are some of the other constellations, as the Great 
 Bear, and others. Those mentioned in the text, — the Dol- 
 phin and the Swan, — are not so well known. The star named 
 Altair, is a very brilliant, and, also, an important one ; being 
 one of those from which, in works on Astronomy, the distance 
 of the moon is calculated. It is situated in the constella- 
 tion Aquila, or the Eagle. — J. W. I. 
 
 16* 
 
166 ON THE CLASSICS. 
 
 side ; and his eyelids closed, and the shades of 
 death hovered over his pale brow. 
 
 In the mean time, the evening came on, and 
 Venus had prepared a garland of fresh leaves and 
 flowers, to bind around the glowing temples of 
 Adonis, when he should come, hot and tired, from 
 tlie chase, and a couch of rose-leaves, to rest his 
 weary limbs : and she said, "- Why does not 
 Adonis come ! Return Adonis ! let me hear the 
 sound of your feet ! let me hear the voice of your 
 dogs ! let them lick my hands, and make me un- 
 derstand that their master is approaching !" But 
 Adonis did not return ; and the dark night came, 
 and the rosy morning appeared again, and still he 
 did not come. Then Venus sought him in the 
 plains, and through the thickets, and amidst the 
 rough brakes ; and her veil was torn with the 
 thorns, and her feet bruised and bleeding with the 
 sharp pebbles ; for she ran, hither and thither, 
 like a distracted person. And at length, upon 
 the mountain, she found him whom she loved so 
 dearly ; but she found him cold and dead, with 
 his faithful dogs beside him. 
 
 Then Venus rent her beautiful tresses, and 
 beat her breast, and pierced the air with her loud 
 lamentations ; and the httle Cupids,* that accom- 
 
 * Cupid was said to be the son of the goddess Venus, and 
 was himself worshipped by the ancient heathens as the 
 god of love. There were two or three Cupids, who are also 
 called Loves, and they are usually represented as very beau- 
 tiful youths, (sometimes as infants,) with wings, and armed 
 with bows, and quivers full of arrows. Venus is generally 
 represented, in pictures, as accompanied by one or more 
 Cupids. — J. W. I. 
 
HYMN. 187 
 
 pany her, broke their ivory bows, for grief, and 
 scattered upon the ground the arrows of their gold- 
 en quivers : and they said, '' We mourn Adonis ; 
 Venus mourns for beautiful Adonis ; the Loves 
 mourn along with her. Beautiful Adonis hes dead 
 upon the ground, his side gored with the tooth of 
 a boar, — his white thigh with a white tooth. Ve- 
 nus kisses the cold hps of Adonis ; but Adonis 
 does not know that he is kissed, and she cannot 
 revive him with her warm breath." 
 
 Then Venus said, '■' You shall not quite die, my 
 Adonis ! I will change you into a flower." And 
 she shed nectar on the ground, which mixed with 
 the blood, and, presently, a crimson flower sprung 
 up, in the room of Adonis ; and also the river was 
 tinged with his blood, and became red. 
 
 And every year, on the day that Adonis died, 
 the nymphs mourned and lamented for him, and 
 ran up and down, shrieking, and crying, '' Beau- 
 tiful Adonis is dead." 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Lift up thyself, O mourning soul ! lift up thy- 
 self, raise thine eyes, that are wet with tears ! 
 
 Why are thine eyes wet with tears ? why are 
 they bent continually upon the earth ? and why 
 dost thou go mourning, as one forsaken of thy 
 God? 
 
188 HYMN. 
 
 O, thou ! that toilest ever, and restest not ! thou 
 that wishest ever, and art not satisfied ! thou that 
 carest ever, and art not estabhshed ! 
 
 Why dost thou toil and wish ? why is thine 
 heart withered with care, and thine eyes sunk with 
 watching ? 
 
 Rest quietly on thy couch, steep thine eyelids 
 in sleep, wrap thyself in sleep, as in a garment, — 
 for He careth for thee ! 
 
 He is with thee, He is about thee, He com- 
 passeth thee. He compasseth thee on every side. 
 
 The voice of thy Shepherd among the rocks ! 
 He calleth thee, He beareth thee tenderly, in His 
 arms ; He sufFereth thee not to stray. 
 
 Thy soul is precious in His sight, O child of 
 many hopes ! 
 
 For He careth for thee in the things which 
 perish, and He hath provided yet better things 
 than those. 
 
 Raise thyself, O beloved soul ! turn thine eyes 
 from care, and sin, and pain ; turn them to the 
 brightness of the heavens, and contemplate thine 
 inheritance ; for thy birthright is in the skies, and 
 thine inheritance amongst the stars of hght. 
 
 The herds of the pasture sicken and die, they 
 he down among the clods of the valley, the foot 
 passeth over them ; they are no more. But it is 
 not so with thee. 
 
 For the Almighty is the Father of thy spirit, 
 and He hath given thee a portion of His own im- 
 mortality. 
 
 Look around thee, and behold the earth, for it 
 
HYMN. 189 
 
 is the gift of thy Father to thee and to thy sons, 
 that they should possess it. 
 
 Out of the ground cometh forth food ; the hills 
 are covered with fresh shade ; and the animals, 
 thy subjects, sport among the trees. 
 
 Delight thyself in them, for they are good ; and 
 all that thou seest is thine. 
 
 But nothing that thou seest, is like unto thy- 
 self ; thou art not of them, nor shalt thou return 
 to them. 
 
 Thou hast a mighty void, which they cannot 
 fill ; thou hast an immortal hunger, which they 
 cannot satisfy. They cannot nourish, they cannot 
 support, they are not worthy that they should oc- 
 cupy thee. 
 
 iis the fire, which, while itresteth on the earth, 
 yet sendeth forth sparks continually towards heav- 
 en ; so do thou, from amidst the world, send up 
 fervent thoughts to God. 
 
 As the lark, though her nest is on the low 
 ground, as soon as she becometh fledged, poiseth 
 her wings, and, finding them strong to bear her 
 through the light air, springeth up aloft, singing as 
 she soars ; so let thy desires mount swiftly up- 
 wards, and thou shalt see the world beneath thy 
 feet. 
 
 And be not overwhelmed with many thoughts. 
 Heaven is thine, and God is thine ; thou shalt be 
 blessed with everlasting salvation and peace upon 
 thy head, for evermore. 
 
190 THE mouse's petition. 
 
 THE MOUSE'S PETITION.* 
 
 O ! HEAR a pensive prisoner's prayer, 
 
 For liberty that sighs ; 
 And never let thine heart be shut 
 
 Against the wretch's cries ! 
 
 For here, forlorn and sad, I sit, 
 
 Within the wiry grate ; 
 And tremble at the approaching morn. 
 
 Which brings impending fate. 
 
 If e'er thy breast with freedom glowed. 
 And spurned a tyrant's chain. 
 
 Let not thy strong, oppressive force 
 A freeborn mouse detain ! 
 
 O ! do not stain, with guiltless blood, 
 
 Thy hospitable hearth ! 
 Nor triumph, that thy wiles betrayed 
 
 A prize so httle worth. 
 
 The scattered gleanings of a feast 
 
 My frugal meals supply ; 
 But, if thine unrelenting heart 
 
 That slender boon deny, — 
 
 * Found in the trap, where he had been confined all night 
 by Dr. Priestley, for the sake of making experiments with dif- 
 ferent kinds of air. 
 
THE BABY-HOUSE. 191 
 
 The cheerful light, the vital air, 
 
 Are blessings widely given ; 
 Let Nature's commoners enjoy 
 
 The common gifts of Heaven. 
 
 The well-taught, philosophic mind 
 
 To all compassion gives ; 
 Casts round the world an equal eye, 
 
 And feels for all that lives. 
 
 If mind, — as ancient sages taught, — 
 
 A never-dying flame. 
 Still shifts through matter's varying forms. 
 
 In every form the same ; 
 
 Beware, lest in the worm you crush 
 
 A brother's soul you find ; 
 And tremble, lest thy luckless hand 
 
 Dislodge a kindred mind. 
 
 Or, if this transient gleam of day 
 
 Be all of life we share. 
 Let pity plead within thy breast, 
 
 That little all to spare. 
 
 THE BABY-HOUSE. 
 
 Dear Agatha, I give you joy, 
 And much admire your pretty toy, 
 A mansion, in itself complete, 
 And fitted to give guests a treat ; 
 
192 THE BABY-HOUSE. 
 
 • With couch and table, chest and chair, 
 The bed or supper to prepare ; 
 We ahnost wish to change ourselves 
 To fairy forms of tripping elves, 
 To press the velvet couch, and eat 
 From tiny cups the sugared meat. 
 I much suspect, that many a sprite 
 Inhabits it at dead of night ; 
 That, as they dance, the listening ear 
 The pat of fairy feet might hear ; 
 That, just as you have said your prayers. 
 They hurry-scurry* down the stairs ; 
 And you '11 do well, to try to find 
 Tester or ring they 've left behind. 
 
 But think not, Agatha, you own 
 That toy, a Baby-house, alone ; 
 For many a sumptuous one is found 
 To press an ampler space of ground. 
 The broad-based Pyramid,! that stands, 
 Casting its shade in distant lands. 
 Which asked some mighty nation's toil 
 With mountain-weight to press the soil, 
 
 * Confusedly, in a bustle, with noise and tumult. — 
 J. W. I. 
 
 t The Pyramids are very large structures in Egypt, erected 
 by the ancient Egyptians, many thousand years ago, and still 
 standing. The largest one is now nearly five hundred feet 
 high, above the sands by which it is surrounded, and about 
 seven hundred feet square, at the ground. The stones, of 
 which the pyramids are built, are very large, some of them 
 being four feet in thickness. — J- W. I. 
 
THE BABY-HOUSE. 193 
 
 And there has raised its head sublime 
 
 Through eras of uncounted time, — 
 
 Its use if asked, 't is only said, 
 
 A Baby-house to lodge the dead. 
 
 Not less, beneath more genial skies, 
 
 The domes of pomp and folly rise ; 
 
 Whose sun through diamond windows streams, 
 
 While gems and gold reflect his beams ; 
 
 Where tapestry clothes the storied wall. 
 
 And fountains spout and waters fall ; 
 
 The peasant faints beneath his load. 
 
 Nor tastes the grain his hands have sowed, 
 
 While scarce a nation's wealth avails 
 
 To raise thy Baby-house, Versailles.* 
 
 And Baby-houses oft appear 
 
 On British ground, of prince or peer ; 
 
 Awhile their stately heads they raise, 
 
 The admiring traveller stops to gaze ; 
 
 He looks again, — where are they now ? 
 
 Gone to the hammerf or the plough. 
 
 Then trees, the pride of ages, fall. 
 
 And naked stands the pictured wall ; 
 
 * Versailles was one of the most beautiful cities of France, 
 and was situated about ten miles from Paris. In a note on a 
 preceding page, (105,) mention is made of the magnificent 
 palace, built by Louis XIV., in this city. It has frequently 
 been called, " a splendid baby-house." — J. W. I. 
 
 t The hammer of the auctioneer. Many of these costly 
 houses, with their splendid furniture, pictures, statues, and 
 curiosities, are sold at auction, to those " who bid most," 
 for them. Some are, after a few years, pulled down and de- 
 stroyed, and the places where they stood are ploughed over, 
 and turned into fields or gardens. — J. W. I. 
 
 17 VI. 
 
194 A THOUGHT ON DEATH. 
 
 And treasured coins, from distant lands, 
 Must feel the touch of sordid hands ; 
 And gems, of classic stores the boast, 
 Fall to the cry of, — Who bids most ? 
 Then do not, Agatha, repine 
 That cheaper Baby-house is thine. 
 
 A THOUGHT ON DEATH. 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1814. 
 
 When life, as opening buds, is sweet, 
 And golden hopes the fancy greet. 
 And Youth prepares his joys to meet, — 
 Alas, how hard it is to die ! 
 
 When just is seized some valued prize, 
 And duties press, and tender ties 
 Forbid the soul from earth to rise, — 
 How awful then 'it is to die ! 
 
 When, one by one, those ties are torn. 
 And friend from friend is snatched, forlorn, 
 And man is left alone, to mourn, — 
 Ah then, how easy 'tis to die ! 
 
 When faith is firm, and conscience clear. 
 And words of peace the spirit cheer, 
 And visioned glories half appear, — 
 'T is joy, 'tis triumph, then to die. 
 
