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And sure, to see one's loves and friends,
For legs and arms would make amends."
"Perhaps," says Dobson," so it might;
But latterly I've lost my sight."
"This is a shocking story, faith;

Yet there's some comfort, still," says Death:
"Each strives your sadness to amuse :

I warrant you hear all the news."

10. “There's none," cries he; "and if there were,
I'm grown so deaf I could not hear."
"Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined,
"These are unreasonable yearnings:
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,

You've had your three sufficient warnings:
So come along; no more we'll part."
He said, and touched him with his dart:
And now old Dobson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate-so ends my tale.

LESSON CVII.

The Dervis and the Two Merchants.-LACON.

1. THE ignorant have often given credit to the wise, for powers that are permitted to none, merely because the wise have made a proper use of those powers that are permitted to

all.

2. The little Arabian tale of the dervis, shall be the comment of this proposition. A dervis was journeying alone in the desert, when two merchants suddenly met him; "You have lost a camel," said he to the merchants; "indeed we have," they replied:

3. "Was he not blind in his right eye, and lame in his left leg?" said the dervis; "he was," replied the merchants; "had he not lost a front tooth?" said the dervis, "he had,” rejoined the merchants; "and was he not loaded with honey on one side and wheat on the other?"-"most certainly he was," they replied, "and as you have seen him so lately, and marked him so particularly, you can, in all probability, conduct us unto him."

4. "My friends," said the dervis, "I have never seen your camel, nor ever heard of him but from you." "A pretty store, truly," said the merchants, "but where are the jewels which

formed a part of his cargo?" "I have neither seen your camel, nor your jewels," repeated the dervis.

5. On this, they seized his person, and forthwith hurried him before the cadi,* where, on the strictest search, nothing could be found upon him, nor could any evidence whatever be adduced to convict him, either of falsehood or theft.

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6. They were then about to proceed against him as a sorcerer, when the dervis, with great calmness, thus addressed the court: "I have been much amused with your surprise, and own that there has been some ground for your suspicions; I have lived long, and alone; I can find ample scope for observation, even in a desert.

7. "I knew that I had crossed the track of a camel that had strayed from its owner, because I saw no mark of any human footstep on the same route; I knew that the animal was blind of one eye, because it had cropped the herbage only on one side of its path and I perceived that it was lame in one leg, from the faint impression that particular foot had produced on the sand; I concluded, that the animal had lost one tooth, because wherever it had grazed, a small tuft of herbage was left uninjured, in the centre of its bite.

8. "As to that which formed the burden of the beast, the busy ants informed me that it was corn on the one side, and the clustering flies, that it was honey on the other."

LESSON CVIII.

On the Present and Future State.-ADDISON.

1. A LEWD young fellow seeing an aged hermit go by him barefoot, "Father," says he, " you are in a very miserable condition, if there is not another world." "True, son," said the hermit; "but what is thy condition if there is ?"-Man is a creature designed for two different states of being, or rather for two different lives. His first life is short and transient; his second permanent and lasting.

2. The question we are all concerned in, is this-In which of these two lives is it our chief interest to make ourselves happy? Or, in other words-Whether we should endeavour to secure to ourselves the pleasures and gratifications of a life which is uncertain and precarious, and at its utmost length, of a very incon siderable duration; or to secure to ourselves the pleasures of a

* A Turkish magistrate.

life which is fixed and settled, and will never end? Every man, upon the first hearing of this question, knows very well which side of it he ought to close with.

3. But however right we are in theory, it is plain that in practice we adhere to the wrong side of the question. We make provision for this life as though it were never to have an end; and for the other life as though it were never to have a beginning.

4. Should a spirit of superior rank, who is a stranger to human nature, accidentally alight upon this earth, and take a survey of its inhabitants-What would his notions of us be? Would he not think that we are a species of beings made for quite different ends and purposes than what we really are? Must he not imagine that we were placed in this world to get riches and honors? Would he not think that it was our duty to toil after wealth, and station, and title?

