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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 further, 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 extra-
vagantly. I found the good man had thoroughly
studied my Almanacs, and digested all I had
dropped on these topics during the course of
twenty-five years. The frequent mention he
made of me must have tired any one else; but
my vanity was wonderfully delighted with it,
though I was conscious that not a tenth part
of the wisdom was my own, which he had
ascribed to me, but rather the gleanings that
I had made of the sense of all ages and nations.
However, I resolved to be the better for the
echo of it; and, though I had at first deter-
mined 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.



It is an isle under Ionian skies,

Beautiful as a wreck of paradise ;

And, for the harbours are not safe and good,

This land would have remained a solitude.

But for some pastoral people native there,

Who from the elysian, clear, and goldeu air

Draw the last spirit of the age of gold ;

Simple and spirited, innocent and bold.

The blue jEgean girds this chosen home,

With ever-changing sound, and light, and foam,

Kissing the sifted sands and caverns hoar ;

And all the winds, wandering along the shore,

Undulate with the undulating tide.

There are thick woods where sylvan forms abide ;

And many a fountain, rivulet, and pond,

As clear as elemental diamond ;

And all the place is peopled with sweet airs.

The light clear element which the isle wears

Is heavy with the scent of lemon flowers,

Which floats like mist laden with unseen showers,

And falls upon the eyelids like faint sleep;

And from the moss violets and jonquils peep.

And dart their arrowy odour through the brain,

Till you might faint with that delicious pain.

And every motion, odour, beam, and tone,

With that deep music is in unison

Which is a soul within the soul : they seem

Like echoes of an antenatal dream.

It is a favour'd place. Famine or blight.

Pestilence, war, and earthquake never light

Upon its mountain-peaks ; blind vultures, they

Sail onward far upon their fatal way.

The winged storms, chanting their thunder-psalm

To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm
Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew,
From which its fields and woods ever renew
Their green and golden immortality.



No cloud, no reliqne of the sunken day

Distinguishes the west, no long thin slip

Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.

Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge I

You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,

But hear no murmuring : it flows silently

O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still ;

A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim,

Yet let us think upon the vernal showers

That gladden the green earth, and we shall nud

A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.

And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song,

' Most musical, most melancholy" bird !

A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought!

In nature there is nothing melancholy.

But some night- w andering man, whose heart was pierced

With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,

Or slow distemper, or neglected love

(And so, poor wretch ! filled all things with himself,

And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale

Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he,

First named these notes a melancholy strain.

And many a poet echoes the conceit ;

Poet who hath been building up the rhyme

When he had better far have stretched hia limb*

Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell,

By sun or moon-light, to the influxes

Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements

Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song

And of his fame forgetful ! So his fame

Should share in Nature's immortality,

A venerable thing ! and so his song

Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself

Be loved like Natnre I But 'twill not be so;

And youths and maidens most poetical,

Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring

In hall rooms and hot theatres, they still,

Full of meek sympathy, must heave their sighs

O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.

My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learned
A different lore : we may not thus profane
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love
And joyance ! 'Tis the merry nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitate*
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love chant, and disburden hi* full *oul
Of all its music 1



And I know a grove
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,
Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
Thin grass and king cups, grow within the paths;
But iiever elsewhere hi one place I knew
So many nightingales ; and far and near,
Iii wood and thicket, over the wide grove,
They answer and provoke each other's songs,
With skirmish and capricious passagiugs,
Aud murmurs musical, aud swift jug jug,
And one, low piping, sounds more bweet than all,
Stirring the air with such an harmony,
That should you close your eyes, you might almost
Forget it was not day ! On moonlight bushes,
Whose dewy leafits are but half-disclosed,
You may perchance behold them on the twigs,
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade
Lights up her love-torch.

A most gentle maid,
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve
(Even like a lady vowed and dedicate
To something more than Nature in the grove)
Glides through the pathways ; she knows all their notes,
That gentle maid ! and oft a moment's space,
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,
Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the moon
Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky
With one sensation, and these wakeful birds
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
As if one quick and sudden gale had swept
An hundred airy harps ! And she hath watched
Many a nightingale perch giddily,
On bloss'my twig still swinging from the breeze,
And to that motion tune his wanton song
Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head.

Farewell, O warbler ! till to-morrow eve,
And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell !
We have been loitering long and pleasantly.
And now for our dear homes. That strain again?
Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe,
Who, capable of no articulate found,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his ear,
His little hand, the small forefinger up,
And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise
To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well
The evening-star; and once, when he awo'.ce
In most distressful mood (some inward pain
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream),
I hurried with him to our orchard plot,
And he beheld the moon, and. hushed at once,
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silent'y.
While his fair eyes, that swam with unrtropp'd tears,
Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam ! Well I-
It IB a father's tale : but if that Heaven

Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up

Familiar with these songs, that with the night

He may associate joy ! Once more farewell,

Sweet Nightingale 1 Once more, niy friends, farewell !



