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were possible for the dead person to be acquainted with them, he would blush` at the praises which his friends have bestowed upon him. There are others so excessively modest', that they deliver the character of the person departed in Greek' or Hebrew, and by that means are not understood once in a twelvemonth'. In the poetical' quarter I found there were poets' who had no monuments', and monuments' which had no poets`. I observed indeed that the present war had filled the church with many of these uninhabited monuments, which had been erected to the memory of persons' whose bodies were perhaps buried in the plains of Blenheim', or in the bosom of the ocean`.

I know that entertainments of this' nature are apt to raise dark' and dismal' thoughts in timorous' minds, and gloomy' imaginations; but, for my own' part, though I am always serious', I do not know what it is to be melancholy`; and can therefore take a view of Nature in her deep' and solemn' scenes, with the same pleasure as in her most gay' and delightful` ones. By this means I can improve myself with those objects which others' consider with terror'. When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy' dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful', every inordinate desire goes out`; when I meet with the grief of parents' upon a tomb-stone, my heart melts with compassion`; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves', I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow': when I see kings lying by those who deposed' them; when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men that divided the world with their contests and disputes', I reflect, with sorrow' and astonishment', on the little competitions', factions', and debates of mankind. When I read the several dates' of the tombs, of some that died yesterday', and some six hundred years ago, I consider that great' day when we shall all of us be contemporaries', and make our appearance together. Spectator.


NOTHING is more unpleasing than to find that offence has been received where none was intended, and that pain has been given to those who were not guilty of any provocation. As the great end of society is mutual beneficence, a good man is always uneasy when he finds himself acting in opposition to the purposes of life; because, though his conscience may easily acquit him of malice prepense, of settled hatred, or contrivances of mischief, yet he seldom can be certain, that he has not failed by negligence, or indolence, that he has not been hindered from consulting the common interest by too much regard to his own ease, or too much indifference to the happiness of others. Nor is it necessary, that, to feel this uneasiness, the mind should be extended to any great diffusion of generosity, or melted by uncommon warmth of benevolence; for that prudence which the world teaches, and a quick sensibility of private interest, will direct us to shun needless enmities; since there is no man whose kindness we may not some time want, or by whose malice we may not some time suffer.

I have, therefore, frequently looked with wonder, and now and then with pity, at the thoughtlessness with which some alienate from themselves the affections of all whom chance, business, or inclination, brings in their way. When we see a man pursuing some darling interest, without much regard to the opinion of the world, we justly consider him as corrupt and dangerous, but are not long in discovering his motives; we see him actuated by passions which are hard to be resisted, and deluded by appearances which have dazzled stronger eyes. But the greater part of those who set mankind at defiance by hourly irritation, and who live but to infuse malignity, and multiply enemies, have no hopes to foster, no designs to promote, nor any expectation of attaining power by insolence, or of climbing to greatness by trampling on others. They give up all the sweets of kindness for the sake of peevishness, petulance, or gloom, and alienate the world by neglect of the common forms of civility, and the breach of the established

laws of conversation. Every one must, in the walks of life, have met with men of whom all speak with censure, though they are not chargeable with any crime, and whom none can be persuaded to love, though a reason can scarcely be assigned why they should be hated,-who, if their good qualities and actions sometimes force a commendation, have their panegyric always concluded with confessions of disgust: "he is a good man, but I cannot like him." Surely such persons have sold the esteem of the world at too low a price, since they have lost one of the rewards of virtue, without gaining the profits of wickedness. They wrap themselves up in their innocence, and enjoy the congratulations of their own hearts, without knowing or suspecting that they are every day deservedly incurring resentments, by withholding from those with whom they converse, that regard, or appearance of regard, to which every one is entitled by the customs of the world.

There are many injuries, which almost every man feels, though he does not complain, and which, upon those whom virtue, elegance, or vanity have made delicate and tender, fix deep and lasting impressions; as there are many arts of graciousness and conciliation, which are to be practised without expense, and by which those may be made our friends, who have never received from us any real benefit. Such arts, when they include neither guilt nor meanness, it is surely reasonable to learn; for who would want that love which is so easily to be gained?