TO-MORROW. LINES, ETC. 195 
 
 When trembling limbs refuse their weight, 
 And films, slow gathering, dim the sight. 
 And clouds obscure the mental hght, — 
 'T is Nature's precious boon to die. 
 
 TO-MORROW. 
 
 See, where the falling day 
 
 In silence steals away, 
 Behind the western hills withdrawn ; 
 Her fires are quenched, her beauty fled. 
 While blushes all her face o'erspread, 
 As conscious she had ill fulfilled 
 
 The promise of the dawn. 
 
 Another morning soon shall rise, 
 Another day salute our eyes, 
 As smihng and as fair as she. 
 And make as many promises ; 
 
 But do not thou 
 
 The tale believe, , 
 
 They 're sisters all. 
 
 And all deceive. 
 
 LINES 
 
 PLACED OVER A CHIMNEY-PIECE. 
 
 Surly Winter ! come not here ; 
 Bluster in thy proper sphere ; 
 
196 AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 
 
 Howl along the naked plain, 
 
 There exert thy joyless reign ; 
 
 Triumph o'er the withered flower, 
 
 The leafless shrub, the ruined bower ; 
 
 But our cottage come not near ; 
 
 Other Springs inhabit here. 
 
 Other sunshine decks our board. 
 
 Than the niggard skies afford. 
 
 Gloomy Winter ! hence ! away ! 
 
 Love and Fancy scorn thy sway ; 
 
 Love, and Joy, and friendly Mirth, 
 
 Shall bless this roof, these walls, this hearth ; 
 
 The rigor of the year control, 
 
 And thaw the Winter in the soul. 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 
 
 God of my life ! and Author of my days ! 
 Permit my feeble voice to lisp Thy praise ; 
 And, trembling, take upon a mortal tongue 
 That hallowed name to harps of seraphs sung. 
 Yet here, the brightest seraphs could no more 
 Than veil their faces, tremble, and adore. 
 Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere, 
 Are equal all, — for all are nothing here. 
 All Nature faints beneath the mighty name, 
 Which Nature's works through all their parts pro- 
 claim. 
 I feel that name my inmost thoughts control, 
 And breathe an awful stillness through my soul ; 
 
AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 197 
 
 As by a charm, the waves of grief subside ; 
 Impetuous Passion stops her headlong tide ; 
 At Thy felt presence all emotions cease, 
 And my hushed spirit finds a sudden peace, 
 Till every worldly thought within me dies. 
 And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes ; 
 Till all my sense is lost in infinite. 
 And one vast object fills my aching sight. 
 
 But soon, alas ! this holy calm is broke ; 
 My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke ; 
 With shackled pinions strives to soar, in vain. 
 And mingles with the dross of earth again. 
 But He, our gracious Master, kind as just. 
 Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust. 
 His Spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind, 
 Sees the first wish to better hopes incHned ; 
 Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim, 
 And fans the smoking flax into a flame. 
 His ears are open to the softest cry. 
 His grace descends to meet the Hfted eye ; 
 He reads the language of a silent tear. 
 And sighs are incense from a heart sincere. 
 Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give ; 
 Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live : 
 From each terrestial bondage set me free ; 
 Still every wish that centres not in Thee ; 
 Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease ; 
 And point my path to everlasting peace. 
 
 If the soft hand of winning Pleasure leads 
 By living waters, and through flowery meads, 
 17* 
 
198 AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 
 
 When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene, 
 And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene, 
 
 ! teach me to elude each latent snare. 
 And whisper to my sliding heart, — Beware ! 
 With caution let me hear the siren's voice. 
 And, doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice. 
 
 If friendless, in a vale of tears I stray, 
 Where briars wound, and thorns perplex my way. 
 Still let my steady soul thy goodness see. 
 And, with strong confidence, lay hold on thee ; 
 With equal eye my various lot receive. 
 Resigned to die, or resolute to live ; 
 Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod. 
 While God is seen in all, and all in God. 
 
 1 read His awful name, emblazoned high, 
 With golden letters, on the illumined sky ; 
 Nor less the mystic characters I see 
 Wrought in each flower, inscribed in every tree ; 
 In every leaf that trembles to the breeze, 
 
 I hear the voice of God among the trees ; 
 With Thee, in shady sohtudes, I walk, 
 With Thee, in busy, crowded cities talk ; 
 In every creature, own Thy forming power. 
 In each event, Thy providence adore. 
 Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul. 
 Thy precepts guide me, and Thy fears control : 
 Thus shall I rest, unmoved by all alarms. 
 Secure within the temple of Thine arms ; 
 From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free, 
 And feel myself omnipotent in Thee. 
 
THE HILL OF SCIENCE. 199 
 
 Then when the last, the closmg hour draws nigh, 
 And earth recedes before my swimming eye ; 
 When, trembhng on the doubtful edge of fate, 
 I stand, and stretch my view to either state ; 
 Teach me to quit this transitory scene 
 With decent triumph, and a look serene ; 
 Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high. 
 And having lived to Thee, in Thee to die. 
 
 THE HILL OF SCIENCE. 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 In that season of the year, when the serenity 
 of the sky, the various fruits which cover the 
 ground, the discolored fohage of the trees, and 
 all the sweet but fading graces of inspiring Au- 
 tumn open the mind to benevolence, and dispose 
 it for contemplation, I was wandering in a beau- 
 tiful and romantic country, till curiosity began to 
 give way to weariness. I sat me down on the 
 fragment of a rock, overgrown with moss, where 
 the rustling of the faUing leaves, the dashing of 
 waters, and the hum of the distant city, soothed 
 my mind into the most perfect tranquillity ; and 
 sleep insensibly stole upon me, as I was indulging 
 the agreeable reveries, which the objects around 
 me naturally inspired. 
 
 I immediately found myself in a vast extended 
 plain, in the middle of which arose a mountain, 
 
200 THE HILL OFSCIENCE. 
 
 higher than I had before any conception of. It 
 was covered with a muhitude of people, chiefly 
 youth ; many of whom pressed forwards, with 
 the hvehest expression of ardor in their counte- 
 nance, 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 from the top : but, as as they proceeded, 
 new hills were continually 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 lose itself in the 
 clouds. As I was gazing on these things, with 
 astonishment, a good Genius* suddenly appeared. 
 " The mountain before thee," said he, " is the Hill 
 of Science. On the top is the temple of Truth, 
 whose head is above the clouds, and whose face is 
 covered with a veil of pure light. Observe the 
 progress of her votaries ; be silent, and attentive." 
 I saw, that the only regular approach to the 
 mountain was by a gate, called the gate of Lan- 
 guages. It was kept by a woman of a pensive 
 and thoughtful appearance, whose lips were con- 
 tinually moving, as though she repeated some- 
 thing to herself. Her name was Memory. On 
 entering this first enclosure, I was stunned with a 
 confused murmur of jarring voices and dissonant 
 sounds, which increased upon me to such a de- 
 gree, that I was utterly confounded, and could 
 compare the noise to nothing but the confusion of 
 
 * Genius, a fabled spirit or demon, believed by the ancients 
 to preside over a man's destiny through life. — J. W. I. 
 
THE HILL OF SCIENCE. 201 
 
 tongues at Babel. The road was also rough and 
 stony, and rendered more difficult, by heaps of 
 rubbish continually tumbled down from the high- 
 er parts of the mountain, and by broken ruins of 
 ancient- buildings, over which the travellers were 
 obliged to chmb, at almost every step, insomuch 
 that many, disgusted with so rough a beginning, 
 turned back, and attempted the mountain no more ; 
 while others, having conquered this difficulty, had 
 no spirits to ascend further ; and, sitting down on 
 some fragments of the rubbish, harangued the 
 multitude below, with the greatest marks of im- 
 portance and self-complacency. 
 
 About half way up the Hill, I observed, on 
 each side of the path, a thick forest, covered with 
 continual fogs, and cut out into labyrinths, cross- 
 alleys, and serpentine walks, entangled with thorns 
 and briers. This was called the wood of Error : 
 and I heard the voices of many, who were lost, 
 up and down in it, calling to one another, and en- 
 deavoring, in vain, to extricate themselves. The 
 trees, in many places, shot their boughs over the 
 path, and a thick mist often rested on it ; yet 
 never so much, but that it was discernable by 
 the light which beamed from the countenance of 
 Truth. 
 
 In the pleasantest part of the mountain were 
 placed the bowers of the Muses,* whose office 
 
 * The Muses were nine sisters, who were supposed, by 
 the ancients, to be divinities, and to preside over the liberal 
 arts and sciences. Their names were, Clio, the Muse of 
 History; Euterpe, the goddess of Music; Thalia, the Muse of 
 
202 THE HILL OF SCIENCE. 
 
 it was, to cheer the spirits of the travellers, and 
 encourage their fainting steps with songs from 
 their divine harps. Not far hence, were the fields 
 of Fiction, filled with a variety of wild flowers, 
 springing up in the greatest luxuriance, of richer 
 scents and brighter colors, than I had observed in 
 any other climate. And near them, was the dark 
 walk of Allegory, so artificially shaded, that the 
 light, at noonday, was never stronger than that of 
 a bright moonshine. This gave it a pleasingly 
 romantic air, for those who delighted in contem- 
 plation. The paths and alleys were perplexed 
 with intricate windings, and were all terminated 
 with the statue of a Grace,* a Virtue, f or a 
 Muse. 
 
 After I had observed these things, I turned my 
 eyes towards the multitudes, who were chmbing 
 the steep ascent, and observed, amongst them, 
 a youth of a lively look, a piercing eye, and some- 
 thing fiery and irregular in all his motions. His 
 name was Genius. He darted, like an eagle, up 
 the mountain, and left his companions gazing after 
 
 Comedy ; Melpomene, of Tragedy ; Terpsichore, of Dan- 
 cing ; Erato, of Lyric Poetry ; Polyhymnia, of Eloquence 
 and Mimicry ; Urania, of Astronomy ; and Calliope, of 
 Epic Poetry.— J. W. I. 
 
 * The Graces were three sisters, who were said to pre- 
 side over kindness and all good offices, and to render social 
 intercourse agreeable, by gayety and politeness. — J. W. I. 
 
 t All Virtues were made deities among the Romans. The 
 principal of them were. Prudence, Temperance, Justice, 
 Fortitude, Honesty, Modesty, Clemency, Devotion, Tran- 
 quillity, Health, Liberty, and Gayety. — J. W. L 
 
THE HILL OF SCIENCE. 203 
 
 him with envy and admiration ; but his progress 
 was unequal, and interrupted by a thousand ca- 
 prices. When Pleasure warbled in the valley, 
 he mingled in her train. When Pride beckoned 
 towards the precipice, he ventured to the totter- 
 ing edge. He delighted in devious and untried 
 paths ; and made so many excursions from the 
 road, that his feebler companions often outstripped 
 him. I observed, that the Muses beheld him 
 with partiality ; but Truth often frowned, and 
 turned aside her face. While Genius was thus 
 wasting his strength in eccentric flights, I saw a 
 person, of a very different appearance, named 
 Application. He crept along, with a slow and 
 unremitting pace, his eyes fixed on the top of 
 the mountain, patiently removing every stone that 
 obstructed his way, till he saw below him most 
 of those who had, at first, derided his slow and 
 toilsome progress. Indeed, there were few, who 
 ascended the Hill with equal and uninterrupt- 
 ed steadiness ; for, besides the difficulties of the 
 way, they were continually solicited to turn aside, 
 by a numerous crowd of Appetites, Passions, 
 and Pleasures, whose importunity, when they 
 had once complied with it, they became less and 
 less able to resist ; and, though they often re- 
 turned to the path, the asperities of the road were 
 more severely felt, the Hill appeared more steep 
 and rugged, the fruits, which were wholesome 
 and refreshing, seemed harsh and ill-tasted, their 
 sight grew dim, and their feet tripped, at every 
 little obstruction. 
 
204 THE HILL OF SCIENCE. 
 
 I saw, with some surprise, that the Muses, 
 whose business was to cheer and encourage those 
 who were toiling up the ascent, would 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, and always forsook them, when they lost 
 sight of the Hill. Their tyrants then doubled 
 their chains upon the unhappy captives, and led 
 them away, without resistance, to the cells of Ig- 
 norance, or the mansions of Misery. Amongst 
 the innumerable seducers, who were endeavoring 
 to draw away the votaries of Truth from the 
 path of Science, there was one, so little formida- 
 ble 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 imper- 
 ceptibly loaded with her chains. Indolence, (for 
 so she was called,) far from proceeding to open 
 hostihties, did not attempt to turn their feet out 
 of the path, but contented herself with retard- 
 ing their progress ; and the purpose she could not 
 force them to abandon, 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 unhappy 
 captives still turned their faces towards the tem- 
 ple, 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 that they had changed their place. 
 The placid serenity which, at first, appeared in 
 
THE HILL OF SCIENCE. 205 
 
 their countenance, changed, by degrees, into a 
 melancholy languor, which was tinged with deep- 
 er and deeper gloom, as they glided down the 
 stream of Insignificance, — a dark and sluggish 
 water' which is curled by no breeze, and enliven- 
 ed by no murmur, till it falls into a dead sea, 
 where the startled passengers are awakened by 
 the shock, and the next moment buried in the 
 gulf of Oblivion. 
 
