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GRAMMATICAL WORKS, By the Author of the French Translator. FRENCH GRAMMATOLOGY; A COURSE OF FRENCH. IN THREE VOLUMES, 12mo. FIRST VOLUME. The PRONOUNCING INSTRUCTOR ; containing an Exposition of French taryPronunciation, Phraseology a correspondingVocabulary with with the the Figurative Rules of Grammar:Pronunciation, and an Elemen- Modem Conversation exemplified byALSO, Sixty Dialogues, with Idiomatical Phrases alphabeticallyFrench Letters, arranged and the ; differentand an ModelsEpistolary of Style. Guide, showing the Ceremonial of SECOND VOLUME. The READING INSTRUCTOR; containing Easy and Gradual Lessons in aProse Figurative and in PronunciationVerse, composed and of a Fables,Vocabulary Anecdotes, : and virtuous Examples, with ALSO, ratives,Extracts, Descriptions, both in Prose Natural and History,in Verse, Moralfrom FrenchDefinitions; Literature; Moral, comprising Literary, Nar-and Poetry.Political Characters; Letters, Eloquence, Lyrics, Pastorals, Satires, and Dramatic THIRD VOLUME. NineThe Parts GRAMMATICAL of Speech, with numerousINSTRUCTOR and easy ; containingExercises; thearranged Etymology on a new of andthe itsmethodical single and Plan, compound in which, Tenses among on otherthe same improvements, page, with everynumerous species Exercises: of Verbs has ALSO, constantThe Syntax references of the to rulesNine byParts means of Speech, of figures. explained by copious Exercises, with _ The whole arranged by an original Method, facilitating the knowledge of the tainingFrench everyLanguage. Rule ofDesigned the Grammar. for the use of Schools, and illustrated by a Key, con- Testimonials in favour of the above Course of French. Dunbar, 1st April 1826. nion)The you arefollowing justly entitledacknowledgment from every is ateacher tribute of of youth. gratitude to which (in my opi- expectingI have introducedto find one morethat wouldthan seven suit myor eight purpose different as a proper French text-book grammars, for teaching always by ; but, after these repeated trials, I found that a French grammar, written in a conciseImmediately and perspicuous upon the method, publication was ofstill your a desideratum. Grammatology, 1 introduced the work ; andfound from that the my plain, pupils simple, make andmore yet proficiency concise manner in the inlanguage which it in is sixcomposed, months, I havethan theyIndeed, formerly upon were a carefulaccustomed and an to impartialdo in twelve, examination, and with farthe greater work easesufficiently to myself. re- intocommends the most itself; respectable and I ht}veschools no anddoubt, academies in a very in shortthe kingdom. time, it will find its way JAMRSTeacher MORTON,in Dunbar. 16th April 1826. It gives me great pleasure to state, that in my opinion, the work called Gram- matology,The first is volume,very valuable, devoted and to peculiarlyPronunciation, well fittedPhraseology, to be useful and inDialogues, Schools. con- Thetains Treatisemany particulars on Pronunciation of great isimportance, simple, perspicuous, and executed and ample.with greatIts efficacyjudgment. has beenSurenne’s fully pupilsproved at in many the accuracy public examinations, and propriety beforeof pronunciation judges of acknowledgedexemplified by com- Mr arepetency. to instruct It cannot, others. therefore, fail to be highly valued, particularly by those who rangedThe extractsas to introduce in the second the volumestudent areprogressively well selected, to an and acquaintance are so methodically with French ar- literature.The Grammar in the third volume is copious, yet simple in its rules ; and the methodwords to of be referring corrected, constantly is quite original,to the rules, and bymust means be of of very figures great placed advantage. below the myThe opinion, systematic too highly arrangement extolled. and perspicuity of the whole tfrork cannot be, in TeacherGEO. inKNIGHT, Edinburgh. 10th April 1826. consistingI am of of opinion a Pronouncing that the courseInstructor, of French a Reading studies, Instructor, composed andby Mra Grammatical Surenne, degree,Instructor, the fromacquisition its simple of a andpractical well-digested knowledge plan, of the tends French to facilitate, language; in and, no smallwhe- therwhich for I publicam acquainted. or private teaching, that it is preferable to any work of the kind with - ALEXANDERTeacher in Edinburgh. BROWN, 10th April 1826. vincedUpon of atheir minute decided and superioritycareful perusal in every of your respect three overvolumes, all other I was books completely of the con-like descriptionthe work, but that it hadis wholly come unnecessary,under my notice. as I amMuch perfectly might eonvinced, be said on that the it merits requires of onlythe best to beof knownthe kind to extant.the candid and judicious teacher, to be acknowledged to be For ray own part, I can say, I have used no oilier class-book for French these severalmy most years sanguine past; expectations.and I juslly aver,And that 1 have the nosuccess hesitation attending whatever it hasin affirming,surpassed thatmethod, the Frenchand much language more accurately, may be attained than byin thoseont-fouriU methods of theordinarily usual timepursued. by your haveI most rendered sincerely to the hope, British therefore, youth, that,in facilitating after the verytheir importantprogress in service so popular which youand whichelegant they a branch so eminently of their deserve. education, your productions will meet with that reward TeacherALEXANDER of French, Dalkeith.PARK, IT is with unfeigned pleasure, and strict justice,Bathgate, I bear September testimony 26,to the1825. superior talentstions are, of inMotfsiEuit my opinion, Suhenne, the best extant as a inGrammarian point of clearness, His grammatical method, and produc- prin- RectorJAMES of Bathgate TAYLOR, Academy.

As I have been familiar with your native language,Montrose, almost 2ith Septembersince my 1825.infancy, andhope have I shall been be muchjustified, employed in offering in the this teaching my eager of testimonialFrench for theof mylast high six years,opinion I regardingnous and concentratedyour abilities manner as a Grammarian. in which you Idevelope am anxious the Frenchto point Syntax—a out the lumi-point indure which of other you differGrammarians—Your so greatly from themethod diffuse, of showingobscure, the and French unconnected sounds, proce.is at oncepronunciation. systematic, Itand gives eminently me pleasure favourable to state to thethe rapidingenious attainment and satisfactoryof an accurate ex- planationsFrench language. which you present, as to the more delicate and abstruse points of the ANDREWRector of Montrose JOHNSTONE, Academy.

