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circumstance of the handkerchief in Othello; the mixture of love that intruded upon his mind upon the innocent answers Desdemona makes, betrayed in his gesture such a variety and vicissitude of passions, as would admonish a man to be afraid of his own heart, and perfectly convince him that it is to stab it, to admit that worst of daggers, jealousy. Whoever reads in his closet this admirable scene, will find that he cannot, except he has as warm an imagination as Shakspeare himself, find any but dry, incoherent, and broken sentences: but a reader that has seen Betterton act it, observes, there could not be a word added; that longer speeches had been unnatural, nay impossible, in Othello's circumstances. The charming passage in the same tragedy, where he tells the manner of winning the affection of his mistress, was urged with so moving and graceful an energy, that while I walked in the cloisters, I thought of him with the same concern as if I waited for the remains of a person who had in real life done all that I had seen him represent. gloom of the place, and faint lights before the ceremony appeared, contributed to the melancholy disposition I was in; and I began to be extremely afflicted, that Brutus and Cassius had any difference; that Hotspur's gallantry was so unfortunate; and the mirth and good-humour of Falstaff could not exempt him from the grave. Nay, this occasion in me, who look upon the distinctions amongst men to be merely scenical, raised reflections upon the emptiness of all human perfection and greatness in general; and I could not but regret, that the sacred heads which lie buried in the neighbourhood of this little portion of earth in which my poor old friend is deposited, are returned to dust as well as he, and that there is no difference in the grave between the imaginary and the real monarch. This made me say of

human life itself with Macbeth:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in a stealing pace from day to day,
To the last moment of recorded time!
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
To their eternal night! Out, out, short candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

The

And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

20. THE FOLLY OF MISPENDING TIME.

Tatler.

AN ancient poet, unreasonably discontented at the present state of things, which his system of opinions obliged him to represent in its worst' form, has observed of the earth', "That its greatest' part is covered by the uninhabitable ocean'; that of the rest' some is encumbered with naked mountains', and some lost under barren sands'; some scorched with unintermitted heat', and some petrified with perpetual frost'; so that only a few regions remain for the production of fruits', the pasture of cattle', and the accom modation of man'."

The same observation may be transferred to the time' allotted us in our present' state. When we have deducted all that is absorbed in sleep', all that is inevitably appropriated to the demands of nature', or irresistibly engrossed by the tyranny of custom'; all that passes in regulating the superficial decorations of life', or is given up in the reciprocations of civility to the disposal of others'; all that is torn from us by the violence of disease, or stolen imperceptibly away by lassitude and languor'; we shall find that' part of our duration very small' of which we can truly call ourselves masters', or which we can spend wholly at our own choice`. Many of our hours are lost in a rotation of petty cares', in a constant recurrence of the same employments'; many of our provisions for ease or happiness' are always exhausted by the present day; and a great part of our existence serves no other purpose, than that of enabling us to enjoy the rest'.

Of the few moments which are left' in our disposal, it may reasonably be expected', that we should be so frugal', as to let none of them slip from us without some equiva→ lent'; and perhaps it might be found, that as the earth', however straitened by rocks and waters, is capable of producing more than all its inhabitants are able to consume', our lives', though much contracted by incidental distraction', would yet afford us a large space vacant to the exercise of reason' and virtue'; that we want not time', but

diligence, for great performances; and that we squander much of our allowance, even while we think it sparing and insufficient'.

An Italian philosopher expressed in his motto', that time was his estate`; an estate', indeed, which will produce nothing without cultivation', but will always abundantly repay the labours of industry', and satisfy the most extensive' desires, if no part of it be suffered to lie waste by negligence', to be overrun with noxious plants', or laid out for show' rather than for use'. Rambler.

21.-1

.—THE VISION OF SIR ISAAC BICKERSTAFF.

