« EelmineJätka »
" which I am decked, as the charms of one half of the world are ignorant how the « beauteous fimplicity. What you call other half lives. The misfortunes of the “ the weeds which darken and obscure great are held up to engage our attention; “ my waves, afford to the botanist a pleaf. are enlarged upon in tones of declamation; “ing speculation of the works of nature; and the world is called upon to gaze at the "and the poet and painter think the lustre 'noble sufferers: the great, under the pref“of my stream greatly improved by glit- sure of calamity, are conscious of several
tering through them. The pebbles which others sympathizing with their distress;
diversify my bottom, and make these and have, at once, the comfort of admira“ripplings in my current, are pleasing tion and pity. “ objects to the eye of taste; and my fim- There is nothing magnanimous in bear
ple murmurs are more melodious to the ing misfortunes with fortitude, when the “ learned ear than all the rude noises of whole world is looking on: men in such
your banks,, or even the music that re- circumstances will act bravely, even from “ sounds from your fately barges. If motives of vanity; but he who, in the vale “the unfeeling sons of Wealth and Com- of obscurity, can brave adversity; who, “ merce judge of me by the mere ftandard without friends to encourage, acquaint“ of usefulness, I may claim no undiftin- ances to pity, or even without hope to “guished rank. While your waters, con- alleviate his misfortunes, can behave with “ fined in deep channels, or lifted above tranquillity and indifference, is truly great;
the valleys, roll on, a useless burden to whether pealant or courtier, he deserves “ the fields, and only subservient to the admiration, and should be held up for our “ drudgery of bearing temporary mer- imitation and respect. “ chandizes, my stream will beitow unvary- While the flightest inconveniencies of
ing fertility on the meadows, during the the great are magnified into calamities; • fummers of future ages. Yet I scorn to while tragedy mouths out their sufferings “ submit my honours to the decision of in all the Itrains of eloquence; the miseries “ those whose hearts are shut up to taste of the poor are entirely disregarded; and “ and sentiment: let me appeal to nobler yet some of the lower ranks of people un“ judges. The philosopher and poet, by dergo more real hardships in one day, than “ whose labours the human mind is ele- thole of a more exalted station suffer in “i vated and refined, and opened to plea- their whole lives. It is inconceivable what “sures beyond the conception of vulgar difficulties the meanest of our common
fouls, will acknowledge that the elegant failors and soldiers endure without mur“ deities who preside over simple and na- muring or regret; without passionately “ tural beauty, have inspired them with declaiming against Providence, or calling “ their charming and instructive ideas. their fellows to be gazers on their intrepi“ The sweetest and most majestic bird that dity. Every day is to them a day of misery, “ ever fung, has taken a pride in owning and yet they entertain their hard fate with« his affection to woods and streams; and, out repining. « while the ftupendous monuments of Ro- With what indignation do I hear an “ man grandeur, the columns which pierced Ovid, a Cicero, or a Rabutin, complain “ the kics, and the aqueducts which poured of their misfortunes and hardships, whose “ their waves over mountains and vallies, greatest calamity was that of being unable " are funk in oblivion, the gently-winding to visit a certain spot of earth, to which “ Minciis still retains his tranquil honours. they had foolishly attached an idea of hap“ And when thy glories, proud Genius! piness! Their distresses were pleasures, “ are lost and forgotten; when the flood of compared to what many of the adventur“commerce, which now supplies thy urn, ing poor every day endure without mur« is turned into antther course, and has muring. They ate, drank, and Nept; they “ left thy channei dry and desolate; the had slaves to attend them; and were sure
softly flowing Avon Mall still murmur in of subfiftence for life : while many of their
fung, and his banks receive the homage fellow-creatures are obliged to wander 6 of all who are beloved by Phæbus and without a friend to comfort or affiit :hem, «c the Muses.”
and even without shelter from the severity
of the season. $11. The Story of a disabled Soldier.