a desideratumWe have long among been books of opinion, of education; that a well-arranged but until we Frenchmet with Grammar the works was placed quite originalat the beginning or useful. of this article, we have seen nothing of the kind which was either ourAfter conviction, a deliberate that M.review Surenne of the has Grammatology, rendered an essential we feel service no hesitation to the incause stating of education,French tongue, by simplifyingand by rendering the mode the acquisitionof communicating of it both the more Rudiments easy and of more the interesting.With the assistance of such guides as we have now described, it must be the partfault or of acquire teachers the and knowledge scholars ofthemselves the French. if they To do teachers not, in in a particular,short time, who either are im-not natives,which places these itvolumes on a clear are andvery intelligiblevaluable, from footing the systemScots ofMagaxine, pronunciation October adopted, 1825. A PRACTICAL GRAMMAR FRENCH RHETORIC. IN ONE VOLUME 8v0 : CONTAINING The Laws of Pronunciation, Prosody, Orthography,ALSO, Accentuation, and Punctuation; The Nature of Etymology,of Rhetoric, the and different the several Grammatical Species ofConstructions, Style; the Figures The Rules and Species of Versification,WITH the Management of the Voice concerning Oratorical Pauses, Inflections,Oratorical and Emphasis—the Delivery. Gestures and Passions in dredThe Original whole arrangedExtracts onfrom a TwoNew HundredPractical Authors;Plan, and offeringillustrated a Briefby Six View Hun. of tainingFrench everyLiterature, Exercise under of the the Grammar. form of Exercises, and illustrated by a Key, con- calculated“ This towork be very(the successful. Rhetorical Grammar)The author is is critical a complete and philosophical,master of his andsubject; well andwhile the to mostconsult elegant him.” scholar, Glasgow as well Freeas thePress, humblest December student, 24, 1825.may find it worth

THE NEW FRENCH MANUAL, AND TRAVELLER’S COMPANION. IN ONE VOLUME, 12mO. CONTAINING liarA Words concise ; Introductionand a Selection to Frenchof Phrases Pronunciation on the most ; acommon copious andVocabulary useful subjects of Fami- : A Series of Conversations on a Tour to France, Descriptive of the Public Build- ings, Institutions, Curiosities, Manners,WITH and Amusements of the French Capital; TablesAn Introduction of French and to BritishEpistolary Monies Correspondence, : to which are Directions added the toStatistics Travellers, of Paris, and illustratedFrench and by British a Map Weights of France and and Measures. a Plan of Paris, and Comparative Tables of Fdinburgh, April 24. haveI CANcomposed have noto facilitatedifficulty thein giving acquisition my attestation of the French to the language. value of the works you SeniorA. MinisterALISON, of StLL. Paul's. B. THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR; OR, THE ART OF TRANSLATING ENGLISH INTO FRENCH: containing AN INTRODUCTION, WITH THE FRENCH INTERLINED, COMPOSED OF INTERESTING ANECDOTES, FOLLOWED BY COPIOUS AND ELEGANT EXTRACTS, FORMING A COURSE OF ENGLISH LITERATURE : THE WHOLE BEGINNING WITH A SHORT TREATISE ON TRANSLATION, AND TERMINATING BV A GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY,

Designed for the Use of Schools. By GABRIEL SURENNE, F. S. S. A.

EDINBURGH: TO BE HAD OF OLIVER & BOYD, EDINBURGH ; G. B. WHITTAKER, LONDON ,• T. GUMMING, DUBLIN; AND ALL OTHER BOOKSELLERS. 1! 5 11»VAP \‘975< ■ i0 33

ERRATA IN THE INTRODUCTORY ANECDOTES.

28 18 read Mfor 42, and 172 for 117. Page31 Line6 read 126 under few. _29 12 read ilssous ne under fussent. in. 32 2620 theread score f. instead after had, of m. is void. — 2414 read lefora cause la. ile instead of 18. — 16 read si under whether. — 22 read a instead of when. 3733 168 readread atche/or189 for 184. pilotis. — 3228 read assigner/orcents/or cens. assignir. 3946 2812 read risquer172 for for171. riquer. —30 1614 read 18054 instead instead of of 12. 108. 5246 1218 read entieren under for on.entirer. 31— 3620 read 54a instead instead of o/12. 12. 130 30 read aux for au. TO THE REVEREND ANDREW THOMSON, D. D. MINISTER OF St. GEORGE’S CHURCH, EDINBURGH. Reterend Sir, It would be departing from the object I have in view, and it might also be offensive to your modesty, were I to expatiate on the Christian eloquence with which you are so highly gifted, and on the literary rank you have so deservedly attained. I flatter myself, however, that I may accomplish my aim, by taking the opportunity of expressing openly my sentiments of admiration with regard to the sincere, active, and deep interest you take in the education of the young, who cannot fail to be impressed with the most lively gratitude towards you, as soon as they shall be sensible of the valuable advantages they derived from the fostering influence of your paternal care. It is chiefly, therefore, on the consideration of your being so active a patron of public instruction, that I hasten to dedicate to you the result of my recent labours, the end of which is to communicate the mode of acquiring the French Language, in an exact, useful, and permanent manner; and while I reflect that the present work could not appear under more favourable auspices than yours, I feel a due sense of gratitude for the obligations under which you have laid me—a gratitude indeed, which neither can nor ought to terminate but with existence. Be pleased, therefore, to accept this unfeigned acknowledge- ment of the kindness which I uniformly experience at your hands, and of that profound respect with which I am. Reverend Sir, Your most obedient, and very humble Servant, G. SURENNE. , f,} I -j I .1- '

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.TAA:* . D • PREFACE.

T he Author of the following Work, having had considerable practice in teaching his native tongue, conceived the idea of the present plan, which he humbly hopes will be found somewhat original, from the circumstance of his having observed, that one of the greatest difficulties under which his pupils labour every day, is that of translating with propriety into French the inde- clinable parts of speech, as adverbs, prepositions, and conjunctions, whenever meanings are attached to them which differ from their radical signification. Having been thoroughly convinced by experience that the common method adopted in grammars and exercises, leaves young people still in a thousand doubts as to the proper mode of rendering particular turns of phrase, the Au- thor felt no hesitation in attempting to Temove those bars, which were continually hindering the student from translating Eng- lish into French with rapidity and correctness. To endeavour to accomplish this desirable end, has been the object of the present publication. This Work is composed of several distinct parts ; namely, a short treatise on translation,—an introduction to the English extracts, with the construction pointed out by means of French words, and figures interlined, referring to the Dictionary at the end,—a collection of elegant extracts of English literature,—and lastly, the Dictionary, already mentioned, containing the essen- tials of French grammar, and explaining the different meanings of English particles. Such are the contents of the Work now presented to the public. It is not uncommon to hear persons, even of classical education, complaining of the difficulties of the French language, while they are attempting to translate English into French. Al- though there be, no doubt, some reason for such complaints, yet it is equally certain, that a want of method on the part of those PREFACE. who translate, is more likely to be the real cause of the alleged obstacles, than any thing else; and the proper mode to be adopted in translating lies within a very narrow compass; it consists simply in comparing the genius of our native tongue with that of the one into which the translation is to be made. Among the numerous writers on French grammar, who have treated of construction and translation. Mess. Bauzee, Dumarfais, Le Batteux, and Condillac, stand foremost, and to them, those who are animated with the spirit of inquiry must apply, to ascertain what is meant by the genius of a language. The reader, however, may rest satisfied with the following grammatical maxim: —That a thorough knowledge of Pleonasm, or superfluity; El- lipsis, or omission; Hyperbaton, or inversion; and of Idioms, whether applied to radical words, or to construction, is indis- pensable, especially to those upon whom the duty devolves, of translating their native language into a foreign one. These essential grammatical points have not escaped the attention of the Author ; and the student, on consulting the Treatise on Translation at the beginning, and the Grammatical Diction- ary at the end of the work, will find them embodied, and explained, in a manner which it is hoped will be attended with no small advantage. Another material point from which the Author expects pupils to derive essential benefit, is the explanation given in the Gram- matical Dictionary, of the numerous meanings attached to a vast number of particles, without the knowledge of which no translation can be correct. The Author candidly confesses, that he has made free use of the labours of Chambaud, but at the same time no pains have been spared to improve upon them, by pre- senting the various significations of words more methodically before the eye of the student, and by frequently pruning superfluities, in order to combine simplicity with perspicuity. Except this assistance, of which the Author has availed himself, all the rest is composed of original grammatical matter, the principles of which, when duly considered, cannot fail to prove of the greatest use to the pupil, by assisting him to translate with idiomatical accuracy. PREFACE. A glance at the Extracts of English Literature, intended as a series of themes to be translated into French, will, it is hoped, be a convincing proof how far the Author, in his selection, has been guided by purity, delicacy, and elegance; and the arrangement throughout the Work, however trivial it may appear to some, will show how anxious the Author has been to present to the eye of the pupil, nothing but what is methodical; for daily experience shows him that method is the soul of teaching, as well as of learning a language. Should the following Work appear to Teachers worthy of their attention, and calculated to aid and direct their pupils in the thorny path of translation, their approbation would be deemed by. the Author a sufficient apology to the public for his having added another to the list, already too numerous, of elementary books on the French language. 12. GeorgeJune Street,28. 1826. Edinburgh, /1 CONTENTS.

