9 above;" and of evil and misery, man is the author to himself. When, from the condition of individuals, we look abroad to the public state of the world, we meet with more proofs of the truth of this assertion. We see great societies of men torn in pieces by intestine dissensions, tumults, and civil commotions. We see mighty armies going forth, in formidable array, against each other, to cover the earth with blood, and to fill the air with the cries of widows and orphans. Sad evils these, to which this miserable world 10 is exposed. But are these evils, I beseech you, to be imputed to God? Was it he who sent forth slaughtering armies into the field, or who filled the peaceful city with massacres and blood? Are these miseries any other than the bitter fruit of men's violent and disorderly passions? Are they not clearly to be traced to the ambition and vices of princes, to the quarrels of the great, and to the turbu lence of the people? Let us lay them entirely out of the account, in thinking of Providence, and let us think only of the "foolishness of man." Did man control his pas11 sions, and form his conduct according to the dictates of wisdom, humanity, and virtue, the earth would no longer be desolated by cruelty; and human societies would live in order, harmony, and peace. In those scenes of mischief and violence which fill the world, let man behold, with shame, the picture of his vices, his ignorance, and folly. Let him be humbled by the mortifying view of his own perverseness; but let not his "heart fret against the Lord." LESSON LXXVII. The Dread of being Over-Eloquent.—BULWER. 1 A LOVE for decencies, and decencies alone-a conclusion that all is vice which dispenses with them, and all hypocrisy which would step beyond them-damps the zeal of the established clergy: it is something disreputable to be too eloquent; the aristocratic world does not like either clergymen or women to make too much noise. A very * In England. popular preacher, who should, in the pulpit, be carried away by his fervor for the souls of his flock, who should use an extemporaneous figure of speech, or too vehement a gesticulation, would be considered as betraying the dig2 nity of his profession. Bossuet would have lost his character with us, and St. Paul have run the danger of being laughed at as a mountebank. Walk into that sacred and well-filled edifice,-it is a fashionable church: you observe how well cleaned and well painted it is; how fresh the brass nails and the redcloth seem in the gentlefolks' pews; how respectable the clerk looks-the curate, too, is considered a very gentlemanlike young man. The rector is going to begin the sermon: he is a very learned man-people say he will be a 3 bishop one of these days, for he edited a Greek play, and was private tutor to Lord Glitter. Now observe him-his voice, how monotonous !-his manner, how cold!—his face, how composed! yet what are his words-" Fly the wrath that is to come. Think of your immortal souls. Remember, oh remember! how terrible is the responsibility of life!-how strict the account!-how suddenly it may be demanded!" Are these his words? they are certainly of passionate import, and they are doled forth in the tone of a lazy man saying, "John, how long is it to dinner?" Why, 4 if the calmest man in the world were to ask a gamekeeper not to shoot his favorite dog, he would speak with a thousand times more energy; and yet this preacher is endeavoring to save the souls of a whole parish-of all his acquaintance-all his friends-all his relations-his wife (the lady in the purple bonnet, whose sins no man doubtless knows better) and his six children, whose immortal welfare must be still dearer to him than their temporal advancement; and yet what a wonderful command over his emotions! I never saw a man so cool in my life. "But, my 5 dear sir," says the fashionable purist, "that coolness is decorum; it is the proper characteristic of a clergyman of the Established Church." Alas: Dr. Young did not think so, when findin; he could not impress his audience sufficiently, he stopped short, and burst into tears. 16* LESSON LXXVIII. Elegy in a Country Church-Yard.-GRAY. 2 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 3 Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 4 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 5 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 6 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share. 7 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: 8 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. 9 The boast of heraldry, the pomp and power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await, alike, the inevitable hour ;— The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 10 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 11 Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death? 12 Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire; 13 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 14 Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; 15 Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 16 The applause of listening senates to command, And read their history in a nation's eyes— 17 Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ;- Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 18 The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame; Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the muse's flame. 19 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray: Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 20 Yet even these bones from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked. 21 Their names, their years, spelled by the unlettered muse The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, 22 For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned,- 23 On some fond breast the parting soul relies : 24 For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate ; 25 Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say, |