I have been led into these reflections No observation is more common, and from accidentally meeting, some days ago, at the fame time more true, than, That a poor felion', whom I knew when a boy,
dressed in a failor's jacket, and begging at “ town, worked when I could get employone of the outlets of the town with a wooden “ ment, and starved when I could get none: leg. I knew him to have been honest and “ when happening one day to go through industrious when in the country, and wis a field belonging to a justice of peace, I cnrious to learn what had reduced him to (pyed a hare crosting the path just before kis prefent fituation. Wherefore, after me; and I believe the devil put it in my having given him what I thought proper, “ head to fling my stick at it:-well, what I defired to know the history of his life “ will you have o'nt? I killed the hare, and misfortunes, and the manner in which “and was bringing it away, when the jurhe was reduced to his present distress. “ tice himself met me; he called me a The disabled soldier, for such he was, “ poacher and a villain ; and, collaring me, though dressed in a sailor's habit, scratch- “ desired I would give an account of mying his head, and leaning on his crutch, “ felf. I fell upon my knees, begged his
« put himself into an attitude to comply with “ worihip’s pardon, and began to give a my request, and gave me his hiltory as fol- “ full account of all that I knew of my lows :
“ breed, seed, and generation; but, though “ As for my misfortunes, master, I can't “I gave a very true account, the justice “ pretend to nave gone through any more “ said I could give no account; so I was “ than other folks ; for, except the loss of “indicted at lellions, found guilty of be“my limb, and my being obliged to beg, ing poor, and sent up to London to “ I don't know any reason, thank Heaven, Newgate, in order to be transported as “ that I have to complain : there is Bill “ a vagabond “ Tibbs, of our regiment, he has loit “ People may say this and that of being « both his legs, and an eye to boot; but, “ in jail, but, for my part, I found New" thank Heaven, it is not so bad with me g.ate as agreeable a place as ever I was yet.
in in all my life. I had my belly-full to “ I was born in Shrophire ; my father “ eat and drink, and did no work at all. was a labourer, and died when I was five “ Tois kind of life was too good to last years
old; fo I was put upon the parih. “ for ever; so I was taken out of prison, “ As he had been a wandering sort of a a
“after five months, put on board a ship, “man, the parishioners were not able to
« and sent off, with two hundred more, to “ tell to what parill I belonged, or where " the plantations. We had but an indif
I was born, so they sent me to another « ferent passage, for, being all confined in “parish, and that parish sent me to a third. “ the hold, more than a hundred of our " I thought in my heart, they kept send. “ people died for want of sweet air; and
ing me about io long, that they would « ihose that remained were fickly enough, “not let me be born in any parilh at all; « God knows. When we came-alhore, we “ but at last, however, they fixed me. I “ were sold to the planters, and I was “ had some disposition to be a scholar, and
« bound for seven years more.
As I was “ was resolved, at least, to know my let- “ no scholar, for I did not know my let“ ters; but the master of the workhouse
ters, I was obliged to work among
tbe “ put me to business as soon as I was able negroes; and I served out my time, as « to handle a mallet; and here. I lived an “ in duty bound to do. “easy kind of life for five years. I only “ When my time was expired, I worked “wrought ten hours in the day, and had my pasage home, and glad I was to see “ my meat and drink provided for my la- Old England again, because I loved my « bour It is true, I was not suffered to “ country. I was afraid, however, that I “stirout of the house, for fear, as they said, “ should be indicted for a vagabond once “ I should run away; but what of that, I “ more, so I did not much care to go down « had the liberty of the whole house, and “ into the country, but kept about the “ the yard before the door, and that was “ town, and did little jobs when I could "enough for me. I was then bound out “ to a farmer, where I was up both early “ I was very happy in this manner for “ and late ; but I ate and drank well, and “ some time, till one evening, coming home “ liked my business well enough, till he “ from work, two men knocked me down, “ died, when I was obliged to provide for " and then desired me to stand. They be" myself; so I was resolved to go seek my “longed to a press-gang: I was carried
fo 5 fortune.