PART I. CHAPTER —On Translation.Page 2. Henry IV. of France Huma-Page 1. Preliminary View, . 9 3. Sirnity, Henry - Vane—Magnani-- - 28 3.2. AnalogyGeneral Rules,between French- . and 11 mity, - - - - 29 English Words, . 12 4.5. EarlThe Medusa—Kindness,Fitwilliam—Hospitality, - 3031 4.5. GendersNumber ofof Words,Words, - - 1514 6. Emperor Joseph II.—Benevo- 6. Place of Words, - - ib. 7. Dukelence, of Bedford—Patriotism,- - 3432 8.7. AgreementPlace of Words, of Words, . - ib.16 8. The Magnanimous Peasants, 36 9. Use of Tenses, . . 17 10.9. The BritishEmperor Tar Napoleon.—Ge- Humanity, 37 11.10. VariousUse of Pronouns, Construction, - - - 1918 nerosity, ... 40 12. On Pleonasms, - . ib. 12.11. AdmiralFilial Affection, Rodney.—Loyalty, . . 4241 14.13. On Ellipsis,Inversion, - - - - 2220 13. The Monks of St Bernard.— 15. On Idioms, - - - 24 14. MungoHospitality, Park.—Kindness, - - 4544 CHAPTER II.—Introductorydotes. Anec- 15. Music—The Handmaid of 1. Flemish Merchant—Generosity, 27 Mercy, ... 47 PART II. CHAPTER I—Narrations. Page 2. Loch Ketterin, in Scotland, 152 1. Discovery of America by Colum- 4.3. AThe Palace Falls inof Abyssinia,the Clyde, - - 155153 2. Charlesbus, V.’s resignation- of- his Do- 131 5. The Town of Constantinople, 156 minions, - - 134 6. Theberland, Vale of Keswick- in -Cum- 158 3.4. TheTrial, Story execution, of a disabled and character Soldier, 137 7. Fonthill Abbey, - - 160 5. Aof true Charles Story I. of a poor Clergy.- 140 CHAPTER III—Battles. 6. Theman, Widow andher Son,- 143147 1. Battle of Pharsalia, - 164 CHAPTER II Descriptions. 3.2. Battle of Agincourt,Hastings, - - 166170 1. The Grotto of Antiparos, - 150 4. Siege of Orleans, - - 173 CONTENTS. '}> S. Battle of Lodi, - 1T5 8- FrancisV. of I.Germany, of France, and- Charles 222 CHAPTER IV—Natural History. 10.9. MaryElizabeth, Queen of Soots,- - - 224225 2.1. Man,Tbe Horse, •• - - - - 178180 11.12. OliverThe great Cromwell, Lord Chatham, - - 227226 4.a The Ass,Cow, - - - - 182181 13. Napoleon, * - 228 5. The Sheep, - - 183 CHAPTER VIII—Literary Characters. 7.6. The Tiger,Lion, . - - - - 184ib. 1. Of Homer and Virgil, - 230 8. The Cat, - - - 185 3.2. Of DemosthenesHorace, -and Cicero,- - 231232 10.9. The Dog,Eagle, - - - - 186187 4. Of Shakespeare, - 233 11. The Whale, - - ib. 5. JohnScotch Knox, Church, reformer of- the 237 13.12. The Rattlesnake,Bee, - - - - 189188 6. Of Milton, - - 236 14. The Ant, - - 190 8.7. Of SirPope Isaac and Newton,Dryden, -- 237238 CHAPTER V—Mythology. 9. Of Addison, - - 239 1. Saturn, - - 191 10. Of Thomson, - 240 2. Cybele, - - - 192 11.12. Of Johnson,Hume, Robertson, - and- Gib- 241 4.3. Jupiter,Juno, ...- - 193ib. bon, - - 243 5. Neptune, - - 194 CHAPTER IX.—Literary Criticism. 6.7. Pluto,Apollo, - - - - - 195196 8. Venus, - . - ib. 1. OnEducation, the Necessity of -a Classical- 244 10.9. Mars,Minerva, - - - - - 197196 2. Beneficial Effects of the Belles 11. Mercury, - - 20(19E Lettres, - - 246 12. Bacchus, - - - 3.4. On fctyle,the Purity -and Idiom- of ib. 13.14. TheDiana, Muses, - - • - 20S201 5. PeculiarLanguage, Excellence - of - the 247 CHAPTER VI National Characters. 6. OnGreeks Metaphors, and Romans, - - - 250248 1. Causes of National Characters, 203 8.7. OnHard the words Historical defended, Style, - 251253 a2. The Greeks,Egyptians, - - - - 204205 9. On the Epistolary Style, - ib. 4. The Romans, - - 207 10.11. OnThe the Method Study of theSchools Old Critics,Vindi- 254 6.5. TheFrench Swiss, and English,- - - 208209 cated, - - 255 8.7. The Italians,Spaniards, - - - - 212211 CHAPTER X—Letters, CHAPTER VII Political Characters. 2.1. From Mr Cowper,Burns, to Mr- Cun- 256 1. Pompey, ningham, - - 257 2. Julius Caesar, 3. FromWortley Mr Pope,Montague, to Lady Mary- 259 a4. Hannibal,Cato, 4. From Mr Addison, to Mr Ed- 5. Alfred, 5. Fromward Mr Wortley Edward Montague, Wortley Mon- 260 6.7. WilliamHenry VIII. the Conqueror, tague, to Mr Addison, . ib. 6 CONTENTS. 6. From Lady M. W. Montague, 8. The Liar, - . - 289 7. Frotnl.adyto the Countess Mary Woitleyof Bute, Mon- 261 10.9. The WellPedant, Bred, - - - - 290291 tague, to Mr Pope, - 262 11.12. The Gamesters,Idler or Busy Body,- 292293 CHAPTER XI Moral Duties. CHAPTER XIII—Moral Definitions. 1. OnProper the Necessity Company, of choosing- 266 2. On the Propriety of paying at. 2.1. On Virtue,Remorse, -- - . 296295 3. Cautionstention into theAdopting Company, the Man- 267 3.4. On Charity,Gratitude, - - - - 299297 4. Howners to of Converse a Company. in Company, - 268ib. 6.5. On Honour,Modesty, - - -- 300302 5. Onrupting the Impropriety in Company, of Inter-- 269 8.7. On BenevolenceTruth and Sincerity, and Humanity, 304306 S. OnCompany, the Danger of Arguing- - in 270 10.9. On Poverty,Temperance, - - - - 308ib. 7. Onrious the inHabit Company, of being Myste-- 271 12.11. On Death,Life, - - - - 310ib. 8. Cautionsing, &c. about Mimicry,- Swear-- 272 13. On Eternity, - - 311 9. Hintsdress, on &c. Good Breeding,- - Ad- 273 CHAPTER XIV—Eloquence. 10. On the custom of drinking T/tc Pulpit. 11. Onhealths, the rudeness of- showing- con- 274 tempt for any one, - 275 2.1. ReligiousOn the Works Knowledge, and Attributes - 312 12. OnNicknames, Diction, Letter&c. Writing,- 276 of God, - - 313 13. On the low Custom of using 3.4. TheAgainst hope the of IndulgenceImmortality, of the 314 14. Onvulgar the Employment Expressions, of Time,- 279278 Passions, - - 315 16.15. On Earlya well understoodFriendship, Economy,- 280281 The Senate. 17. On religion, - - ib. 2.1. Speech of Cicero,Demosthenes, - 316319 CHAPTER XIL,—Moral Characters. 3.4. SpeechMr Pitt’s of reply,Mr Horace Walpole,- 323322 1. The Moral Man, 5. Speech of Lord Chatham, 324 2. The Flatterer, 284ib. Military. 3.4. The Absent,Honest Man, 285 1. Hannibal to his Soldiers, 326 5. The Awkward Man, 287ib. 3.2. ScipioGeneral to Wolfe the Roman to his Army,Army, 330328 6.7. The BashfulCheerful Man,Man, 288 4. Napoleon to the French Army, 331 PART III. GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. Pronouns, 394 Prepositions, 413406 Adjectives, 340335 Substantive,The—Article, 4(9 Conjunctions. 356 Verbs, 425 ERRATA. Page 12. read dictionnaire Page 378. read le crayon 13. read conjurateurauditif 381.380. read quij’aime 1’adorent, la situation quileprient 15. read friponun cher ami 381. read Padorent,craignent le prient, le 24.25. read pieinteret 384.383. read ilmal faut aux yeux 31.29. read hopitalle 387. read lecarrosse coude 35.32. read repliquerdo. 388.390. read accablequ’il reussira 334. read dictionnaireceder 410.414. read carrossebrulees par read lapartages maison read mancheperiode 339. read honorable de 415. read pai'ensun nez 350.342. read gueresd’une chose 417. read plus de poudre 355.357. read ilcomite ne pouvait pas 419. readread unla conduiteetre 360. read resterprenez neutre 422. readread raisonnabletoute Pannee 364. read jebeaucoup la deteste plus grandes 427.429. read ressemblers’obstiner a 365. read entreprisede la part du roi 434.433. read abattre 366.367. read raisonnementdiametralement 436.435. read embarrasserse nourrir de 368.370. read sesoufRet piquet 437. read abattrerembourser 373. readread abattrecarrosse la poussiere read se nourrirpr£cautionner de 374.377. read ad’une present heure 440.438. read tanten carrosse par force i. f .-i> ,|( •