5. Nay, would he not believe we were forbidden poverty, by threats of eternal punishment, and enjoined to pursue our pleasures, under pain of damnation? He would certainly imagine that we were influenced by a scheme of duties quite opposite to those which are indeed prescribed to us.

6. And, truly, according to such an imagination, he must conclude that we are a species of the most obedient creatures in the universe; that we are constant to our duty; and that we keep a steady eye on the end for which we were sent hither.

7. But how great would be his astonishment, when he learnt that we were beings not designed to exist in this world above three score and ten years: and that the greatest part of this busy species fall short even of that age! How would he be lost in horror and admiration, when he should know that this set of creatures, who lay out all their endeavors for this life, which scarce deserves the name of existence, when, I say, he should know that this set of creatures are to exist to all eternity in another life, for which they make no preparations?

8. Nothing can be a greater disgrace to reason, than that men who are persuaded of these two different states of being, should be perpetually employed in providing for a life of three score and ten years, and neglecting to make provision for that, which, after many myriads of years, will be still new and still beginning; especially when we consider, that our endeavors for making ourselves great, or rich, or honorable, or whatever else we place our happiness in, may, after all, prove unsuccessful; whereas, if we constantly and sincerely endeavor to make ourselves happy in

the other life, we are sure that our endeavors will succeed, and that we shall not be disappointed of our hope.

9. The following question is started by one of our schoolmen. Supposing the whole body of the earth were a great ball or mass of the finest sand, and that a single grain or particle of this sand should be annihilated every thousand years?-Supposing, then, that you had it in your choice to be happy all the while this prodigious mass of sand was consuming, by this slow method, until there was not a grain left, on condition that you were to be miserable for ever after? Or, supposing that you might be happy for ever after, on condition you would be miserable until the whole mass of sand were thus annihilated, at the rate of one sand in a thousand years;—which of these two cases would you make your choice?

10. It must be confessed, in this case, so many thousands of years are to the imagination as a kind of eternity, though, in reality, they do not bear so great a proportion to that duration which is to follow them, as an unit does to the greatest number which you can put together in figures, or as one of those sands to the supposed heap. Reason therefore tells us, without any manner of hesitation, which would be the better part in this choice.

11. However, as I have before intimated, our reason might, în such a case, be so overset by imagination, as to dispose some persons to sink under the consideration of the great length of the first part of this duration, and of the great distance of that second duration which is to succeed it ;-the mind, I say, might give itself up to that happiness which is at hand, considering, that it is so very near, and that it would last so very long.

12. But when the choice we have actually before us is thisWhether we will choose to be happy for the space of only three score and ten, nay, perhaps of only twenty or ten years, I might say for only a day or an hour, and miserable to all eternity; or, on the contrary, miserable for this short term of years, and happy for a whole eternity-what words are sufficient to express that folly and want of consideration which, in such case, makes a wrong choice!

13. I here put the case even at the worst, by supposing what seldom happens,—that a course of virtue makes us miserable in this life: but if we suppose, as it generally happens, that virtue would make us more happy, even in this life, than a contrary course of vice, how can we sufficiently admire the stupidity or madness of those persons who are capable of making so absurd a choice?

14. Every wise man, therefore, will consider this life only as it may conduce to the happiness of the other, and cheerfully sacrifice the pleasures of a few years, to those of an eternity.

LESSON CIX. /

My Mother's Picture.-CowPEr.

1. O THAT those lips had language! life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
My mother, when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun!
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss:
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.

2. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day ·
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away;
And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu.
But was it such? It was where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells, are a sound unknown.
And if this meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more

3. Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my conceiA,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd,
And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd.
By expectation, every day beguil'd,
Dupe of to-morrow, even when a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn'd, at last, submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplore thee, ne'er forgot.

4. My boast is not, that I deduce my birth
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise,-
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now, farewell. Time unrevok'd has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.

5. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again;

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