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honor and justice are my interest; then the whole train of moral virtues are my interest; without some portion of which, not even thieves can maintain society.
But, farther still—I stop not here—I pursue this social 4 interest as far as I can trace my several relations. I pass
from my own stock, my own neighborhood, my own nation, to the whole race of mankind, as dispersed throughout the earth. Am I not related to them all, by the mutual aids of commerce, by the general intercourse of arts and letters, by that common nature of which we all participate?
Again-I must have food and clothing. Without a proper genial warınth, I instantly perish. Am I not related,
in this view, to the very earth itself ? to the distant sun, 5 from whose beams I derive vigor ? to that stupendous course
anıl order of the infinite host of heaven, by which the times and seasons ever uniformly pass on ? Were this order once confounded, I could not probably survive a moment; so absolutely do I depend on this common general welfare. What, then, have I to do, but to enlarge virtue into piety? Not only honor and justice, and what I owe to man, are my interest, but gratitude also; acquiescence, resignation, adoration, and all I owe to this great polity, and its great Governor, our common Parent.
All men pursue good, and would be happy, if they knew how: not happy for minutes, and miserable for hours ; but happy, if possible, through every part of their existence. Either, therefore, there is a good of this steady, durable kind, or there is not. If not, then all good must be transient, and uncertain; and if so, an object of the lowest value, which can little deserve our attention or inquiry.
But if there be a better good, such a good as we are seeking, like every other thing, it must be derived from some cause; and that cause must either be external, internal, or mixed; inasmuch as, except these three, there is no other possible. Now a steady, durable good, cannot be derived from an external cause; since all derived from externals must fluctuate as they fluctuate. By the same rule, it cannot be derived from a mixture of the two; because the part which is external will proportionably destroy its
What then remains but the cause internal-the very cause which we have supposed, when we place the sovereign good in mind, in rectitude of conduct.-Harris.
LESSON LVII. Disrespect to Parents is in no case allowable.—PERCIVAL. 1 LEANDER, the eldest son of Socrates, fell into a violent passion with his mother. Socrates was witness to this shameful misbehavior, and attempted the correction of it, in the following gentle and rational manner.
“Come hither, son,” said he; have you never heard of men, who are called ungrateful ?” * Yes, frequently," answered the youth. “And what is ingratitude ?" demanded Socrates, It is to receive a kindness,” said Leander, “ without making a proper return, when there is a favor
able opportunity." "Ingratitude is, therefore, a species 2 of injustice,” said Socrates. " I should think so," an
swered Leander. “ If, then," pursued Socrates, "ingratitude be injustice, does it not follow, that the degree of it must be proportionate to the magnitude of the favors which have been received ?” Leander admitted the inference; and Socrates thus pursued his interrogations. “Can there subsist higher obligations than those which children owe to their parents; from whom life is derived and supported, and by whose good offices it is rendered
honorable, useful, and happy?" "I acknowledge the truth 3 of what you say,” replied Leander ; “but who could suffer,
without resentment, the ill-humors of such a mother as I have ?" What strange thing has she done to you ?" said Socrates. "She has a tongue,” replied Leander, “ that no mortal can bear." “ How much more,” said Socrates, “ has she endured from your wrangling, fretfulness, and incessant cries, in the period of infancy! What anxieties has she suffered from the levities, capriciousness, and follies, of your childhood and youth! What affliction has
she felt, what toil and watching has she sustained, in your 4 illnesses! These, and various other powerful motives to
filial duty and gratitude, have been recognised by the legislators of our republic. For, if any one be disrespectful to his parents, he is not permitted to enjoy any post of trust or honor. It is believed that a sacrifice, offered by an impious hand, can neither be acceptable to Heaven, nor pro! itable to the state ; and that an undutiful son cannot be capable of performing any great action, or of executing justice with impartiality. Therefore, my son, if you be
wise, you will pray to Heaven to pardon the offences com5 mitted against your mother. Let no one discover the con
tempt with which you have treated her; for the world will condemn, and abandon you for such behavior. And if it be even suspected, that you repay with ingratitude the good offices of your parents, you will inevitably forego the kindness of others; because, no man will suppose that you have a heart to requite either his favors or his friendship.”
It was a noble spectacle amidst the flames that were consuming Troy, and while the multitude were intent only on rescuing their paltry treasures, to see the dutiful Æneas bearing on his shoulder the venerable Anchises, his aged father, to a place of safety. But ah! how rare such examples of filial piety! My God! the blood freezes in the veins at the thought of the ingratitude of children. Spirits of my sainted parents, could I recall the hours when it was in my power to honor you, how different should be my conduct. Ah! were not the dead unmindful of the reverence the living pay them, I would disturb the silence of your tombs with nightly orisons, and bedew the urn which contains your ashes with perpetual tears !-Nott.
The Fat Actor and the Rustic.- ANONYMOUS.
1 CARDINAL Wolsey was a man
“Of an unbounded stomach,” Shakspearo says,
But had he seen a player of our days,
Equalled not that within the bounds
This actor's belt surrounds,
Of our odd fishes
He found himself at Lille one afternoon, 3 And that he might the breeze enjoy,
And catch a peep at the ascending moon
Until the moon began to shine,
On which he gazed awhile, and then
Why, zounds, they shut the gates at ten !"
Stumping along with might and main;
And though 'tis plain
He puffed and blew along the road,
When in his path he met a clown
“Tell me,” he panted in a thawing state,
“ Dost think I can get in, friend, at the gate ? “Get in," replied the hesitating loon, Measuring with his eye our bulky wight, “Why---yes, sir-I should think you might, A load of hay went in this afternoon."
* Kraken, a fabulous sea-monster.
Prince Henry. Why thou owest Heaven a death. (Exit.)
Falstaff. "Tis not due yet : I would be loath to pay him before his day. What need I be so forward with him that calleth not on me? Well, 'tis no matter; honor pricks me
Yea, but how if honor prick me off when I come on? how then? Can honor set to a leg? No. Or an arm ? No. Or take away the grief of a wound ? No. Honor hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honor? A word ? What is that word honor ? Air. A trim reckoning !- Who hath it? He that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it ? No. Doth he hear it ? No. Is it insensible then ? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living ? No.' Why ? Detraction will not suffer it :-therefore, I'll none of it; Honor is a mere scutcheon, and so ends my catechism.
Conflagration of an Amphitheatre at Rome. --Croly. ROME was an ocean of flame. Height and depth were covered with red surges, that rolled before the blast like an endless tide. The billows burst up the sides of the hills, which they turned into instant volcanoes, exploding volumes smoke and fire ; then plunged into the depths in a hundred glowing cataracts, then climbed and consumed again. The distant sound of the city in her convulsion went to the soul. The air was filled with the steady roar of the advancing flame, the crash of falling houses, and the hideous outcry of the myriads flying through the streets, or surrounded and perishing in the conflagration. All was clamor, violent struggle, and helpless death. Men and women of the highest rank were on foot, trampled by the rabble that had then lost all respect of conditions. One dense mass of miserable life, irresistible from its weight, crushed by the narrow streets, and scorched by the flames over their heads, rolled through the gates like an endless stream of black lava.
The fire had originally broken out upon the Palatine, and