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rbu&i oh *tih}' - t .'ft- , MOifa attu’b Ku-M .Gag■ ■r ta f»» 5v ' ■ iiaruiq aa r! Hr; .T,V 9ftrw*'I itMt Jwm SSt' •1' r ihtaarf’ntU'xt* Jsbtm ■! - - :: -i* ’,V- • •• •> Wpitl '* -'-on . ..nb t^iino-c?■; •, ' 5v- \-* L *m*m- f-t-Uw >■ f.it’it StR.’ PART I. CONTAINING A BRIEF TREATISE ON THE ART OF TRANSLATION, AN INTRODUCTION TO THE TRANSLATION OF THE EXTRACTS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.

CHAPTER I. ON TRANSLATION, OR THE ART OF TRANSLATING ENGLISH INTCT FHENCH.

PRELIMINARY VIEW. It is not yet precisely ascertained what method is the most proper in translating; whether the original should be strictly followed, so as to give an exact idea of its precise phraseology, or whether the translator should subject the original to the idiom of his language. Much has already been said by translators of the classics on that head, and little has been done to come to a positive determination. The reader, therefore, cannot expect any thing like conclusive arguments in the present brief treatise, but he will be presented with several fundamental rules, and many comparative views of French and English construction, which, if properly attended to, cannot fail to pave the way to a successful translation. The first duty of a translator is, to enter well into the genius and character of the author he intends to translate; to clothe himself, with the sentiments and passions he undertakes to transmit to us ; and to lay a restraint upon that inward complacency continually forcing itself upon us, which, instead of modelling A 10 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. ourselves upon the original, induces us to depart from it, and to make it subservient to our will. The second is, to do his best efforts in rendering the exact meaning of the original, by a plain, clear, and correct translation, in which the peculiar turns of phrases, and the figures of speech, must retain, as near as possible, their original force and beauty. It cannot be denied that the above duties are surrounded with numerous difficulties; and when it becomes necessary for the translator to represent, in another tongue, 1j<, the ideas of the original, without adding, retrenching, or misplacing them ; Id, the words, whether afforded or not by the language of the translator ; 3d, the thoughts, according to their exact degree of colours and shades ; 4*th, the turns of phrases, which give spirit and life to the discourse; 5ih, the expression, whether natural, figurative, energetic, delicate, rich, graceful; the task is by no means of an easy kind; and above all, when these are required from a merciless model, which, like a tyrant, must be peremptorily obeyed, it will be easily seen that it requires, if not so much genius, at least as much taste and learning, to translate as to compose. Whether a translator should be a mere copyist, or an original himself, is very well explained by Madame Dacier, in her preface to her translation of Homer. “ When I speak of a translation in prose,” says she, “ I do not “ mean a servile translation; I mean a generous and noble trans- “ lation, which, keeping closely to the ideas of the original, “ takes in the beauties of its language, and represents the images, “ without retailing the words. The first sort becomes unfaithful “,r through too scrupulous a faithfulness; for it loses the spirit to preserve the letter, which is the effect of a cold and barren “ genius ; whereas the other, though chiefly aiming to preserve “ the spirit, forgets not, in its greatest liberties, to retain the “ letter, and by means of its bold, but genuine strokes, becomes “ not only a faithful copy of its original, but another original “ itself; which cannot be performed but by a solid, noble, and “ fruitful genius. Translation is not like the copy of a picture, “ where the copier is tied down to the lines, colours, proportions, “ turns, and postures of the original he follows. 'Tis quite an- “ other thing. A good translator is not so confined. Here, as “ in all other instances of imitation, the soul, full of the beauties « it intends to represent, and elevated by the pleasing vapours “ arising from those abundant sources, must suffer itself to be " ravished and transported by the author’s enthusiasm, and thus “ making it its own, must produce very different images and “ expressions, though with great resemblance.” ON TRANSLATION. So says the translator of Homer; and the closer the translation will follow that author’s ideas, the nearer will his translation be to the original. Without extending ourselves any more on the nature of translation, which, we would hope, has been sufficiently explained for the intended use of the learner, we subjoin a few general rules, from which, supposing them to be properly followed, will issue seasonable gleams of light, and lead the translator in his difficult and obscure path. GENERAL RULES. 1.—The order of things ought never to be touched, whether it be facts or arguments, as this order is the same in all languages; and as it holds to the nature of man rather than to the particular genius of nations. 2—Periods, or phrases, ought to be preserved as they are arranged, however long they may be, because one period is but a single thought, composed of several other thoughts essentially connected together. 3.—All conjunctions and prepositions ought to be preserved. They are as the sinews of the body. Neither their sense nor their place ought to be changed, unless the construction should differ widely. 4—Symmetrical phrases ought to be given with their symmetry, or an equivalent. The symmetry of expressions consists in the sounds, in the quantity of syllables, in the termination or the length of words, and in the arrangement of members. 5.—Sentences, in common constructions, may be literally rendered, provided the comparative order of the phrase be attended to; but in idiomatical constructions, the translator is bound to follow the genius of his language: and as for idioms, nothing short of rendering them by an equivalent, can give success to the translation. 