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at one time which at another we earnestly approve; and never judging equally of happiness, whilst we follow passion and mere humour.

A lover, for instance, when struck with the idea or fancy of his enjoyment, promises himself the highest felicity, if he succeeds in his new amour. He succeeds in it; finds not the felicity he expected; but promises himself the same again in some other. The same thing happens; he is disappointed as before; but still has faith. Wearied with this game he quits the chace; renounces the way of courtship and intrigue, and detests the ceremony and difficulty of the pleasure. A new species of amour invites him. Here too he meets the same inquietude and inconstancy. Scorning to grow sottish, and plunge in the lowest sink of vice, he shakes off his intemperance, despises gluttony and riot, and hearkens to ambition. He grows a man of business, and seeks authority and fame.

Quo teneam vultus mutantem Protea nodo.

HOR. epist. 1, lib. I.

Lest this, therefore, should be my own case, let me see whether I can controut my fancy, and fix it, if possible, on something which may hold good. When I exercise my reason on moral subjects; when I employ my affection in friendly and social actions, I find I can at that time sincerely enjoy myself. If there be a pleasure therefore of this kind why not indulge in it? Or what harm would there be, supposing it should grow greater by indulgence? If I am lazy and indulge myself in the languid pleasure; I know the harm and can foresee the drone. If I am luxurious, I know the harm of this also, and have the plain prospect of the sot. If avarice be my pleasure; the end, I know, is being a miser. But, if honesty be my delight, I know no other consequence from indulging such a passion, than that of growing better natured, and enjoying more and more the pleasures of society. On the other hand, if this honest pleasure be lost, by knavish indulgence and immorality, there can hardly be a satisfaction left of any kind; since good nature and social affection is so essential even to the pleasures of a debauchee.

If therefore the only pleasure I can freely and without reserve indulge, be that of the honest and moral kind; if the rational and social enjoyments be so constant in itself, and so essential to happiness, why should I not bring my other pleasures to correspond and be friends with it, rather than raise myself other pleasures, which are destructive of this foundation, and have no relation with one another?

P. 315. The more eagerly we grasp at life, the more impotent we are in the enjoyment of it. By this avidity, its very lees and dregs are swallowed. The ideas of sordid pleasure are advanced. Worth, manhood, generosity, and all the nobler

opinions and sentiments of honest good, and virtuous pleasure, disappear, and fly before this queen of terrors.

It is a mighty delight, which a sort of counter-philosophers take in seconding this phantom, and playing her upon our understandings, whenever they would take occasion to confound them.

Who would not willingly make life to pass as quickly as was possible; when the nobler pleasures of it were already lost or corrupted by a wretched fear of death? The intense selfishness and meanness which accompanies this fear, must reduce as to a low ebb of enjoyment, and in a manner bring to nothing that main sum of satisfactory sensations, by which we vulgarly rate the happiness of our private state and fortune.

But see! A lovely form advances to our assistance, introduced by the prime muse, the beauteous Calliope! She shows us what real beauty is, and what those numbers are, which make life perfect, and bestow the chief enjoyment. She sets virtue before our eyes, and teaches us how to rate life, from the experience of the most heroic spirits. She brings her sisters, Clio and Urania, to support her. From the former she borrows whatever is memorable in history, and ancient times, to confront the tragic spectre, and show the fixed contempt which the happiest and freest nations, as well as single heroes, and private men worthy of any note, have ever expressed for that impostor. From the latter she borrows what is sublimest in philosophy, to explain the laws of nature, the order of the universe, and represent to us the justice of accompanying this amiable administration. She shows us that by this just compliance we are made happiest; and that the measure of a happy life is not from the fewer or more suns which we behold, the fewer or more breaths we draw, or meals which we repeat; but from the having once lived well, acted our part handsomely, and made our exit cheerfully, and as became us. P. 318. See! The enchantress Indolence presents herself, in all the pomp of ease and lazy luxury. She promises the sweetest life, and invites to her pillow; enjoins us to expose ourselves to no adventurous attempt, and forbids us any engagement which may bring us into action. "Where, then, are the pleasures which ambition promises and love affords? How is the gay world enjoyed? Or are those to be esteemed no pleasures, which are lost by dullness and inaction? But indolence is the highest pleasure. To live and not to feel! To feel no trouble. What good then?-Life itself.-And is this properly to live? Is sleeping, life? Is this what I should study to prolong?" Here the fantastic tribe itself seems scandalized. A civil war begins. The major part of the capacious dames range themselves on reason's side and declare against the languid syren. Ambition blushes at the offered sweet. Conceit and Vanity take superior airs. Even Luxury herself, in her polite and elegant

humour, reproves the apostate-sister, and marks her as an alien to true pleasure. "Away, thou drowsy phantom! Haunt me no more. For I have learned from better than thy sisterhood, that life and happiness consist in action and enjoyment."

P. 322. This indeed is but too certain; that as long as we enjoy a mind; as long as we have appetites and sense, fancies of all kinds will be hard at work; and whether we are in company, or alone, they must range still and be active. They must have their field. The question is, whether they shall have it wholly to themselves, or whether they shall have some controuler or manager. If none; it is this, I fear, that leads to madness. It is this and nothing else, that can be called madness or loss of reason.

Every man indeed who is not absolutely beside himself, must of necessity hold his fancies under some kind of discipline and management. The stricter this discipline is, the more the man is rational and in his wits. The looser it is, the more fantastical he must be, and the nearer to the madman's state. This is a business which can never stand still. I must always be winner or loser at the game. Either I work upon my fancies, or they on me. If I give quarter they will not. There can be no truce, no suspension of arms between us. The one or the other must be superior, and have the command. For if the fancies are left to themselves, the government must, of course be theirs. And then, what difference between such a state and madness.