 Of all the unhappy deserters from the paths of 
 Science, none seemed less able to return, than the 
 followers of Indolence. The captives of Appetite 
 and Passion could 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. 
 
 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 and other evergreens, and the 
 effulgence, which beamed from the face of the 
 goddess, seemed to shed a glory round her vota- 
 ries. "Happy," said I, "are they who are per- 
 mitted to ascend the mountain !" But, while I 
 was pronouncing this exclamation, with uncommon 
 ardor, I saw, standing beside me, a form of divi- 
 ner features and a more benign radiance. " Hap- 
 pier," said she, " are those whom Virtue conducts 
 to the mansions of Content !" " What," said I, 
 " does Virtue then reside in the vale ?" "I am 
 found," said she, " in the vale, and I illumine the 
 18 VI. 
 
206 LETTER OF A YOUNG KING. 
 
 mountain. I cheer the cottager at his toil, and 
 inspire the sage at his meditation. I mingle in 
 the crowd of cities, and bless the hermit in his 
 cell. I have a temple in every heart that owns 
 my influence ; and to him that wishes for me, I 
 am already present. Science may raise you to 
 eminence, but I, alone, can guide you to felicity!" 
 While the goddess was thus speaking, I stretched 
 out my arms towards her, with a vehemence which 
 broke my slumbers. The chill dews were falling 
 around me, and the shades of evening stretched 
 over the landscape. I hastened homeward, and 
 resigned the night to silence and meditation. 
 
 LETTER OF A YOUNG KING. 
 
 Madam, — Amidst the mutual compliments and 
 kind wishes, which are universally circulated at 
 this season, I hope mine will not be the least ac- 
 ceptable ; and I have thought proper to give you 
 this early assurance of my kind intentions towards 
 you, and the benefits I have in store for you : for, 
 though I am appointed your Sovereign ; though 
 your fate and fortune, your life and death, are at 
 my disposal ; yet I am fully sensible, that I was 
 created for my subjects, not my subjects for me ; 
 and that the end of my very existence is, to dif- 
 fuse blessings on my people. 
 
 My predecessor departed this life, last night, 
 precisely at twelve o'clock. He died of a univer- 
 
LETTER OF A YOUNG KING. 207 
 
 sal decay ; Nature was exhausted in him, and there 
 was not vital heat, sufficient to carry on the func- 
 tions of life ; his hair was fallen, and discovered 
 his smooth, white, bald head ; his voice was hoarse 
 and broken, and his blood froze in his veins : in 
 short, his time was come. And, to say truth, he 
 will not be much regretted ; for, of late, he had 
 been gloomy and vaporish, and the sudden gusts 
 of passion he had long been subject to, were 
 worked up into such storms, it was impossible to 
 Jive under him with comfort. 
 
 With regard to myself, I am sensible, the joy 
 expressed at my accession is sincere, and that no 
 young monarch has ever been welcomed, with 
 warmer demonstrations of aiFection. Some have 
 ardently longed for my coming, and all view my 
 approach with pleasure and cheerfulness ; yet, such 
 is the uncertainty of popular favor, that I well 
 know, that those who are most eager and sanguine 
 in expressing their joy, will soonest be tired of my 
 company. You, yourself, madam, though I know 
 that, at present, you regard me with kindness, as 
 one from whom you expect more happiness than 
 you have yet enjoyed, will, probably, after a short 
 time, wish as much to part with me, and transfer 
 the same fond hopes and wishes to my successor. 
 But, though your impatience may make me a very 
 troublesome companion, it will not in the least 
 hasten my departure ; nor can all the powers of 
 earth oblige me to resign, a moment before my 
 time. In order, therefore, that you may form 
 proper expectations concerning me, I shall give 
 
208 LETTER OF A YOUNG KING. 
 
 you a little sketch of my temper and manners. I 
 will acknowledge, that my aspect, at present, is 
 somewhat stern and rough ; but there is a latent 
 warmth in my temper, which you will perceive, 
 as we grow better acquainted, and I shall every 
 day put on a milder and more smiling look : indeed, 
 I have so much fire, that I may chance, sometimes, 
 to make the house too hot for you ; but, in recom- 
 pense for this inequality of temper, I am kind and 
 bountiful as a giving God. I come full-handed, 
 and my very business is, to dispense blessings, — 
 blessings of the basket and the store ; blessings of 
 the field and of the vineyard ; blessings for time 
 and for eternity. There is not an inhabitant of 
 the globe, who will not experience my bounty ; 
 yet, such is the ingratitude of mankind, that there 
 is scarcely one, whom I shall not leave, in some 
 degree, discontented. 
 
 Whimsical and various are the petitions which 
 are daily put up to me, from all parts ; and very 
 few of the petitioners will be satisfied ; because 
 they reject and despise the gifts I offer them with 
 open hand, and set their minds on others, which, 
 certainly, will not fall to their share. 
 
 The wishes of some are very moderate. Fanny 
 begs two inches of height, and Chloe, that I would 
 take away her awkward plumpness ; Carus a new 
 equipage, and Philida a new ball-dress. A mother 
 brought me her son the other day, made me many 
 compliments, and desired me to teach him every 
 thing ; at the same time, begging the youth to throw 
 away his marbles, which he had often promised to 
 
LETTER OF A YOUNG KING. 209 
 
 part with, as soon as he saw me. But the boy- 
 held them fast, and I shall teach him nothing but 
 to play at taw. Many ladies have come to me, 
 with their daughters in their hands, telHng me they 
 hope their girls, under me, will learn prudence ; 
 but the young ladies have as constantly desired me 
 to teach prudence to their grandmothers, whom 
 it would better become, and to bring them new 
 dances and new fashions. In short, I have scarce- 
 ly seen any one, with whom I am likely entirely to 
 agree, but a stout old farmer, who rents a small 
 cottage on the green. He was leaning on his 
 spade when I approached him. As his neighbor 
 told him I was coming, he welcomed me with a 
 cheerful countenance ; but, at the same time, blunt- 
 ly told me, he had not expected me so soon, being 
 too busy to pay much attention to my approach. 
 I asked him, if I could do anything for him. He 
 said, he did not beheve me better or worse than 
 those who had preceded me, and, therefore, should 
 not expect much from me ; that he was happy be- 
 fore he saw me, and should be very well contented 
 after I left him : he was glad to see me, however, 
 and only begged I would not take his wife from 
 him, a thin, withered old woman, who was eating 
 a mess of milk at the door. " And I shall be 
 glad, too," said he, " if you will fill my cellar with 
 potatoes." As he applied himself to his spade, 
 while he said these words, I shall certainly grant 
 'his request. 
 
 I shall now tell you, that great and extensive as 
 my power is, I shall possess it but a short time. 
 18* 
 
210 LETTER OF A YOUNG KING. 
 
 However the predictions of astrologers are now 
 laughed at, nothing is more certain, than what I am 
 going to tell you. A scheme of my nativity has 
 been cast by the most eminent astronomers, who 
 have found, on consulting the stars, and the aspect 
 of the heavenly bodies, that Capricornus* will be 
 fatal to me. I know that all the physicians in 
 the world cannot protract my life beyond that fatal 
 period. I do not tell you this to excite your sen- 
 sibility, — for I would have you meet me without 
 fondness, and part with me without regret, — but to 
 quicken you to lay hold on those advantages I am 
 able to procure you ; for it will be your own fault, 
 if you are not both wiser and better for my com- 
 pany. I have, likewise, another request to make 
 to you, — that you will write my epitaph. I may 
 make you happy, but it depends on you to make 
 me famous. If, after I am departed, you can say 
 my reign was distinguished by good actions and 
 wise conversations, and that I have left you hap- 
 pier than I found you, I shall not have lived in 
 vain. My sincere wishes are, that you may long 
 outlive me, but always remember me with pleas- 
 ure. I am, if you use me well, 
 
 Your friend and servant, 
 
 The New Year. 
 
 * The Goat, one of the signs of the Zodiac ; the sign for 
 December. — J. W. I. 
 
VERSES. 211 
 
 VERSES, 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE LEAVES OF AN IVORY POCKETBOOK, 
 PRESENTED TO MASTER x *****. 
 
 Accept, my dear, this toy ; and let me say 
 
 The leaves an emblem of your mind display ;— 
 
 Your youthful mind, uncolored, fair and white, 
 
 Like crystal leaves, transparent to the sight, 
 
 Fit each impression to receive, whate'er 
 
 The pencil of instruction traces there. 
 
 O ! then, transcribe into the shining page, 
 
 Each virtue, that adorns your tender age, 
 
 And grave, upon the tablet of your heart, 
 
 Each lofty science, and each useful art. 
 
 But, with the likeness, mark the difference well, 
 
 Nor think complete, the hasty parallel ; 
 
 The leaves, by Folly scrawled, or foul with stains, 
 
 A drop of water clears with little pains ; 
 
 But, from a blotted mind, the smallest trace, 
 
 Not seas of bitter tears can e'er efface ; 
 
 The spreading mark forever shall remain. 
 
 And rolling years but deepen every stain. 
 
 Once more, a difference let me still explain ;— 
 
 The vacant leaves forever will remain. 
 
 Till some officious hand the tablet fill 
 
 With sense or nonsense, prose or rhyme, at will. 
 
 Not so your mind, without your forming care, 
 
 Nature forbids an idle vacuum there : 
 
212 ON THE BIRTH OF A FRIEND's SON. 
 
 Folly will plant the tares, without your toil. 
 And weeds spring up in the neglected soil. 
 But why to you this moralizing strain ? 
 Vain is the precept and the caution vain, 
 To you, whose opening virtues bloom so fair, 
 And will reward the prudent planter's care ; 
 As some young tree, by generous juices fed, 
 Above its fellow^s lifts its branching head. 
 Whose proud, aspiring shoots incessant rise, 
 And every day grows nearer to the skies. 
 Yet, should kind Heaven your opening mind adorn, 
 And bless your noon of knowledge, as your morn ; 
 Yet, were your mind with every science blest. 
 And every virtue glowing in your breast, 
 With learning, meekness, and, with candor, zeal, 
 Clear to discern, and generous to feel, 
 Yet, should the Graces* o'er your breast diffuse 
 The softer influence of the polished muse, 
 ' Tis no original, the world can tell, 
 And all your praise is but to copy well. 
 
 ON THE BIRTH OF A FRIEND'S ELDEST 
 
 SON. 
 
 Welcome, little helpless stranger ; 
 
 Welcome to the light of day ; 
 Smile upon thy happy mother. 
 
 Smile, and chase her pains away. 
 
 * See note on page 202. — J. W. L 
 
ON THE BIRtH OF A FRIEND's SON. 213 
 
 Lift thine eyes, and look around thee ; 
 
 Various Nature courts thy sight, 
 Spreads for thee her flowery carpet ; 
 
 Earth was made for thy dehght. 
 
 Welcome to a mother's bosom ; 
 
 Welcome to a father's arms ; 
 Heir to all thy father's virtues, 
 
 Heir to all thy mother's charms. 
 
 Joy thou bring'st, but mixed with trouble ; 
 
 Anxious joys, and tender fears. 
 Pleasing hopes, and mingled sorrows, 
 
 Smiles of transport, dashed with tears. 
 
 Who can say, what lies before thee, 
 Calm or tempest, peace or strife ; 
 
 With what turns of various fortune 
 Fate shall mark thy checkered life. 
 
 Who can tell, what eager passions 
 
 In this little heart shall beat. 
 When ambition, love, or glory, 
 
 Shall invade this peaceful seat. 
 
 Who can tell, how wide the branches 
 
 Of this tender plant may spread. 
 While beneath its ample shadow 
 
 Swains may rest, and flocks be fed. 
 
 Angels guard thee, lovely blossom, 
 
 And avert each hovering ill ! 
 Crown thy parents' largest wishes, 
 
 And their fondest hopes fulfil. 
 