Some, indeed, there are, for whom the excuse of ignorance or negligence cannot be alleged, because it is apparent that they are not only careless of pleasing, but studious to offend; that they contrive to make all approaches difficult and vexatious, and imagine that they aggrandize themselves by wasting the time of others in useless attendance, by mortifying them with slights, and teasing them with affronts.

Men of this kind are generally to be found among those that have not mingled much in general conversation, but spent their lives amidst the obsequiousness of dependents, and the flattery of parasites; and, by long consulting only their own inclination, have forgotten that others have a claim to the same deference.

Tyranny thus avowed is, indeed, an exuberance of pride, at which all mankind are so much enraged, that it is never quietly endured, except in those who can reward the patience they exact; and insolence is generally surrounded only by those whose baseness inclines them to think nothing insupportable that produces gain, and who can laugh at scurrility and rudeness with a luxurious table and an open purse.




WHEN I was a young man about this town, I frequented the Ordinary of the Black Horse, in Holborn, where the person that usually presided at the table was a rough old-fashioned gentleman, who, according to the customs of those times, had been the Major and Preacher of a regiment. It happened one day that a noisy young officer, bred in France, was venting some new-fangled notions, and speaking, in the gaiety of his humour, against the dispensations of Providence. The Major at first only desired him to talk more respectfully of one for whom all the company had an honour; but finding him run on in his extravagance, began to reprimand him after a more serious manner. "Young man," said he, "do not abuse your Benefactor whilst you are eating his bread. Consider whose air you breathe, whose presence you are in, and who it is that gave you the power of that very speech which you make use of to his dishonour." The young fellow, who thought to turn matters into a jest, asked him if he was going to preach? but at the same time desired him to take care what he said when he spoke to a man of honour. "A man of honour!" says the Major, "thou art an infidel and a blasphemer, and I shall use thee as such." In short, the quarrel ran so high, that the Major was desired to walk out. Upon their coming into the garden, the old fellow advised his antagonist to consider the place into which one pass might drive him; but, finding him grow upon him to a degree of scurrility, as believing the advice proceeded from fear, "Sirrah," says he, "if a thunderbolt does

not strike thee dead before I come at thee, I shall not fail to chastise thee for thy profaneness to thy Maker, and thy sauciness to his servant." Upon this he drew his sword, and cried out with a loud voice, The sword of the Lord, and of Gideon! which so terrified his antagonist, that he was immediately disarmed, and thrown upon his knees. In this posture he begged his life; but the Major refused to grant it, before he had asked pardon for his offence in a short extemporary prayer which the old gentleman dictated to him upon the spot, and which his proselyte repeated after him in the presence of the whole Ordinary, that were now gathered about him in the garden. Tatler.


THERE is, perhaps, no inquiry more worthy of the attention of the philosopher than the nature of heat, and the manner in which matter in general, and the different kinds of it, are affected by this wonderful agent. Its influence is manifestly so universal, and its action so important and necessary to the progress of all the operations of nature, that, to those who consider it with some attention, it will appear to be the general material principle of all motion, activity, and life, in this globe. Heat is inseparably necessary to the very existence of vegetables and animals. Without it, they want the power to attract their nourishment, or to set it in motion through their system, or to refine and ripen it in their different parts. Their vigour and life depend on its influence. It is only when enlivened by heat that they make it assume the various forms and qualities which we find in the wood, the root, the leaves, the juices, the fruit, the seeds, and the beautiful forms and colours displayed in the flowers. When heat departs, they decay and die. Nor is animal life less immediately dependent on heat for support than vegetable. Heat is the main-spring in the corporeal part of an animal, without which all motion and life would instantly stop. There are few facts more unaccountable than the effect of heat on an egg, though there are few to which we pay so little attention. We see a lump of apparently


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