strangers; when all were welcome who either came to improve the state, or admire its greatness: now the empire is shut up from every foreign improvement, and the very inhabitants discourage each other from prosecuting their own internal advantages.

Whence this degeneracy in a state so little subject to external revolutions? how happens it that China, which is now more powerful than ever, which is less subject to foreign invasions, and even assisted in some discoveries by her connexions with Europe; whence comes it, I say, that the empire is thus declining so fast into barbarity?

This decay is surely from nature, and not the result of voluntary degeneracy. In a period of two or three thousand years she seems at proper intervals to produce great minds, with an effort resembling that which introduces the vicissitudes of seasons. They rise up at once, continue for an age, enlighten the world, fall like ripened corn, and mankind again gradually relapse into pristine barbarity. We little ones look around, are amazed at the decline, seek after the causes of this invisible decay, attribute to want of encouragement what really proceeds from want of power, are astonished to find every art and every science in the decline, not considering that autumn is over, and fatigued nature again begins to repose for some succeeding effort. Some periods have been remarkable for the production of men of extraordinary stature; others for producing some partícular animals in great abundance; some for excessive plenty; and others again for seemingly causeless famine. Nature, which shows herself so very different in her visible productions, must surely differ also from herself in the production of minds; and while she astonishes one age with the strength and stature of a Milo or a Maximin, may bless another with the wisdom of a Plato, or the goodness of an Antonine.

Let us not, then, attribute to accident the falling off of every nation, but to the natural revolution of things. Often in the darkest ages there has appeared some one man of surprising abilities, who, with !! his understanding, failed to bring his

barbarous age into refinement: all kind seemed to sleep, till nature ga general call, and then the whole seemed at once roused at the voice; s triumphed in every country, and brightness of a single genius seeme in a galaxy of contiguous glory. Thus the enlightened periods in age have been universal. At the when China first began to emerge barbarity, the Western world was eq rising into refinement; when we ha Yaou, they had their Sesostris. In ceeding ages, Confucius and Pytha seem born nearly together, and a tra philosophers then sprung up as wi Greece as in China. The period c newed barbarity began to have an univ spread much about the same time, continued for several centuries, till, in year of the Christian era, 1400, the peror Yonglo arose to revive the lear of the East; while about the same the Medicean family laboured in Ital raise infant genius from the cradle. we see politeness spreading over e part of the world in one age, and barba succeeding in another; at one perio blaze of light diffusing itself over whole world, and at another all mank wrapped up in the profoundest ignoran

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Such has been the situation of things times past, and such probably it will e be. China, I have observed, has e dently begun to degenerate from its f mer politeness; and were the learning the Europeans at present candidly c sidered, the decline would perhaps appu to have already taken place. We shon find among the natives of the West, t study of morality displaced for mather tical disquisition, or metaphysical subt ties; we should find learning begin separate from the useful duties and cos cerns of life, while none ventured t aspire after that character, but they w know much more than is truly amus or useful. We should find every g attempt suppressed by prudence, and t rapturous sublimity in writing cooled a cautious fear of offence. We shea find few of those daring spirits who brav venture to be wrong, and who are v ing to hazard much for the sake of grea

Sons. Providence has indulged the with a period of almost four hundred refinement; does it not now by desink us into our former ignorance, gas only the love of wisdom, while ves us of its advantages?—Adieu.

LETTER LXIV.

To the same.

praces of Europe have found out a of rewarding their subjects who haved well, by presenting them out two yards of blue riband, which bout the shoulder. They who are with this mark of distinction are Lights, and the king himself is ay the head of the order. This is a fragal method of recompensing the sortant services; and it is very re for kings that their subjects are with such trifling rewards. nobleman happen to lose his battle, the king presents him with t's of riband, and he is paid for s of his limb. Should an ambasspend all his paternal fortune in Pring the honour of his country the king presents him with two friband, which is to be considered equivalent to his estate. In short, European king has a yard of blue riband left, he need be under rehensions of wanting statesmen, and soldiers.

before.

not sufficiently admire those kingwhich men with large patrimonial are willing thus to undergo real ps for empty favours. A person, y possessed of a competent fortune, ndertakes to enter the career of on, feels many real inconveniences his station, while it procures him no happiness that he was not possessed He could eat, drink, and before he became a courtier, as perhaps better, than when invested hhis authority. He could command Merers in a private station, as well in his public capacity, and indulge home every favourite inclination, ensured and unseen by the people. What real good, then, does an addition a fortune already sufficient procure?

