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When his tea or coffee is handed to him, he spreads his handkerchief upon his knees, scalds his mouth, drops either the cup or faucer, and spills the tea or coffee in his lap. At dinner, he seats himself upon the edge of the chair, at so great a distance from the table, that he frequently drops his meat between his plate and his mouth; he holds his knife, fork, and spoon, differently from other people ; eats with his knife, to the manifeit danger of his mouth; and picks his teeth with his fork.

If he is to carve, he cannot hit the joint ; but, in lao bouring to cut througb the bone, splashes the sauce over every body's clothes. He generally daubs himself all over; his elbows are in the next person's plate ; and he is up to the knuckles in soup and grease. If he drinks, 'tis with his mouth full, interrupting the whole company with-" To your good health, Sir," and " my service to you:” perhaps coughs in his glass, and besprinkles the whole table.

He addresses the company by improper titles, as, Sir for my lord ; mistakes one name for another; and tells you of Mr What-d'ye-call-him, or You-know-who; Mrs Thingum, What's-her-name, or How.d'ye-call-her. He begins a story; but, not being able to finish it, breaks off in the middle, with~" I've forgot the rest.”

VIII. Virtue Man's highest Intereft. Find myself existing upon a little spot, surrounded every way by an immense unknown expansion. Where am I? What sort of place do I inhabit ? Is it ex. actly accommodated in every instance to my convenience? Is there no excess of cold, none of heat, to offend me? Am I never annoyed by animals, either of my own kind: or a different? Is every thing subservient to me, as thongh I bad ordered all myself ?--No-nothing like it -the farthest from it possible. The world appears not, then, originally made for the private convenience of me alone !..It doos not. But is it not possible fo to accommodate it, by my own particular industry? If to accommodate man and beast, heaven and earth, if this be beyond me, it is not possible. What consequence then follows ? or can there be any other than this-If I seek an interest of my own-detached from that of others, I

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feek an interest which is chimerical, and can never have existence.

How then' must I determine ! Have I no intereft at all ? If I have not, I am a fool for staying here : 'tis a smoky house, and the sooner out of it the better. But wliy no interest ? Can I be contented with none but one feparate and detached ? Is a social interest, joined with others, such an absurdity as not to be admitted? The bee, the beaver, and the tribes of herding animals, are enow to convince me that the thing is somewhere at least possible. How, then, am I assured that 'tis not equally true of man? Admit it; and what follows? If so, then honour and justice are my intereft; then the whole train of moral virtues are my interest; without some portion of which, not even thieves can maintain fociety.

But, farther still I ftop not here I pursue this social interest as far as I can trace my several relations. I pass from my own stock, my own neighbourhood, 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-1 must have food and clothing. Without a proper genial warmth, I instantly perish. Am I not related, in this view, to the very earth itself? to the difant fun, from whose beams I derive vigour ? to that stupendous course and order of the infinite host of hea. ven, by which the times and seasons ever uniformly pass on ? Were this order once confounde!, I could not probably survive a moment; so absolutely do I depend on this common general welfare. What, then, have I 10. do, but to enlarge virtue into piety! Not only honour and justice, and what I owe to man, is my intereft ; but gratitude also, acquiescence, resignation, adoration, and all I owe to this preat polity, and its greater Governour our common Parent.

IX. On the Pleasure arising from Objefts of Sight. THose pleasures of the imagination which arise ftom.

the actual view and survey of outward objects, all proceed from the figlit of what is great, uncommon, or beautiful.

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By greatness, I do not only mean the bulk of any single object, but the largeness of a whole view considered as one entire piece. Such are the prospects of an open champaign country, a valt uncultivated desert, of huge heaps of mountains, high rocks and precipices, or a wide expanse of waters; where we are not struck with the novelty or beauty of the sight, but with that rude kind of magnificence which appears in many of these stupendous works of nature. Our imagination loves to be filled with an object, or to grasp at any thing that is too big for its capacity. We are fung into a pleasing aftonilhment at such unbounded views, and feel a delightful stillness and amazement in the soul at the apprehensions of them. The mind of man naturally hates every thing that looks like a restraint upon it, and is apt to fancy itself under a sort of confinement, when the fight is pent up in a narrow conipass, and shortened on every fide by the neighbourhood of walls cr mountains On the contrary, a spacious horizon is an image of liberty, where the eye has room to range abroad, to expatiate at large on the immensity of its views, and to lose itself aspidst the variety of objects that offer themfelves to its observation. Such wide and undetermined prospects are as pleasing to the fancy as the speculations of eternity or infinitude are to the understanding. But if there be a beauty or uncommonnels joined with this grandeur, as in a troubled ocean, a heaven adorned with Itars and meteors, or a spacious landscape cut out into rivers, woods, rocks, and meadows, the pleasure fill grows upon us, as it rises from more than a single principle.