214 ON FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 A CHARACTER. 
 
 Be this Philander's praise, — a well-tuned mind, 
 Lofty as man, and, more than woman, kind ; 
 A virgin soul, which, spotless yet, and bright, 
 Keeps all the lustre of its native white. 
 Virtue, in him, from no cold precept flowed, 
 But, with a vigorous, genuine ardor glowed ; 
 So pure his feelings, and his sense so strong, 
 Seldom his head, his heart was never wrong ; 
 Gentle to others, to himself severe, 
 And mild from pity, only, not from fear. 
 Tender, yet firm, and prudent without art. 
 The sweetest manners, and the gentlest heart. 
 If, in so fair a mind, there reigned a fault, 
 'T was sensibility too finely wrought. 
 Too quickly roused, too exquisite for peace, 
 Too deeply thoughtful for unmingled ease. 
 His griefs were hke his joys, too far refined 
 To reach the dull, or touch the selfish mind : 
 Yet the pure sorrows that on virtue grow, 
 Taste of the sacred spring from which they flow. 
 
 ON FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Friendship is that warm, tender, lively at- 
 tachment, which takes place between persons, in 
 
ON FRIENDSHIP. 215 
 
 whom a similarity of tastes and manners, joined 
 to frequent intercourse, has produced an habitual 
 fondness for each other. It is not among our du- 
 ties, for it does not flow from any of the necessary 
 relations of society ; but it has its duties, when 
 voluntarily entered into. In its highest perfection, 
 it can only, I believe, subsist between two ; for 
 that unlimited confidence and perfect conformity 
 of inclinations, which it requires, cannot well be 
 found in a larger number : besides, one such 
 friendship fills the heart, and leaves no want or 
 desire after another. 
 
 Friendship, where it is quite sincere and affec- 
 tionate, free from affectation or interested views, 
 is one of the greatest blessings of life. It doubles 
 our joys, and it lessens our sorrows, when we 
 are able to pour both into the bosom of one, who 
 takes the tenderest part in all our interests, who is 
 to us as another self. We love to communicate 
 all our feelings ; and it is in the highest degree 
 grateful, where we can do it to one, who will en- 
 ter into them all ; who takes an interest in every 
 thing that befalls us ; before whom we can freely 
 indulge even our httle weaknesses and foibles, and 
 show our minds, as it were, undrest ; who will 
 take part in all our schemes, advise us in any 
 emergency ; who rejoices in our company, and 
 who, we are sure, thinks of us in our absence. 
 
 With regard to the choice of friends, there is 
 Httle to say ; for a friend was never chosen. A 
 secret sympathy, the attraction of a thousand 
 nameless qualities, a charm in the expression of 
 
216 ON FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 the countenance, even in the voice or the man- 
 ner, a similarity of circumstances, — these are the 
 things that begin attachment, which is fostered, by 
 being in a situation which gives occasion for fre- 
 quent intercourse ; and this depends upon chance. 
 Reason and prudence have, however, much to 
 do, in restraining our choice of improper or dan- 
 gerous friends. They are improper, if our line 
 of life and pursuits are so totally different, as to 
 make it improbable we shall long keep up an inti- 
 macy, at least, without sacrificing to it connexions 
 of duty ; they are dangerous, if they are, in any 
 respect, vicious. 
 
 It has been made a question, whether friendship 
 can subsist amongst the vicious. If by vicious, 
 be meant those who are void of the social, gener- 
 ous, and affectionate feelings, it is most certain it 
 cannot ; because these make the very essence of 
 it. But it is very possible for persons to possess 
 fine feelings, without that steady principle, which 
 alone constitutes virtue ; and it does not appear, 
 why such may not feel a real friendship. It will 
 not, indeed, be so likely to be lasting, and is often 
 succeeded by bitter enmities. 
 
 The duties of friendship are, first, sincere and 
 disinterested affection. This seems self-evident ; 
 and yet, there are many who pretend to love their , 
 friends, when, at the same time, they only take 
 delight in them, as we delight in a fine voice, or a 
 good picture. If you love your friend, you will 
 love him when his powers of pleasing and enter- 
 taining you have given way to malady or depres- 
 
ON FRIENDSHIP. 217 
 
 sion of spirits ; you will study his interest and 
 satisfaction, you will be ready to resign his com- 
 pany, to promote his advantageous settlement at 
 a distant residence, to favor his connexion with 
 other iriends ; — these are the tests of true affec- 
 tion. Without such a disposition, you may enjoy 
 your friend, but you do not love him. 
 
 Next, friendship requires pure sincerity, and 
 the most unreserved confidence. Sincerity, every 
 man has a right to expect from us, but every man 
 has not a right to our confidence. This is the 
 sacred and peculiar privilege of friendship ; and 
 so essential is it, to the very idea of this connexion, 
 that, even to serve a friend, without giving him our 
 confidence, is but going half way ; it may com- 
 mand gratitude, but will not produce love. Above 
 all things, the general tenor of our thoughts and 
 feelings must be shown to our friends, exactly as 
 they are ; without any of those glosses, colorings, 
 and disguises, which we put on, in our commerce 
 with the world. 
 
 Another duty, resulting from this confidence, 
 is inviolable secrecy in what has been intrusted to 
 us. To every one, indeed, we owe secrecy, in 
 what we are formally intrusted with ; but, with 
 regard to a friend, this extends to the concealing 
 every thing, which, in the fulness of his heart, and 
 in the freedom of unguarded conversation, he has 
 let drop, if you have the least idea it may, in any 
 manner, injure or offend him. In short, you are 
 to consider yourself as always, to him, under an 
 implied promise of secrecy ; and, should even the 
 19 VI. 
 
218 ON FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 friendship dissolve, it would be, in the highest 
 degree, ungenerous, to consider this obligation as 
 dissolved with it. 
 
 In the next place, a friend has a right to our 
 best advice, on every emergency ; and this, even 
 though we run the risk of offending him by our 
 frankness. Friends should consider themselves 
 as the sacred guardians of each other's virtue ; 
 and the noblest testimony, they can give of their 
 affection, is the correction of the faults of those 
 they love. But this generous solicitude must be 
 distinguished from a teasing, captious, or too offi- 
 cious, notice of all the little defects and frailties 
 which their close intercourse with each other 
 brings continually into view. These must be 
 overlooked, or borne with ; for, as we are not 
 perfect ourselves, we have no right to expect our 
 friends should be so. 
 
 Friends are most easily acquired in youth ; but 
 they are, likewise, most easily lost. The petulance 
 and impetuosity of that age, the eager competitions 
 and rivalships of an active life, and, more espe- 
 cially, the various changes in rank and fortune, 
 connexions, party opinions, or local situation, 
 burst asunder, or silently untwist, the far greater 
 part of those friendships, which, in the warmth of 
 youthful attachment, we had fondly promised our- 
 selves should be indissoluble. 
 
 Happy is he, to whom, in the maturer season 
 of life, there remains one tried and constant friend. 
 Their affection, mellowed by the hand of time, 
 endeared by the recollection of enjoyments, toils. 
 
\ ON FRIENDSHIP. 219 
 
 and even siifterings shared together, becomes the 
 bahn, the consolation, and the treasure of life. 
 Such a friendship is inestimable, and should be 
 preserved with the utmost care ; for it is utterly 
 impossible for any art ever to transfer to another, 
 the effect of all those accumulated associations, 
 which endear to us the friend of our early years. 
 
 These considerations should likewise induce us 
 to show a tender indulgence to our friends, even 
 for those faults, which most sensibly wound the 
 feeling heart, — a growing coldness and indiffer- 
 ence. These may be brought on by many cir- 
 cumstances, which do not imply a bad heart ; 
 and, provided we do not, by bitter complaints and 
 an open rupture, preclude the possibility of a re- 
 turn, in a more favorable conjuncture, the friend- 
 ships of our youth may knit again, and be cul- 
 tivated with more genuine tenderness than ever. 
 
 I must here take occasion to observe, that 
 there is nothing, young people ought to guard 
 against with more care, than a parade of feel- 
 ing, and a profusion of exaggerated protestations. 
 These may sometimes proceed from the amiable 
 warmth of a youthful heart ; but they much oft- 
 ener flow from the affectation of sentiment, which 
 is both contemptible and morally wrong. 
 
 All that has been said of the duties or of the 
 pleasures of friendship, in its most exalted sense, 
 is applicable, in a proportionate degree, to every 
 connexion, in which there exists any portion of 
 this generous affection. So far as it does exist, 
 in the various relations of hfe, so far it renders 
 
220 CONFIDENCE AND MODESTY. 
 
 them interesting and valuable ; and, were the ca- 
 pacity for it taken away from the human heart, it 
 would find a dreary void, and starve, amidst all 
 the means of enjoyment the world could pour out 
 before it. 
 
 CONFIDENCE AND MODESTY. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 When the gods, knowing it to be for the ben- 
 efit of mortals, that the few should lead, and that 
 the many should follow, sent down, into this low- 
 er world, Ignorance and Wisdom, they decreed 
 to each of them an attendant and guide, to conduct 
 their steps, and facilitate their introduction. To 
 Wisdom, they gave Confidence, and Ignorance 
 they placed under the guidance of Modesty. Thus 
 paired, the parties travelled about the world, for 
 some time, with mutual satisfaction. 
 
 Wisdom, whose eye was clear and piercing, 
 and commanded a long reach of country, followed 
 her conductor with pleasure and alacrity. She 
 saw the windings of the road, at a great distance ; 
 her foot was firm, her ardor was unbroken, and 
 she ascended the hill, or traversed the plain, with 
 speed and safety. 
 
 Ignorance, on the other hand, was short-sight- 
 ed and timid. When she came to a spot where 
 the road branched out in different directions, or 
 
CONFIDENCE AND MODESTY. 221 
 
 was obliged to pick her way through the obscurity 
 of the tangled thicket, she was frequently at a loss, 
 and was accustomed to stop, till some one ap- 
 peared, to give her the necessary information, 
 which" the interesting countenance of her compan- 
 ion seldom failed to procure her. 
 
 Wisdom, in the mean time, led by a natural 
 instinct, advanced towards the temple of Science 
 and Eternal Truth. For some time, the way lay 
 plain before her, and she followed her guide, with 
 unhesitating steps ; but she had not proceeded 
 far, before the paths grew intricate and entangled ; 
 the meeting branches of the trees spread darkness 
 over her head, and steep mountains barred her 
 way, whose summits, lost in clouds, ascended be- 
 yond the reach of mortal vision. At every new 
 turn of the road, her guide urged her to proceed ; 
 but, after advancing a little way, she was often 
 obliged to measure back her steps, and often found 
 herself involved in the mazes of a labyrinth, which, 
 after exercising her patience and her strength, 
 ended but where it began. 
 
 In the mean time. Ignorance, who was natu- 
 rally impatient, could but ill bear the continual 
 doubts and hesitation of her companion. She 
 hated dehberation, and could not submit to delay. 
 At length, it so happened, that she found herself 
 on a spot, where three w^ays met, and no indica- 
 tion was to be found, which might direct her to 
 the right road. Modesty advised her to wait ; 
 and she had waited till her patience was exhaust- 
 ed. At that moment, Confidence, who was in 
 19* 
 
222 THE OAK. 
 
 disgrace with Wisdom, for some false steps he 
 had led her into, and who had just been discarded 
 from her presence, came up, and offered himself 
 to be her guide. He was accepted. Under his 
 auspices. Ignorance, naturally swift of foot, and 
 who could, at any time, have outrun Wisdom, 
 boldly pressed forward, pleased and satisfied with 
 her new companion. He knocked at every door, 
 visited castle and convent, and introduced his 
 charge to many a society, whence Wisdom found 
 herself excluded. 
 
 Modesty, in the mean time, finding she could 
 be of no further use to her charge, offered her 
 services to Wisdom. They were mutually pleased 
 with each other, and soon agreed never to sepa- 
 rate. And, ever since that time. Ignorance has 
 been led by Confidence, and Modesty has been 
 found in the society of Wisdom. 
 
 THE OAK. 
 
 Look at that spreading Oak, the pride of the 
 village green 1 its trunk is massy, its branches are 
 strong. Its roots, like crooked fangs, strike deep 
 into the soil, and support its huge bulk. The 
 birds build among the boughs ; the cattle repose 
 beneath its shade ; the neighbors form groups be- 
 neath the shelter of its green canopy. The old 
 men point it out to their children, but they them- 
 selves remember not its growth : generations of 
 
THE OAK. 223 
 
 men, one after another, have beeaborn, and died, 
 and this son of the forest has remained the same, 
 defying the storms of two hundred Winters. 
 
