CHAP. I.

TO be very active in laudable pursuits, is the distinguishing characteristic of a man of merit.

There is an heroic innocence, as well as an he­roic courage.

There is a mean in all things. Even virtue itself has its stated limits; which not being strictly observed, it ceases to be virtue.

It is wiser to prevent a quarrel beforehand, than to revenge it afterwards.

It is much better to reprove, than to be angry secretly.

No revenge is more heroic, than that which torments envy, by doing good.

The discretion of a man deferreth his anger, and it is his glory to pass over a transgression.

Money, like manure, does no good till it is spread. There is no real use of riches, except in the distribution; the rest is all conceit.

[Page 13] A wise man will desire no more than what he may get justly, use soberly, distribute cheerfully, and live upon contentedly.

A contented mind, and a good conscience, will make a man happy in all conditions. He knows not how to fear, who dares to die.

There is but one way of fortifying the soul a­gainst all gloomy presages and terrors of mind; and that is, by securing to ourselves the friend­ship and protection of that Being who disposes of events, and governs futurity.

Philosophy is then only valuable, when it serves for the law of life, and not for the osten­tation of science.

CHAP. II.

WITHOUT a friend the world is but a wilderness.

A man may have a thousand intimate acquain­tances, and not a friend among them all. If you have one friend, think yourself happy.

When once you profess yourself a friend, en­deavour to be always such. He can never have any true friends, that will be often changing them.

Prosperity gains friends, and adversity tries them.

Nothing more engages the affections of men, than a handsome address, and graceful conversa­tion.

Complaisance renders a superior amiable, an equal agreeable, and an inferior acceptable.

Excess of ceremony shews want of breeding. [Page 14] That civility is best, which excludes all super­fluous formality.

Ingratitude is a crime so shameful, that the man was never yet found, who would acknow­ledge himself guilty of it.

Truth is born with us; and we must do vio­lence to nature, to shake off our veracity.

There cannot be a greater treachery, than first to raise a confidence, and then deceive it.

By others' faults, wise men correct their own.

No man hath a thorough taste of prosperity, to whom adversity never happened.

When our vices leave us, we flatter ourselves that we leave them.

It is as great a point of wisdom to hide igno­rance, as to discover knowledge.

Pitch upon that course of life which is the most excellent; and habit will render it the most delightful.

CHAP. III.

CUSTOM is the plague of wise men, and the idol of fools.

As to be perfectly just, is an attribute of the divine nature; to be [...]o to the utmost of our abil­ities, is the glory of man.

No man was ever [...] down with the injuries of fortune, unless he had before suffered himself to be deceived by her favours.

Anger may glance into the breast of a wise man, but rests only in the bosom of fools.

None more impatiently suffer injuries, than [Page 15] those that are most forward in doing them.

By taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy; but in passing it over, he is superior.

To err is human; to forgive, divine.

A more glorious victory cannot be gained o­ver another man, than this, that when the injury began on his part, the kindness should begin on ours.

The prodigal robs his heir, the miser robs himself.

We should take a prudent care for the future, but so as to enjoy the present. It is no part of wisdom, to be miserable to-day, because we may happen to be so to-morrow.

To mourn without measure is folly; not to mourn at all, insensibility.

Some would be thought to do great things, who are but tools and instruments; like the fool who fancied he played upon the organ, when he only drew the bellows.

Though a man may become learned by ano­ther's learning, he never can be wise but by his own wisdom.

He who wants good sense is unhappy in ha­ving learning; for he has thereby more ways of exposing himself.

It is ungenerous to give a man occasion to blush at his own [...] in one thing, who perhaps may excel us in many▪

No object is more [...]ing to the eye, than the sight of a man whom you have obliged; nor any music so agreeable to the ear, as the voice of one that owns you for his benefactor.

[Page 16] The coin that is most current amongst mankind is flattery; the only benefit of which is, that by hearing what we are not, we may be instructed what we ought to be.

The character of the person who commends you, is to be considered before you set a value on his esteem. The wise man applauds him whom he thinks most virtuous, the rest of the world, him who is most wealthy.

The temperate man's pleasures are durable, because they are regular; and all his life is calm and serene, because it is innocent.

A good man will love himself too well to lose, and his neighbour too well to win, an estate by gaming. The love of gaming will corrupt the best principles [...] the world.

CHAP. IV.

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

A good word is an easy obligation; but not to speak ill requires only our silence, which costs us nothing.

It is to affectation the world owes its whole race of coxcombs. Nature in her whole drama never drew such a part; she has sometimes made a fool, but a coxcomb is always of his own mak­ing.

It is the infirmity of little minds to be taken with every appearance, and dazzled with every thing that sparkles; but great minds have but [Page 17] little admiration, because few things appear new to them.

It happens to men of learning, as to ears of corn; they shoot up, and raise their heads high, while they are empty; but when full, and swell­ed with grain, they begin to flag and droop.

He that is truly polite, knows how to contra­dict with respect, and to please without adulation; and is equally remote from an insipid complai­sance, and a low [...]amiliarity.

The failings of good men are commonly more published in the world than their good deeds; and one fault of a deserving man, shall meet with more reproaches, than all his virtues, praise: such is the force of ill will, and ill nature.

It is harder to avoid censure, than to gain ap­plause; for this may be done by one great or wise action in an age; but to escape censure, a man must pass his whole life without saying or doing one ill or foolish thing.

When Darius offered Alexander ten thou­sand talents to divide Asia equally with him, he answered, the earth cannot bear two suns, nor Asia, two kings. Parmenio, a friend of Alexan­der's, hearing the great offers Darius had made, said, were I Alexander, I would accept them. So would I, replied Alexander, were I Parmenio.

Nobility is to be considered only as an imagi­nary distinction, unless accompanied with the practice of those generous virtues by which it ought to be obtained. Titles of honour confer­red upon such as have no personal me [...], are at best but the royal stamp set upon base metal.

[Page 18] Though an honourable title may be conveyed to posterity, yet the ennobling qualities which are the soul of greatness are a sort of incommunica­ble perfections, and cannot be transferred. If a man could bequeath his virtues by will, and fet­tle his sense and learning upon his heirs, as cer­tainly as he can his lands, a noble descent would then indeed be a valuable privilege.

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

The pleasure which affects the human mind with the most lively and transporting touches, is the sense that we act in the eye of infinite wis­dom, power, and goodness, that will crown our virtuous endeavours here with happiness hereaf­ter, large as our desires, and lasting as our im­mortal souls; without this, the highest state of l [...]e is insipid, and with it, the lowest is a paradise.

CHAP. V.

HONOURABLE age is not that which standeth in length of time, nor which is mea­sured by number of years; but wisdom is the grey hair unto man, and unspotted life is old age.

Wickedness, condemned by her own witness, is very timorous, and being pressed with consci­ence, always forecasteth evil things: for fear is [Page 19] nothing else, but a betraying of the succours which reason offereth.

A wise man will fear in every thing. He that contemneth small things shall fall by little and little.

A rich man beginning to fall is held up of his friends; but a poor man being down is thrust away by his friends; when a rich man is fallen he hath many helpers; he speaketh things not to be spoken, and yet men justify him; the poor man slipt and they rebuked him; he spoke wise­ly, and could have no place. When a rich man speaketh, every man holdeth his tongue, and look, what he saith they extol it to the clouds; but if a poor man speak, they say, what fellow is this?

Many have fallen by the edge of the sword, but not so many as have fallen by the tongue. Well is he that is defended from it, and hath not passed through the venom thereof; who hath not drawn the yoke thereof, nor been bound in her bonds; for the yoke thereof is a yoke of ir [...], and the bands thereof are bands of brass; [...]e death thereof is an evil death.

My son, blemish not thy good deeds, neither use uncomfortable words, when thou givest any thing. Shall not the dew assuage the heat? so is a word better than a gift. Lo, is not a word better than a gift? but both are with a gracious man.

Blame not, before thou hast examined the tru [...] understand first, and then rebuke.

If thou wouldest get a friend, prove him first [Page 20] and be not hasty to credit him; for some men are friends for their own occasions, and will not abide in the day of thy trouble.

Forsake not an old friend, for the new is not compareable to him: a new friend is as new wine; when it is old thou shalt drink it with pleasure.

A friend cannot be known in prosperity; and an enemy cannot be hidden in adversity.

Admonish thy friend; it may be he hath not done it; and if he hath, that he do it no more. Admonish thy friend; it may be he hath not said it, or if he hath, that he speak it not again. Ad­monish a friend; for many times it is a slander; and believe not every tale. There is one that slippeth in his speech, but not from his heart; and who is he that hath not offended with his tongue?

Whoso discovereth secrets loseth his credit, and shall never find a friend to his mind.

Honour thy father with thy whole heart, and forget not the sorrows of thy mother: how canst thou recompense them the things they have done for thee?

There is nothing so much worth as a mind well instructed.

The lips of talkers will be telling such things as pertain not unto them; but the words of such as have understanding are weighed in the balance. The art of fools is in their mouth, but the tongue of the wise is in their heart.

To labour, and to be contented with that a man hath, is a sweet life.

Be not confident in a plain way.

[Page 21] Be in peace with many; nevertheless have but one counsellor of a thousand.

Let reason go before every enterprize, and counsel before every action.

CHAP. VI.

THE latter part of a wise man's life is taken up in curing the follies, prejudices, and false opinions he had contracted in the former.

Censure is the tax a man pays to the public for being eminent.

Very few men, properly speaking, live at pre­sent, but are providing to live another time.

Party is the madness of many, for the gain of a few.

To endeavour to work upon the vulgar with fine sense, is like attempting to hew blocks of marble with a razor.

Superstition is the spleen of the soul.

He who tells a lie is not sensible how great a task he undertakes; for he must be forced to in­vent twenty more to maintain that one.

Some people will never learn any thing, for this [...]ason, because they understand every thing too soon.

There is nothing wanted to make all rational and disinterested people in the world of one reli­gion, but that they should talk together every day.

Men are grateful, in the same degree that they are resentful.

Young men are subtle arguers; the cloak of [Page 22] honour covers all their faults, as that of passion all their follies.

Economy is no disgrace; it is better living on a little, than out-living a great deal.

Next to the satisfaction I receive in the pros­perity of an honest man, I am best pleased with the confusion of a rascal.

What is often termed shyness, is nothing more than refined sense, and an indifference to common observations.

Every person insensibly fixes upon some degree of refinement in his discourse, some measure of thought which he thinks worth exhibiting. It is wise to fix this pretty high, although it occa­sions one to talk the less.

To endeavour all one's days to fortify our minds with learning and philosophy, is to spend so much in armour, that one has nothing left to defend.

Deference often shrinks and withers as much upon the approach of intimacy, as the sensitive plant does upon the touch of one's finger.

Men are sometimes accused of pride, merely because their accusers would be proud themseves if they were in their places.

People [...] quently use this expression, I am in­cl [...]ed to think so and so, not considering that they are speaking the most literal of all truths.

Modesty makes large amends for the pain it gives the persons who labour under it, by the prejudice it affords every worthy person in their favour▪

The difference there is betwixt honour and [Page 23] honesty seems to be chiefly in the motive. The honest man does that from duty, which the man of honour does for the sake of character.

A liar begins with making falshood appear like truth, and ends with making truth itself appear like falshood.