“ before the justice, and, as I could give " In this manner I went from town to. “ no account of myself, I had my choice
3 F 4
“ get them.
left, whether to go on board a man of they are all flaves, and wear wooden “ war, or list for a soldier: I chose the lat- “ shoes." “ ter; and, in this post of a gentleman, I Though we had no arms, one English“ served two campaigns in Flanders, was man is able to beat five French at any “ at the battles of Val and Fontenoy, and “ time; so we went down to the door, “ received but one wound, through the “ where both the centries were pofted, and, “ breast here; bnt the doctor of our regi- ruthing upon them, seized their arms in “ ment soon made me well again.
“a moment, and knocked them down, “ When the peace came on I was dis- From thence nine of us ran together to “ charged; and, as I could not work, be- “ the quay, and feizing the first boat we “ cause my wound was sometimes trouble- “ met, got out of the harbour, and put to “ fome, I lifted for a landman in the East “ sea. We had not been here three days “ India company's service. I have fought “ before we were taken up by the Dorset “ the French in fix pitched battles; and I “ privateer, who were glad of so many
verily believe that, if I could read or good hands, and we consented to run our " write, our captain would have made me “ chance. However, we had not as much “ a corporal. But it was not my good “ luck as we expected. In three days we “ fortune to have any promoticn, for I
« fell in with the Pompadour privateer, “ foon fell fick, and so got leave to return “ of forty guns, while we had but twen• hou e again with forty pounds in my ty-three; so to it we went, yard arm “pocket. This was at the beginning of " and yard-arm. The fight lasted for “ the present war, and I hoped to be set “ three hours, and I verily believe we “ on shore, and to have the pleasure of “ should have taken the Frenchman, had
spending my money; but the govern. " we but had some more men left be« mene wanted men, and so I was pressed “ hind; but, unfortunately, we lost all our “ for a failor before ever I could set foot “ men just as we were going to get the or on shore.
“ victory. “ The boatswain found me, as he said, “ I was once more in the power of the "an obltinate fellow: he swore he knew “ French, and I believe it would have gone “ that I underttood my business well, but “ hard with me had I been brought back " that I fhammed Abraham, to be idle : to Breit; bur, by good fortune, we were « but, God knows, I knew nothing of sea- “ retaken by the Viper. I had almost for« busine's, and he beat me without con- got to tell you that, in that engagement,
fidering what he was about. I had fill, “ I was wounded in two placcs: I lost four “ however, my forty pounds, and that fingers off the left hand, and my leg was o was some comfort to me under every “ Mot off. If I had had the good fortune « beating; and the money I might have “ to have lost my leg and use of my hand “ had to this day, but that our ship “ on board a king's ship, and not on board “ was taken by the French, and so I loit “ a privateer, I should have been entitled ' my money.
" to cloathing and maintenance during the “ Our crew was carried into Brest, and “ rest of my life! but that was not my many
of them died, because they were “ chance: one man is born with a silver « not used to live in a jail; but, for my spoon in his mouth, and another with a
part, it was nothing to me, for I was wooden ladle. However, blessed be God, « seasoned. One night, as I was asleep on I enjoy good health, and will for ever “ the bed of boards, with a warm blanket “ love liberty and Old England. Liberty, “ about me, for I always loved to lie well, “ property, and Old England for ever, “ I was awakened by the boatswain, who “ huzza !" " had a dark lanthorn in his hand : “ Jack,' Thus saying, he limped off, leaving me “ says he to me, • will you knock out the in admiration at his intrepidity and con“ French centries brains?". I don't care,' tent; nor could I avoid acknowledging, " says !, ftriving to keep myself awake, if that an habitual acquaintance with misery “ 1 lend a hand.' Then follow me,' says serves better than philosophy to teach us to “ he, “and I hope we shall do business.' despise it.