 Yet this large tree was once a Httle acorn ; 
 smalHn size, insignificant in appearance ; such as 
 you are now picking up upon the grass beneath it. 
 Such an acorn, whose cup can only contain a 
 drop or two of dew, contained the whole Oak. 
 All its massy trunk, all its knotty branches, all its 
 multitude of leaves, were in that acorn ; it grew, 
 it spread, it unfolded itself, by degrees, it received 
 nourishment from the rain, and the dews, and the 
 well-adapted soil, but it was all there. Rain, and 
 dews, and soil, could not raise an Oak, without 
 the acorn ; nor could they make the acorn any 
 thing but an Oak. 
 
 The mind of a child is hke the acorn ; its pow- 
 ers are folded up, they do not yet appear, but they 
 are all there. The memory, the judgement, the 
 invention, the feeling of right and wrong, are all 
 in the mind of a child ; of a little infant just born ; 
 but they are not expanded, you cannot perceive 
 them. 
 
 Think of the wisest man you ever knew or 
 heard of ; think of the greatest man ; think of the 
 most learned man, who speaks a number of lan- 
 guages, and can find out hidden things ; think of 
 a man who stands like that tree, sheltering and 
 protecting a number of his fellow-men, and then 
 say to yourself, the mind of that man was once 
 like mine ; his thoughts were childish, hke my 
 thoughts, nay, he was Hke the babe just born, 
 
224 THE OAK. 
 
 which knows nothing, remembers nothing, which 
 cannot distinguish good from evil, nor truth from 
 falsehood. 
 
 If you had only seen an acorn, you could never 
 guess at the form and size of an Oak : if you had 
 never conversed with a wise man, you could form 
 no idea of him, from the mute and helpless infant. 
 
 Instruction is the food of the mind ; it is like 
 the dew, and the rain, and the rich soil. As the 
 soil, and the rain, and the dew, cause the tree to 
 swell and put forth its tender shoots, so do books, 
 and study, and discourse, feed the mind, and make 
 it unfold its hidden powers. 
 
 Reverence, therefore, your own mind ; receive 
 the nurture of instruction, that the man within you 
 may grow and flourish. You cannot guess how 
 excellent he may become. 
 
 It was long, before this Oak showed its great- 
 ness ; years passed away, and it had only shot a 
 little way above the ground. A child might have 
 plucked it up with his little hands ; it was long 
 before any one called it a tree ; and it is long, be- 
 fore the child becomes a man. 
 
 The acorn might have perished in the ground, 
 the young tree might have been shorn of its grace- 
 ful boughs, the twig might have bent, and the tree 
 would have been crooked ; but, if it grew at all, 
 it could have been nothing but an Oak ; it would 
 not have been grass or flowers, which live their 
 season, and then perish from the face of the earth. 
 
 The child may be a foohsh man ; he may be a 
 wicked man ; but he must be a man. His nature is 
 
EVExMNG. 225 
 
 not that of any inferior creature, his soul is not 
 akin to the beasts which perish. 
 
 O, cherish, then, this precious mind, feed it 
 with truth, nourish it with knowledge ; it comes 
 from God, it is made in his image. The Oak will 
 last for centuries of years ; but the mind of man is 
 made for immortahty. 
 
 Respect, in the infant, the future man. Des- 
 troy not, in the man, the rudiments of an angel. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 The golden orb of the sun is sunk behind the 
 hills, the colors fade away from the western sky, 
 and the shades of Evening fall fast around me. 
 
 Deeper and deeper, they stretch over the plain. 
 I look at the grass, it is no longer green ; the 
 flowers are no more tinted with various hues ; the 
 houses, the trees, the cattle, are all lost in the dis- 
 tance. The dark curtain of night is let down 
 over the works of God ; they are blotted out from 
 the view^, as if they were no longer there. 
 
 Child of little observation ! canst thou see noth- 
 ing, because thou canst not see grass, and flow- 
 ers, trees, and cattle ? Lift up thine eyes from 
 the ground shaded with darkness, to the heavens 
 that are stretched over thy head ; see how the 
 stars, one by one, appear, and light up the vast 
 concave. 
 
 There, is the moon, bending her bright horns 
 
226 EVEIS'I.XG. 
 
 like a silver bow, and shedding her mild light, 
 like liquid silver, over die blue firmament. 
 
 There, is Venus, the evening and the morning 
 star ; and the Pleiades, and the Bear that never 
 sets, and the Polestar that guides the mariner over 
 the deep. 
 
 Now the mantle of darkness is over the earth ; 
 the last little gleam of twilight is faded away ; the 
 lights are extinguished in the cottage-windows ; 
 but the firmament burns with innumerable fires ; 
 every little star twinkles in its place. If you be- 
 gin to count them, they are more than you can 
 number ; they are like the sands of the seashore. 
 
 The telescope shows you many more; and there 
 are thousands and ten thousands of stars, which 
 no telescope has ever reached. 
 
 Now, Orion heaves his bright shoulder above 
 the horizon, and Sirius, the dog-star, follows him, 
 the brightest of the train. 
 
 Look at the Milky- Way, it is a field of bright- 
 ness : its pale light is composed of myriads of 
 burning suns. 
 
 All these, are God's families. He gives the sun 
 to shine with a ray of his own glory ; he marks 
 the path of the planets, he guides their wanderings 
 through the sky, and traces out their orbit with 
 the finger of his power. 
 
 If you were to travel as swift as an arrow from 
 a bow, and to travel on, further and further still, 
 for millions of years, you would not be out of the 
 creation of God. 
 
 New suns, in the depth of space, would still be 
 
EVENING. 227 
 
 burning round you, and other planets fulfilling 
 their appointed course. 
 
 Lift up thine eyes, child of earth ! for God has 
 given thee a glimpse of heaven. 
 
 TheT light of one sun is withdrawn, that thou 
 mayest see ten thousand. Darkness is spread 
 over the earth, that thou mayest behold, at a dis- 
 tance, the regions of eternal day. 
 
 This earth has a variety of inhabitants ; the sea, 
 the air, the surface of the ground, swarm with 
 creatures of different natures, sizes, and powers. 
 To know a very little of them, is to be wise among 
 the sons of men. 
 
 What, then, thinkest thou, are the various forms, 
 and natures, and senses, and occupations, of the 
 peopled universe ? 
 
 Who can tell the birth and generation of so 
 many worlds ? who can relate their histories ? 
 who can describe their inhabitants ? 
 
 Canst thou measure infinity with a line ? canst 
 thou grasp the circle of infinite space ? 
 
 Yet, these all depend upon God ; they hang 
 upon Him, as a child upon the breast of its moth- 
 er ; He tempereth the heat to the inhabitant of 
 Mercury ; He provideth resources against the 
 cold, in the frozen orb of Saturn. Doubt not, 
 that he provideth for all beings that he has made. 
 
 Look at the moon, when it walketh in bright- 
 ness ; gaze at the stars, when they are marshalled 
 in the firmament ; and adore the Maker of so many 
 worlds. 
 
223 WINTER. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 It is now Winter, dread Winter. Desolation 
 and silence reign in the fields ; no singing of birds 
 is heard, no humming of insects. The streams 
 murmur no longer ; they are locked up in frost. 
 
 The trees lift their naked boughs, like withered 
 arms, into the bleak sky ; the green sap no longer 
 rises in their veins ; the flowers, and the sweet- 
 smelling shrubs, are decayed to their roots. 
 
 The sun himself looks cold and cheerless ; he 
 gives light only enough to show the universal des- 
 olation. 
 
 Nature, child of God, mourns for her children ! 
 A little while ago, and she rejoiced in her off- 
 spring ; the rose shed its perfume upon the gale ; 
 the vine gave its fruit ; her children were spring- 
 ing and blooming around her, on every lawn, and 
 every green bank, 
 r O Nature, beautiful Nature, beloved child of 
 ' God, why dost thou sit mourning and desolate ? 
 Has thy Father forsaken thee, has He left thee to 
 perish ? Art thou no longer the object of His 
 care ? 
 
 He has not forsaken thee, O Nature ; thou art 
 His beloved child, the eternal image of His per- 
 fections ; His own beauty is spread over thee, the 
 light of His countenance is shed upon thee. 
 
 Thy children shall live again, they shall spring 
 
ON PLANTS. 229 
 
 up and bloom around thee ; the rose shall again 
 breathe its sweetness on the soft air, and, from the 
 bosom of the ground, verdure shall spring forth. 
 
 And dost thou not mourn, O Nature, for thy 
 human-births ; for thy sons and thy daughters that 
 sleep under the sod ; and shall they not also re- 
 vive ? Shall the rose and the myrtle bloom anew, 
 and shall man perish ? Shall goodness sleep in 
 the ground, and the light of wisdom be quenched 
 in the dust, and shall tears be shed over them in 
 vain ? 
 
 They also shall live ; their Winter shall pass 
 away ; they shall bloom again. The tears of thy 
 children shall be dried up, when the eternal year 
 proceeds. O ! may that eternal year come ! 
 
 ON PLANTS. 
 
 Plants staad next to animals, in the scale of 
 existence. They are, like them, organized bodies ; 
 like them, increase by nutrition, which is convey- 
 ed through a system of tubes and fine vessels, and 
 assimilated to their substance ; like them, they 
 propagate their race from a parent, and each seed 
 produces its own plant ; like them, they grow, by 
 insensible degrees, from an infant state to full 
 vigor, and, after a certain term of maturity, decay 
 and die. In short, except the powers of speech 
 and locomotion, they seem to possess every char- 
 acteristic of sentient life. 
 
 20 VI. 
 
230 ON PLANTS. 
 
 A plant consists of a root, a stem, leaves, and 
 a flower, or blossom. 
 
 The root is bulbous, as the onion ; long, like 
 the parsnip or carrot ; or branched out into threads, 
 as the greater number are, and particularly all the 
 large ones. A bulbous root could not support a 
 large tree. 
 
 The stem is single or branched, clinging for 
 support or upright, clothed with a skin or bark. 
 
 The flower contains the principle of reproduc- 
 tion, as the root does of individuality. This is 
 the most precious part of the plant, to which ev- 
 ery thing contributes. The root nourishes it, the 
 stem supports, the leaves defend and shelter it ; it 
 comes forth, but when Nature has prepared for it, 
 by showers, and sun, and gentle, soothing warmth ; 
 color, beauty, scent, adorn it ; and, when it is 
 complete, the end of the plant's existence is an- 
 swered. It fades and dies ; or, if capable, by its 
 perennial nature, of repeating the process, it hides, 
 in its inmost folds, the precious germ of new being, 
 and itself almost retires from existence, till a new 
 year. 
 
 A tree is one of the most stately and beauti- 
 ful objects in God's visible creation. It does not 
 admit of an exact definition, but is distinguished 
 from the humbler plant, by its size, the strength of 
 its stem, which becomes a trunk, and the com- 
 parative smallness of the blossom. In the fruit 
 trees, indeed, the number of blossoms compensates 
 for their want of size ; but, in the forest trees, 
 the flower is scarcelv visible. Production seems 
 
ON PLANTS. 231 
 
 not to be so important a process, where the pa- 
 rent tree lives for centuries. 
 
 Every part of vegetables is useful. Of many, 
 the roots are edible, and the seeds are generally 
 so ; of Tnanyj the leaves, as of the cabbage and 
 spinach ; the buds, as of the asparagus and cauli- 
 flower. The bark is often employed medicin- 
 ally, as the quinquina and cinnamon. 
 
 The trunk of a tree determines the manner of 
 its growth, and gives firmness : the fohage serves 
 to form one mass of a number of trees ; while the 
 distinct lines are partly seen, partly hidden. The 
 leaves throw over the branches a rich mantle, hke 
 flowing tresses ; they wave in the wind, with an 
 undulatory motion, catch the glow of the evening 
 sun, or glitter with the rain ; they shelter innu- 
 merable birds and animals, and afford variety in 
 colors, from the bright green of Spring to the 
 varied tints of Autumn. In Winter, however, 
 the form of each tree, and its elegant ramifica- 
 tions, are discerned, which w^ere lost under the 
 flowing robe of verdure. 
 
 Trees are beautiful, in all combinations ; the 
 single tree is so ; the clump, the grove, rising 
 like an amphitheatre ; the flowing hne, that marks 
 the skirts of wood, and the dark, deep, boundless 
 shade of the forest ; the green line of the hedge- 
 row, the more artificial avenue, the gothic arch 
 of verdure, the tangled thicket. 
 