Virtue should be considered as a part of taste; and we should as much avoid deceit, or sinister meanings in discourse, as we would puns, bad language, or false grammar.

The higher character a person supports, the more he should regard his minutest actions.

CHAP. VII.

DEFERENCE is the most complicate, the most indirect, and the most elegant of all compliments.

He that lies in bed all a summer's morning, loses the pleasure of the day: he that gives up his youth to indolence, undergoes a loss of the same kind.

Shining characters are not always the most a­greeable ones. The mild radiance of an eme­rald, is by no means less pleasing than the glare of the ruby.

To be at once a rake, and to glory in the char­acter, discovers at the same time a bad dispositi­on, and a bad taste.

How is it possible to expect that mankind will take advice, when they will not so much as take warning.

Although men are accused for not knowing [Page 24] their own weakness, yet perhaps as few know their own strength. It is in men as in soils, where sometimes there is a vein of gold which the own­er knows not of.

Fine sense and exalted sense are not half so va­luable as common sense. There are forty men of wit for one man of sense; and he that will car­ry nothing about him but gold, will be every day at a loss for want of ready change.

Learning is like mercury, one of the most powerful and excellent things in the world in skilful hands; in unskilful, most mischievous.

A man should never be ashamed to own he has been in the wrong; which is but saying, in other words, that he is wiser to-day than he was yesterday,

Wherever I find a great deal of gratitude in a poor man, I take it sor granted there would be as much generosity if he were a rich man.

Flowers of rhetoric in sermons or serious dis­courses, are like the blue and red flowers in corn, pleasing to those who come only for amusement, but prejudicial to him who would reap the profit.

It often happens that those are the best people, whose characters have been most injured by slanderers; as we usually find that to be the sweetest fruit, which the birds have been pecking at.

The eye of a critic is often like a microscope, made so very fine and nice, that it discovers the atoms, grains, and minutest articles, without ever comprehending the whole, comparing the parts, or seeing all at once the harmony.

[Page 25] Men's zeal for religion is much of the same kind as that which they shew for a foot-ball: whenever it is contested for, every one is ready to venture their lives and limbs in the dispute; but when that is once at an end, it is no more thought on, but sleeps in oblivion, buried in rubbish, which no one thinks it worth his pains to rake in­to, much less to remove.

Honour is but a fictious kind of honesty; a mean, but a necessary substitute for it, in socie­ties which have none: it is a sort of paper-credit, with which men are obliged to trade, who are de­ficient in the sterling cash of true morality and religion.

Persons of great delicacy should know the cer­tainty of the following truth: there are abun­dance of cases which occasion suspense, in which whatever they determine they will repent of their determination; and this through a propensity of human nature to fancy happiness in those schemes which it does not pursue.

The chief advantage that ancient writers can boast over modern ones seems owing to simpli­city. Every noble truth and sentiment was ex­pressed by the former in a natural manner, in word and phrase simple, perspicuous, and inca­pable of improvement. What then remained for late writers, but affectation, witticism, and con­ceit?

CHAP. VIII.

WHAT a piece of work is man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculti [...] in [Page 26] form and moving, how express and admireable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a God!

If to do, were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages, princes' palaces. He is a good divine that follows his own instructions: I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than to be one of the twenty to follow my own teaching,

Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues we write in water.

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together; our virtues would be proud, if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair, if they were not cherished by our virtues.

CHAP. IX.

He that would pase the latter part of his life, with honour and decency, must, when is young consider that he shall one day be old, and remem­ber, when he is old, that he has once been young.

An old age, unsupported with matter for dis­cour [...]e and meditation, is much to be dreaded. No state can be more destitute than that of him, who, when the delights of sense forsake him, has no pleasures of the mind.

Such is the conditon of life that something is always wanted, to happiness. In youth we have warm hopes, which are soon blasted by rashness and negligence, and great designs, which are de­feated [Page 31] by inexperience. In age we have know­ledge and prudence, without spirit to exert, or motives to prompt them. We are able to plan schemes and regulate measures, but have not time remaining to bring them to completion.

A varice is always poor, but poor by her own fault.

The maxim which Periander of Corinth, one of the seven sages of Greece, left as a memorial of his knowledge and benevolence, was, "Be master of your anger." He considered anger as the great disturber of human life; the chief ene­my both of public happiness and private tran­quility, and thought he could not lay on posteri­ty a stronger obligation to reverence his memory, than by leaving them a falutary caution against this outrageous passion.

Pride is undoubtedly the origin of anger; but pride, like every other passion, if it breaks loose from reason, counteracts its own purposes. A passionate man, upon the review of his day, will have very few gratifications to offer to his pride, when he has considered how his outrages were caused; why they were borne, and in what they are likely to end at last.

Whilst an author is yet living, we estimate his powers by the worst performance. When he is dead, we rate them by his best.

It requires but little acquaintance with the heart, to know that woman's first wish is to be handsome; and that consequently the readiest method of obtaining her kindness is to praise her beauty.

[Page 32] The universal axiom in which all complaisance is included, and from which flow all the formali­ties which custom has established in civilized na­tions, is,—"That no man should give any pre­ference to himself,"—a rule so comprehensive and certain, that perhaps it is not easy for the mind to imagine an incivility without supposing it to be broken.

Charity would lose its name were it influenced by so mean a motive as human praise.

That charity is best of which the consequences are most extensive.

Those who raise envy will easily in [...]ur censure. Cheats can seldom stand long against laughter. What cannot be repaired is not to be regretted. The state of the mind oppressed with a sudden calamity is like that of the fabulous inhabitants of the new created earth. who, when the first night came on, supposed that day would never return.

There is a kind of anxious cleanliness, which is always the characteristic of a slattern; it is the superfluous scrupulosity of guilt, dreading disco­very and shunning suspicion.—It is the violence of an effort against habit, which being impelled by external motives, cannot stop at the middle point.

The foundation of content must spring up in a man's own mind; and he who has so little knowledge of human nature as to seek happiness by changing any thing but his own disposition, will waste his life in fruitless efforts, and multi­ply the griefs which he purposes to remove.

No rank in life precludes the efficacy of a well­timed [Page 33] compliment. When Queen Elizabeth asked an Ambassador how he liked her ladies, he replied, "It was hard to judge of stars in the presence of the sun."

The crime which has been once committed, is committed again with less reluctance.

The great disturbers of our happiness in this world, are our desires, our griefs, and our fears; and to all these the consideration of mortality is a certai [...] and adequate remedy. "Think (says Epictetus) frequently on poverty, banishment, and death, and thou wilt never indulge violent de­sires, or give up thy heart to mean sentiments."

It is remarkable that death increases our vene­ration for the good, and extenuates our hatred of the bad.

To neglect at any time preparation for death, is to sleep on our post at a siege; but to omit it in old age, is to sleep at an attack.

To die is the fate of man; but to die [...] lingering anguish, is generally his folly.

To rejoice in tortures is the privilege of mar­tyrs—to meet death with intrepidity is the right only of innocence (if in any human being inno­cence can be found); but of him whose life is shortened by his crimes, the last duties are humi­lity and self-abasement.

Death is no more than every being must suffer, though the dread of it is peculiar to man.

He that too much refines his delicacy, will al­ways endanger his quiet.

The certainty that life cannot be long, and the probability that it will be much shorter than na­ture [Page 34] allows, ought to awaken every man to the active prosecution of whatever he is desirous to perform. It is true, that no diligence can ascer­tain success; death may intercept the swiftest career, but he who is cut off in the execution of an honest undertaking, has at left the honour of falling in his rank and has fought the battle, though he missed the victory.

Timorous thoughts, and cartious disquisitions, are the dull attendants of delay.

Deceit and falshood, whatever conveniences they may for a time promise or produce, are, in the sum of life, obstacles to happiness. Those who profit by the cheat distrust the deceiver, and the act by which kindness was sought puts an end to confidence.

When we act according to our duty, we com­mit the event to him by whose laws our actions are governed, and who will suffer none to be fi­nally punished for obedience. But when in pros­pect of some good, whether natural or moral, we break the rules prescribed to us, we withdraw from the direction of superior wisdom, and take all consequences upon ourselves.

Employmont is the great instrument of intel­lectual dominion. The mind cannot retire from its enemy into total vacancy, or turn aside from one object, but by passing to another.

The gloomy and the resentful are always found among those who have nothing to do, or who do nothing. We must be busy about good, or evil, and he, to whom the present offers nothing, will often be looking backward on the past [Page 35] Extended empire, like expanded gold, ex­changes solid strength for feeble splendor.

To raise esteem, we must benefit others; to procure love, we must please them.

He that is loudly praised, will be clamorously censured. He that rises hastily into fame, will be in danger of sinking suddenly into oblivion.

A father above the common rate of men has commonly a son below it.

All fear is in itself painful; and when it con­duces not to safety, is painful without use.

Fear is implanted in us as a preservative from evil: but its duty, like that of other passions, is not to overbear reason, but to assist it; nor should it be suffered to tyrannize in the imagination, to raise phantoms of horror, or beset life with super­numerary distresses.

Without frugality none can be rich, and with it, very few would be poor.

Though in every age there are some, who, by bold adventures or by favourable accidents, rise suddenly into riches; the bulk of mankind must owe their affluence to small and gradual profits, below which their expence must be resolutely reduced.

A man's voluntary expences should not ex­ceed his income.

Let no man anticipate uncertain profits.

Let no man squander against his inclination.

In all political regulations, good cannot be complete, it can only be predominant.

No government could subsist for a day, if single errors could justify defection.

[Page 36] Government is necessary to man; and when obedience is not compelled, there is no govern­ment.

No man, whose appetites are his masters, can perform the duties of his nature with strictness and regularity. He that would be superior to exter­nal influences, must first become superior to his own passions.

All skill ought to be exerted for universal good. Every man has owed much to others, and ought to pay the kindness that he has received.

We are long before we are convinced that hap­piness is never to be found; and each believes it possessed by others, to keep alive the hope of obtaining it for himself.

The happiness of the generality of people is nothing if it is not known, and very little if it is not envied.

CHAP. X.

THE highest panegyric that domestic virtue can receive, is the praise of servants; for however vanity or insolence may look down with contempt on the suffrage of men undignified by wealth, and unenlightened by education, it very seldom happens that they commend or blame without justice.

Our powers owe much of their energy to our hopes.

Such is the power of health, that without its co-operation, every other comfort is torpid and lifeless, as the power of vegetation without the sun. [Page 37] Good-humour may be defined; a habit of be­ing pleased; a constant and perennial softness of manners, easiness of approach, and suavity of dis­position, like that which every one perceives in himself, when the first transports of new felicity have subsided, and his thoughts are only kept in motion by a slow succession of soft impulses.

As briars have sweetness with their prickles, so are troubles often recompensed with joy.

Those that have done nothing in life, are not qualified to judge of those that have done little.

Few things are impossible to industry and skill. Many things difficult to design, prove easy to performance.

He that shall walk with vigour three hours in a day, will pass, in seven years, a space equal to the circumference of the globe.

It is in vain to put wealth within the reach of him who will not stretch out his hand to take it.

There are said to be pleasures in madness, known only to madmen. There are certainly miseries in idleness, which the idler can only con­ceive.