I WAS last week taking a solitary walk in the garden of Lincoln's Inn, (a favour that is indulged me by several of the Benchers who are my intimate friends, and grown old with me in this neighbourhood,) when, according to the nature of men in years, who have made but little progress in the advancement of their fortune or their fame, I was repining at the sudden rise of many persons who are my juniors, and indeed at the unequal distribution of wealth, honour, and all other blessings of life. I was lost in this thought, when the night came upon me, and drew my mind into a far more agreeable contemplation. The heaven above me appeared in all its glories, and presented me with such a hemisphere of stars, as made the most agreeable prospect imaginable to one who delights in the study of nature. It happened to be a freezing night, which had purified the whole body of air into such a bright transparent ether, as made every constellation visible; and at the same time gave such a particular glowing to the stars, that I thought it the richest sky I had ever seen. I could not behold a scene so wonderfully adorned and lighted up, (if I may be allowed the expression), without suitable meditations on the Author of such illustrious and amazing objects: for, on these occasions, philosophy suggests motives to religion, and religion adds pleasure to philosophy.

As soon as I had recovered my usual temper and serenity of soul, I retired to my lodgings, with the satisfaction of having passed away a few hours in the proper employments of a reasonable creature; and promising myself that my

slumbers should be sweet, I no sooner fell into them, but I dreamed a dream, or saw a vision, (for I know not which to call it), that seemed to rise out of my evening meditation, and had something in it so solemn and serious, that I cannot forbear communicating it; though I must confess the wildness of imagination (which in a dream is always loose and irregular) discovers itself in several parts of it.

Methought I saw the same azure sky diversified with the same glorious luminaries which had entertained me a little before I fell asleep. I was looking very attentively on that sign in the heavens which is called by the name of the Balance, when on a sudden there appeared in it an extraordinary light, as if the sun should rise at midnight. By its increasing in breadth and lustre, I soon found that it approached towards the earth; and at length could discern something like a shadow hovering in the midst of a great glory, which in a little time after I distinctly perceived to be the figure of a woman. I fancied at first it might be the Angel, or Intelligence that guided the constellation from which it descended; but, upon a nearer view, I saw about her all the emblems with which the goddess of Justice is usually described. Her countenance was unspeakably awful and majestic, but exquisitely beautiful to those whose eyes were strong enough to behold it; her smiles transported with rapture, her frowns terrified to despair. She held in her hand a mirror, endowed with the same qualities as that which the painters put into the hand of Truth.

There streamed from it a light, which distinguished itself from all the splendours that surrounded her, more than a flash of lightning shines in the midst of daylight. As she moved it in her hand, it brightened the heavens, the air, or the earth. When she had descended so low as to be seen and heard by mortals, to make the pomp of her appearance more supportable, she threw darkness and clouds about her, that tempered the light into a thousand beautiful shades and colours, and multiplied that lustre, which was before too strong and dazzling, into a variety of milder glories.

+ In the mean time, the world was in an alarm, and all the inhabitants of it gathered together upon a spacious plain; so that I seemed to have the whole species before my eyes. A voice was heard from the clouds, declaring the intention

of this visit, which was to restore and appropriate to every one living what was his due. The fear and hope, joy and sorrow, which appeared in that great assembly after this solemn declaration, are not to be expressed.

Tatler.

man,

22.-YOUTH AND OLD AGE.

AGE, in a virtuous person, carries in it an authority which makes it preferable to all the pleasures of youth. If to be saluted, attended, and consulted with deference, are instances of pleasure, they are such as never fail a virtuous old age. In the enumeration of the imperfections and advantages of the younger and later years of man, they are so near in their condition, that, methinks, it should be incredible we see so little commerce of kindness between them. If we consider youth and age with Tully, regarding the affinity to death, youth has many more chances to be near it than age: what youth can say more than an old. "He shall live till night?" Youth catches distempers more easily, its sickness is more violent, and its recovery more doubtful. The youth, indeed, hopes for many more days, so cannot the old man. The youth's hopes are illgrounded; for what is more foolish than to place any confidence upon an uncertainty? but the old man has not room so much as for hope; he is still happier than the youth, he has already enjoyed what the other does but hope for: one wishes to live long, the other has lived long. But, alas! is there any thing in human life, the duration of which can be called long? There is nothing which must end to be valued for its continuance. If hours, days, months, and years, pass away, it is no matter what hour, what day, what month, or what year, we die. The applause of a good actor is due to him at whatever scene of the play he makes his exit. It is thus in the life of a man of sense; a short life is sufficient to manifest himself a man of honour and virtue; when he ceases to be such, he has lived too long, and while he is such, it is of no consequence to him how long he shall be so, provided he is so to his life's end. Spectator.

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