Goldsmith. “ So up I got, and tied my blanket, which “ was all the cloaths I had, about my mid- § 12. A Dialogue between UL Ysses and “ die, and went with him to fight the
Circe, in Circe's Island, “ Frenchmen. I hate the French, because Circe. You will go then, Ulyfies; but
why will you go? I defire you to speak who has spent all his youth in active life the thoughts of your heart. Speak with- and honourable danger, when he begins out reserve. What carries you from to decline, have leave to retire, and en
joy the rett of his days in quiet and pleaUlyfjes. Pardon, goddess, the weakness fure? of human nature. My heart will figh Ulyffes. No retreat can be honourable to for my country. It is a tenderness which a wife and good man, but in company with all my attachment to you cannot over- the Muses; I am deprived of that sacred
fociety here. The Muses will not inhabit Circe. This is not all. I perceive you the abodes of voluptuousness and sensual are afraid to declare your whole mind: but pleasure. How can I ftudy, how can I what do you fear ? 'my terrors are gone. think, while so many beasts (and the worst The proudeit goddess on earth, when the beasts I know are men turned into beasts) has favoured a mortal as I have favoured are howling, or roaring, or grunting about you, bas laid her divinity and power at his me? feet.
Circe. There is something in this; but Uly/jes. It may be fo, while there ftill this is not all: you suppress the frongest remains in her heart the fondness of reason that draws you to Ithaca. There love, or in her mind the fear of shame. is another image, besides that of your forBut you, Circe, are above those vulgar mer self, which appears to you in all parts sensations.
of this island, which follows your walks, Circe. I understand your caution, it be- which interposes itself between you and longs to your character; and, therefore, to me, and chides you from my arms: it is take all diffidence from you, I swear by Penelope, Ulyffes: I know it is.-Do not Slyx, I will do no harm to you or your pretend to deny it: you figh for her in my
1 friends for any thing which you say, though bosom itself.--- And yet she is not an imit should offend me ever so much, but will mortal. - She is not, as I am, endowed with send you away with all the marks of my the gift of unfading youth: several years friendlhip. Tell me now, truly, what have past since her's has been faded. I pleasures you hope to enjoy in the barren think, without vanity, that she was never island of Ithaca, which can compensate for so handsome as I. But what is the now? those you leave in this paradise, exempt Ulysses. You have told me yourself, in a from all cares, and overflowing with all former conversation, when I enquired of delights?
you about her, that she is true to my bed, Ulyfes. The pleasures of virtue; the su- and as fond of me now, after twenty years preme happiness of doing good. Here I absence, as when I left her to go to Troy. do nothing: my mind is in a palsy; its fa- I left her in the bloom of her youth and culties are benumbed. I long to return her beauty. How much must her coninto action again, that I may employ those stancy have been tried since that time! talents and virtues which I have cultivated how meritorious is her fidelity! Shall I from the earliest days of my youth. Toils reward her with falihood ! shall I forand cares fright not me: they are the ex- get her who cannot forget me? who has ercise of my soul; they keep it in health nothing so dear to her as my rememand in vigour. Give me again the fields brance? of Troy, rather than those vacant groves; Circe. Her love is preserved by the conthere I could reap the bright harvest of tinual hope of your speedy return. Take glory; here I am hid from the eyes of that hope from her: let your companions mankind, and begin to appear contemptible return, and let her know that you have in my own. The image of my former self fixed your abode here with me; that you haunts and seems to upbraid me wherever have fixed it for ever: let her know that I go: I meet it under the gloom of every she is free to dispose of her heart and her shade; it even intrudes itself into your hand as the pleases. Send my picture to presence, and chides me from your arms. her; bid her compare it with her own O goddess ! unless you have power to face. If all this does not cure her of the lay that troublesome spirit, unless you remains of her passion, if you do not hear can make me forget myself, I cannot be of her marrying Eurymachus in a twelvehappy here, I shall every day be more month, I understand nothing of womanwretched.
kind. Cirse. May not a wise and good man Ulydes. O cruel goddess! why will you
force me to tell you those truths I wish to like powers ? Oh, Circe, forgive me; I