Integrity without knowledge is weak, and generally useless; and knowledge without integri­ty is dangerous and dreadful.

The man who feels himself ignorant, should at le [...]t be modest.

In things difficult there is danger from igno­rance; in things easy, from confidence.

Those who, in consequence of superior capa­cities and attainments, disregard the common maxims of life, ought to be reminded, that nothing [Page 38] will supply the want of prudence; and that neg­ligence and irregularity, long continued, will make knowledge useless, wit ridiculous, and ge­nius contemptible.

Whatever be the motive of insult, it is always best to overlook it; for folly scarcely can deserve resentment, and malice is punished by neglect.

Man is not weak; knowledge is more than equivalent to force.

Life is not to be counted by the ignorance of infancy, or the imbecility of age. We are long before we are able to think, and we soon cease from the power of acting.

Life may be lengthened by care, though death cannot ultimately be deseated.

The great art of life is to play for much, and stake little.

He that embarks in the voyage of life, will al­ways wish to advance rather by the impulse of the wind, than the strokes of the oar; and many founder in their passage, while they lie waiting for the gale.

In the different degrees of life, there will be often found much meanness among the great, and much greatness amongst the mean.

It is not by comparing line with line, that the merit of great works is to be estimated; but by their general effects and ultimate result.

It is not hard to love those from whom nothing can be feared.

There is not, perhaps, one of the liberal arts which may not be completely learned in he Eng­lish language. [Page 39] It is observed, that a corrupt society has many laws.

A zeal, which is often thought and called li­berty, sometimes disguises from the world, and not rarely from the mind which it possesses, an envious desire of plundering wealth, or degra­ding greatness; and of which the immediate ten­dency is innovation and anarchy, or imperious [...]agerness to subvert and confound, with very lit­tle care what shall be established.

As a man only inebriated by vapours, soon re­covers in the open air, a nation discontented to madness, without any adequate cause, will return to its wits and allegiance, when a little pause has cooled it to reflection.

Marriage has many pains, but celibacy has no pleasures.

The infelicities of marriage are not to be urg­ed against its institution, as the miseries of life would prove equally, that life cannot be the gift of heaven.

It will be generally found, that those who mar­ry late are best pleased with their children; and those who marry early, with their partners.

We should not despise the malice of the weak­est. We should remember, that venom supplies the want of strength; and that the lion may pe­rish by the puncture of an asp.

An infall [...]ble characteristic of meanness is cru­clty.

No mercantile man, or mercantile nation, has any friendship but for money; and alliances be­tween them w [...]ll last no longer than their common [Page 40] safety, or common profit is endangered; no longer than they have an enemy who threatens to take from each, more than either can steal from the other.

The misery of man proceeds not from any single crush of overwhelming evil, but from small vexations continually repeated.

Merriment is always the effect of a sudden im­pression; the jest which is expected is already destroyed.

To improve the golden moment of opportu­nity, and catch the good that is within our reach, is the great art of life. Many wants are suffered which might have once been supplied, and much time is lost in regretting the time which had been lost before.

Pleasure is very seldom found where it is [...]ought; our brightest blazes of gladness are com­monly kindled by unexpected sparks. The flow­ers which scatter their odours from time to time in the paths of life, grow up without culture from seeds scattered by chance.

The great source of pleasure is variety. Uni­formity must tire at last, though it be uniformity of excellence. We love to expect, and when ex­pectation is disappointed, or gratified we want to be again expecting.

Compositions, merely pretty, have the fate of other pretty things, and are quitted in time for something useful. They are flowers fragrant and fair, but of short duration; or they are blos­soms only to be valued as they foretell fruits.

It is the great privilege of poverty to be hap­py [Page 41] unenvied, to be healthful without physic, and secure without a guard. To obtain from the bounty of nature what the great and wealthy are compelled to procure by the help of artists, and the attendants of slatterers and spies.

Nature makes us poor, only when we want ne­ [...]ssaries, but custom gives the name of poverty to the want of superfluities.

To be idle and to be poor have always been reproaches and therefore every man endeavours, with his utmost care, to hide his poverty from others, and his idleness from himself.

He that changes his party by his humour, is not more virtuous, than he that changes it by his interest. He loves himself rather than truth.

Faction seldom leaves a man honest, however it may find him.

Praise is so pleasing to the ear of man, that it is the original motive of almost all our actions.

That praise is worth nothing of which the price is known.

The real satisfaction which praise can afford, is when what is repeated aloud, agrees with the whispers of conscience, by shewing us that we have not endeavoured to deserve well in vain.

To be at once in any great degree loved and praised is truly rare.

Pride is a vice, which pride itself inclines every man to find in others, and to overlook in himself.

Pride is seldom delicate, it will please itself with very mean advantages; and envy feels not its own happiness, but when it may be compared with the misery of others.

[Page 42] Moderation in prosperity, is a virtue very dif­ficult to mortals.

Small things make mean men proud.

CHAP. XI.

THERE is a kind of men who may be clas­sed under the name of bustlers, whose business keeps them in perpetual motion, yet whose mo­tion always eludes their business; who are always to do what they never do; who cannot stand still because they are wanted in another place, and who are wanted in many places because they can stay in none.

No people can be great who have ceased to be virtuous.

The usual fortune of complaint, is to excite contempt more than pity.

To hear complaints with patience, even when complaints are vain, is one of the duties of friend­ship: and though it must be allowed, that he suffers most like a hero who hides his grief in si­lence, yet it cannot be denied, that he who com­plains, acts like a man—like a social being, who looks for help from his fellow-creatures.

Differences are never so effectually laid asleep, as by some common calamity. An enemy unites all to whom he threatens danger.

He that never was acquainted with adversity, (says Seneca) has seen the world but on one side, and is ignorant of half the scenes of nature: As no man can enjoy happiness without thinking that he enjoys it, the experience of calamity is neces­sary [Page 43] to a just sense of better fortune; for the good of our present state is merely comparative; and the evil which every man feels will be suffici­ent to disturb and harrass him, if he does not know how much he escapes. The lustre of dia­monds is in vigorated by the interposition of dark­er bodies; the lights of a picture are created by the shades.

Conveniences are never missed, where they were never enjoyed.

It is generally the fate of a double dealer, to lose his power, and keep his enemies.

Disguise can gratify no longer than it de­ceives.

Diligence is never wholly lost.

Dulness and deformity are not culpable in them­selves, but may be very justly reproached when they pretend to the honour of wit, or the influ­ence of beauty.

What are our views of all worldly things, when a sharp or tedious sickness has set death before our eyes, and the last hour seems to be approaching? The extensive influence of great­ness, the glitter of wealth, the praises of admi­rers, and the attendance of supplicants, have all appeared vain and empty things.

We then find the absurdity of stretching out our arms incessantly to grasp that which we can­not keep, and wearing out our lives in endeavours to add new turrets to the fabrick of ambiti­on, when the foundation itself is shaking, and the ground on which it stands is mouldering away.

Death, says Seneca, falls heavy upon him, who [Page 44] too much known to others, and too little to him­self.

He cannot be properly chosen for a friend, whose kindness is exhaled by its own warmth, or frozen by the first blast of slander; he cannot be a useful counsellor, who will hear no opinion but his own; he will not much invite confidence, whose principal maxim is to suspect; nor can the candour and frankness of that man be much e­steemed, who spreads his arms to human kind, and makes every man without distinction a de­nizen of his bosom.

One of the Golden Precepts of pythagor [...]s di­rects us—"That a friend should not be hated for little faults."

Among the pleasing incidents of life may be numbered the unexepected renewals of old ac­quaintances.

Many seeming faults are to be imputed to the nature of the undertaking, rather than the negli­gence of the performer.

As with folly no man is willing to confess himself very intimately acquainted, therefore its pains and pleasures are kept secret.

CHAP. XII. AGATHOCLES and CALISTA.

CALISTA was young and beautiful, endowed with a great sha [...]e of wit and solid sense. A­gathocles, whose age very little exceeded her's, was well made, brave and prudent. He had the good fortune to be introduced to Calista's: where his looks, wandering indifferently over a numer­ous circle, soon distinguished and fixed upon her.

But recovering from the short extacy occasion­ed by the first sight, he immediately reproached himself, as being guilty of rudeness to the rest of the company; a fault which he had endeavoured to correct, by looking round on other objects. Vain attempts! they were attracted by a power­ful charm, and turned again towards Calista. He blushed as well as she, while a sweet emotion, till then unselt, produced a kind of fluttering in his heart, and confusion in his countenance.

They both became at the same time, more ti­mid, and more curious. He was pleased with gaz­ing at Calista; which he could not do without trembling: whilst Calista, secretly satisfied with this flattering preference, cast her eyes on him by stealth. They were both under an apprehension, but especially Calista, of being caught by the o­ther in the fact; and yet caught they were almost every moment.

The hour of separation came, which to them appeared too sudden: melancholy were the re­flections they made on the rapidity of of time. Imagination, however, did not permit, them to be [Page 46] entirely absent from each other: for the image of Calista was deeply engraved on the mind of Agathocles: and his features were as strongly impressed on that of Calista. They both appear­ed less cheerful, the rest of the day. A lively sentiment, which they did not well comprehend themselves, entirely employed their minds, in spite of every attempt to divert themselves.

Two days passed without seeing one another again: and, tho' this interval of time had been filled up either by business or recreations; yet they both, notwithstanding, experienced a wea­riness and dissatisfaction in their minds, for which they could no way account. But the moment, which brought them together again, explained it to them: the perfect contentment they felt in each other's company, made them sensible of the real source of their melancholy.

Agathocles took more courage that day: he addressed Calista in a most obliging manner, and had the happiness to converse with her for the first time. As yet he had seen only her outward charms; but now he discovered the beauty of her mind, the integrity of her heart, the dignity of her sentiments, and the delicacy of her wit; but what charmed him the most, was the opinion he con­ceived that she did not judge him unworthy of her esteem.

From this time he made her frequent visits, in every one of which he discovered some new per­fection in the fair Calista. This is the character­istic of true merit; it gains by being exposed to the eye of a judicious person. A man of sense [Page 47] will soon dislike a coquette, a fool, or a giddy woman: but if he falls in love with a woman of merit, time, far from weakening, will only strengthen and augment his passion.

The fixed inclination of Agathocles convinc­ed him now that what he felt for Calista, was love, and that of the most tender nature. This he knew; but Calista did not as yet know it, or at lest had not learnt it from his lips. Love is ti­merous and diffident. A bold suitor is not the real lover of the lady whom he addresses: he seeks for nothing but pleasure. Agathocles at last resolved to open his heart to Calista; but he did not do it in the affected language of a roman­tic passion. "Lovely Calista, said he ingenuously, it is not mere esteem that binds me to you, but a most passionate and tender love. I feel that I cannot live without you: can you without vio­lence to your inclinations, consent to make me happy? I may love you without offence; 'tis a tribute due to your merit: but may I flatter my­self with the hopes of some small return?"

A coquette would have affected to be displeas­ed at such a declaration. But Calista not only listened to her lover without interrupting him, but answered him without ill-nature, and gave him leave to hope. Nor did she put his constan­cy to a tedious trial: the happiness for which he sighed was no longer delayed than was necessary to prepare the ceremony. The marriage settle­ments were easily regulated betwixt the parties: for interest was out of the question: the chief ar­ticle consisted in the mutual exchange of hearts; which was already fulfilled.

