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use; but it is an ornament!" And when Nadir Shah, who was of low origin, claimed for his son a princess of the house of Delhi, he was required to give his pedigree for seven generations. Nadir said to his ambassador, "Tell them that my son is the son of Nadir Shah; the son of the Sword; the grandson of the sword; the great-grandson of the sword; and thus continue, till you have claimed a descent not only of seven generations, but seventy." As to modern wars! They are as vulgar and as pitiful in their origin as all the rest.

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Lord Kaimes-for the most part so wise and so intelligent, has a reflection curiously wild and mischievous. Perpetual war is bad," says his lordship; "because it converts men into beasts of prey. Perpetual peace is worse, because it converts them into beasts of burden." What a monstrous position is this! A position to which his lordship seems to have been seduced merely for the sake of forming a sonorous climax. No! Bad as it is to be a beast of burden, it is better, far better, to be a beast of burden, than a beast of prey. At least, such a beast of prey as man is, when he becomes such. But perpetual peace has no such crime to answer for. In Europe, perpetual peace has never yet been tried where it has, as among the Loo-choos, the result has been not less fortunate to the inhabitants, than it is beautiful to the imaginations of those who never have enjoyed it. But the time seems to be approaching, though in a complicated line, in which admiration for warlike enterprise will melt into vapour, like the bubble, which excited it. The world may yet constitute one great vineyard: hence warriors may meditate with awe and repentance, when they reflect that Alva, after murdering many thousands, received his only sustenance, at the close of life, from the breast of a woman!

HEROES AND LITERATI.

In the estimate of the happiness, which attends others, we are too apt to judge of its effects by the standard of our own feelings; and to consider that man happy or miserable, who dissents, or complies, with our tastes, our manners, and our opinions. Admirably was it observed by Epictetus, that we ought not to consider, who is prince, or who is mendicant, but who acts the prince or beggar best. To those, whose unbounded desires have never been curbed by prudence or virtue, how vain will appear the philosophic spirit of Adrian, who calculated those years, which he passed at the Villa Adriana, as only belonging to life; or that of Corcutus, son of Bajazet the Second. Upon the death of Mahomet, Corcutus was, by the unanimous consent of the army and nobility, elected, after various struggles, in preference to his father. Upon Bajazet's arrival at Constantinople, however, he resigned the imperial purple, and retired, with a yearly pension, to the government of the delightful provinces of Lycia, Caria, and Ionia, where he lived, free and content, in the quiet studies of philosophy. "I esteem it," said he, in an oration to his father, "unbecoming the resolution of a calm and settled mind, to pant for those worldly possessions; when, in the sweet meditations of heavenly things, my ravished mind is feasted with objects of far more worth and majesty, than all the kingdoms and monarchies in the world."

And now, my Lelius, perhaps you will pardon á few remarks upon the comparative pretensions of those men, who have the power of acquiring for themselves a splendid immortality;-statesmen, heroes, and literati! Of these, the two first are dependent on the last for their eternity; the last are dependent only on themselves. For who would have heard of Grecian, or of Roman heroes and statesmen, had such men as Herodotus and Thucydides never existed; or if there had

not been a Polybius, a Sallust, a Livy, or a Tacitus? Illustrious deeds lose half their value, unless they are recorded by men, who can give them life and remembrance. When we meditate on the memories of Charles of Spain and Frederic of Prussia; or on the names of Suwarrow and Napoleon, with what disgust do we trace their routes by the stains of purple, which discolour the fields! And with what horror do we recognize their effigies, by hearts cased with mail; eyes prominent with military lust; and ears, fingers, and bosoms, dropping with blood! The outcast, who beheaded Mary of Scotland, was not so vile, so worthless, and detestable.