 Young trees are distinguished by beauty ; in 
 maturity, their characteristic is strength. The 
 ruin of a tree is venerable, even when fallen ; we 
 
232 ON PLANTS. 
 
 are then more sensible of its towering height ; we 
 also observe the root, the deep fangs which held 
 it against so many storms, and the firmness of the 
 wood ; a sentiment of pity mixes, too, with our 
 admiration. The trees in groves and woods shed 
 a brown, religious horror, which favored the re- 
 ligion of the ancient world. Trees shelter from 
 cutting winds and sea air ; they preserve moisture ; 
 but, if too many, in their thick and heavy mass 
 lazy vapors stagnate ; their profuse perspiration is 
 unwholesome ; they shut out the golden sun and 
 ventilating breeze. 
 
 It would seem, as if the number of trees must 
 have been diminishing, for ages ; for, in no culti- 
 vated country, does the growth of trees equal the 
 waste of them. A few gentlemen raise planta- 
 tions, but many more cut down ; and the farmer 
 thinks not of so lofty a thing, as the growth of 
 ages. Trees are too lofty to want the hand of man . 
 The florist may mingle his tulips, and spread the 
 paper ruff on his carnations ; he may trim his 
 mount of roses, and his laurel hedge ; but the 
 lofty growth of trees soars far above him. If he 
 presumes to fashion them with his shears, and 
 trim them into fanciful or mathematical shapes, 
 offended taste will mock all his improvements. 
 Even in planting, he can do little. He may suc- 
 ceed in fancying a clump, or laying out an avenue, 
 and may, perhaps, gently incline the boughs to 
 form the arch ; but a forest was never planted. 
 
Canute's reproof to his courtiers. 233 
 
 CANUTE'S REPROOF TO HIS COURTIERS. 
 
 PERSONS. 
 
 Canute^ . .... King of England. 
 
 Oswaldy Qffa, .... Courtiers. 
 
 Scene — The Seaside, near Southampton, — J'he tide 
 coming in. 
 
 Canute. Is it true, my friends, what you have 
 so often told me, that I am the greatest of mon- 
 archs .'' 
 
 Offa. It is true, my Hege ; you are the most 
 powerful of all kings. 
 
 Oswald. We are all your slaves ; we kiss the 
 dust of your feet. 
 
 Offa. Not only we, but even the elements, 
 are your slaves. The land obeys you, from shore 
 to shore ; and the sea obeys you. 
 
 Canute. Does the sea, with its loud, boister- 
 ous waves, obey me ^ Will that terrible element 
 be still at my bidding .'' 
 
 Offa, Yes, the sea is yours ; it was made to 
 bear your ships upon its bosom, and to pour the 
 treasures of the world at your royal feet. It is 
 boisterous to your enemies ; but it knows you to 
 be its Sovereign. 
 
 Canute. Is not the tide coming up } 
 
 Oswald. Yes, my liege ; you may perceive 
 the swell already. 
 
 20* 
 
234 Canute's reproof to his courtiers. 
 
 Canute. Bring me a chair, then ; set it here, 
 upon the sands. 
 
 Offa. Where the tide is coming up, my gra- 
 cious lord ^ 
 
 Canute. Yes, set it just here. 
 
 Oswald J (aside.) I wonder what he is going 
 to do. 
 
 Offa, (aside.) Surely he is not such a fool as 
 to believe us ? 
 
 Canute. O mighty Ocean ! thou art my sub- 
 ject ; my courtiers tell me so ; and it is thy 
 bounden duty to obey me. Thus, then, I stretch 
 my sceptre over thee, and command thee to re- 
 tire. Roll back thy swelling waves, nor let them 
 presume to wet the feet of me, thy royal master. 
 
 Oswald^ (aside.) I beheve the sea will pay 
 very little regard to his royal commands. 
 
 Offa. See, how fast the tide rises ! 
 
 Oswald. The next wave will come up to the 
 chair. It is a folly to stay ; we shall be covered 
 with salt water. 
 
 Canute. Well, does the sea obey my com- 
 mands ? If it be my subject, it is a very rebel- 
 lious subject. See, how it swells, and dashes the 
 angry foam and salt spray over my sacred person. 
 Vile sycophants ! did you think I was the dupe 
 of your base lies ? that I believed your abject 
 flatteries ? Know, there is only one Being whom 
 the sea will obey. He is Sovereign of heaven 
 and earth. King of kings, and Lord of lords. It 
 is only He, who can say to the ocean, " Thus far 
 shalt thou go, but no further ; and here shall thy 
 
HYMN. 235 
 
 proud waves be stayed." A king is but a man ; 
 and a man is but a worm. Shall a worm assume 
 the power of the great God, and think the ele- 
 ments will obey him ? Take away this crown, I 
 will fiever wear it more. May kings learn to be 
 humble from my example, and courtiers learn 
 truth from your disgrace ! 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Come, and I will show you what is beautiful. 
 It is a rose, fully blown. See, how she sits upon 
 her mossy stem, like the queen of all the flowers ! 
 Her leaves glow like fire ; the air is filled with 
 her sweet odor ; she is the delight of every eye. 
 
 She is beautiful ; but there is a fairer than she. 
 He that made the rose, is more beautiful than the 
 rose ; He is all lovely ; He is the dehght of every 
 heart. 
 
 I will show you what is strong. The lion is 
 strong ; when he raiseth up himself from his lair, 
 when he shaketh his mane, when the voice of his 
 roaring is heard, the catde of the field fly, and the 
 wild beasts of the desert hide themselves, for he is 
 very terrible. 
 
 The lion is strong ; but He that made the lion 
 is stronger than he. His anger is terrible ; He 
 could make us die in a moment, and no one could 
 save us out of His hand. 
 
 I will show you what is glorious. The sua is 
 
236 HYMN. 
 
 / 
 
 glorious. When he shineth in the clear sky, when 
 he sitteth on the bright throne in the heavens, and 
 looketh abroad over all the earth, he is the most 
 excellent and glorious creature the eye can behold. 
 
 The sun is glorious, but He that made the sun 
 is more glorious than he. The eye beholdeth 
 Him not, for his brightness is more dazzling than 
 we could bear. He seeth in all dark places ; 
 by night as well as by day ; and the light of His 
 countenance is over all His works. 
 
 Who is this great name, and what is He called, 
 that my hps may praise him ? 
 
 This great name is GOD. He made all things, 
 but He is himself more excellent than all which 
 He hath made. They are beautiful, but He is 
 beauty ; they are strong, but He is strength ; 
 they are perfect, but He is perfection. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Come, let us praise God, for He is exceeding 
 great; let us bless God, for He is very good. 
 
 He made all things ; the sun to rule the day, the 
 moon to shine by night. 
 
 He made the great whale, and the elephant ; 
 and the little worm, that crawleth on the ground. 
 
 The little birds sing praises to God, when they 
 warble sweetly in the green shade. 
 
 The brooks and rivers praise God, when they 
 murmur melodiously amongst the smooth pebbles. 
 
NIGHT. 237 
 
 I will praise God with my voice ; for I may 
 praise him, though I am but a little child. 
 
 A few years ago, and I was a little infant, and 
 my tongue was dumb within my mouth : 
 
 An9 I did not know the great name of God, for 
 my reason was not come unto me. 
 
 But now, I can speak, and my tongue shall 
 praise Him ; I can think of all His kindness, and 
 my heart shall love Him. 
 
 Let Him call me, and I will come unto Him ; 
 let Him command, and I will obey Him. 
 
 When I am older, I will praise Him better ; 
 and I will never forget God, so long as my life 
 remaineth in me. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 The glorious sun is set in the West ; the night 
 dews fall ; and the air, which was sultry, becomes 
 cool. 
 
 The flowers fold up their colored leaves ; they 
 fold themselves up, and hang their heads on the 
 slender stalk. 
 
 The chickens are gathered under the wing of 
 the hen, and are at rest ; the hen herself is at rest, 
 also. 
 
 The little birds have ceased their warbling, they 
 are asleep on the boughs, each one with his head 
 behind his wing. 
 
 There is no murmur of bees around the hive. 
 
238 NIGHT. 
 
 or among the honeyed woodbines ; they have done 
 their work, and lie close, in their waxen cells. 
 
 The sheep rest upon their soft fleeces, and 
 their loud bleating is no more heard amongst the 
 hills. 
 
 There is no sound of a number of voices, or of 
 children at play, or the trampling of busy feet, and 
 of people, hurrying to and fro. 
 
 The smith's hammer is not heard upon the 
 anvil ; nor the harsh saw of the carpenter. 
 
 All men are stretched on their quiet beds ; and 
 the child sleeps upon the breast of its mother. 
 
 Darkness is spread over the skies, and darkness 
 is upon the ground ; every eye is shut, and every 
 hand is still. 
 
 Who taketh care of all people, when they are 
 sunk in sleep ; when they cannot defend them- 
 selves ; nor see, if danger approacheth ? 
 
 There is an Eye, that never sleepeth ; there is 
 an Eye, that seeth in dark Night, as well as in the 
 bright sunshine. 
 
 When there is no light of the sun, nor of the 
 moon ; when there is no lamp in the house, nor 
 any little star twinkling through the thick clouds ; 
 that Eye seeth, every where, in all places, and 
 watcheth, continually, over all the families of the 
 earth. 
 
 The eye, that sleepeth not, is God's ; His hand 
 is always stretched out over us. 
 
 He made sleep to refresh us, when we are 
 weary : He made Night, that we might sleep in 
 quiet. 
 
NIGHT. 239 
 
 As the mother moveth about the house, with 
 her finger on her lips, and stilleth every Httle noise, 
 that her infant be not disturbed ; as she draweth 
 the curtains around its bed, and shutteth out the 
 hght fi'om its tender eyes; so God draweth the 
 curtains of darkness around us ; so He maketh all 
 things to be hushed and still, that His large family 
 may sleep in peace. 
 
 Laborers, spent with toil, and young children, 
 and every little humming insect, sleep quietly, for 
 God watcheth over you. 
 
 You may sleep, for He never sleeps : you may 
 close your eyes in safety, for His eye is always 
 open to protect you. 
 
 When the darkness is passed away, and the 
 beams of the morning sun strike through your eye- 
 lids, begin the day with praising God, who hath 
 taken care of you, through the Night. 
 
 Flowers, when you open again, spread your 
 leaves, and smell sweet to His praise. 
 
 Birds, when you awake, warble your thanks 
 amongst the green boughs ; sing to Him, before 
 you sing to your mates. 
 
 Let His praise be in our hearts, when we lie 
 down ; let His praise be in our lips, when we 
 awake. 
 
240 VERSES WRITTEN IN AN ALCOVE. 
 
 VERSES WRITTEN IN AN ALCOVE. 
 
 Now the moonbeam's trembling lustre 
 Silvers o'er the dewy green. 
 
 And, in soft and shadowy colors, 
 Sweetly paints the checkered scene. 
 
 Here, between the opening branches, 
 Streams a flood of softened light ; 
 
 There, the thick and twisted foliage 
 Spreads the browner gloom of night. 
 
 This is sure the haunt of fairies. 
 In yon cool alcove they play ; 
 
 Care can never cross the threshold, — 
 Care was only made for day. 
 
 Far from hence be noisy Clamor, 
 Sick Disgust and anxious Fear ; 
 
 Pining Grief and wasting Anguish 
 Never keep their vigils here. 
 
 Choral songs and sprightly voices 
 Echo from her cell shall call ; 
 
 Sweeter, sweeter than the murmur 
 Of the distant waterfall. 
 
 Every ruder gust of passion. 
 Lulled with music, dies away. 
 
 Till, within the charmed bosom, 
 None but soft affections play : 
 
VERSES WRITTEN IN AN ALCOVE. 241 
 
 Soft, as when the evening breezes 
 
 Gently stir the poplar grove ; 
 Brighter than the smile of Sunimer, 
 
 Sweeter than the breath of Love. 
 
 Thee the enchanted Muse shall follow, 
 
 Lissy ! to the rustic cell ; 
 And each careless note repeating, 
 
 Tune them to her charming shell. 
 
 Not the Muse, who, wreathed with laurel, 
 Solemn stalks, with tragic gait. 
 