[Page 48] What will be the lot of this new-married cou­ple? The happiest, I may venture to foretel, that mortals can enjoy upon earth. No pleasures are compareable to those that affect the heart; and there are none, as I have observed before, that affect it with such exquisite delight, as loving and being beloved. To this tender union we can ne­ver apply the words of Democratus, that the plea­sure of love is but a short epilepsy. He meant, with­out doubt, that mere sensual pleasure, which has so little in it of the nature of love, that a man may enjoy it without loving, and love without ever enjoying it.

They will be constant in their love. This I dare also to predict; and I know the reason. Their affection is not founded on the dazzling charms of beauty: they are both the friends of virtue; they love each other on this account; they will, therefore, continue to love, as long as they are virtuous; and their union itself is a pledge of their perseverance: for nothing so much fecures our continuance in the paths of virtue, as to have perpetually before our eyes the example of a person whom we love.

Nothing is capable to disturb their happiness, but those disasters and misfortunes, from which their love cannot shelter them. But, supposing such a reverse of fortune, would not their fate in this regard be common with that of the rest of mankind? Those who have never tasted the plea­sures of love, are not exempt from the like casual­ties; and the lover is, at lest, a gainer in regard to those pleasures, which constitute no small part of the happiness of life.

[Page 49] Besides, even love itself will greatly diminish the sense of their misfortunes. For love has the peculiar property of alleviating the sufferings of two fond hearts, and of rendering their pleasures more exquisite. By this communication of dis­tress, they seem to divide its weight: and, on the contrary, by participation their satisfaction is doubled. As a squadron of horse is with greater difficulty broke thro' by the enemy, in propor­tion to its closeness: so the happy pair resists the attacks of adversity with so much the more strength and success, as they are more closely unit­ed.

CHAP. XIII. Story of LA ROCHE.

MORE than forty years ago, an English phi­losopher, whose works have since been read and admired by all Europe, resided at a little town in France. Some disappointments in his native country had first driven him abroad, and he was afterward induced to remain there, from having found, in his retreat, where the connections even of nation and language were avoided, a perfect seclusion and retirement, highly favourable to the developement of abstract subjects, in which he excelled all the writers of his time.

2. Perhaps in the structure of such a mind, the finer and more delicate sensibilities are seldom [Page 50] known to have place, or, if originally implanted there, are in a great measure extinguished by the exertions of intense study and profound investi­gations. Hence the idea of philosophy and un­feelingness being united, has become proverbial, and in common language, the former word is of­ten used to express the latter. Our philosopher has been censured by some, as deficient in warmth and feeling; but the mildness of his manners has been allowed by all▪ and it is certain that if he was not easily melted [...] compassion, it was, at lest, not difficult to awaken his benevolence.

3. One morning. while he [...]at busied in those speculations which afterwards astonished the world, an old female domestic, who served him for a housekeeper, brought him word, that an el­derly gentleman and his daughter had arrived at the village, the preceding evening, on their way to some distant country, and that the father had been suddenly siezed in the night with a dan­gerous disorder, which the people of the inn, where they lodged, feared would prove mortal: That she had been sent for, as having some knowledge of medicine, the village surgeon being then absent; and that it was truly piteous to see the good old man, who seemed not so much af­fected by his own distress, as by that which it caused to his daughter.

4. Her master laid aside the volume in his hand, and broke off the chain of ideas it had in­spired. His night-gown was exchanged for a coat and he followed his gouvernan [...]e to the [...]ick man's apartment. It was the best in the little [Page 51] inn where they lay, but a pal [...]ry one notwith­standing. Our philosopher was obliged to stoop as he entered it. It was floored with earth, and above were the [...] not plastered, and hung with cobwebs.

5. On a shock-bed, at one end, lay the old man whom he came to visit; at the foot of it sat his daughter. She was dressed in a clean white bed-gown; her dark locks hung loosely over it as she bent forward, watching the languid looks of her father. The philosopher and his house­keeper had stood some moments in the room without the young lady's being sensible of their entering it.

6. Mademoiselle! said the old woman at last, in a soft tone. She turned, and showed one of the finest faces in the world. It was touched not spoiled with sorrow; and when she perceiv­ed a stranger, whom the old woman now intro­duced to her, a blush at first, and then the gentle ceremonial of native politeness, which the afflic­tion of the time tempered, but did not extinguish, crossed it for a moment and changed its expressi­on. It was sweetness all, however, and our philosopher felt it strongly.

7. It was not a time for words; he offered his services in a few sincere ones. "Monsieur lies miserably ill here," said the gouvernante; "If he could possibly be moved any where." "If he could be moved to our house," said her master. He had a spare bed for a friend, and there was a great room unoccupied next to the gouvernante's. It was contrived accordingly.

[Page 52] 8. The scruples of the stranger, who could look scruples, tho' he could not speak them, were overcome, and the bashful reluctance of his daughter gave way to her belief of its use to her father. The sick man was wrapt in blankets and carried across the street to the English gen­tleman's. The old woman helped the daughter to nurse him there. The surgeon, who arrived soon after, prescribed a little and nature did much for him; in a week he was able to thank his be­nefactor.

9. By that time his host had learned the name and character of his guest. He was a protestant and clergyman of Switzerland, called La Roche, a widower, who had lately buried his wife, after a long and lingering illness, for which travelling had been prescribed; and was now returning home, after an ineffectual journey, with his only child, the daughter we have mentioned.

10. He was a devout man, as became his pro­fession. He possessed devotion in all its warmth, but with none of its asperity; I mean that asperi­ty which men, who are called devout, sometimes indulge. The philosopher, tho' he felt no devo­tion, never quarrelled with it in others. His gou­vernante joined the old man and his daughter, in the prayers and thanksgivings which they put up on his recovery; for she too was a heretic, in the phrase of the village.

11. The philosopher walked out with his long staff and his dog, and left them to their prayers and thanksgivings. "My master," said the old woman, "alas! he is not a christian; but he is [Page 53] the best of unbelievers."—Not a christian! ex­claimed Mademoiselle La Roche, "yet he saved my father! Heaven bless him for it; I would he were a christian."

12. "There is a pride in human knowledge, my child," said her father, "which often blinds men to the sublime truths of revelation; hence there are opposers of christianity amongmen of virtuous lives, as well as among those of dissipated and licentious characters, Nay, sometimes I have known the latter more easily converted to the true faith than the former, because the fume of passion is more easily dissipated than the mist of false theory and delusive speculation." "But this philosopher" [...]aid his daughter, "alas! my father, he shall be a christian before he dies."

13. She was interrupted by the arrival of their landlord—He took her hand with an air of kind­ness—She drew it away from him in silence; threw down her eyes to the ground and left the room. "I have been thanking God," said the good La Roche, "for my recovery." "That is right," replied his landlord. "I should not wish," continued the old man, hesitatingly, "to think-otherwise; did I not look up with grati­tude to that Being, I should barely be satisfied with my recovery, as a continuation of life which, it may be, is not a real good. Alas! I may live to wish I had died, that you had left me to die, Sir, instead of kindly relieving me (he clasped the philosopher's hand); but when I look on this renovated being as the gift of the Almighty, I feel a far different sentiment—my heart dilates [Page 54] with gratitude and love to him; it is prepared for doing his will, not as a duty, but as a plea­sure, and regards every breach of it, not with dis­approbation, but with horror."

14. "You say right, my dear Sir," replied the Philosopher; "but you are not yet re-estab­lished enough to talk much—you must take care of your health, and neither study nor preach for some time. I have been thinking over a scheme that struck me to day, when you mentioned your intended departure. I was never is Switzerland; I have a great mind to accompany your daugh­ter and you into that country. I will help to take care of you by the road; for, as I was your first physician, I hold myself responsible for your cure."

15. La Roche's eyes glistened at the proposal; his daughter was called and told of it. She was equally pleased with her father; for they really loved their landlord—not perhaps the less for his infidelity; at lest that circumstance mixed a sort of pity with their regard for him—their souls were not of a mould for harsher feelings—hatred never dwelt with them.

16. They travelled by short stages; for the philosopher was as good as his word, in taking care that the old man should not be fatigued. The party had time to be well acquainted with one another, and their friendship was encreased by acquaintance. La Roche found a degree of simplicity and gentleness in his companion, which is not always annexed to the character of a learn­ed or a wise man.

[Page 55] 17. His daughter, who was prepared to be afraid of him, was equally undeceived. She found in him nothing of that self-importance which su­perior parts, or great cultivation of them is apt to confer. He talked of every thing but philoso­phy and religion; he seemed to enjoy every plea­sure and amusement of ordinary life, and to be interested in the most common topics of dis­course; when his knowledge or learning at any time appeared, it was delivered with the utmost plainness and without the lest show of dogma▪ ­tism.

18. On his part, he was charmed with the so­ciety of the good clergyman and his lovely daughter. He found in the [...] the guileless man­ner of the earliest times, with the culture and ac­complishments of the most refined ones. Every better feeling, warm and vivid; every ungentle one, repressed or overcome. He was not ad­dicted [...]o love; but he felt himself happy, in be­ing the friend of Mademoiselle La Roche, and sometimes envied her father the possession of such a child.

19. After a journey of eleven days, they ar­rived at the dwelling of La Roche. It was situa­ted in one of those valleys in the canton of Berne, where nature seems to repose in quiet, and has en­closed [...]her retreat with mountains inaccessible. A strea [...] that spent its fury in the hills above, ran in [...]ont of the house, and a broken water-fall was seen through the woods that covered its sides; below, it circled round a tufted plain, and form­ed a little lake in front of a village, at the end of [Page 56] which appeared the spire of La Roche's church, rising above a clump of beeches.

20. The philosopher enjoyed the beauty of the scene; but to his companions it recalled the memory of a wife and parent they had lost. The old man's sorrow was silent; his daughter sobb'd and wept. Her father took her hand, kissed it twice, pressed it to his bosom, threw up his eyes to heaven; and having wiped off a tear that was just about to drop from each, began to point out to his guest some of the most striking objects which the prospect afforded. The philosopher interpreted all this; and he could but slightly censure the creed from which it arose.

21. They had not been long arrived, when a number of La Roche's parishioners, who had heard of his return, came to the house to see and wel­come him. The honest folks were awkward, but sincere, in their professions of friendship. They made some attempts at condolence; it was too delicate for their handling; but La Roche took it in good part. "It had pleased God;" said he and they saw he had settled the matter with him­self. Philosohpy could not have done so much with a thousand words.

22. It was now evening, and the good peasants were about to depart, when a clock was heard to strike seven, and the hour was followed by a par­ticular chime. The country folks, who came to welcome their pastor, turned their looks towards him at the sound; he explained their meaning to his guest. "That is the signal," said he, "for our evening exercise; this is one of the nights of [Page 57] the nights of the week in which some [...] pa­rishioners are wont to join in it; a little rustic saloon serves for the chapel of our family, and such of the good people as are with us; if you choose rather to walk out, I will furnish you with an attendant; or here are a few old books which may afford you some entertainment within.

23. "By no means," answered the philoso­pher; "I will attend Madamoiselle at her de­votions." "She is our organist," said La Roche; "our neighbourhood is the country of musical mechanism, and I have a small organ, fitted up for the purpose of assisting our singing." "'Tis an additional inducement," replied the other, and they walked into the room together.

