he thought it no disparagement to those great felicities of their life, that, in the midst of the most talked-of and talking country in the world, they had lived so long, not only without fame, but almost without being heard of; and yet, within a very few years afterward, there were no two names of men more known or more generally celebrated. If we engage into a large acquaintance and various familiarities, we set open our gates to the invaders of most of our time; we expose our life to a quotidian ague of frigid impertinences, which would make a wise man tremble to think of. Now, as for being known much by sight, and pointed at, I cannot comprehend the honor that lies in that; whatsoever it be, every mountebank has it more than the best doctor, and the hangman more than the lord chief-justice of a city. Every creature has it, both of nature and art, if it be any ways extraordinary. It was as often said: "This is that Bucephalus," or, "This is that Incitatus," when they were led prancing through the streets, as, "This is that Alexander," or, "This is that Domitian;" and truly, for the latter, I take Incitatus to have been a much more honorable beast than his master, and more deserving the consulship than he the empire. I love and commend a true good fame, because it is the shadow of virtue; not that it doth any good to the body which it accompanies, but it is an efficacious shadow, and like that of St. Peter, cures the diseases of others. The best kind of glory, no doubt, is that which is reflected from honesty, such as was the glory of Cato and Aristides; but it was harmful to them both, and is seldom beneficial to any man whilst he lives; what it is to him after his death I cannot say, because I love not philosophy merely notional and conjectural, and no man who has made the experiment has been so kind as to come back to inform us. Upon the whole matter, I account a person who has a moderate mind and fortune, and lives in the conversation of two or three agreeable friends, with little commerce in the world besides, who is esteemed well enough by his few neighbors that know him, and is truly irreproachable by anybody; and so, after a healthful, quiet life, before the great inconveniences of old age, goes more silently out of it than he came in for I would not have him so much as cry in the exit; this innocent deceiver of the world, as Horace calls him, this muta persona, I take to have been more happy in his part than the greatest actors that fill the stage with show and noise; nay, even than Augustus himself, who asked, with his last breath, whether he had not played his farce very well. WILLIAM COWPER WILLIAM COWPER. Born at Great Berkhamstead, Hertfordshire, England, November, 1731; died at East Dereham, Norfolk, April 25, 1800. Author of several well-known hymns and poems, especially "The Task," which established his reputation as one of the gentlest and most lovable of English bards. The story of John Gilpin's Ride is one of the few humorous poems composed by him, and was produced in a single night, in one of those fits of hilarious gaiety which occasionally characterize people of extremely sensitive and melancholy temperaments. LIGHT SHINING OUT OF DARKNESS GOD moves in a mysterious way He plants His footsteps in the sea, Deep in unfathomable mines He treasures up His bright designs, Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, Behind a frowning providence His purposes will ripen fast, The bud may have a bitter taste, Blind unbelief is sure to err, And he will make it plain. ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED The Royal George, 108 guns, was lost off Spithead, on the 29th of August, 1782. She was undergoing some repairs and was careened over, when a sudden gust of wind overset her and she sank. A great number of persons were on board at the time from Portsmouth. Two or three hundred bodies floated on shore, and were buried in Kingston Churchyard. TO THE MARCH IN SCIPIO TOLL for the brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. A land-breeze shook the shrouds, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; It was not in the battle; His sword was in its sheath; Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full charged with England's thunder, And plow the distant main. But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plow the wave no more. THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN JOHN GILPIN was a citizen. Of credit and renown, A trainband captain eke was he John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, - Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; And for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, Which is both bright and clear." John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind. The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud. So three doors off the chaise was stayed, Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin. |