[Justus Moser, born at Osnabrllck, 17-0; died 8th
January, 1794. He studied law at Jena and Gottingen,
and held various important appointments under gov-
ernment. His short essays upon social subjects, and
his zeal for the improvement of the condition of the
poor, obtained for him the title of the Franklin of Ger-

You do your husband injustice, dear child,
if you think he loves you less than formerly.
He is a man of an ardent, active temper, who
loves labour and exertion, and finds his plea-
sure in them ; and as long as his love for you
furnished him with labour and exertion he was
completely absorbed in it. But this, has, of
course, ceased ; your reciprocal position but
by no means his love, as you imagine has

A love which seeks to conquer, and a love
which has conquered, are two totally different
passions. The one puts on the stretch all the
virtues of the hero; it excites in him fear, hope,
desire; it leads him from triumph to triumph,
and makes him think every foot of ground that
he gains a kingdom. Hence it keeps alive and
fosters all the active powers of the man who
abandons himself to it. The happy husband
cannot appear like the lover; he has not like
him to fear, to hope, and to desire; he has no
longer that charming toil, with all its triumphs,
which he had before, nor can that which he
has already won be a conquest.

You have only, my dear child, to attend to
this most natural and inevitable difference, and
you will see in the whole conduct of your hus-
band, who now finds more pleasure in business
than in your smiles, nothing to offend you.
You wish do you not? that he would still
sit with you alone on the mossy bank in front
of the grotto, as he used to do, look in your
blue eyes, and kneel to kiss your pretty hand.
You wish that he would paint to you, in livelier
colours than ever, those delights of love which
lovers know how to describe with so much art
and passion; that he would lead your imagina-
tion from one rapture to another. My wishes,
at least for the first year after I married my
husband, went to nothing short of this. But
it will not do; the best husband is also the



most useful and active member of society; and
when love no longer demands toil and trouble,
when every triumph is a mere repetition of
the last, when success has lost something of
its value, along with its novelty, the taste for
activity no longer finds its appropriate food,
and turns to fresh objects of pursuit. The
necessity for occupation and for progress is of
the very essence of our souls; and if our hus-
bands are guided by reason in the choice of
occupation, \ve ought not to pout because they
do not sit with us so often as formerly, by
the silver brook or under the beech-tree. At
first I too found it hard to endure the change.
But my husband talked to me about it with
perfect frankness and sincerity. "The joy
with which you receive me," said he, "does
not conceal your vexation, and your saddened
eye tries in vain to assume a cheerful look; I
see what you want that I would sit as I used
to do on the mossy bank, hang on all your
steps, and live on your breath; but this is im-
possible. I would bring you down from the
top of the church-steeple on a rope-ladder, at
the peril of my life, if I could obtain you in
no other way; but now, as I have you fast in
my arms, as all dangers are passed and all
obstacles overcome, my passion can no longer
find satisfaction in that way. What has once
been sacrificed to my self-love ceases to be a
sacrifice. The spirit of invention, discovery,
and conquest, inherent in man, demands a new
career. Before I obtained you I used all the
virtues I possessed as steps by which to reach
you; but now, as I have you, I place you at
the top of them, and you are the highest step
from which 1 now hope to ascend higher."

Little as I relished the notion of the church-
tower, or the honour of serving as the highest
step under my husband's feet, time and reflec-
tion on the course of human affairs convinced
me that the thing could not be otherwise. I
therefore turned my active mind, which would
perhaps in time have been tired of the mossy
bank, to the domestic business which came
within my department; and when we had both
been busy and bustling in our several ways,
and could tell each other in the evening what
we had been doing, he in the fields, and I in
the house or the garden, we were often more
happy and contented than the most loving
couple in the world.

And, what is best of all, this pleasure has
not left us after thirty years of marriage. We
talk with as much animation as ever of our
domestic affairs; I have learned to know all my
husband's tastes, and I relate to him whatever
I think likely to please him out of journals,

whether political or literary; I recommend
books to him, and lay them before him; I carry
on the correspondence with our married chil-
dren, and often delight him with good news of
them and our little grandchildren. As to his
accounts, I understand them as well as he, and
make them easier to him by having mind of
all the yearly outlay which passes through my
hands, ready and in order; if necessary, I can
send in a statement to the treasury chamber,
and my hand makes as good a figure in our
cash-book as his; we are accustomed to the
same order, we know the spirit of all our affaire
and duties, and we have one aim and one rule
in all our undertakings.