24. At the end stood the organ mentioned by La Roche; before it was a curtain, which his daughter drew aside, and placing herself on a seat within, and drawing the curtain close, so as to save her the awkwardness of an exhibition, began a voluntary, solemn and beautiful in the highest degree. The philosopher was no musician, but he was not altogether insensible to music; this fastened on his mind more strongly, from its beauty being unexpected.

25. The solemn prelude introduced a hymn, in which such of the audience as could sing im­mediately joined; the words were mostly taken from holy writ; it spoke the praises of God and his care of good men. Something was said of the death of the just; of such as die in the Lord. The organ was touched with a hand, less firm;—it paused;—it ceased;—and the sobbing of Ma­demoiselle was heard in its stead.

[Page 58] 26. Her father gave a sign for stopping the psalmody, and rose to prayer. He was discom­posed at first and his voice faltered as he spoke; but his heart was in his words, and its warmth overcame his embarrassment. He addressed a Being whom he loved, and he spoke for those he loved. His parishioners catched the ardour of the good old man; even the philosopher felt him­self moved, and forgat, for a moment, to think why he should not.

27. La Roche's religion was that of sentiment, not theory, and his guest was averse from dispu­tation; their discourse did not therefore lead to questions concerning the belief of either; yet would the old man sometimes speak of his, from the feelings of a heart impressed with its force and wishing to spread the pleasure he enjoyed in it. The ideas of his God, and his Saviour were so congenial to his mind, that every emotion of it naturally awakened them. A philosopher might have called him an enthusiast; but if he possessed the fervour of enthusiasts, he was guilt­less of their bigotry. "Our Father who art in heaven!" might the good old man say—for he felt it—and all mankind were his brethren.

28. "You regret, my friend," said he to the philosopher, "when my daughter and I talk of the exquisite pleasure derived from music; you regret your want of musical powers and musical feelings; it is a department of soul, you say, which nature has almost denied you, which, from the effects you see it have on others, you are sure must be highly delightful. Why should not the [Page 59] same thing be said of religion? Trust me, I feel it in the same way, an energy, an inspiration, which I would not lose for all the blessings of sense, or enjoyments of the world; yet so far from lessening my relish of the pleasures of life, that I feel it heightens them all."

29. "The thought of receiving it from God, adds the blessing of sentiment to that of [...]ensation in every good thing which I possess; and when calamities overtake me, and I have had my share, it confers such a dignity on my affliction, and so lifts me above the world. Man, I know is but a worm, yet methinks I am then allied to God!" It would have been inhuman in our philosopher to cloud, even with a doubt, the sunshine of his belief.

30. His discourse, indeed, was very remote from [...] disquisition or religious con­troversy. [...] I ever knew, his ordinary conversation was the lest tinctured with pedantry, or liable to dissertation. With La Roche and his daughter, it was perfectly familiar.

31. The country round them, the manners of the village, [...] comparison of both with those of England, [...] on the works of favourite au­thors, on the sentiments they conveyed and the passions they excited, with many other topics in which there was an equality, or alternate advan­tage, among the speakers, were the subjects they talked on.

32. Their hours too of riding and walking were many, in which the philosopher, as a stranger, was shown the remarkable scenes and curiosities of the [Page 60] country. They would sometimes make little ex­peditions to contemplate, in different attitudes, those astonishing mountains, the cliffs of which, covered with eternal snows, and sometimes shoot­ing into fantastic shapes, form the termination of most of the Swiss prospects.

33. Our philosopher asked many questions, as to their natural history and productions. La Roche observed the sublimity of the ideas which the view of their stupendous summits, inaccessi­ble to mortal foot, was calculated to inspire, which, said he, naturally leads the mind to that Being by whom their foundations were laid,—"They are not seen in Flanders!" said Mada­moiselle with a sigh. "That is an odd remark," said the philosopher, smiling.—She blushed and he enquired no farther. ^*

34. It was with regret he left a society in which he found himself so happy; but [...] settled with La Roche and his daughter a plan of correspond­ence: and they took his promise, that, if ever he came within fifty leagues of their dwelling, he would travel those fifty leagues to visit them.

35. About three years after, our philosopher was on a visit at Geneva; the [...] he made to La Roche and his daughter, on his former vi­sit, was recalled to his mind, by the view of that range of mountains, on a part of which they had often looked together. There was a reproach too, [Page 61] conveyed along with the recollection, for his hav­ing failed to write to either of them for several months past. The truth was, that indolence was the habit most natural to him, from which he was not easily roused by the claims of correspondence, either of his friends or his enemies; when the latter drew their pens in controversy, they were often answered as well as the former.

36. While he was hesitating about a visit to La Roche, which he wished to make, but found the effort rather too much for him, he received a let­ter from the old man, which had been forwarded to him from Paris, where he had then fixed his residence. It contained a gentle complaint of the Philosopher's want of punctuality, but an as­surance of continued gratitude for his former good offices, and, as a friend whom the writer considered interested in his family, it informed him of the approaching nuptials of Mademoiselle La Roche, with a young man, a relation of her own and formerly a pupil of her father's, of the most noble dispositions and respectable character.

37. Attached from their earliest years, they had been separated by his joining one of the subsidiary regiments of the Canton, then in the service of a foreign power. In this situation, he had distin­guished himself as much for courage and military skill, as for the other endowments which he had cultivated at home. The term of his service was now expired and they expected him to re­turn in a few weeks, when the old man hoped, as he expressed it in his letter, to join their hands and see them happy before he died.

[Page 62] 38. Our philosopher felt himself interested in this event; but he was not, perhaps, altogether so happy in the tidings of Mademoiselle La Roche's marriage, as her father supposed him. Not that he ever was a lover of the Lady; but he thought her one of the most amiable women he had seen, and there was something in the idea of her being another's for ever, that struck him, he knew not why, like a disappointment. After some little speculation on the matter, however, he could look on it as a thing fitting, if not quite agreeable, and determined on his visit to see his old friend and his daughter happy.

39. On the last day of his journey, different ac­cidents had retarded his progress; he was be­nighted before he reached the quarter in which La Roche resided. His guide however, was well acquainted with the road and he found himself in view of the lake, which I have before described, in the neighbourhood of La Roche's dwelling. A light gleamed on the water, that seemed to proceed from the house; it moved slowly along as he proceeded up the side of the lake and at last he saw it glimmering through the trees and stop at some distance from the place where he then was.

40. He supposed it some piece of bridal merri­ment, and pushed on his horse that he might be a spectator of the scene; but he was a good deal shocked, on approaching the spot, to find it pro­ceeded from the torch of a person clothed in the dress of an attendant on a funeral, and accompa­nied by several others, who like him, seemed to [Page 63] have been employed in the rites of sepulture.

41. On the philosopher's making enquiry who was the person they had been burying? one of them, with an accent more mournful than is common to their profession, answered, "Then you knew not Mademoiselle, Sir! you never beheld a lovlier." La Roche!" exclaimed he in reply"—"Alas it was she indeed!" The ap­pearance of grief and surprise which his counte­nance assumed, attracted the notice of the pea­sant with whom he talked.

42. He came up close to the philosopher—"I preceive, Sir, you were acquainted with Ma­demoiselle La Roche." "Acquainted with her: Good God! when—how—where did she die? Where is her father." "She died, Sir, of heart­break, I believe; the young gentleman to whom she was soon to be married, was killed, in a duel by a French Officer, his intimate companion, and to whom, before their quarrel, he had often done the greatest favours▪"

43. "Her worthy father bears her death, as he has often told us a Christian should; he is even so composed as to be now in his pulpit, ready to deliver a few exhortations to his parishioners, as is his custom with us on such occasions. Follow me, Sir, and you shall hear him." He followed the man without answering.

44. The Church was dimly lighted, except near the pulpit, where the venerable La Roche was seated. His people were now lifting up their voices to that being whom their pastor had taught them ever to bless and revere. La Roche sat, his figure bending gently forward, his eyes half-closed [Page 64] lifted up in silent devotion. A lamp pla­ced near him, threw its light strongly on his head and marked the shadowy lines of his age across the paleness of his brow, thinly covered with grey hairs.

45. The music ceased,— La Roche sat for a moment and nature wrung a few tears from him. His people were loud in their grief. The philo­sopher was not less affected then they. La Roche arose. "Father of mercies" I said he, "forgive these tears; assist thy servant to lift up his soul to thee; to lift to thee the souls of thy people! My friends! it is good so to do; at all seasons it is good; but in the days of our distress, what a pri­vilege it is! Well [...]aith the sacred book, "Trust in the Lord; at all times trust in the Lord." When every other support fails us, when the fountains of worldly comfort are dried up, let us then seek those living waters which flow from the throne of God. It is only from the belief of the goodness and wisdom of a supreme Being that our calamities can be borne in the manner which becomes a man."

46. "Human wisdom is here of little use; for in proportion as it bestows comfort, it represses feeling, without which we may cease to be hurt by calamity, but we shall also cease to enjoy happi­ness. I will not bid you be insensible, my friends! I cannot, I cannot, if I would (his tears flowed afresh) I feel too much myself, and I am not a­shamed of my feelings; but therefore, may I the more willingly be heard; therefore have I prayed God to give me strength to speak to you; [Page 65] to direct you to him, not with empty words, but with these tears; not from speculation, but from experience,—that while you see me suffer, you may know also my consolation."

47. "You behold the mourner of his only child, the last earthly stay and blessing of his de­clining years! Such a child too! it becomes not me to speak of her virtues; yet it is but grate­ful to mention them, because they were exerted towards myself. Not many days ago you saw her young, beautiful, virtuous, and happy; ye who are parents will judge of my felicity then, you will judge of my afflictions now. But I look to­wards him who struck me; I see the hand of a father amidst the chastenings of my God."

48. "Oh! could I make you feel what it is to pour out the heart, when it is pressed down with many sorrows, to pour i [...] out with confidence to him, in whose hands are life and death, on whose power awaits all that the first enjoys, and in con­templation of whom disappears all that the last can inflict! For we are not as those who die with­out hope; we know that our redeemer liveth,—that we shall live with him, with our friends his servants, in that blessed land where sorrow is un­known, and happiness as endless as it is perfect."

49. "Go then, mourn not for me; I have not lost my child: but a little while and we shall meet again, never to be separated. But ye are also my children: Would ye that I should not grieve without comfort? So live as she lived; that when your death shall come, it may be the death of the righteous, and your latter end like his."

[Page 66] 50. Such was the exortation of La Roche; his audience answered it with tears. The good old man had dried up his at the altar of the Lord; his countenance had lost its sadness and assumed the glow of faith and hope. The philosopher followed him into his house. The inspir [...]tion of the pulpit was past; the scenes, they had last met in, rushed again on his mind; La Roche threw his arms around his neck and watered it with his tears. The other was equally affected; they went together in silence into the parlour, where the evening service was wont to be performed.