Not any. Could the great man, by having his fortune increased, increase also his appetites, then precedence might be attended with real amusement.

Was he, by having his one thousand made two, thus enabled to enjoy two wives, or eat two dinners, then indeed he might be excused for undergoing some pain in order to extend the sphere of his enjoyments. But, on the contrary, he finds his desire for pleasure often lessen, as he takes pains to be able to improve it; and his capacity of enjoyment diminishes as his fortune happens to increase.

Instead, therefore, of regarding the great with envy, I generally consider them with some share of compassion. I look upon them as a set of goodnatured, misguided people, who are indebted to us, and not to themselves, for all the happiness they enjoy. For our pleasure, and not their own, they sweat under a cumbrous heap of finery; for our pleasure, the lacquied train, the slowparading pageant, with all the gravity of grandeur, moves in review: a single coat, or a single footman, answers all the purposes of the most indolent refinement as well; and those who have twenty, may be said to keep one for their own pleasure, and the other nineteen merely for ours. So true is the observation of Confucius, "That we take greater pains to persuade others that we are happy, than in endeavouring to think so ourselves."

But though this desire of being seen, of being made the subject of discourse, and of supporting the dignities of an exalted station, be troublesome enough to the ambitious, yet it is well for society that there are men thus willing to exchange ease and safety for danger and a riband. We lose nothing by their vanity, and it would be unkind to endeavour to deprive a child of its rattle. If a duke or a duchess are willing to carry a long train for our entertainment, so much the worse for themselves; if they choose to exhibit in public, with a hundred lacquies and mamelukes in their equipage, for our entertainment, still so much the worse for themselves; it is the spectators alone who give and receive the pleasure; they only are the sweating figures that swell the pageant.

A mandarine, who took much pride in appearing with a number of jewels on every part of his robe, was once accosted by an old sly bonze, who, following him through several streets, and bowing often to the ground, thanked him for his jewels. "What does the man mean?" cried the mandarine. 'Friend, I never gave thee any of my jewels."-"No," replied the other; "but you have let me look at them, and that is all the use you can make of them yourself; so there is no difference between us, except that you have the trouble of watching them, and that is an employment I don't much desire."Adicu.

LETTER LXV.

To the same.

THOUGH not very fond of seeing a pageant myself, yet I am generally pleased with being in the crowd which sees it: it is amusing to observe the effect which such a spectacle has upon the variety of faces; the pleasure it excites in some, the envy in others, and the wishes it raises in all. With this design I lately went to see the entry of a foreign ambassador, resolved to make one in the mob, to shout as they shouted, to fix with earnestness upon the same frivolous objects, and participate for a while the pleasures and the wishes of the vulgar.

Struggling here for some time, in order to be first to see the cavalcade as it passed, some one of the crowd unluckily happened to tread upon my shoe, and tore it in such a manner, that I was utterly unqualified to march forward with the main body, and obliged to fall back in the rear. Thus rendered incapable of being a spectator of the show myself, I was at least willing to observe the spectators, and limped behind like one of the invalids which follow the march of an army.

In this plight, as I was considering the eagerness that appeared on every face, how some bustled to get foremost, and others contented themselves with taking a transient peep when they could; how some praised the four black servants that were stuck behind one of the equipages, and some the ribands that decorated the

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horses' necks in another, my att was called off to an object more ordinary than any I had yet seen. cobbler sat in his stall by the wa and continued to work, while the passed by, without testifying the st share of curiosity. I own his wa attention excited mine; and as I st need of his assistance, I thought it to employ a philosophic cobbler a occasion. Perceiving my business, 1 fore, he desired me to enter and sit & took my shoe in his lap, and beg mend it with his usual indifferenc taciturnity.