P. 348.

"Of antres vast, and desarts wild.

It was my hint to speak;

And of the cannibals that each other eat!

The Anthropophagi! and men whose heads

Do grow beneath their shoulders. These to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline.

It is certain there is a very great affinity between the passion of superstition, and that of tales. The love of strange narrations, and the ardent appetite towards unnatural objects, has a near alliance with the like appetite towards the supernatural, such as are called prodigious, and of dire. omen. For so the mind forebodes, on every sight or hearing of this kind. Fate, destiny, or the anger of heaven, seems denoted, and as it were delineated by the monstrous birth, the horrid fact, or dire event. For this reason the very persons of such relaters or tale-tellers, with a small help of dismal habit, suitable countenance and tone, become sacred and tremendous in the eyes of mortals, who are thus addicted from their youth. The tender virgins, losing their natural softness, assume this tragic passion, of which they are highly susceptible, especially when a suitable kind of eloquence and action attend the character of the narrator. A thousand Desdemonas are then ready to present themselves, and would

frankly resign fathers, relations, countrymen, and country itself, to follow the fortunes of a hero of the black tribe.

P. 354. Things are stubborn, and will not be as we fancy them, but as they stand in nature. Now whether the writer be a poet, a philosopher, or of whatever kind, he is in truth no other than a copyist after nature. His style may be differently suited to the different times he lives in, or to the different humour of his age or nation; his manner, his dress, his colouring may vary. But if his drawing be incorrect, or his design contrary to nature; his piece will be found ridiculous, when it comes thoroughly to be examined. For Nature will not be mocked. The prepossession against her can never be very lasting. Her decrees and instincts are powerful. She has a strong party abroad, and as strong a one within ourselves; and when any slight is put upon her, she can soon turn the reproach, and make large reprisals on the taste and judgment of her antagonists.

It may be thought, perhaps, notwithstanding the particular advice we have given, in relation to the forming of a taste in characters and manners, that we are still defective in our performance, whilst we are silent on supernatural cases, and bring not into our consideration the manners and characters delivered to us in holy writ. But this objection will soon vanish, when we consider, that there can be no rules given by human wit, to that which was never humanly conceived, but divinely dictated, and inspired!

For this reason, it would be in vain for any poet, or ingenious author, to form his characters, after the models of our sacred penmen. And whatever certain critics may have advanced concerning the structure of a heroic poem of this kind; I will be bold to prophecy, that the success will never be answerable to expectation.

It must be owned, that in our sacred history we have both leaders, conquerors, founders of nations, deliverers and patriots, who in a human sense, are no way behind the chief of those so much celebrated by the ancients. There is nothing in the story of Æneas, which is not equalled or exceeded by a Joshua or a Moses. But, as illustrious as are the acts of these sacred chiefs, it would be hard to copy them in just heroic. It would be hard to give to many of them that graceful air, which is necessary to render them naturally pleasing to mankind, according to the idea men have of heroism and generosity.

Notwithstanding the pious endeavours which, as devout Christians, we may have used in order to separate ourselves from the interests of mere heathens, and Infidels; notwithstanding the true pains we may have taken, to arm our hearts in behalf of a chosen people, against their neighbouring nations, of a false religion, and worship; there will be still found such a partiality remaining in us, towards creatures of the same make and figure

for.

We dined, on that day, in the commercial room of the Sun Inn, Bradford, with a group of travellers. Mr. Taylor, happening to be at the head of the table, was, as soon as wine was called for, declared the president of the company. The conversation was generally agreeable, and the sentiments of the president called He pronounced "universal benevolence" and some few generalizations of that kind, which were apparently pleasing to the company. After the dinner, a brewer of Leeds introduced a Mr. Horsefall of Bradford, a wine and spirit merchant, to take wine with him. Mr. Horsefall was not long at table, before he began with:-" We have got the Infidels at Bradford-Taylor and Carlile. I think the best thing that could be done with them would be to send them to the tread-mill."-" So I think," said the Leeds brewer.-" They got themselves neatly lectured at Leeds," continued he, " by a Mr. Hesealton, who keeps the South-market. He made them look very silly; and the papers too, have set them down in good style."

Mr. Taylor could scarcely contain himself, and did say a softening word, about the Infidels appearing in the apostolic character; but I looked a request that he would not take up the subject and it had its effect: it was dropped. The offensiveness with which the subject was introduced by the Bradford wine-merchant, was such, that excluded all pleasant conversation on that head, so we thought it best to turn it, and let it proceed pleasantly on some other. Little were we suspected of being the proscribed Infidels! In the eye of Mr. Horsefall and the Leeds brewer, we appeared as good a pair of Christians, as they had ever met with: and this circumstance might afford them a lesson, by which they may for the future hold the character of Infidelity in better estimation. We had here a practical proof of the mischief, which such men as Hesealton commit as Infidel. hypocrites. He was, by these people, supposed to have been a very good Christian, when, in reality, he was an Infidel, and the first man in Leeds, as a stranger, who gave me his hand and a welcome, and who encouraged our efforts, until he found himself entangled by the presence of the Mayor and some other town officers We passed our day very well at the Sun Inn, and found ourselves, though incog., most welcome visitors.

One of the travellers, who dined with us, stated that the shopkeepers of Bradford were not now doing one-fourth the amount of business that they were doing a year ago. We were sceptical as to so great a change; but since we have conversed with the shopkeepers of Manchester, our scepticism is removed; for here we find a declaration that not one-sixth the amount of business is doing that was doing last year. Whether it be the cause or not, I cannot divine; but that universally assigned is the withdrawal of the one pound notes, and yet the dirty offensive paper money is too common here. The fact of the great decay of general business is certain.

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