Statesmen-essenced warriors!-Men, who, gliding through an avenue of courtiers, frequently palsy the energies of a whole people; and with all the cowardice of security, devote provinces to destruction with a stroke of the pen; and depopulate whole nations without drawing a sword! I speak not of such men as Solon, Sully, Bernstorff, Colbert, or Chatham; men, who, having a beauty and a grandeur in all their sentiments, were the pride of their respective nations, and the glory of the whole earth! —But of * of * * and of * *

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When we speak, or think, of such men as these, (for the weakness of human nature permits us not to guard our thoughts against sometimes thinking of such men, any more than our eyes are privileged against disgusting objects in the streets), our thoughts wear the character of disgraceful uniformity. The same moral disgust affects us, whether we speak of Catharine of Russia, or Catharine de Medicis ;of John of England, Alva of Spain, or Philip of France. Associating Cæsar with Borgia, *** with Sejanus, and * * * with Alvarez de Luna, who would not prefer the silence of the most obscure hamlet of the Hebrides, to the ignominious immortality of such creatures as these? Men and women, towards whom history will operate as a perpetual

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gallow-tree! Men and women, who made all others "beautiful to look upon."

Warfare of defence alone is justifiable. The rest is infamy: and the man who urges it, proclaims it, or assists in it, be he prince, minister, or counsellor, is entitled to the united hisses of an injured world.

But who are those, niched in the eternal amphitheatre, who live from age to age, and who, to the utmost limits of time, will charm and instruct, not only a nation, but a world? Who are those, of whom enlightened men are speaking every hour? Who are they, who walk with us, accompany us in long journeys, advise us in secrecy, and reprove us without a frown? Who are they, who dry the tears of the widow, and cheer the bosoms of the wretched? Whose birth-places do we visit with sympathy and delight? Over whose tombs do we bend with all that fascinating awe, with which a Tasso would pause among the ruins of a venerable temple? Who teach us to derive happiness from ourselves; and thrill us with all those delicate emotions, of which our nature is susceptible? And to whom-hear it, ye vulgar?-to whom do kings and warriors, and statesmen, look for consolation, when they are foiled, defeated, and disgraced? To whom, but to men of learning, talents, and genius :-men, who possess the power of imparting all the colours of the rainbow to the dull mosaic of a spider's web:-men, who glide through life unobserved and unknown; whose merits are only acknowledged in death; and whose coruscations are allowed only to emanate from the grave:-Men, whose memories live, not on pillars, on monuments, or on obelisks; but in the bosom of every amiable and enlightened man whose images are multiplied, in proportion to the extension of the human race; and whose honourable names are echoed with rapture, even through the universe.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;

There Fancy comes, at twilight grey,

To bless the turf, that wraps their clay;
And Pity does a while repair,

To mourn, a weeping pilgrim, there.

After the expiration of several ages, the Portuguese have at length attempted to cover the ignominy of their forefathers, by erecting a monument over the ashes of Camöens. Illustrious shade! rise from thy bed of earth;-pulverize the monument; and strew it to the winds!

CONTRASTS THE SPRINGS OF OUR HAPPINESS.

CONTRASTS are the springs of our happiness. Without a knowledge of the muriatic, we should be ignorant of the sweet; without the sweet, we should be incapable of the pungent. Had noon no excess, we should never enjoy the temperature of evening; were there no darkness, we could never appreciate the value of light: without labour, who could be sensible of the enjoyments of rest? and were we not sometimes visited by pain, where would be found the captivations of pleasure? Such is the organization of man. That we

could have been formed in a manner to have a continual appetite for enjoyment, without any of the contrasts arising from vicissitude, is as certain, as that we possess a general appetite for food, even though we feel no pain from partial hunger, or from temperate thirst. But it has pleased the Eternal thus to frame us. He has decreed, also, a temporary success to vice, and a temporary depression to virtue. Regardless of the means he employs, the VILLAIN prospers ! He rolls in wealth, and becomes the petty despot of his village; the Napoleon of his neighbourhood. His will is his logic; power is his mistress; and money his god. He dies! unpitied, unlamented, he is almost hissed and hooted into his grave. The hatred of his relatives is signified by the nettles growing over his monument; and the joy of the poor is the best epitaph he deserves.

The GOOD MAN, on the other hand, frequently pines from

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