 And, in clear and lofty vision. 
 Sees the future births of fate ; 
 
 Not the maid, who, crow^ned with cypress, 
 Sweeps along, in sceptred pall, 
 
 And, in sad and solemn accents. 
 Mourns the crested hero's fall ; — 
 
 But that other smihng sister. 
 With the blue and laughing eye, 
 
 Singing, in a lighter measure. 
 Strains of woodland harmony : 
 
 All unknown to fame and glory, 
 
 Easy, blithe, and debonair, 
 Crowned with flowers, her careless tresses 
 
 Loosely floating on the air. 
 
 Then, when next the star of evening 
 
 Softly sheds the silent dew. 
 Let me, in this rustic temple, 
 
 Lissy ! meet the Muse and you. 
 
 21 VI. 
 
242 HYMN TO CONTENT. 
 
 HYMN TO CONTENT. 
 
 O THOU ! the Nymph with placid eye ! 
 O seldom found, yet ever nigh ! 
 
 Receive my temperate vow : 
 Not all the storms that shake the pole 
 Can e'er disturb thy halcyon* soul, 
 
 And smooth, unaltered brow. 
 
 O come, in simple vest arrayed, 
 With all thy sober cheer displayed, 
 
 To bless my longing sight ; 
 Thy mien composed, thy even pace, 
 Thy meek regard, thy matron grace, 
 
 And chaste, subdued 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, indulgent eye, 
 
 The modest virtues dwell; 
 
 Simplicity, in Attic vest. 
 
 And Innocence, with candid breast, 
 
 And clear, undaunted eye ; 
 And Hope, who points to distant years, 
 Fair opening, through this vale of tears, 
 
 A vista to the sky. 
 
 * Calm, serene, peaceful. — J. W. I. 
 
HYMN TO CONTENT. 243 
 
 There Health, through whose calm bosom glide 
 The temperate joys in even tide, 
 
 That rarely ebb or flow ; 
 And Patience there, thy sister meek. 
 Presents her mild, unvarying cheek 
 
 To meet the offered blow. 
 
 Her influence taught the Phrygian sage* 
 A tyrant master's wanton rage 
 
 With settled smiles to meet : 
 Inured to toil and bitter bread, 
 He bowed his meek, submitted head, 
 
 And kissed thy sainted feet. 
 
 But thou, O Nymph, retired and coy ! 
 In what brown hamlet dost thou joy 
 
 To tell thy tender tale ? 
 The lowliest children of 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 power, 
 
 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 spirit loves to breathe, 
 And every storm is laid ; 
 
 * ^sop, the philosopher and writer of fables, who was 
 originally a slave, and procured his liberty by his genius. — 
 J. W. I. 
 
244 ON A lady's writing. AUTUMN. 
 
 If such an hour was e'er ihy choice, 
 Oft let me hear thy soothing voice, 
 Low whispering through the shade. 
 
 ON A LADY'S WRITING. 
 
 Her even h'nes her steady temper show, 
 Neat as her dress, and pohshed as her brow ; 
 Strong as her judgement, easy as her air ; 
 Correct, though free, and regular, though fair : 
 And the same graces o'er her pen preside. 
 That form her manners, and her footsteps guide. 
 
 AUTUMN 
 
 A FRAGMENT 
 
 Farewell, the softer hours, Spring's opening 
 
 blush. 
 And Summer's deeper glow, the shepherd's pipe, 
 Tuned to the murmurs of a weeping spring, 
 And songs of birds, and gay enamelled fields. 
 Farewell ! ' T is now the sickness of the year, 
 Not to be medicined by the skilful hand. 
 Pale suns arise, that, like weak kings, behold 
 Their predecessor's empire moulder from them ; 
 While, swift-increasing, spreads the black domain 
 Of melancholy Night ; — no more content 
 
AN AUTUMNAL THOUGHT. 245 
 
 With equal sway, her stretching shadows gain 
 On the bright morn, and cloud the evening sky. 
 Farewell, the careless, lingering walk, at eve. 
 Sweet with the breath of kine and new-spread hay; 
 And" slumber on a bank, where the lulled youth, 
 His head on flowers, delicious languor feels 
 Creep in the blood. A different season now 
 Invites a different song. The naked trees 
 Admit the tempest ; rent is Nature's robe ; 
 Fast, fast, the blush of Summer fades away 
 From her wan cheek, and scarce a flower remains 
 To deck her bosom ; Winter follows close, 
 Pressing impatient on, and, with rude breath, 
 Fans her discolored tresses. Yet, not all 
 Of grace and beauty from the falling year 
 Is torn, ungenial. Still the taper fir 
 Lifts its green spire, and the dark holly, edged 
 With gold, and many a strong perennial plant. 
 Yet cheer the waste : nor does yon knot of oaks 
 Resign its honors to the infant blast. 
 This is the time, and these the solemn walks, 
 When inspiration rushes o'er the soul. 
 Sudden, as through the grove the rustling breeze. 
 
 AN AUTUMNAL THOUGHT. 
 
 'T IS past ! we breathe ! assuaged, at length, 
 The flames that drank our vital strength ! 
 Smote with intolerable heat. 
 No more our throbbing temples beat. 
 21* 
 
246 TO A DOG. 
 
 How clear the sky, how pure the air, 
 The heavens how bright, the earth how fair ! 
 The bosom cool, the spirits light, 
 Active the day, and calm the night ! 
 
 But O, the swiftly-shortening day ! 
 Low in the West the sinking ray ! 
 With rapid pace, advancing still, 
 " The morning hoar, the evening chill," 
 The falling leaf, the fading year, 
 And Winter, ambushed in the rear ! 
 
 Thus when the fervid Passions cool. 
 And Judgement, late, begins to rule ; 
 When Reason mounts her throne serene, 
 And social Friendship gilds the scene ; 
 When man, of ripened powers possessed, 
 Broods o'er the treasures of his breast ; 
 Exults, in conscious worth elate. 
 Lord of himself, — almost of fate ; — 
 Then, then declines the unsteady flame, 
 Disease, slow mining, saps the frame ; 
 Cold damps of age around are shed. 
 That chill the heart, and cloud the head, 
 The failing spirits prompt no more, 
 The curtain drops, life's day is o'er. 
 
 TO A DOG. 
 
 Dear, faithful object of my tender care, 
 Whom, but my partial eyes, none fancy fair ; 
 
YE ARE THE SALT OF THE EARTH. 247 
 
 May T, unblamed, display thy social mirth, 
 Tliy modest virlLies, and domeslic worth. 
 Thou silent, humble flatterer, yet sincere, 
 More.swayed by love than interest or fear ; 
 Solely to please, thy most ambitious view, 
 As lovers fond, and more than lovers true. 
 Who can resist those dumb, beseeching eyes, 
 Where genuine eloquence persuasive lies ? 
 Those eyes, where language fails, display thy heart 
 Beyond the pomp of phrase and pride of art. 
 Thou safe companion, and almost a friend, 
 Whose kind attachment but with life shall end, — 
 Blest were mankind, if many a prouder name 
 Could boast thy grateful truth and spotless fame ! 
 
 " YE ARE THE SALT OF THE EARTH. ^ 
 
 Salt of the earth, ye virtuous few, 
 
 Who season human-kind ; 
 Light of the world, whose cheering ray 
 
 Illumes the realms of mind : 
 
 Where misery spreads her deepest shade, 
 Your strong compassion glows ; 
 
 From your blest lips the balm distils, 
 That softens mortal woes. 
 
 By dying beds, in prison glooms, 
 Your frequent steps are found ; 
 
248 YE ARE THE SALT OF THE EARTH. 
 
 Angels of love ! you hover near, 
 To bind the stranger's wound. 
 
 You wash with tears the bloody page, 
 
 Which human crimes deform ; 
 When vengeance threats, your prayers ascend. 
 
 And break the gathering storm. 
 
 As down the Summer stream of vice 
 
 The thoughtless many glide ; 
 Upward you steer your steady bark, 
 
 And stem the rushing tide. 
 
 Where Guilt her foul contagion breathes. 
 
 And golden spoils allure ; 
 Unspotted still, your garments shine, 
 
 Your hands are ever pure. 
 
 Whene'er you touch the poet's lyre, 
 
 A loftier strain is heard ; 
 Each ardent thought is yours alone, 
 
 And every burning word. 
 
 Yours is the large, expansive thought, 
 
 The high, heroic deed ; 
 Exile and chains to you are dear, 
 
 To you, 't is sweet to bleed. 
 
 You lift on high the warning voice, . 
 
 When public ills prevail ; 
 Yours is the writing on the wall 
 
 That turns the tyrant pale. 
 
TE ARE THE SALT OF THE EARTH. 249 
 
 The dogs of hell your steps pursue, 
 With scofF, and shame, and loss ; 
 
 The hemlock bowl, 'tis yours to drain, 
 To taste the bitter cross. 
 
 E'en yet the steaming scaffolds smoke, n 
 
 By Seine's polluted stream ;* 
 With your rich blood the fields are drenched. 
 
 Where Polish sabres gleam. f 
 
 E'en now, through those accursed bars. 
 
 In vain we send our sighs ; 
 Where, deep in Olmutz' dungeon glooms, 
 
 The patriot martyr lies.| 
 
 Yet yours is all through History's rolls 
 
 The kindling bosom feels ; 
 And, at your tomb, with throbbing heart. 
 
 The fond enthusiast kneels. 
 
 In every faith, through every chme. 
 
 Your pilgrim steps we trace ; 
 And shrines are dressed, and temples rise. 
 
 Each hallowed spot to grace ; 
 
 And paeans loud, in every tongue, 
 And choral hymns, resound ; 
 
 * Alludinjr to the murders committed in France during the 
 Revolution. Paris was situated on the river Seine. — J. W. I. 
 
 t When this was written, the Poles were fighting for their 
 liberty. — J. VV. I. 
 
 X Lafayette was, at this time, confined in the prison of Ol- 
 mutz, a town in Austria. — J. W. I. 
 
250 THE UNKNOWN GOD. 
 
 And lengthening honors hand your name 
 To time's remotest bound. 
 
 Proceed ! your race of glory run, 
 
 Your virtuous toils endure ! 
 You come, commissioned from on high. 
 
 And your reward is sure. 
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD * 
 
 To learned Athens, led by fame, 
 As once the man of Tarsus came. 
 
 With pity and surprise, 
 Midst idol altars as he stood, 
 O'er sculptured marble, brass, and wood. 
 
 He rolled his awful eyes. 
 
 But one, apart, his notice caught, 
 
 That seemed with higher meaning fraught, 
 
 Graved on the wounded stone ; 
 Nor form nor name was there expressed ; 
 Deep reverence filled the musing breast, 
 Perusing, " To the God unknown.'* 
 
 Age after age has rolled away, 
 Altars and thrones have felt decay. 
 
 Sages and saints have risen ; 
 And, like a giant roused from sleep, 
 Man has explored the pathless deep, 
 
 And lightnings snatched from heaven. 
 
 * See Acts xvii. 23. —J. W. I. 
 
THE UNKNOWN GOD. 251 
 
 And many a shrine In dust is laid, 
 Where kneehng nations homage paid, 
 
 By rock, or fount, or grove ; 
 Ephesian Dian* sees no more 
 Her workmen fuse the silver ore, 
 
 Nor Capitolian Jove.f 
 
 E'en Salem'sJ hallowed courts have ceased 
 With solemn pomps her tribes to feast, 
 
 No more the victim bleeds ; 
 To censers filled with rare perfumes, 
 And vestments from Egyptian looms, 
 
 A purer rite succeeds. 
 
 Yet still, where'er presumptuous man 
 His Maker's essence strives to scan. 
 
 And hfts his feeble hands. 
 Though saint and sage their powers unite. 
 To fathom that abyss of light, 
 
 Ah ! still that altar stands. 
 
 * The temple of Diana, at Ephesus, was one of the Won- 
 ders of the World. The silver shrines, or images, of the god- 
 dess, are mentioned in the nineteenth chapter of Acts, verse 
 twenty-four. — J. W. I. 
 
 t Jupiter, or Jove, is so called, from a temple dedicated to 
 him, in the capitol at Rome. — J. W. I. 
 
 t Jerusalem is also called Salem, which means, the City 
 of Peace. See Psalms, Ixxvi. 2, and Hebrews, vii. 2. — 
 J. W. I. 
 
252 LIFE. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Life ! I know not what thou art, 
 But know that thou and I must part ; 
 And when, or how, or where, we met, 
 I own to me 's a secret yet. 
 But this I know, when thou art fled. 
 Where'er they lay these Hmbs, this head, 
 No clod so valueless shall be. 
 As all that then remains of me. 
 O whither, whither dost thou fly. 
 Where bend, unseen, thy trackless course, 
 And, in this strange divorce, 
 Ah tell, where I must seek this compound, I ? 
 