51. The curtains of the organ were open; La Roche started back at the sight.—"Oh my friend," said he and his tears burst forth again. The philosopher had now recollected himself; he stept forward and drew the curtain close—the old man wiped off his tears and taking his friend by the hand, "You see my weakness," and he, " [...] the weakness of humanity; but my comfort is not therefore lost." "I heard you," said the other, "in the pulpit; I rejoice that such consolation is yours." It is my friend," said he, "and I trust I shall ever hold it fast; if there are any who doubt our faith, let them think of what impor­tance religion is to calamity and forbear to weak­en its force; if they cannot restore our happi­ness let them not take away the solace of our af­fliction."

52. The philosopher's heart was smitten: and I have heard him, long after, confess, that these were moments when the remembrance overcame him even to weakness; when, amidst all the [Page 67] pleasures of philosophical discovery, and the pride of literary fame, he called to his mind the venerable figure of the good La Roche and wished that he had never doubted.

CHAP. XIV. Story of Sir EDWARD and LOUISA.

IF we examine impartially that estimate of plea­sure, which the higher ranks of society [...] to form, we shall probably be surprised to find how little there is in it, either of natural feeling or real satisfaction. Many a fashionable volup­tuary, who has not totally blunted his taste or his judgement, will own, in the intervals of recol­lection, how often he has suffered from the insipi­dity or the pain of his enjoyments; and that, if it were not for the fear of being laughed at, it would sometimes be worth while, even on the score of pleasure, to be virtuous.

2. Sir Edward, to whom I had the pleasure of being introduced at Florence, was a character much beyond that which distinguishes the gene­rality of English travellers of fortune.

His story was known to some of his country­men who then resided in Italy; from one of whom, who could now and then talk of something besides pictures and operas, I had a particular recital of it.

3. He had been abroad at an early period of [Page 68] life, soon after the death of his father had left him master of a very large estate, which he had the good fortune to inherit, and all the inclinati­on natural to youth to enjoy. Though always sumptuous, however, and sometimes profuse, he was observed never to be ridiculous in his ex­penses; and though he was now and then talk­ed of as a man of pleasure and dissipation, he al­ways left behind him more instances of benefi­cence, than of irregularity.

4. For that respect and esteem in which his character, amidst all his little errors, was general­ly held, he was supposed a good deal indebted to the society of a gentleman who had been his companion at the university, and now attended him rather as a friend than a tutor. This gentle­man was unfortunately seized at Marseilles with a lingering disorder, for which he was under the necessity of taking a sea-voyage, leaving Sir Ed­ward to prosecute the remaining part of his in­tended tour alone.

5. Descending into one of their valleys of Piedmont, where notwithstanding the ruggedness of the road, Sir Edward, with a prejudice natu­ral to his country, preferred the conveyance of an English hunter to that of an Italian mule, his horse unluckily made of false step and fell with his rider to the ground, from which Sir Edward was lifted by his servants with scarce any signs of life. They conveyed him on a litter to the nearest house, which happened to be the dwelling of a peasant rather above the common rank, before whose door some of his neighbours were assem­bled [Page 69] at a scene of rural merriment, when the train of Sir Edward brought up their master in the condition I have described.

6. The compassion, natural to his situation, was excited in all; but the owner of the mansion, whose name was Venoni, was particularly moved with it. He applied himself immediately to the care of the stranger, and with the assistance of his daughter, who had left the dance she was engag­ed in, with great marks of agitation, soon restor­ed Sir Edward to sense and life.

7. Venoni possessed some little skill in surgery and his daughter produced a book of receipts in medicine. Sir Edward, after being blooded, was put to bed and tended with every possible care by his host and his family. A considerable degree of fever was the consequence of his acci­dent; but after some days it abated: and in lit­tle more than a week, he was able to join in the society of Venoni and his daughter.

8. He could not help expressing some surprise at the appearance of refinement in the conversati­on of the latter, much beyond what her situation seemed likely to confer. Her father accounted for it. She had received her education in the house of a Lady, who happened to pass through the valley, and to take shelter in Venoni's cottage (for his house was but a better sort of cottage) the night after her birth.

9. "When her mother died," said he, "the Signora, whose name, at her desire, we had given the child, took her home to her own house; there she was taught many things of which there is no [Page 70] need here; yet she is not so proud of her learn­ing as to wish to leave her father in his old age; and I hope soon to have her settled near me [...]or life."

10. But Sir Edward had now an opportunity of knowing Louisa better than from the descripti­on of her father. Music and painting, in both which arts she was a tolerable proficient, Sir Edward had studied with success. Louisa felt a sort of pleasure from her drawings, which they had never given her before, when they were praised by Sir Edward; and the family concerts of Venoni were very different from what they had formerly been, when once his guest was so far re­covered as to be able to join in them. The flute of Venoni excelled all the other music of the val­ley; his daughter's lute was much beyond it; Sir Edward's violin was finer than either.

11. But his conversation with Louisa—It was that of a superior order of beings! science, taste, sentiment! it was long since Louisa had heard these sounds; amidst the ignorance of the valley, it was luxury to hear them; from Sir Edward, who was one of the most engaging figures I ever saw, they were doubly delightful. In his coun­tenance there was always an expression animated and interesting; his sickness had overcome some­what of the first, but greatly added to the power of the latter.

12. Louisa's was no less captivating and Sir Ed­ward had not beheld it so long without emotion. During his illness, he thought this emotion but gra­titude, and when it first grew warmer, he checked [Page 71] it, from the thought of her situation and of the debt he owed her. But the struggle was too ineffectu­al to overcome, and of consequence increased, his passion.

13. There was but one way in which the pride of Sir Edward allowed of its being gratified. He sometimes thought of this as base and unworthy; but he was the fool of words which he had often despised, the slave of manners which he had of­ten condemned. He at last compromised mat­ters with himself; he resolved, it he could, to think no more of Louisa: at any rate, to think no more of the ties of gratitude or the restraints of virtue.

14. Louisa, who trusted to both, now commu­nicated to Sir E dward an important secret. It was at the close of a piece of music, which they had been playing in the absence of her father. She took up her lute and touched a little wild melancholy air, which she had composed to the memory of her mother. "That," said she, "no­body ever heard except my father; I play it some­times when I am alone and in low spirits. I know not how I came to think of it now; yet I have some reason to be sad."

15. Sir Edward pressed to know the cause; after some hesitation she told it all. Her father had fixed on the son of a neighbour, rich in pos­sessions, but rude in manners, for her husband. Against this match she had always protested as strongly, as a sense of duty and the mildness of her nature would allow; but Venoni was obstinately bent on the match, and she was wretched from the [Page 72] thoughts of it. "To marry where one cannot love,—to marry such a man, Sir Edward!" It was an opportunity beyond his power of resistance. Sir Edward pressed her hand; said it would be profanation to think of such a marriage; prais­ed her beauty, extolled her virtues; and con­cluded by swearing that he adored her.

16. She heard him with unsuspecting pleasure, which her blushes could ill conceal. Sir Edward improved the favourable moment; talked of the ardency of his passion, the insignificancy of cere­monies and forms, the inefficacy of legal engage­ments, the eternal duration of those dictated by love; and in fine, urged her going off with him, to crown both their days with happiness. Louisa started at the proposal. She would have reproach­ed him, but her heart was not made for it; she could only weep.

17. They were interrupted by the arrival of her father with his intended son-in-law. He was just such a man as Louisa had represented him, coarse, vulgar and ignorant. But Venoni, tho' much above their neighbour in every thing but riches, looked on him as poorer men often look on the wealthy, and discovered none of his im­perfections. He took his daughter aside, told her he had brought her future husband, and that he intended they should be married in a week at farthest.

18. Next morning Louisa was indisposed, and kept her chamber. Sir Edward was now per­fectly recovered. He was engaged to go out with Venoni; but before his departure, he took [Page 73] up his violin and touched a few plaintive notes on it. They were heard by Louisa.

19. In the evening she wandered forth to in­dulge her sorrows alone. She had reached a se­questered spot, where some poplars formed a thicket, on the banks of a little stream that wa­tered the valley. A nightingale was perched on one of them and had already begun its accustom­ed song. Louisa sat down on a withered stump, leaning her cheek upon her hand.

20. After a little while, the bird was scared from its perch, and flitted from the thicket. Lou­isa rose from the ground and burst into tears! She turned, and beheld Sir Edward. His coun­tenance had much of its former langour; and when he took her hand, he cast on the earth a melancholy look and seemed unable to speak his feelings.

21. "Are you not well Sir Edward?" said Louisa, with a voice faint and broken. "I am ill indeed" said he, "but my illness is of the mind. Louisa cannot cure me of that. I am wretched; but I deserve to be so. I have broken every law of hospitality and every obligation of gratitude. I have dared to wish for happiness and to speak what I wished, though it wound­ed the heart of my dearest benefactor—but [...] will make a severe expiation."

22. "This moment I leave you, Louisa! I go to be wretched; but you may be happy; happy in your duty to a father, happy, it may be, in the arms of a husband, whom the possession of such a wise may teach refinement and sensibility. I [Page 74] go to my native country, to hurry through scenes of irksome business or tasteless amusements; that I may, if possible, procure a sort of half-oblivion of that happiness which I left behind, a listless en­durance of that life which I once dreamed might be made delightful with Louisa."

23. Tears▪ were the only answer she could give. Sir Edward's servants appeared, with a carriage, ready for his departure. He took from his pocket two pictures; one he had drawn of Louisa, he fastened it round his neck, and kissing it with rapture, hid it in his bosom. The other he held out in a hesitating manner. "This," said he, "if Louisa will accept of it, may some­times put her in mind of him who once offended, who can never cease to adore her. She may look on it perhaps after the original is no more; when this heart shall have forgot to love and ceased to be wretched."

24. Louisa was at last overcome. Her face was first pale as death; then suddenly, it was crossed with a crimson blush. "Oh! Sir Edward!" said she, "what—what would you have me do!" He eagerly seized her hand and led her, reluctant, to the carriage. They entered it and driving off with furious speed, were soon out of sight of those hills which pastured the flocks of the unfortunate Venoni.

25. The virtue of Louisa was vanquished; but her sense of virtue was not overcome. Nei­ther the vows of eternal fidelity of her seducer, nor the constant and respectful attention, which he paid her, during a hurried, journey to England, could [Page 75] allay that anguish which she suffered at the recol­lection of her past, and the thoughts of her pre­sent situation. Sir Edward felt strongly the pow­er of her beauty and of her grief. His heart was not made for that part which, it is probable, he thought it could have performed [...] it was still sub­ject to remorse, to compassion and to love.

26. These emotions perhaps, he might soon have overcome, had they been met by vulgar vi­olence or reproaches; but the quiet and up­braiding sorrows of Louisa nourished those feel­ings of tenderness and attachment. She never mentioned her wrongs in words; sometimes a few starting tears would speak them; and when time had given her a little more composure, her lute discoursed melancholy music.

27. On their arrival in England, Sir Edward carried Louisa to his seat in the country. There she was treated with all the observance of a wife; and, had she chosen it, might have commanded more than the ordinary splendor of one. But she would not allow the indulgence of Sir Edward to blazen with equipage, and show that state which she wished always to hide, and, if possible, to for­get. Her books and her music were her only pleasure; if pleasure they could be called, that served but to alleviate misery, and, to blunt, for a while, the pangs of contrition.