6— BrilliantT figures of words ought, in order to- preserve the same lustre, to have nearly the same extent of words; but when these figures cannot exactly be replaeed by an equivalent,tially theyconnected ought with to be those replaced of the byoriginal. other figurative ideas essen- thoughts7- are —the same inThe all figureslanguages. of thoughts They areought found to beevery preserved, because where in the same order. Thus, interrogations, exclamations, suspensions, dubitations, &c. must be literally imitated. •12 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. 8.—Proverbs, which are popular maxims, ought to be rendered by corresponding proverbs. As they bear on things which often occur in society, they ought always to be translated. p.—All paraphrases are vicious,—it is no longer translating, but commenting. Nevertheless, when there are no other means of making the same sense known, necessity must serve as an excuse for the translator. III. ON THE ANALOGY BETWEEN FRENCH AND ENGLISH WORDS. Although the following cases are but a few among the number, yet it is to be hoped that the translator will be sensible of the similarity of French and English vocables ; a similarity not astonishing, since it is acknowledged by British philologists, that there is a third of French words in the composition of the Eng- lish language, the pronunciation of which is different so far as not to be recognized by natives of France. The following words, for instance, nation, nature, cousin, although pure French words, are totally lost to the auricular organs of a Frenchman, when he hears them sounded, nashuh, natshur, cozeen, and it is the same with an immensity of other words. Here follows a comparative list of a few French and English words, some of which are quite like, others not, intended to Facilitate the translator in his task. Each word is a model to many others. The reader will see that every termination is printed in italics, so as to render the comparison more forcible. English.SUBSTANTIVES. a. attachment,camp. See. — nttachement,eamp. See.— parade,surface, &c.&c. surface,parade, &c. charoier,merchant, — — marchand,chamire, — villag-e, — village, — college, &c. fa«e,charge, — — charge,fable, — geometer, &c. geometre,College, &c. miracfe,epigrap/i, — — epigrapAe,miracle, — conjurer,courier, — — conjurear, — gcograp/ier,esclaae, — — geograpAe,esclave, — excess,thesis, — exces,these, ——. emphasis,disarfer, — — emphase,Aesastre, — index,respect, — — geography,bora#, — — geographic, — poesy,comedy, — — comedie, _ infamy, — infattle, — society,geometry, — g&jmetrie,society — mortality,dictionary, — — dictionaire,mortaltie, — majesty, —- majeste, -— royalty, — rojaute, — novernJer,patience, — — ' novembre,patience, — exchange,lance, — — exchange,lance, — deceney, — decence, — ON TRANSLATION. patient, &c. eloquent,patient, &c.— discipline,prejudice, fcc.&c. prejudice,discipline,'&c. &c. eloquent, — surprise, — surprise, — audiWe, &c. audifcle,fertile, &c.&.C. solecism, — solecieme,granite, — fertile, &c. odieua-, — cousin, — cousin, — sublime,decis./, —_ philologist,physic, — — philologiste,physique, — sinister,sublime, — phenix, — fatalite, — analogous, &c. analogue, &c. fatality,instinct, -r-— instinct, — polygon, &c. polygene, &c. equivocal, — equivoque,sonore, — spostrpp/iy,catalo^-ne, &c. &c. apostrophe,catalogue, &c. uniform,sonorous, — uniforme, — astrologer,conjuror, — — astrologue,conjureur, — ridiculous, &c. u. ridicule, &c. humour,support, — humeur,support, — obscure,— VERBS. theology, — theologie, — astronomy, — astronornie, — to invocale,supplicate, &c. &c. supplier,invoquer, See.&c. memory, — meraoire, _ to consolidate, — consolider, — oc tog-on, — octogone, — to subjugate, — subjugner,repudier, — to assimilate,repudiate, — assimiler, — pension, — pension, — to animate,contemplate, — — contempler,animer, — aversion,confession, — «— confession,aversion, — to determinate, — determiner, — approbation, — approbation, — to participate,deliberate, — — participer,deliberer, — fluxion, — to demonstrate, — demontrer, — to elevate,meditate, — — mediter,elever, — ridicute,deluge, &c.&c. ridicufe,deluge, &c. to perpetuate, — perpetuer, — dispute, — dispute, — to change,place, — — changer, — lecture,flux, — — lecture,&ux, — to command, — commander, — to extract,charge, — charger, _ ADJECTIVES. E. to observe,avenge, &c.&U. observer,venger, &c. capaite,ironicat, &c. capable, &c. to assemble, — assembler,regner, — natural, — irunique,natural, &c. — toto reign,legalise, — — legaliser, — exact,familior, — familier, — solliciler, — to divide,maintain, — — maintenir,diviser, _— fatal,necessary, — fatal, — to quit, — quitter, Presbyterian, — presbyterien,necessoire, — to permit, — permettre,joindre, rrr— generous, &c. genereua;, 6tc. to suppose, &c. supposer, &c. 14- THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. toto repo)£,accustom, &c. &c. rapporter, &c. to denote, — nccoutumer.denoter, Sec. — extremely,sincerely. Sec. Sec. extremement,sineerement. Sic.Sec. to confound, — confondre,impoeer, —.— sardently, u peri;./, —— soperbement,ardemment, — to dispute, &c. disputer, &c. assuredly, — assure»»ent, — to amuse, See. amuser,a er &C. solidly. Sec. ' solidement. Sec. \ g i — excessively, &c. excessivement, Sec. to conjecture, — conjecturer,a]uster, — insensibly,publirfy, — — insensiblement,Tpubliqnement, — ADVERBS. tranqui//y, — tranqui/temeut, — exteriorly, Sec. exterieurement, Sec. generally,tolerai/i/, Sec.Sec. toleiaitement, See. generously. Sec. genereusement. Sec. wgely, — generatesagement, me nt. Sec. — prodigiously,grossly, — — prodigteusemenl,grossierement, — morta%,necessarily, — — necessairement, — u. vulgar^, — vulgairemeref,mortcHement, — absurdly,absolutely, &c. &c. sbsurdement.absolumenl, Sec.&c. immediately,elegantly, — — immediateoteut,elegamment, — confusedly, — confinement, — By paying a particular attention to the italic terminations of both languages, and revising them often, not only the translator will make himself master of a number of words, without referring to a dictionary, but it will also make him sensible of the analogy existing in the formation of the French and English languages,—an acquisition of great value for those who are determined to become good scholars.

