up in the contemplation of the danger he had escaped. We offered him some victuals, but he seemed to loath the sight. We still persisted in our offices of kindness; but he only pointed to the place of the city, like one out of his senses; and then running up into the woods, was never heard of after. Such was the fate of the city of Euphemia.

20. "And as we continued our melancholy course along the shore, the whole coast, for the space of two hundred miles, presented nothing but the remains of cities; and men scattered, without a habitation, over the fields. Proceeding thus along, we at length ended our distressful voyage, by arriving at Naples, after having escaped a thousand dangers, both at sea and land."

SECTION II.

GOLDSMITH.

LETTER FROM PLINY TO GEMINUS.

1. Do we not sometimes observe a sort of people, who, though they are themselves under the abject dominion of every vice, show a kind of malicious resentment against the errors of others; and are most severe upon those whom they most resemble? Yet, surely, a lenity of disposition, even in persons who have the least occasion for clemency themselves, is of all virtues the most becoming.

2. The highest of all characters, in my estimation, is his, who is as ready to pardon the errors of mankind, as if he were every day guilty of some himself; and, at the same time, as cautious of committing a fault, as if he never forgave one. It is a rule, then, which we should upon all occasions, both private and public, most religiously observe-" to be inexorable to our own failings, while we treat those of the rest of the world with tenderness, not excepting even such as forgive none but themselves."

3. I shall, perhaps, be asked, who it is that has given occasion for these reflections. Know, then, that a certain person lately, but of that when we meet, though, upon second thought, not even then; lest, whilst I condemn and expose his conduct, I shall act counter to that maxim I particularly recommend. Whoever, therefore, and whatever he is, shall remain in silence; for though there may be some use, perhaps, in setting a mark upon the man, for the sake of example, there will be more, however, in sparing him, for the sake of humanity. Farewell. MELMOTH'S PLINY.

SECTION III.

LETTER FROM PLINY TO MARCELLINUS, ON THE DEATH OF AN AMIABLE YOUNG WOMAN.

1. I WRITE this under the utmost oppression of sorrow : the youngest daughter of my friend Fundamus is dead! Never, surely, was there a more agreeable, and more amiable young person; or one who better deserved to have enjoyed a long, I had almost said, an immortal life! She had ail the wisdom of age, and discretion of a matron, joined with youthful sweetness and virgin modesty.

2. With what an engaging fondness did she behave to her father; How kindly and respectfully receive his friends! How affectionately treat all those who, in their respective offices had the care and education of her! She employed much of her time in reading, in which she discovered great strength of judgment; she indulged herself in few diversions, and those with much caution. With what forbearance, with what patience, with what courage did she endure ber last illness !

whan all !

3. She complied with all the directions of her physicians; she encouraged her sister, and her father; and, When an net strength of body was exhausted, supported herself by the single vigour of her mind. That, indeed, continued, even to her last moments, unbroken by the pain of a long illness, or the terrors of approaching death; and it is a reflection which makes the loss of her so much the more to be lamented. A loss infinitely severe ! and more severe by the particular conjuncture in which it happened!

4. She was contracted to a most worthy youth; the wedding day was fixed, and we were all invited. How sad a change, from the highest joy to the deepest sorrow! How shall I express the wound that pierced my heart, when I heard Fundamus himself, (as grief is ever finding out circumstances to aggravate its afflictions,) ordering the money he had designed to lay out upon clothes and jewels for her marriage, to be employed in myrrh and spices for her funeral ?

5. He is a man of great learning and good sense, who has applied himself, from his earliest youth, to the noblest and most elevated studies: but all the maxims of fortitude which he has received from books, or advanced himself, he now absolutely rejects; and every other virtue of his heart gives place to all a parent's tenderness.

6. We shall excuse, we shall even approve his sorrow when we consider what he has lost. He has lost a daughter, who resembled him in his manners, as well as his person,

and exactly copied out all her father. If his friend Marcellinus shall think proper to write to him, upon the subject of so reasonable a grief, let me remind him not to use the rougher arguments of consolation, and such as seem to carry a sort of reproof with them; but those of kind and sympathizing humanity.

7. Time will render him more open to the dictates of reason; for as a fresh wound shrinks back from the hand of the surgeon, but by degrees submits to, and even requires the means of its cure; so a mind, under the first impression of a misfortune, shuns and rejects all arguments of consolation; but at length, if applied with tenderness, calmly and willingly acquiesces in them. Farewell.

SECTION IV.

DISCRETION.

MELMOTH'S PLINY.

1. I HAVE often thought, if the minds of men were laid open, we should see but little difference between that of the wise man, and that of the fool. There are infinite reveries, numberless extravagancies, and a succession of vanitiee, which pass through both. The great difference is, that the first knows how to pick and call his thoughts for conversation, by suppressing some, and communicating others; whereas the other lets them all indifferently fly out in words. This sort of discretion, however, has no place in private - conversation between intimate friends.