28. These were deeply aggravated by the recol­lection of her father; a father left in his age to feel his own misfortunes and his daughter's disgrace. Sir Edward was too generous not to think of pro­viding for Venoni. He meant to make some atone­ment [Page 76] for the injury he had done him, by that cruel bounty which is reparation only to the base, but to the honest, is insult. He had not, howe­ver, an opportunity of accomplishing his pur­pose.

29. He learned that Venoni, soon after his daughter's elopement, removed from his former place of residence, and as his neighbours had reported, had died in one of the village of Savoy. His daughter felt this with anguish the most poignant, and her affliction, for a while, refused consolation. Sir Edward's whole tenderness and attention were called forth to mitigate her grief; and after its first transports had subsided, he car­ried her to London in hopes that objects new to her and commonly attractive to all, might con­tribute to remove it.

30. With a man possessed of feelings like Sir Edward's, the affliction of Louisa gave a certain respect to his attentions. He hired her a house separate from his own, and treated her with all the delicacy of the purest attachment. But his solicitude to comfort and amuse her was not at­tended with success. She felt all the horrors of that guilt which she now considered, as not only the ruin of herself, but the murderer of her father.

31. In London Sir Edward found his sister, who had married a man of great fortune and high fashion. He had married her, because she was a fine woman, and admired by fine men; she had married him, because he was the wealthi­est of her suitors. They lived, as is common to [Page 77] people in such a situation, necessitous with a princely revenue, and very wretched amidst per­petual gaiety.

32. This scene was so foreign from the idea Sir Edward had formed of the reception which his country and his friends were to afford him, that he found a constant source of disgust in the society of his equals. In their conversation fan­tastic, not refined, their ideas were frivolous and their knowledge, shallow; and with all the pride of birth and insolence of station, their principles were mean and their minds ignoble. In their pretended attachments, he discovered only de­signs of selfishness; and their pleasures, he ex­perienced, were as fallacious as their friendships.

33. In the society of Louisa he found sensibi­lity and truth; hers was the only heart that seemed interested in his welfare: she saw the re­turn of virtue in Sir Edward, and felt the friend­ship which he shewed her. Sometimes, when she perceived him sorrowful, her lute would leave its melancholy for more lively airs, and her coun­tenance assumed a gaiety it was not formed to wear. But her heart was breaking with that anguish which her generosity endeavoured to conceal from him; her frame, too delicate for the struggle of her feelings, seemed to yield to their force; the colour faded in her cheek, the lustre of her eyes grew dim.

34. Sir Edward saw these symptoms of decay with the deepest remorse. Often did he curse those false ideas of pleasure, which had led him to consider the ruin of an artless girl, who loved [Page 78] and trusted him, as an object which it was luxury to attain. Often did he wish to blot out from his life a few guilty months, to be again restored to an opportunity of giving happiness to that family, whose unsuspecting kindness he had re­paid with the treachery of a robber, and the cru­elty of an assassin.

35. One evening, while he sat in a little parlour with Louisa, his mind alternately agitated and softened with this impression, a hand-organ of a remarkable sweet tone, was heard in the street; Louisa laid aside her lute and listened: the airs it played were those of her native country, and a few tears which she endeavoured to hide, stole from her on hearing them. Sir Edward ordered a servant to fetch the organist into the room: he was brought in accordingly and seated at the door of the apartment.

36. He played one or two sprightly tunes, to which Louisa had often danced in her infancy: she gave herself up to the recollection, and her tears flowed without control. Suddenly the mu­sician changing the stop, introduced a little me­lancholy air of a wild and plaintive kind. Louisa started from her seat and rushed up to the strang­er.—He threw off a tattered and black patch. It was her father! she would have sprung to em­brace him; he turned aside for a few moments and would not receive her into his arms. But nature at last overcame his resentment; he burst into tears and pressed to his bosom his long-lost daughter.

37. Sir Edward stood fixed in astonishment [Page 79] and confusion.—"I come not to upbraid you," said Venoni; "I am a poor, weak, old man, un­able for upbraidings; I am come but to find my child, to forgive her, and to die! When you saw us first, Sir Edward, we were not thus. You found us virtuous and happy; we danced and we sung, and there was not a sad heart in the valley where we dwelt. Yet we left our dancing, our songs and our cheerfulness; you were distressed and we pitied you."

38. "Since that day the pipe has never been heard in Venoni's fields; grief and sickness have brought him almost to the grave; and his neigh­bours who loved and pitied him, have been cheerful no more. Yet methinks though you robbed us of happiness, you are not happy;—else why that dejected look, which, amidst all the grandeur around you, I saw you wear, and those tears which under all the gaudiness of her apparel, I saw that poor deluded girl shed?"

39. "But she shall shed no more," cried Sir Ed­ward; "you shall be happy and I will be just. For­give, my venerable friend, the injuries I have done you; forgive me, my Louisa, for rating your excel­lence at a price so mean. I have seen those high-born females to which my rank might have allied me; I am ashamed of their vices and sick of their fol­lies. Profligate in their hearts amidst affect [...] purity, they are slaves to pleasure, without [...] sincerity of passion and with the name of honour, are insensible to the feelings of virtue."

40. "You may Louisa! but I will not call up recollections that might render me less worthy of [Page 80] your future esteem—Continue to love your Ed­ward; but a few hours and you shall add the ti­tle, to the affections of a wife; let the care and ten­derness of a husband bring back its peace to your mind, and its bloom to your cheek. We will leave for a while the wonder and envy of the fa­shionable circle here. We will restore your fa­ther to his native home; under that roof I shall once more be happy; happy without alloy, because I shall deserve my happiness. Again shall the pipe and the dance gladden the valley, and inno­cence and peace beam on the Cottage of Venoni!"

CHAP. XV. EMILIUS, or Domestic Happiness.

THE government of a family depends on such various and opposite principles, that it is a matter of extreme delicacy. Perhaps there is no situation in life in which it is so difficult to be­have with propriety, as in the contest between pa­rental authority and parental love. This is un­doubtedly the reason why we see so few happy fa­milies. Few parents are both loved and respect­ed, because most of them are either the dupes or the tyrants of their children.

2. Some parents, either from a natural weak­ness of mind, or an excess of fondness, permit and even encourage their children in a thousand little familiarities, which render them ridiculous and by diminishing the respect which is due to their age and station, destroy all their authority. Others, ruled by a partial and blind affection, [Page 81] which can deny nothing to its object, indulge their children in all their romantic wishes, how­ever trifling and foolish; however degrading to their dignity or injurious to their welfare. Others, soured by misfortunes, or grown peevish and jealous by the loss of youthful pleasures, and an acquainta [...]ce with the deceit and the folly of the world, attempt to restrain the ideas and the en­joyments of youth by the rigid maxims of age.

3. The children of the first class often offend by silly manners and a kind of good-natured dis­respect. Those of the second, are generally proud, whimsical and vitious. Those of the third, if they are subdued, when young, by the rigour of parental discipline, forever remain morose illibe­ral and unsociable; or if, as it commonly hap­pens, they find means to escape from restraint, they abandon themselves to every [...]species of li­centiousness. To parents of these descriptions may be added another class, whose fondness blinds their eyes to the most glaring vices of their chil­dren; or invents such palliations as to prevent the most salutary corrections.

4. The taste for amusements in young people is, of all others, the most difficult to regulate by the maxims of prudence. In this article, pa­rents are apt to err, either by extreme indulgence on one hand or immoderate rigour on the other. Recollecting the feelings of their youth, they give unbounded licence to the inclinations of their children; or having lost all relish for amuse­ments, they refuse to gratify their most moderate desires.

[Page 82] 5. It is a maxim which universally holds true, that the best method of guarding youth from criminal pleasures, is to indulge them freely in those that are innocent. A person who has free access to reputeable society, will have little incli­nation to frequent that which is vitious. But those, who are kept under constant restraint, who are seldom indulged in amusements, who are per­petually awed by the frowns of a parent, or sour­ed by a disappointment of their most harmless wishes, will at times break over all bounds to gratify their taste for pleasure, and will not be anxious to discriminate between the innocent and the criminal.

6. Nothing contributes more to keep youth within the limits of decorum, than to have their superiors mingle in their company, at proper times, and participate of their amusements. This condescension flatters their pride; at the same time, that respect for age, which no familiarities can wholly efface, naturally checks the extrava­gant sallies of mirth, and the indelicate rudenesses which young people are apt to indulge in their jovial hours.

7. That awful distance at which some parents keep their children, and their abhorrence of all juvenile diversions, which compel youth to sa­crifice their most innocent desires, or veil the gra­tification of them with the most anxious secrecy, [...] direct a tendency to drive young persons into a profligate life, as the force of vitious ex­amples. It is impossible to give, to the age of twenty, the feelings or the knowledge of sixty; [Page 83] as it would be folly to wish to clothe a child with grey hairs, or to stamp the fading [...] autumn on the bloom of May. Nature has giv­en to every age some peculiar passions and ap­petites; to moderate and refine these, not to stifle and destroy, is the business of common pru­dence and parental care.

8. I was led into this train of reflections by an acquaintance with the family of Emilius, which is a rare instance of domestic felicity. Parents in­dulgent to their children, hospitable to their friends and universally respected; their sons equal­ly generous, modest and manly; Emilia, an on­ly daughter, the pride of her parents, possessed of every accomplishment that can honour herself, or endear her to her friends; an easy fortune and a disposition to enjoy and improve it to the purposes of humanity; perfect harmony in domestic life and unaffected satisfaction in the pleasures of so­ciety: Such is the family of Emilius.

9. Such a family is a little paradise on earth; to envy their happiness is almost a virtue. Con­jugal respect, parental tenderness, filial obedience and brotherly kindness are so seldom united, in a family, that when I am honoured with the friend­ship of such, I am equally ambitious to participate their happiness and profit by the example.

10. Emilia's situation must be peculiarly a­greeable. Her parents delight to gratify her in every amusement; and contented with this, she knows no wish beyond the sacred bounds of ho­nour. While, by their indulgence, she enjoys e­very rational pleasure, she rewards their generous [Page 84] care, by a dutiful behaviour and unblemished manners.

11. By thus discharging the reciprocal duties of their respective stations, the happiness of each is secured. The solicitude of the parent and the obedience of the child, equally contribute to the bliss of the little society; the one calling forth every act of tenderness, and the other displayed in [...]ll the filial virtues.

12. Few families are destined to be so happy as that of Emilius. Were I to choose the situa­tion where I could pass my life with most satis­faction, it would be in this domestic circle. My house would then be the residence of delight, unmingled with the anxieties of ambition or the regret of disappiontment. Every act would be dictated by love and respect; every countenance would wear the smile of complacence; and the little unavoidable troubles, incident to the hap­pi [...] situation, would only serve to increase our friendship and improve our felicity, by making room for the exercise of virtue.

CHAP. XVI. EMILIA, or the Happiness of Retirement.

AS I was conversing with Emilia, a few days past, I asked her whether she was content­ed to live so remote from the resort of company. She answered in the affirmative, and remarked further, that her situation enabled her to distin­guish between real friends and complimentary; [Page 85] for if she lived in a more public place, she might be visited by crouds of people, who were civil in­deed, but had no motive for calling on them, but to spend an idle hour and gaze at the busy multitude.