THE GENDER OF WORDS. The above essential branches of French Construction, ought to be quite familiar to the translator, before he proceed in his arduous task. The rules upon the gender of French substantives, it is true, are not easy to retain, but still there are general ones which ought to be remembered. The gender of articles, as le, la, the; du, de la, of the; au, d la, to the ;—- adjectives, as bon, bonne, good; grand, grande, great; hear tun, heureuse, happy, &c.—pronouns, as il, elle, he, she; men, ma, my; mien, mienne, mine; Uquelle, laquelle, which ,* ce, cette, this ; lout, toute, all; nul, nulle, none, &c.—past participles, as fait,faite, made; donne, donnee, given, &c. present no difficulty. A mere glance at a few simple rules, on each head, will be quite sufficient to prevent the translator from making any seri- pus error. ON TRANSLATION. V. ON THE GRAMMATICAL NUMBER OF WORDS. The Grammatical laws on the Number, are still simpler in French. The letters s and x, and the termination aux, are the only three signs of plural to be employed in the construction of the French language; as, le, les, the; du, des, of the; au, aux, to the, articles ;—canal, canaux, canals, substantives ;—grand, grands, great; egal, egaux, equal, adjectives ;—il, Us, he, they; man, mes, my; mien, miens, mine; quel, quels, which; ce, ces, these; tout, tons, all, pronouns ;—J'ait, fails, made; donne, donnes, given; past participles. And a little attention on the part of those who attempt a French translation will not fail to ensure success. ON THE PLACE OF WORDS. The Place of adjectives may perhaps create more difficulties, but there are rules for fixing them; as, une cher ami, a dear friend; un vrai frippon, a notorious rogue; une histoire amusante, an amusing story; un ouvrage Anglais, an English work; and not, un ami cher, un frippon vrai, une amusante histoire, nor «» Anglais ouvrage, because monosyllabic adjectives, used singly, must be placed before, and adjectives of nations, and those de- riving from verbs, after substantives. So, by attending to rules, the translation cannot suffer materially. As for adverbs, they are situated in French after single tenses, and before compound tenses; as, il parlebien, he speaks well a bien parle, he has well spoken; whereas in English they are generally placed between the auxiliary and the principal verb. It may be said that, in English, the article, adjective, pronoun, past participle, being invariable in their gender, number, and place, with a few exceptions, no difficulty whatever is to be encountered in the construction. True; but it is precisely because it is simple and easy, that the translator is likely to be misled; and he will do well to be on his guard. VII. ON THE GOVERNMENT OF WORDS. The government of adjectives and verbs are not unlike each other both in French and in English. The prepositions d, de, par, in the former, and at, to, of, with, by, in the latter, are the usual words required after adjectives or verbs; as, enclin a la paresse, inclined to idleness ; digne dt louanges, worthy of praises ; 16 THE FRENCH TRANSLA I fertile en projets, fertile in projects ; il se plaint de vous, he coin- plains of you ; je Vai promts d mon ami, I promised it to my friend; nous fumes battus par eux, we were beat by them, &c. But in English the prepositions nith &r\Afor are often used after adjectives and verbs, as charmed with, ft for, to load with, to care for; and these two governments being very seldom used in French, it becomes an imperative duty on the part of the translator to find the corresponding one in French before he proceeds. In French there are certain words, called conjunctions, which have the property of governing the subjunctive mood, as quoiqu’il disc, poursuivcz, whatever he says, go on; and others governing the infinite mood, as afn d’etre estime, in order to be esteemed. The number is but small, and the learner can soon master them. VIII. ON THE CONCORD OR AGREEMENT OF WORDS. The agreement of the parts of speech with each other, is a peculiarity in the French, unknown to the English language, and unless the translator do bear in mind the parts of speech liable to vary, both as to number and gender, as the article, adjective, pronoun, and participle; those that are variable only in their number, as the substantive and the verb; and those that are invariable, as adverbs, prepositions, conjunctions, and interjec- tions, his translations must absolutely be faulty, if not absurd. We said just now that substantives aie only variable as to number. This is meant individually j but the whole mass of French substantives is divided into two genders, namely masculine and feminine, and upon this circumstance depends a correct or defective construction of the French language. The substantive, when subject especially, is, in French, the word by whose gender or number the construction is materially affected; in fact the whole of the sentence must be modelled on the substantive, and the article, adjective, pronoun, verb, participle past, like slaves obeying their master in the most devoted manner, are obliged to conform themselves to the caprice of the noun, whatever gender and number it may assume. The following phrase will readily show the power of the substantive :—Les belles Dames etrangcres que nous avons mes au theatre, se sont retirees au second acte; et les Direcleurs les ont accompagnees, croyant qu’elles elaicnt tilrees, The handsome foreign Ladies whom we saw at the theatre, retired at the second act; and the Managers accompanied them, thinking them to be ladies of title. The immense power of the noun over the sentence is glaring here, and the reader will easily discover that the words, les, art.; ON TRANSLATION. 17 belles, adj.; etrangeres, adj.; mes, past part.; les, pron. pers.; accmpagnees, past part.; dies, pron. pers.; etaient, verb; litrees, adj.; are all influenced by the substantive, and put in the femi- • nine plural, on account of Dames,—a single word. So much then for the necessity of paying a particular attention to the French gender, and number of words, on which lies the grammatical concord of the French language. IX. ON THE USE OF TENSES. It is in the use of tenses where the translator may find his career perhaps retarded. The delicacy of the French language being founded on the capricious use of one tense in preference to another, elicits peculiarities, which may not likely be understood with the same readiness, as other parts of French grammar. But there is one grammatical circumstance, namely the use of the imperfect and the preterite in French, the nature of which can be satisfactorily explained. When in an English sentence, a preterite, as, had, mas, did gain, or gained, are met with, it becomes necessary for the translator to pause, and try to see whether the action means a continuation, as, I mas with him every day, or two distinct actions, as, 1 had it mhen it fell; in the first case the imperfect is used in French, as, J’elais avec lui tons les jours; and in the latter the imperfect and the preterite, as, je I’a- vais quand il tomba; observe that the last action must be in the past. When the verb expresses an action done, finished, unaccom- panied, and of which nothing remains, then the preterite must be used in both languages; as, Caesar gained the battle of Pharsalia, Cesar gagna la bataille de Pharsale ; and if not finished, as, Caesar was already gaining the battle, when he was killed, then the imperfect must be used, as, Deja Cesar gagnait la bataille quand Ujut lue. The English preterite, I saw him to-day, I mill call upon him this meek, 1 went to London this month, fyc. is liable to be altered in French, because the day, the week, and the month, are not poundfinished, tenses, and nothing can justify short theof usingtranslator the presentin attempting indicative French com- composition, as, je Vai vu aujourd'hui, je passerai chez lui cette se- manyMaine, casesje suis which alii dcannot Londres be cementioned tnois-ci, &c. here, There but a areprecept a great of consequence is, that the subjunctive mood must always agree with the indicative in French, as Je les respecle quoique je ne les aime pas, I respect them although I do not like them.—Je les respec- THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. lai.s quoiqueje ne les aimasse pas, 1 respected them although I did not like them. As much as these delicacies may appear difficult to the translator, as much zeal and ardour he ought to be possessed of to master them, and become familiar with them. ON THE USE OF PRONOUNS. The personal pronouns, whether used singly, or combined, as, two, three, or four, following each other, deserve particular attention. In affirmative sentences these pronouns, whether two, three, or four, are always together; as, Je Ic donnerai, I shall give it; Je vous le donnerai, I shall give it to you ; Je vous I’y donnerai, I shall give it to you there; or Je vous donnerai, I shall give you ; Je vous en donnerai, I shall give some to you ; Je vous y en donnerai, I shall give you some there. In affirmative phrases the translator will experience no difficulties ; but when negations and interrogations are to be found, it will be well for him to ascertain how these pronouns are used, or else his construction is sure to be ungrammatical. The following examples will prove the difference of their situation. First negatively; Je ne le donnerai pas, I shall not give it; Je nt vous le donnerai pas, I shall not give it to you; Je ne vous Vy donnerai pas, I shall not give it to you there: Second- ly, interrogatively ; Le donnerai-je ? Shall I give it ? Vous le donneroi-je ? Shall I give it to you ? Vous I’y donnerai-je ? Shall I give it to you there ? Were the pronouns situated in every part of the verb, as in the above sentences, it would still be pretty easy to manage the construction ; but in the imperative mood, the pronouns being placed quite the reverse, new difficulties occur : yet fortunately it will easily be overcome, on account of the French and English following each other, as will be seen in the following sentences,—Don- nez-le, give it; donnez-le moi, give it to me j donnez m'en, give me some. Yet in negative phrases there is a difference; as, Ne le donnez pas, do not give it j ne me le donnez pas, do not give it to me ; ne me Vy donnez pas, do not give it to me there. Thus the reader is convinced more and more, of the positive necessity to be acquainted with this difficult and intricate part of French grammar, before attempting to translate in French. ON TRANSLATION. 19 XI. ON VARIOUS CONSTRUCTIONS. A case which ought to engage the attention of the translator is, to find whether the construction is regular, or irregular or vicious. This is easily known by looking into the sentence, and observing whether it possesses any thing like a pleonasm, an ellipsis, an inversion, or an idiom, which, if it did, would be deemed irregular. And any thing like a barbarism, a solecism, or amphilology, would render the construction vicious. Supposing the sentence to be regular, yet on investigating the construction, in affirmative, negative, and interrogative phrases, the learner will find in Eng- lish interrogations, the subject of the verb is placed after it, as. Was the translation correct? whereas in French the subject never varies from its situation, which is before the verb; as. La traduc- tion etait-elle bonne ? This peculiarity deserves most serious attention on the part of the translator. As for the irregular construction, the following paragraphs will elucidate its nature.