2. On such occasions, the wisest men very often talk like the weakest; for, indeed, talking with a friend is nothing else than thinking aloud. Tully has, therefore, very justly exposed a precept, delivered by some ancient writers. That a man should live with his enemy in such a manner, as might leave him room to become his friend; and with his friend in such a manner, that if he become his enemy, it should not be in his power to hurt him.

3. The first part of this rule, which regards our behaviour towards an enemy, is indeed very reasonable, as well as very prudential; but the latter part of it, which regards our behaviour towards a friend, favours more of cunning than of discretion; and would cut a man off from the greatest pleasures of life, which are the freedoms of conversation with a bosom friend.

4. Besides that, when a friend is turned into an enemy, the world is just enough to accuse the perfidiousness of the friend rather than the indiscretion of the person who confided in him. Discretion does not only show itself in words, but in all the circumstances of action; and is like an under-agent of

Providence, to guide and direct us in the ordinary concerns of life.

5. There are many more shining qualities in the mind of man, but there is none so useful as discretion. It is this, indeed, which gives a value to all the rest; which sets them at work in their proper times and places; and turns them to the advantage of the person who is possessed of them.-Without it, learning is pedantry, and wit impertinence; virtue itself looks like weakness; the best parts only qualify a man to be more sprightly in errors, and active to his own prejudice.

6. Discretion does not only make a man the master of his own parts, but of other men's. The discreet man finds out the talents of those he converses with, and knows how to apply them to proper uses. Accordingly, if we look into particular communities and divisions of men, we may observe that it is the discreet man, not the witty, nor the learned, nor the brave, who guides the conversation, and gives mea sures to society.

7. A man with great talents, but void of discretion is like Polyphemus in the fable, strong and blind, endued with an irresistible force, which, for want of sight, is of no use to him. Though a man has all other perfections, yet if he wants discretion, he will be of no great consequence in the world; on the contrary, if he has this single talent in perfection, and but a common share of others, he may do what he pleases in his particular station of life.

8. At the same time that I think discretion the most useful talent a man can be master of, I look upon cunning to be the accomplishment of little, mean, ungenerous minds. Discretion points out the noblest ends to us; and pursues the most proper and laudable methods of attaining them: cunning has only private, selfish aims; and sticks at nothing which may make them succeed.

9. Discretion has large and extended views; and, like à well-formed eye, commands a whole horizon: cunning is a kind of short-sightedness, that discovers the minutest objects which are near at hand, but is not able to discern things at a distance. Discretion, the more it is discovered, gives a greater authority to the person who possesses it: cunning, when it is once detected, loses its force, and makes a man incapable of bringing about even those events which he might have done, had he passed only for a plain man.

10. Discretion is the perfection of reason; and a guide to us in all the duties of life; cunning is a kind of instinct, that

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only looks out after our immediate interest and welfare. Discretion is only found in men of strong sense and good un derstandings: cunning is often to be met with in brutes them selves; and in persons who are but the fewest removes from them. In short, cunning is only the mimic of discretion; and it may pass upon weak men, in the same manner as vivacity is often mistaken for wit, and gravity for wisdom.

11. The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet man, makes him look forward into futurity, and consider what will be his condition millions of ages hence, as well as what it is at present. He knows that the misery or happiness which is reserved for him in another world, loses nothing of its reality by being placed at so great a distance from him. The objects do not appear little to him because they are remote.

12. He considers, that those pleasures and pains which lie hid in eternity, approach nearer to him every moment; and will be present with him in their full weight and measure, as much as those pains and pleasures which he feels at this very instant. For this reason, he is careful to secure to himself that which is the proper happiness of his nature, and the ultimate design of his 'being.

13. He carries his thoughts to the end of every action; and considers the most distant, as well as the most immedi ate effects of it. He supersedes every little prospect of gain and advantage which offers itself here, if he does not find it cor sistent with his views of an hereafter. In a word, his hopes are full of immortality; his schemes are large and glorious; and his conduct suitable to one who knows his true interest, and how to pursue it by proper methods.

SECTION V.

ADDISON.

ON THE GOVERNMENT OF OUR THOUGHTS.

1. A MULTITUDE of cases occur, in which we are no less accountable for what we think, than for what we do. As, first, when the introduction of any train of thoughts depends upon ourselves, and is our voluntary act, by turning our attention towards such objects, awakening such passions, or engaging in such employments, as we know must give a peculiar determination to our thoughts. Next, when thoughts, by whatever accidents they may have been originally suggested, are indulged with deliberation and complacency.

2. Though the mind has beer passive in their reception, and, therefore, free from blame; yet, if it be active in their continuance, the guilt becomes its own. They may have intruded at first, like unbidden guests; bat if, when entered,