This would never have been the case if we
had played the part of tender lovers after mar-
riage as well as before, and had exhausted our
energies in asseverations of mutual love. We
should perhaps have regarded each other with
ennui, and have soon found the grotto too damp,
the evening air too cool, the noontide too hot,
the morning fatiguing. We should have longed
for visitors, who when they came would not
have been amused, and would have impatiently
awaited the hour of departure, or, if we went
to them, would have wished us away. Spoiled
by effeminate trifling, we should have wanted
to continue to trifle, and to share in pleasures
we could not enjoy; or have been compelled to
find refuge at the card-^ble the last place
at which the old can figure with the young.

Do you wish not to fall into this state, my
dear child? Follow my example, and do not
torment yourself and your excellent husband
with unreasonable exactions. Don't think,
however, that I have entirely renounced the
pleasure of seeing mine at iny feet. Oppor-
tunities for this present themselves far more
frequently to those who do not seek, but seem
to avoid them, than to those who allow them-
selves to be found on the mossy bank at all
times, and as often as it pleases their lord and

I still sometimes sing to my little grand-
children, when they come to see me, a song
which, in the days when his love had still to
contend with all sorts of obstacles, used to
throw him into raptures ; and when the little
ones cry, " Ancora! ancora! grandmamma," his
eyes fill with tears of joy. I asked him once
whether he would not now think it too danger-
ous to bring me down a rope-ladder from the
top of the church-steeple, upon which he called
out as vehemently as the children, "0, ancora!
grandmamma, ancora!"

p.S. One thing, my dear child, I forgot.
It seema to me that you trust too entirely to



your good cause and your good heart (per-
haps, too, a little to your blue eyes), and do
not deign to try to attract your husband anew.

I fancy you are at home, just as you were a

week ago, in society, at our excellent G 's,

where I found you as stiff and silent as if you
had met only to tire each other to death. Did
you not observe how soon I set the whole com-
pany in motion? This was merely by a few
words addressed to each on the subject I thought
most agreeable or most nattering to him. After
a time the others began to feel more happy
and at their ease, and we parted in high spirits
and good humour.

What I did there I do daily at home. I try
to make myself and all around me agreeable.
It will not do to leave a man to himself till he
comes to you, to take no pains to attract him,
or to appear before him with a long face. But
it is not so difficult as you think, dear child,
to behave to a husband so that he shall remain
for ever in some measure a lover. I am an
old woman, but you can still do what you like;
a word from you at the right time will not fail
of its effect. What need have you to play the
suffering virtue! The tear of a loving girl, says
an old book, is like a dew-drop on the rose;
but that on the cheek of a wife is a drop of
poison to her husband. Try to appear cheerful
and contented, and your husband will be so;
and when you have made him happy, you will
become BO, not in appearance, but in reality.

The skill required is not so great. Nothing
natters a man so much as the happiness of his
wife; he is always proud of himself as the
source of it. . As soon as you are cheerful you
will be lively and alert, and every moment will
afford you an opportunity of letting fall an
agreeable word. Your education, which gives
you an immense advantage, will greatly assist
you ; and your sensibility will become the
noblest gift that nature has bestowed on you,
when it shows itself in affectionate assiduity,
and stamps on every action a soft, kind, and
tender character, instead of wasting itself in
secret repiuings.


Venomous thorns that are so sharp and keen,
Bear flowers we see, full fresh and fair of hue;

Poison is also put in medicine,

And unto man his health doth oft renew;

The fire that all things eke consumeth clean,
May hurt and heal: then if that this be true,

I trust sometime my harm may be my health,

Since every woe is joined with some wealth.

SIR THOMAB WYAT (1503-1541).



Oh, open the door, some pity to show,

Oh, open the door to me, Oh !
Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true,

Oh, open the door to me, Oh !

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,

But caulder thy love for me, Oh !
The frost that freezes the life at my heart,

Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh !

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave.

And time is setting with me, Oh !
False friends, false love, farewell ! for m.iir

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh !

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide;

She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh !
My true love ! she cried, and sank do wn by his side,

Never to rise again, Oh !



O mirk, mirk is the midnight hour,

And loud the tempest's roar;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r,

Lord Gregory, ope thy door !

An exile frae her father's ha',

And a' for loving thee ;
At least some pity on me shaw,

If love it may not be.

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove.

By bonnie Irwine side,
Where first I own'd that virgin-love

I lang, lang had denied?

How aften didst thou pledge and vow

Thou wad for aye be mine ;
And my fond heart, itsel' sae true,

It ne'er mistrusted thine.