2. I was pleased with the remark, and was na­turally led to consider such a retired situation as a fortunate circumstance for a young Lady of delicacy. Not only the happiness of a family, but the character of young women, both in a mo­ral and social view, depends on a choice of pro­per company. But this is not all. The frequen­cy of company, especially if it furnishes a variety of new objects, has a pernicious effect on the dis­positions of female minds.

3. Women are destined by nature to preside over domestic affairs. Whatever parade they may make abroad, their real merit and real char­acters are known only at home. The behaviour of servants, the neatness of furniture, the order of a table and the regularity of domestic business, are the decisive evidences of female worth. Per­haps sweetness of temper does not contribute more to the happiness of their partners and their families, than a proper attention to these articles.

4. For this reason, whatever has a tendency to divert the mind from these concerns and give them a turn for empty show, endless noise, and tasteless amusements, ought to be carefully avoid­ed by young Ladies, who wish for respect beyond the present moment. Misses, who are perpetu­ally surrounded with idle company, or even live in sight of it, though they may be fortunate e­nough to preserve their innocence, are still in [Page 86] hazard of contracting such a fondness for dissipa­tion and folly, as to unfit them for the superin­tendance of a family.

5. Such women, if they ever marry, must be unhappy themselves, or render their families so. To indulge their former taste for pleasure, they must necessarily neglect the duties of their station, and leave their families without a mistress; or if they attempt to discharge those duties, it must be at the expense of their prevailing desires—a sacrifice that must produce at lest a temporary disquietude in their own minds.

6. Another danger to which young women, possessed of personal charms, are exposed in pub­lic places, is the flattery and admiration of men. The good opinion of a fop will hardly flatter a woman of discernment; much less their ordinary compliments which are commonly without mean­ing. But the heart is often so disguised, that it is difficult at first to distinguish between a cox­comb and man of worth; or if it is easy for an accurate observer, yet there is great danger that vanity and inexperience will make young Ladies overlook the distinction.

7. Few minds are effectually secured against the attacks of flattery. It is a poison the more fatal, as it seizes human nature in its weakest part. In youth, when the passions are in full vi­gour and the judgement feeble, female minds are peculiarly liable to be corrupted by the conta­gious influence of pretty civilities and affected ad­miration.

8. With whatever scruples they may at first [Page 87] listen to the praises that are bestowed on their real or pretended charms, a constant strain of flatter­ing addresses, accompanied with obsequious com­plaisance, seldom fails of giving them too high an opinion of themselves. They are insensibly led to believe that they are possessed of virtues to which they are really strangers. This belief sa­tisfies them without attempting any further im­provement, and makes them to depend, for repu­tation in life, on good qualities, the fancied ex­istence of which begins and ends with the false­hood of customary compliments.

9. Such Ladies, before marriage, are usually vain, pert, affected and silly; and after marriage, haughty disappointed and peevish. The most perfect beauty must fade, and cease to command admiration; but in most instances, the nuptial hour puts a period to that excess of flattering at­tention, which is the happiness of giddy females. The longest term of admiration must be short; that which depends solely on personal attractions, is often momentary.

10. The more flattery is bestowed upon young Ladies, the less, in general, are they solicitous to acquire virtues which shall ensure respect when admiration shall cease. The more they are prais­ed in youth, the more they expect it in advanced life, when they have less charms to command it. Thus the excessive complaisance of admirers, which is extremely pleasing at sixteen, proves at forty, a source of mortification and discontent.

11. I would by no means insinuate that young Ladies ought to be kept total strangers to com­pany [Page 88] and to rational professions of esteem. It is in company only that they can acquaint themseves with mankind, acquire an easy address, and learn numberless little decor [...]ms which are essential and cannot be taught by precept. Without these, a woman will sometimes deviate from that dig­nity and propriety of conduct, which, in any situ­ation will secure the good-will of her friends, and prevent the blushes of her husband.

12. A fondness for company and amusement is blameable only when it is indulged to excess, and permitted to absorb more important concerns. Nor is some degree of flattery always dangerous or useless. The good opinion of mankind we are all desirous to obtain; and to know that we possess it, often makes us ambitious to deserve it.

No passion is given to us in vain; the best ends are sometimes effected by the worst means; and even female vanity, properly managed, may prompt to the most meritorious actions.

13. I should pay Emilia but a very ill com­pliment to ascribe her virtues to her local situa­tion; for no person can claim as a virtue what she has been in no danger of losing. But there is no retirement beyond the reach of temptation, and the whole tenor of her conduct proves that her unblemished morals and uniform delicacy proceed from better principles than necessity or accident.

14. She is loved and flattered, but she is not vain; [...] company is universally coveted, and yet she has no airs of haughtiness and disdain. Her cheerfulness in company shews that she has [Page 89] a relish for society; her contentment at home and attention to domestic concerns, are early spe­cimens of her happy disposition; and her decent unaffected abhorrence of every species of licenti­ous behaviour, evinces, beyond suspicion, that the innocence of her heart is equal to the charms of her person.

CHAP. XVII. Character of JULIANA.

JULIANA is one of those rare women whose personal attractions have no rivals, but the sweetness of her temper and the delicacy of her sentiments. An elegant person, regular features, a fine complexion, a lively expressive counte­nance, an easy address, and those blushes of mo­desty that soften the soul of the beholder; these are her native beauties, which render her the ob­ject of universal admiration. But when we con­verse with her, and hear the melting expressions of unaffected sensibility and virtue that flow from her tongue, her personal charms receive new lustre, and irresistibly engage the affections of her acquaintances.

2. Sensible that the great source of all happi­ness, is purity of morals and an easy conscience, Juliana pays constant and sincere attention to the duties of religion. She abhors the infamous, but fashionable vice of deriding the sacred instituti­ons of religion. She considers a Lady without virtue as a monster on earth; and every accom­plishment. [Page 90] without morals, as polite deception. She is neither a hypocrite nor an enthusiast; on the contrary, she mingles such cheerfulness with the religious duties of life, that even her piety carries with it a charm, which insensibly allures the profligate from the arms of vice.

3. Not only the general tenor of her life, but in particular her behaviour at church, evinces the reality of her religion. She esteems it not only criminal in a high degree, but extremely unpo­lite, to behave with levity in a place con­secrated to the solemn purposes of devotion. She cannot believe that any person, who is soli­citous to treat all mankind with civility, can laugh in the temple of Jehovah and treat her great benefactor with heedless neglect.

4. In polite life, the manners of Juliana are peculiarly engaging. To her superiors, she shows the utmost defference and respect; to her equals, the most modest complaisance and civility; while her in [...]iors of every rank, experience her kind­ness and affability. By this conduct she secures the love and friendship of all degrees. No per­son can despise her, for she does nothing that is re­diculous; she cannot be hated, for she does in­jury to none; and even the malevolent whispers of envy are silenced by her modest deportment and generous condescension.

5. Her conversation is lively and sentimental; free from false wit, frivolous minuteness, and af­fectation of learning. Although her discourse is always under the direction of prudence, yet it appears unstudied; for her good sense always [Page 91] furnishes her with thoughts suited to the subject, and the purity of her mind renders any caution in expressing them almost unnecessary. She will not lead the conversation; much less can she stun the ears of company with perpetual chat or interrupt the discourse of others. But when occa­sion offers, she acquits herself with ease and grace; without the airs of pertness or the confusion of bashfulness.

6. But if the conversation happens to turn upon the foibles of either sex, Juliana disco­vers her goodness by her silence or by inventing palliations. She detests every species of slander. She is sensible that to publish and aggravate human errors, is not the way to correct them; and ref­ormation, rather than infamy, is the wish and the study of her life. Her own amiable example is the severest of all satires upon the faults and the follies of her sex, and goes farther in discounte­nancing both, than all the censures of malicious detraction.

7. Altho' Juliana possesses every accomplish­ment that can command esteem and admiration; yet she has neither vanity nor ostentation. Her merit is easily discovered without show and pa­rade. She considers, that haughtiness and con­tempt of others, always proceed from meanness; that true greatness is ever accessible; and that self recommendation and blustering pretensions, are but the glittering decorations of empty heads and trifling hearts.

8. However strong may be her desire of use­ful information or however lively her curiosi­ty, [Page 92] yet she restrains these passions within the bounds of prudence and good breeding. She deems it impertinent to the highest degree, to be prying into the concerns of other people; much more impertinent and criminal does she deem it, to indulge an officious inquisitiveness, for the sake of gratifying private spleen in the propagati­on of unfavourable truths. So exceedingly deli­cate is she in her treatment of her fellow creatures, that she will not read a paper or hear a whisper, which a person does not wish to have known, even when she is in no danger of detection.

9. The same delicate attention to the feelings of others regulates her conduct in company. She would not, for the price of her reputation, be found laughing or whispering with one in the company. All nods, grimaces, fly looks and half speeches, the cause of which is not known, are carefully avoided by her and reprobated as the height of ill breeding and the grossest insult to the company. Whenever this happens be­tween two persons, the rest of the company have a just right to consider themselves the object of their ridicule. But it is a maxim of Juliana, that such conduct is a breach of politeness, which, no oddities or mistakes that happen in public com­pany, can excuse or palliate.

10. It is very common for persons, who are destitute of certain accomplishments which they admire in other people, to endeavour to imitate them. This is the source of affectation, a fault that infallibly exposes a person to ridicule. But [Page 93] the ornaments of the heart, the dress and the man­ners of Juliana, are equally easy and natural. She needs not to assume the appearance of good qua­lities which she possesses in reality; nature has given too many beauties to her person, to require the studied embellishments of fashion; and such are the ease and gracefulness of her behaviour, that any attempt to improve them would lessen the dignity of her manners.

11. She is equally a stranger to that superci­lious importance which affects to despise the small, but necessary concerns of life; and that squeamish false delicacy which is wounded with every trifle. She will not neglect a servant in sickness because of the meanness of his employment; she will not abuse an animal for her own pleasure and amuse­ment; nor will she go into fits at the distress of a favourite cat.

12 Her gentle soul is never disturbed with dis­content, envy or resentment; those turbulent passions which so often destroy the peace of soci­ety as well as of individuals.

The native firmness and serenity of her mind for­bid the intrusion of violent emotions; at the same time he heart, susceptible and kind, is the soft residence of every virtuous affection. She sustains the unavoidable shocks of adversity, with a calmness that indicates the superiority of her soul; and with the smile of joy or the tear of tender­ness, she participates the pleasures or the sorrows of a friend.

13. But the discretion and generosity of Julia­na, are particularly distinguished by the number [Page 94] and sincerity of her attachments. Her friendships are few, but they are all founded on the princi­ples of benevolence and fidelity. Such confidence do her sincerity, her constancy and her faithful­ness inspire, that her friends commit to her breast, their most private concerns, without reserve and without suspicion. It is her favourite maxim, that a necessity of exacting promises of secrecy, is a burlesque upon every pretension to friendship. Such is the character of the young, the amiable Juliana. If it is possible for her to find a man who knows her worth and has a disposition and virtues to reward it, the union of their hearts must secure that unmingled felicity in life, which is reserved for genuine love, a passion inspired by sensibility and improved by a perpetual inter­course of kind offices.

CHAP. XVIII. FROM THE VISION OF COLUMBUS; A Poem, not yet published.

CHAP. XIX.
From the CONQUEST of CANAAN. A Poem, not yet published.

CHAP. XX. BURLESQUE.

CHAP. XXI. DIALOGUES.