ON PLEONASMS. Whether a pleonasm or a superabundant word introduced in a French sentence, as the repetition of articles, pronouns, adverbs, prepositions, and conjunctions, be a proper construction, or not, the translator has nothing to do with it; his duty is to be acquainted with the necessity of introducing it, and proper manner of placing it. When there are different duties, for instance, expressed in a sentence delivered before several persons; as,—At the trial of my friend, you were the advocate, he was the solicitor, they composed the jury, and I was the chairman of the jury ; the French would make use of words, called superabundant in English, and place them as follow, so as to render the sentence clear and forcible ; Au proces de mon ami, vous, vous etiez I’avocat, lui, il etait le procureur, eux, Us composaient lejurt, et moi,fetais le president du juri. When sentences, as the above, are told in the absence of persons, the repetition of the pronouns lui, eux, and moi, may be avoided. There are numberless cases, as, qu’est-ce que c'est ? or qu'est- ce que c’est que cela ? for simply, what is it ? in English ;—oti etes vous done vous autres ? for, where are you then ? in which the redundancy is thought perfectly correct in French; and they deserve the serious attention of the translator, as well as any other part of construction. 20 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. XIII. ON THE ELLIPSIS. Here the translator will find it of advantage to pause, and consider attentively the construction of his language, before attempting to translate. Should the learner think for a moment, the Eng- lish language to be as it should be, he might as well not proceed in his translation, for his blindness, prejudice, or ignorance, will prevent him from discovering the English omissions or ellipses, which, in French, must absolutely be filled up, to produce a fair and correct translation. A few short sentences of the different parts of speech, will exhibit the English ellipsis in its true light.—Article, The Romans were a magnanimous and warlike nation, for, atid a warlike nation.—Article, They worship not only the sun, but even the moon and stars, for, and the stars—Noun, Honesty is the emblem of virtue, as roguery of vice, for, the emblem of vice.—Adjective, This country has a healthy climate and soil, for, and a good soil.—Pro- noun Personal, Racine is above Corneille in some points, but falls greatly below him in grandeur, for, he Jails greatly, fyc—Pronoun Possessive, His power so unjustly acquired, and dignities, are to be taken from him, for, and his dignities, Sfc.—Pronouns Relative, This is the work I prefer to all others, for, which or that I prejer, fyc.—Pronoun Demonstrative, The laws of God and man are very different, for, and those of man, Sfc.-—Pronouns Indefinite, The earth is inhabited by all sorts of men and beasts, for, and all sorts of beasts.— Verb, I like them both, but the first much more than the last, for, I like the first much more, Sfc.—Adverb, His temper is always good, he is the same these twenty years, for, he is always the same, fyc—Preposition, Carry that letter to Mr B—, and give it him immediately, for, give it to him immediately.—Conjunction, Few persons are ready to own they have been mistaken, for, that they have been mistaken. By these, it clearly appears, that the chief duty of a translator is to render himself sensible of his native tongue’s brevity, or else his time will be lost in the attempt. An example taken at ran- dom from an English author, will corroborate the above imaginary sentences, and will confirm that grammatical irregularity of the English language. The following extract is taken from Goldsmith’s Animated Na- ture, when speaking pf man. The English ellipses are represented by small bars. “ The fifth and last division of the human race, is comprised ON TRANSLATION. SI " under the term of Europeans, a set of peopfe who possess those “ superior advantages which — religion and —■ refinement natu- “ rally produce ; in these — may be included the Georgians, and “ — Circassians ; the natives of — Asia Minor, and the northern “ parts of — Africa, together with — part of those countries “ that lie — north of the Caspian sea. The inhabitants of — coun- “ tries — so remote from each other, of course must vary in their “ manners and — designs ; but in their form and — persons “ there is a striking similitude, and — little — variation in the “ colour of their skin, in that respect the Europeans have a great “ advantage; for a fair complexion seems — a transparent cover- “ ing to the soul, — impressions of — joy vermillion the cheek, “ whilst—sympathy, and—sorrow, turn it pale. Though this per- “ sonal superiority is allowed to be desirable, it is trifling when — “ compared with that of the mind ; — there — the European “ must feel his pre-eminence, and — gratefully acknowledge the “ blessings of his fate." The reader will find twenty-two ellipses in the above sentence, and nothing short of supplying the wants represented by small scores, in the above lines, will do, so as to have tolerable French translation. We are aware that some of the English ellipses can scarcely be called so, as the omission of the article the, for instance, before Circassians, Asia, and Africa, but that article being deemed by the French an essential part of construction, there are no other ways of accounting for its omission, than by the appellation of ellipsis. The following version is merely literal, and every English ellipsis is pointed out by Roman characters. La cinquieme et dernicre division de la race humaine, est connue sous le nom d’Europeen, espece d’hommes qui possedent ces avantages superieurs que la religion et la. civilisation naturellement produisent ; parmi ces peuples on pent mclure les Georgiens et les Citcas- siens, les habitans de I’Asie Mineure, et les parties septentrionales da VAfrique, avec une partie des pays qui sont situcs au nord de la mer Caspienne. Les habitans des pays qui sont si eloignis Vun de V- aiitre, doivent naturellement avoir d’autres mceurs et d’autres lois, mais a. I’egard de leur forme, et de leur exterieur, il y a une ressem- peau,blance sous frappante, ce rapport, et tres les peuEuropiens de changement