Every thing that is new or uncommon raises a pleasure in the imagination, because it fills the soul with an agreeable surprise, gratifies its curiosity, and gives it an idea of which it was not before possessed. We are indeed so often conversant with one set of objects, and tired out with so many repeated shows of the same things, that whatever is new or uncommon contributes a little to vary human life, and to divert our minds for a while with the strangeness of its appearance; it serves us for a kind of refreshinent, and takes off from that latiety, we are apt to complain of in our usual and ordinary enter

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tainments. It is this that bestows charms on a monster, and makes even the imperfections of nature please us. It is this that recommends variety, where the mind is every instant called off to something new, and the at. tention not suffered to dwell too long, and waste itself on any particular object : it is this likewise, that improves what is great or beautiful, and makes it afford the mind a double entertainment. "Groves, fields, and meadows, are at any season of the year pleasant to look upon; but neyer so much as in the opening of the spring, when they are all new and fresh, with their first glots upon them, and not yet too miich accustoined and familiar to the eye. For this reason there is nothing that more enlivens a prospect than rivers, jetteaus, or falls of water, where the scene is perpetually shifting, and entertaining the fight every moment with something that is new. We are quickly tired with looking upon hills and valleys, where every thing continues fixed and settled in the same place and posture, but find our thoughts a little agitated and relieved at the sight of such objects as are ever in motion, and sliding away from beneath the eye of the beholder.

But there is nothing that makes its way more directly to the soul than beauty, which immediately diffufes a secret satisfaction and complacency through the imagination, and gives a finishing to any thing that is great or uncommon. The very first discovery of it strikes the mind withi all inward joy, and spreads a cheerfulness and delight through all its faculties. There is not perhaps any real beauty or deformity more in one piece of matter than another; because we might have been so made, that whatsoever now appears loathsome to us might have fhown itself agreeable; but we find by experience, that there are several modifications of matter, which the mind, without any previous consideration, pronounces at the first sight beautiful or defor med.' Thus we see that every

different fpecies of sensible creatures has its different notions of beauty, and that each of them is most affected with the beauties of its own kind. This is no where more remarkable than in birds of the same shape and proportion, where we often see the male dezermined in his courthip by the fingle grain or tincture

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of a feather, and never discovering any charms but in the colour of its species.

There is a second kind of beauty that we find in the several products of art and nature, which does not work in the imagination with that warmth and violence as the beauty that appears in our proper species, but is apt, however, to raise in us a secret delight, and a kind of fondnefs for the places or objects in which we discover it. This consists either in the gaiety or variety of colours, in the symmetry and proportion of parts, in the arrangement and disposition of bodies, or in a just mix. ture and concurrence of all together. Among these several kinds of beauty the eye takes most delight in colours. We no where meet with a more glorious or plea. sing show in nature, than what appears in the heavens at the rising and setting of the sun, which is wholly made

up of those different ftains of light that show themselves in clouds of a different situation. For this reafon we find the poets, who are always addrefsing them. : felves to the imagination, borrowing more of their epi. thers from colours than from any other topic.

As the fancy delights in every thing that is great, ftrange, or beautiful, and is still more pleased the more it finds of these perfections in the fame object; fo it is capable of receiving a new fatisfaction by the affiftance of another sente. Thus any continued fo:end, as the music of birds, or a fall of water, awakens every mo. ment the mind of the beholder, and makes him more attentive to the several beauties of the place that lie before himn. Thus, if there arise a fragrancy of smells or perfumes, they heighten the pleasures of the imagination, and make even the colours and everdure of the landscape appear more agreeable : for the ideas of both fenfes recommend each other, and are pleasanter together than when they enter the mind separately ; as the different colours of a picture, when they are well disposed, set off one another, and receive an additional beaua ty from the advantage of their situation.

X. Liberty and Slavery. Discuise thyself as thou wilt, ftill Slavery! still thou art a bitter draught; and though thousands in all

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