 To the vast ocean of empyreal flame, 
 
 From whence thy essence came, 
 Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed 
 From matter's base, encumbering weed .'' 
 Or dost thou, hid from sight, 
 Wait, like some spell-bound knight. 
 Through blank, oblivious years, the appointed 
 
 hour. 
 To break thy trance, and reassume thy power .'' 
 Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be ? 
 O say, what art thou, when no more thou 'rt thee ? 
 
 Life ! we 've been long together. 
 
 Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
 
LOGOGRIPH. 253 
 
 'T is hard to part when friends are dear ; 
 Perhaps 'i will cost a sigh, a tear ; 
 Then steal away, give little warning. 
 Choose thine own time ; 
 Say nbt, Good night ! but, in some brighter clime, 
 Bid me, Good morning I 
 
 LOGOGRIPH.* 
 
 For man's support, I came, at first, from earth. 
 But man perverts the purpose of my birth ; 
 Beneath his plastic hand new forms I take. 
 And either sex my services partake ; 
 The flowing lawn in stricter folds I hold. 
 And bind, in chains unseen, each swelling fold ; 
 The band beneath the double chin 1 grace, 
 And formal plaits that edge the Quaker's face : 
 By me, great Bess, who used her maids to cuff, 
 Shone in the dignity of full-quilled ruff. 
 Such is my whole ; but, parted and disjoined, 
 New wonders in my varying form you '11 find. 
 What makes the cit look big with conscious worth; 
 What bursts from pale surprise, or boisterous 
 
 mirth ; 
 The sweep Rialto forms, or your fair brow, — 
 The fault to youthful valor we allow ; 
 
 * A sort of riddle. In the first ten lines of tliis, a word is 
 described ; and then, many other words, which may be made 
 out of that one, are referred to ; just as from the word bread, 
 may be made red, read, bear, bred, dare, dear, and many 
 others. — J. W. I. 
 
 22 VI. 
 
254 LOGOGRIPH. 
 
 A word, by which possession we denote, 
 
 A letter high in place, and first in note ; 
 
 What guards the beauty from the scorching ray ; 
 
 What little master first is taught to say ; 
 
 Great Nature's rival, handmaid, sometimes foe ; 
 
 The most pathetic counterpart of ' Oh !' 
 
 The whiskered pilferer and her foe demure ; 
 
 The lamps unbought, which light the houseless 
 poor ; 
 
 What bore famed heroes through the ranks of war; 
 
 What's heard, when falls from high the ponderous 
 jar; 
 
 What holy Paul did at Gamahel's feet ; 
 
 What Bavins* writes, what schoolboys love to eat ; 
 
 Of eager gamesters what decides the fate ; 
 
 The homely, rough support of Britain's state ; 
 
 What, joined to " been," is fatal to a toast ; 
 
 What guards the sailor from the shelving coast ; 
 
 The stage, whence villains make their last ha- 
 rangue ; 
 
 What in your head and bones gives many a pang ; 
 
 What introduces long-tailed similes ; 
 
 A preposition that to place agrees ; 
 
 A stately animal, in forests bred, 
 
 A tree, that lifts on high its lofty head ; 
 
 What best unbends the weary student's mind, 
 
 A beauteous fish in northern lakes we find ; 
 
 A grateful blemish on a soldier's breast ; — 
 
 All these are in my single name expressed. 
 
 * A stupid poet, who lived in the time of the Roman 
 Emperor Augustus, and whose writings were considered as 
 worthless. — J. W. I. 
 
DEJECTION. 255 
 
 DEJECTION. 
 
 When sickness clouds the languid eye, 
 And seeds of sharp diseases fly 
 
 Swift through the vital frame ; 
 Rich drugs are torn from earth and sea, 
 And balsam drops from every tree, 
 
 To quench the parching flame. 
 
 But O ! what opiate can assuage 
 
 The throbbing breast's tumultuous rage, 
 
 Which mingling passions tear ! 
 What art the wounds of grief can bind, 
 Or soothe the sick, impatient mind 
 
 Beneath corroding care. 
 
 Not all the potent herbs that grow, 
 On purple heath, or mountain's brow, 
 
 Can banished peace restore ; 
 In vain, the spring of tears to dry. 
 For purer air, or softer sky, 
 
 We quit our native shore. 
 
 Friendship, the richest balm that flows. 
 Was meant to heal our sharpest woes. 
 
 But runs not always pure ; 
 And Love has sorrows of his own. 
 Which not an herb beneath the moon 
 
 Is found of power to cure. 
 
256 LINES, IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 Soft Pity, mild, dejected maid, 
 With tenderest hand applies her aid. 
 
 To dry the frequent tear ; 
 But her own griefs, of finer kind, 
 Too deeply wound the feeling mind 
 
 With anguish more severe. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY's ALBUM OF DIFFERENT- 
 COLORED PAPER. 
 
 Life's checkered scenes these varied leaves dis- 
 play. 
 
 Pure white, and tenderest blush, and fading gray ; 
 
 The rosy tints of morning will not last. 
 
 And youth's gay, flattering season soon is past. 
 
 O 1 may thy gentle breast no changes know. 
 
 But such as from time's smoothest current flow ; 
 
 No cares, but those whose mellowing influence 
 steals 
 
 Mild o'er the expansive heart that thinks and 
 feels ; 
 
 And, with affection tried, experienced truth 
 
 Tint the white page of innocence and youth ! 
 
 May Love for thee exert his fullest power, 
 
 And gild, with sunniest gleams, life's latest hour ! 
 
 And friendship, health, and pleasure, long be 
 thine. 
 
 When cold the heart that pens this feeble line ! 
 
THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS. 257 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS. 
 
 Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies ! 
 When sinks a righteous soul to rest, 
 How mildly beam the closing eyes, 
 How gently heaves the expiring breast ! 
 
 So fades a Summer cloud away ; 
 
 So sinks the gale, when storms are o'er ; 
 
 So gently shuts the eye of day ; 
 
 So dies a wave along the shore. 
 
 Triumphant smiles the victor brow, 
 Fanned by some angel's purple wing ; 
 Where is, O Grave ! thy victory now ? 
 And where, insidious Death ! thy sting ? 
 
 Farewell, conflicting joys and fears, 
 Where light and shade alternate dwell ; 
 How bright the unchanging morn appears 
 Farewell, inconstant world, farewell ! 
 
 Its duty done, as sinks the clay, 
 Light from its load the spirit flies ; 
 While Heaven and earth combine to say, 
 ' Sweet is the scene, when Virtue dies !' 
 
 22* 
 
258 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Praise to God, immortal praise,* 
 For the love that crowns our days ; 
 Bounteous Source of every joy, 
 Let Thy praise our tongues employ ; 
 
 For the blessings of the field, 
 For the stores the gardens yield. 
 For the vine's exalted juice, 
 For the generous olive's use ; 
 
 Flocks, that whiten all the plain. 
 Yellow sheaves of ripened grain ; 
 Clouds, tliat drop their fattening dews. 
 Suns, that temperate warmth diffuse ; 
 
 All that Spring, with bounteous hand, 
 Scatters o'er the smiling land ; 
 All that liberal Autumn pours 
 From her rich o'erliowing stores : 
 
 These to Thee, my God, we owe ; 
 Source, whence all our blessings flow ; 
 And for these my soul shall raise 
 Grateful vows, and, solemn praise. 
 
 * " Although the fig-tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit 
 be in the vines, the labor of the olive shall fail, and the fields 
 shall yield no meat, the flocks shall be cut off from the fold, 
 and there shall be no herd in the stalls : Yet I will rejoice in 
 the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation." — Habak- 
 KUK, iii. 17, IS. 
 
FRAGMENT. 259 
 
 Yet, should rising whirlwinds tear 
 From its stem the ripening ear ; 
 Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot 
 Drop her green, untimely fruit ; 
 
 Should the vine put forth no more, 
 Nor the olive yield her store ; 
 Though the sickening flocks should fall, 
 And the herds desert the stall ; 
 
 Should Thine altered hand restrain 
 The early and the latter rain ; 
 Blast each opening bud of joy, 
 And the rising year destroy ; — 
 
 Yet to Thee my soul should raise 
 Grateful vows, and solemn praise ; 
 And, when every blessing's flown, 
 Love Thee, — for Thyself alone. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 As the poor schoolboy, when the slow-paced 
 
 months 
 Have brought vacation times, and, one by one, 
 His playmates and companions all are fled. 
 Or ready ; and to him, — to him alone, 
 No summons comes ; he, left of all the train, 
 Paces, with lingering step, the vacant halls. 
 No longer murmuring with the Muse's song, 
 And silent play-ground, scattered wide around 
 With implements of sports, resounding once 
 
2G0 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 With cheerful shouts ; and hears no sound of 
 
 wheels, 
 To bear him to his father's bosom home ; 
 For, conscious though he be of time mispent, 
 And heedless faults, and much amiss, yet hopes 
 A father's pardon, and a father's smile. 
 
 Blessing his glad return. Thus I 
 
 Look to the hour when I shall follow those. 
 That are at rest before me. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 FOR EASTER SUNDAY. 
 
 Again the Lord of life and light 
 
 Awakes the kindling ray ; 
 Unseals the eyelids of the morn. 
 
 And pours increasing day. 
 
 O ! what a night was that, which wrapt 
 The heathen world in gloom ! 
 
 O ! what a sun, which broke this day, 
 Triumphant, from the tomb ! 
 
 This day be grateful homage paid, 
 
 And loud hosannas sung ; 
 Let gladness dwell in every heart, 
 
 And praise on every tongue. 
 
 Ten thousand differing lips shall join, 
 To hail this welcome morn. 
 
 Which scatters blessings from its wings. 
 To nations yet unborn. 
 
HYMN. 261 
 
 Jesus, the friend of human kind, 
 Widi strong compassion moved, 
 
 Descended, hke a pitying God, 
 To save the souls he loved. 
 
 The powers of darkness leagued, In vain, 
 
 To bind his soul in death ; 
 He shook their kingdom, when he fell. 
 
 With his expiring breath. 
 
 Not long the toils of hell could keep 
 
 The hope of Judah's line ; 
 Corruption never could take hold 
 
 On aught, so much divine. 
 
 And now his conquering chariot- wheels 
 
 Ascend the lofty skies : 
 While broke, beneath his powerful cross, 
 
 Death's iron sceptre lies. 
 
 Exalted high, at God's right hand. 
 
 The Lord of all below, 
 Through him is pardoning love dispensed, 
 
 And boundless blessings flow. 
 
 And still, for erring, guilty man, 
 
 A brother's pity flows ; 
 And still, his bleeding heart is touched 
 
 With memory of our woes. 
 
 To thee, my Saviour and my King, 
 
 Glad homage let me give ; 
 And stand prepared, like thee to die, 
 
 With thee that I may live. 
 
262 EPITAPH ON A GOLDFINCH. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A GOLDFINCH 
 
 Here lleth, 
 
 aged three moons and four days, 
 
 the body of Richard Acanthis, 
 
 a young creature 
 
 of unblemished life and character. 
 
 He was taken, in his callow infancy, 
 
 from under the wing 
 
 of a tender parent, 
 
 by the rough and pitiless hands 
 
 of a two-legged animal 
 
 without feathers. 
 
 Though born with the most aspiring dispositions, 
 
 and unbounded love of freedom, 
 
 he was closely confined in a grated prison, 
 
 and scarcely permitted to view those fields, 
 
 to the possession of which 
 
 he had a natural and undoubted 
 
 charter. 
 
 Deeply sensible of tiiis infringement 
 
 of his native and inalienable rights, 
 
 he was often heard to petition for redress ; 
 
 not with rude and violent clamors, 
 
 but 
 
 in the most plaintive notes 
 
 of melodious sorrow. 
 
 At length, 
 
 wearied with fruitless efforts to escape, 
 
EPITAPH ON A GOLDFINCH. 263 
 
 his indignant spirit 
 
 burst the prison which his body could not, 
 
 and left behind 
 
 a lifeless heap of beauteous feathers. 
 
 Reader, 
 
 if sufiering innocence can hope for retribution, 
 
 deny not to the gentle shade 
 
 of this unfortunate captive, 
 
 the natural though uncertain hope 
 
 of animating some happier form, 
 
 or trying his new-fledged pinions 
 
 in some humble Elysium, 
 
 beyond the reach of Man, 
 
 the tyrant 
 
 of this lower universe. 
 
X4 9 
 

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