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And when you have got the philosopher's stone, sure you will no longer complain of bad times, or the difficulty of paying taxes. IV. This doctrine,

my friends, is reason and wisdom: but, after all, do not depend too much upon your own industry, and frugality, and prudence, though excellent things; for they may be all blasted without the blessing of Heaven; and therefore ask that blessing humbly, and be not uncharitable to those who at present seem to want it, but comfort and help them. Remember, Job suffered, and was afterwards prosperous.

And now, to conclude, "Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other," as Poor Richard says, and scarce in that; for it is true, "We may give advice, but we cannot give conduct." However, remember this, "They that will not be counselled, cannot be helped ;" and farther, that "If you will not hear Reason, she will surely rap your knuckles," as Poor Richard says.'

Thus the old gentleman ended his harangue. The people heard it, and approved the doctrine, and immediately practised the contrary, just as if it had been a common sermon; for the auction opened, and they began to buy extravagantly.-I found the good man had thoroughly studied my Almanacks, and digested all I had dropt on those topics during the course of twen ty-five years. The frequent mention he made of me, must have tired any one else; but my vanity was wonEderfully delighted with it, though I was conscious that not a tenth part of the wisdom was my own, which he ascribed to me; but rather the gleanings that I had made of the sense of all ages and nations. How-" ever, I resolved to be the better for the echo of it; and though I had at first determined to buy stuff for a new coat, I went away, resolved to wear my old. one a little longer. Reader, if thou wilt do the same, thy profit will be as great as mine.I am, as ever, thine to serve thee. RICHARD SAUNDERS,

THE ADVANTAGES OF INDUSTRY.

No man can be happy in idleness: he that shoul be condemned to lie torpid and motionless, "would fly for recreation (says South) to the mines and ga lies;" and it is well when nature or fortune finds em ployment for those, who would not have known how to procure it for themselves. He whose min is engaged by the acquisition or improvement of fortune, not only escapes the insipidity of indiffer ence, and the tediousness of inactivity, but gains en joyments wholly unknown to those who live lazil on the toil of others: for life affords no higher pleas ure, than that of surmounting difficulties, passin from one step of success to another, forming new wish es, and seeing them gratified. He that labours in an great or laudable undertaking, has his fatigues fir supported by hope, and afterwards rewarded by joy he is always moving towards a certain end, and whe he has attained it, an end more distant invites himt a new pursuit; for to strive with difficulties and conquer them, is the highest human felicity; th next is to strive, and deserve to conquer.

LIFE ENDEARED BY AGE.

BY DR. GOLDSMITH.

Age, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increases our desire of living. Those dangers which, in the vigour of youth, we had learned to despise, assume new ter rors as we grow old. Our caution increasing as our years increase, fear becomes at last the prevailing passion of the mind; and the small remainder of life is taken up in useless efforts to keep off our end, or provide for a continued existence. Strange contradiction in our nature, and to which even the wise are liable! If I should judge of that part of life which lies before me, by that which I have already seen, the prospect is hideous. Experience tells me, that my past enjoyments have brought no real felicity; and sensation assures me, that those I have felt, are stronger than those which are yet to come. Yet ex

perience and sensation in vain persuade; hope, more powerful than either, dresses out the distant prospect in fancied beauty; some happiness, in long perspective, still beckons me to pursue; and like a losing gamester, every new disappointment increases my ardour to continue the game. Whence then is

this increased love of life, which grows upon us with our years? whence comes it, that we thus make greater efforts to preserve our existence, at a period when it becomes scarce worth the keeping? Is it that Nature attentive to the preservation of mankind, increases our wishes to live, while she lessens our enjoyments? and, as she robs the senses of every pleasure, equips imagination in the spoils? Life would be insupportable to an old man, who, loaded with infirmities, feared death no more than when in the vigour of manhood: the numberless calamities of de

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caying Nature, and the consciousness of surviving eve ry pleasure, would, at once induce him, with his own hand, to terminate the scene of misery: but, happily, the contempt of death forsakes him at a time when it could only be prejudicial; and life acquires an imag inary value, in proportion as its real value is no more.

Our attachment to every object around us increases, in general, from the length of our acquaintance with it. I would not chuse,' says a French philosopher, 'to see an old post pulled up, with which I had been 'long acquainted.' A mind long habituated to a cer tain set of objects, insensibly becomes fond of seeing them; visits them from habit, and parts from them with reluctance: from hence proceeds the avarice of the old in every kind of possession. They love the world, and all that it produces; they love life, and all its advantages; not because it gives them pleasure, but because they have known it long. Chinvang the Chaste ascending the throne of China, commanded" that all who were unjustly detained in prison, during the preceding reigns, should be set free. Among the number who came to thank their deliverer on this occasion, there appeared a majestic old man, who, falling at the emperor's feet, addressed him as follows. Great father of China, behold a wretch now eightyfive years old, who was shut up in a dungeon at the C age of twenty-one. I was imprisoned, though a · stranger to crime, or without being even confronted by my accusers. I have now lived in solitude and darkness for more than fifty years, and am grown 'familiar with distress. As yet dazzled with the splendor of that sun to which you have restored me,. I have been wandering the streets to find some 'friend that would assist, or relieve, or remember me: but my friends, my family, and relations, are all dead, and I am forgotten. Permit me then, 0 Chinvang, to wear out the wretched remains of life in my former prison; the walls of my dungeon are

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to me more pleasing than the most splendid palace. I have not long to live and shall be unhappy, except I spend the rest of my days where my youth was passed; in that prison from whence you were pleased to release me.' The old man's passion for confinement is similar to that we all have for life. We are habituated to the prison; we look round with discontent, are displeased with the abode, and yet the length of our captivity only increases our fondness for the cell. The trees we have planted, the houses we have built, or the posterity we have begotten, all serve to bind us closer to the earth, and imbitter our parting. Life sues the young like a new acquaintance; the companion, as yet unexhausted, is at once instructive and amusing; its company pleases; yet for all this it is but little regarded. To us, who are declined in years, life appears like an old friend; its jests have been anticipated in former conversation; it has no new story to make us smile, no new improvement with which to surprise; yet still we love it; destitute of every enjoyment, still we love it; husband the wasting treasure with increasing frugality, and feel all the poignancy of anguish in the fatal separation. Sir Philip Mordaunt was young, beautiful, sincere, brave, an Englishman. He had a complete fortune of his own, and the love of the king his master, which was equivalent to riches. Life opened all her treasures before him, and promised a long succession of future happiness. He came, tasted of the entertainment, but was disgusted even at the beginning. He professed an aversion to living; was tired of walking round the same circle; had tried every enjoyment, and found them all grow weaker at every repetition. If life be in youth so displeasing,' cried he to himself, what will it appear when age comes on? if it be at • present indifferent, sure it will then be execrable.' This thought embittered every reflection; till, at last, with all the serenity of perverted reason, he ended the

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