"How, my friend," said I to him, you continue to work, while all thos things are passing by your door?" " fine they are, master," returned the col "for those that like them, to be sure what are all those fine things to You don't know what it is to be a cob and so much the better for yourself. bread is baked: you may go and see s the whole day, and eat a warm su when you come home at night; bu me, if I should run hunting after all t fine folk, what should I get by my jou but an appetite, and, God help me! I too much of that at home already, with stirring out for it. Your people, who i eat four meals a day and a supper at ni are but a bad example to such a one a No, master, as God has called me into world in order to mend old shoes, I h no business with fine folk, and they business with me." I here interrup him with a smile. "See this last, maste continues he, "and this hammer; this} and hammer are the two best frie I have in this world; nobody else will my friend, because I want a friend. 1 great folks you saw pass by just now ha five hundred friends, because they have occasion for them: now, while I stick my good friends here, I am very contente but when I ever so little run after sigh and fine things, I begin to hate my wod I grow sad, and have no heart to mes shoes any longer."

This discourse only served to raise curiosity to know more of a man win nature had thus formed into a philosome I therefore insensibly led him into a his

is adventures. "I have lived," said a wandering sort of a life now five fifty years, here to-day, and gone torow; for it was my misfortune, when is young, to be fond of changing."have been a traveller, then, I pree, interrupted I.-"I cannot boast Là of travelling,” continued he, "for I e tever left the parish in which I was nat three times in my life, that I can ber; but then there is not a street e whole neighbourhood that I have ved in, at some time or another.

I began to settle and to take to my >cess in one street, some unforeseen sátune, or a desire of trying my luck bere, has removed me, perhaps a mile away from my former cusCK, while some more lucky cobbler dame into my place, and make a me fortune among friends of my g: there was one who actually died that I had left worth seven pounds lings, all in hard gold, which he 24 quilted into the waistband of his adies."

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ld not but smile at these migrations lan by the fireside, and continued to 4. he had ever been married. "Ay, is have, master," replied he, "for sixng years; and a weary life I had 1. Heaven knows. My wife took it er head, that the only way to thrive is world was to save money; so, our comings-in were but about shillings a week, all that ever she lay her hands upon she used to hide from me, though we were obliged to e the whole week after for it. The first three years we used to quarrel this every day, and I always got the er; but she had a hard spirit, and still tinued to hide as usual: so that I was st tired of quarrelling and getting the er, and she scraped and scraped at asure, till I was almost starved to death. e conduct drove me at last in despair the alehouse; here I used to sit with ople who hated home like myself, drank Ale I had money left, and ran in score en anybody would trust me; till at last e landlady coming one day with a long al when I was from home, and putting into my wife's hands, the length of it

From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, by the way of Moscow.

GENEROSITY, properly applied, will supply every other external advantage in life, but the love of those we converse with; it will procure esteem, and a conduct resembling real affection; but actual love is the spontaneous production of the mind; no generosity can purchase, no rewards increase, nor no liberality continue it: the very person who is obliged has it not in his power to force his lingering affections upon the object he should love, and voluntarily mix passion with gratitude.

Imparted fortune and well-placed liberality may procure the benefactor goodwill, may load the person obliged with the sense of the duty he lies under to retaliate; this is gratitude, and simple gratitude, untinctured with love, is all the return an ingenuous mind can bestow for former benefits.

But gratitude and love are almost opposite affections. Love is often an involuntary passion placed upon our companions without our consent, and frequently conferred without our previous esteem. We love some men, we know not why; our tenderness is naturally excited in all their concerns; we excuse their faults with the same indulgence, and approve their virtues with the same applause, with which we consider our own. While we entertain the passion, it pleases us; we cherish it with delight, and give it up with reluctance; and love for love is all the reward we expect or desire.

Gratitude, on the contrary, is never conferred but where there have been previous endeavours to excite it. We consider