Hard is thy heart. Lord Gregory,

And flinty is thy breast
Thou dart of heav'n that flashest by,

O wilt thou give me rest !

Ye mustering thunders from above,

Your willing victim see !
But spare, and pardon my false love,

His wrangs to Heaven and me 1




[Jean Paul Friedrich Richter, born 21st March,
176M, at Wonsiedel, Baireuth ; died 14th November,
1825. Cnrlyle says of him, that with "his hundred
real and ten thousand seeming faults," he possessed the
''spirit of a trus poet and j.hilosopher A poet, and
among the highest of his time we must reckon him,
though he wrote no verses; a philosopher, though he
promulgated no systems; for, 011 the whole, that 'divine
idea of the world ' stood in clear ethereal light before
his mind ; he recognized the Invisible, even under the
mean forms of these days, and with a high strong not
nninspiml heart, strove to represent it in the Visible,
and publish tidings of it to his fellow man." He wrote
numerous miscellaneous papers, and many novels which
would be more appropriately designated studies of life.
His chief works are: Ore nl nid Law suits "acollection
of satirical sketches full of wild gay wit and keen in-
sight" Selections from the Pa/ieri of the Devil; Invigible
Lodge; Hesperus; Titan; Wild Outs (Flegeljahre); Flower,
Fruit and T/im-n Pieces; Life of Quintal Fixlein; Parton
in Jultii e; Biographical Recrtations under the Cranium
of a Giantess; Fidel's Life; Katzenberger's Journey to the
Bath; Sc/imelzles' Journey to FIWz; T/te Conut, or Hicho-
lutis Margi-af; Autobiography, &c ]

The inner man, like the negro, is born white,
but is coloured black by life. In advanced age
the grandest moral examples pass by us, and
our life-course is no more altered by them than
the earth is by a flitting comet; but in child-
hood the first object that excites the sentiment
of love or of injustice flings broad and deep its
light or shadow over the coming years; and as,
according to ancient theologians, it was only
the first sin of Adam, not his subsequent ones,
which descended to us by inheritance, so that
since the One Fall we make the rest for our-
selves, in like manner the first fall and the first
ascent influence the whole life.


Sublimity is the staircase to the temple of
religion, as the stars are to immensity. When
the vast is manifested in nature, as in a storm,
thunder, the starry firmament, death, then
utter the name of God before your child. Signal
calamity, rare success, a great crime, a noble
action, are the spots upon which to erect the
child's tabernacle of worship.

Always exhibit before children, even npon
the borders of the holy land of religion, solemn
and devout emotions. These will extend to
them, unveiling at length the object by which
they are excited, though at the beginning they
are awe-struck with you, not knowing where-
fore. Newton, who uncovered his head when
the greatest name was pronounced, thus be-

came, without words, a teacher of religion to

Instead of carrying children frequently to
public worship, I should prefer simply to con-
duct them upon great days in nature or in
human life into the empty church, and there
show them the holy place of adults. To this I
might add twilight, night, the organ, the hymn,
the priest, exhortation; and so by a mere walk
through the building, a more serious impres-
sion might remain in their young hearts than
after a whole year of common church routine.
Let every hour in which their hearts are con-
secrated to religion, be to them as absorbing
as that in which they partake for the first time
of the Lord's Supper.

Let the Protestant child show reverence to
the Catholic images of saints by the road-side
the same as to the ancient Druidical oak of
his ancestors. Let him as lovingly accept
different forms of religion among men, as dif-
ferent languages, wherein there is still but one
human mind expressed. Every genius has most
power in his own tongue, and every heart in
its own religion.


Who has not felt with me, that frequently a
rural nosegay, which was our delight when we
were children in the village, through its old
fragrance produces for us in cities, in the ad-
vanced years of manhood, an indescribably
rapturous return to godlike childhood, and like
a flowery divinity wafts us upward to the first
encircling aurora-cloud of our earliest obscure
sensations. But could such a remembrance so
forcibly surprise us, were not the child's per-
ception of flowers most powerful and interior?


How should it be otherwise? I can bear a
melancholy man, but never a melancholy child.
Into whatever quagmire the former sinks, he
may raise his eyes either to the realm of reason
or to that of hope; but the little child sinks
and perishes in a single black poison-drop of
the present time. Only imagine a child con-
ducted to the scaffold Cupid in a German
coffin or fancy a butterfly crawling like a
caterpillar with his four wings pulled off, and
you will feel what I mean.


You need not surround your children, like
those of the nobility, with a little world of
turner's toys. Let their eggs be white, not



figured and painted ; they can dress them out

Online LibraryUnknownThe library of choice literature : poetry and prose selected from the most admired authors (Volume 4) → online text (page 71 of 75)