out un grand dans laavantage couleur ; decar leur un teint blanc semble etre un voile transparent a. I’dme, les effets de lajoie donnent de la rougeur au visage, tandis que la sympathie et le chagrin It rendent pale. Quoique cette suptriorite de corpi soil une chose d souhaiter, elle n’est rien qnand on la compare d celle de Vdme ; c’est 22 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. ici oil rEuropeen doit sentir sa preeminence, el cm il.doit avouer \ avec reconnaisance le bonheur de sa destinee. Thus the reader has just seen the plain translation of an Eng- lish extract, freed from its ellipsis, which, although literal, is sufficiently clear to convey the meaning of the author. But a translator would be wrong in supposing his labours at an end, after such a translation; he must be aware that the filling up of the ellipsis is a mere mechanical duty, and that there are others incumbent on him, which consist In being liberal in his construction, elegant in his diction, and flowing in his style. Numberless cases could be adduced, to show the importance of being thoroughly acquainted with the difference of a construction arranged either in the mind, or on paper; both differ widely from each other, for this reason, that the first is the offspring of nature, and the last that of convention or art. The j French expression d dieu, and the English good-bye, for instance, I when arranged on paper, may appear truly ridiculous, but not so j in the mind, because in the latter, the arrangement is according ' to ideas ; and since ideas must be expressed by words uttered, written, or understood, it follows, that ellipses are unknown to the mind; thus, d dieu, and good-bye, according to art or convention, means in the mind, d. la grace de Dieu, and God be rvilh you. Again, when we say, put wafers and sealing wax on my table, the translator cannot be at a loss to perceive the vast difference, between the above words arranged on paper, or in the mind, because, although some thing between put and wafers, is allowed to be omitted on paper, in the mind it cannot; for, it is evident that the idea of a portion expressed in English by some is existing there; and as it cannot be all the wafers, nor all the sealing wax found on the surface of the globe, of course it must be a part or some, which in French must be expressed by du, de la, de V, and des ; and so on with a thousand other cases, where the paper or the mouth differ from the mind. These cases, by many who take , no interest in language, may be called trivial, but such a notion is sure to turn out fallacious, when, through circumstances, the translation of an extract from one language into another is required to be made. XIV. ON THE INVERSION. This part of composition, like the ellipsis, is one of the principal impediments, which a translator, British born, meets in his career. Were young people frequently told of these two mate- ON TRANSLATION. 23 rial cases in the English language, and constantly admonished on its laconic construction by the means of ellipsis, and on the unnatural inverted order of the words named inversion, the progress in French classes would be far more rapid than it is. When it is considered that all possessive cases, as, ihe king’s Eer, or Ihe gentlemans watch, are inversions ; and that all qua- ative phrases, whether physical, as, port wine, silver spoon, wooden table ; or moral, as, charming grove, fiery horse, dangerous torrent, meaning, wine of port, spoon of silver, table of wood, grove charming, horse fiery, torrent dangerous, are also inversions, the necessity of putting such phrases in proper order in French will become very apparent. Were English inversions confined to the above examples, the difficulties would soon be overcome. But there are others of a more serious nature ; the following expressions for instance, were I in his place, I would not do it,—were it not for them, we could easily stand,—the more powerful he grows, ihe less familiar he becomes, the signification of which is, if I were in his place, Sfc. if it were not Jor them, 8fc. the more he grows powerful the less he becomes familiar, should arrest the attention of the translator. In English, as in French, there are sentences, the order of which may be inverted at pleasure. The following phrase, for instance, if, after the battle of Pharsalia, Pompey had retreated on Rome, the fate of the Republic might have been different ; can be inverted without danger both in French or in English. We may say; if, after the battle of Pharsalia, Pompey had retreated on Rome, the fate of the Republic might have been different,—or, if Pompey had retreated on Rome, after the battle of Pharsalia, the fate of the Republic might have been different,—or, the fate of the Republic might have been different, if, after the battle of Pharsa- lia, Pompey had retreated on Rome,—or, the fate of the Republic might have been different, if Pompey had retreated on Rome, after the battle of Pharsalia. In the above sentence, and others of the same nature, it is quite immaterial for the translator, to place the members of the sentence more in one way than another, because the reader must be sensible, that the sense of the above phrase has not been wakened, nor rendered unintelligible, although expressed in five different ways. But there are cases where an inversion cannot be admitted in French. Johnson for instance, in his character of Addison, says, “only Of thethose esteem, with whombut the interest kindness or opinion; and of united others, him, whom he thehad vio-not lence of opposition drove against him, though he might lose the love, he retained the reverence.” Though the above inversion 24, THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. may be called elegant in English, in French it would be regarded as a vice of construction. The allowable construction of the above paragraph stands thus in French, “ Not only he had the esteem, but even the kindness of those who were united with him ; and though he might lose the love of others whom the violence of opposition drove against him, yet he retained their reverence.” The inversion, it is true, is avoided in the above construction, but it is not enough, it wants the active sense of the French language. The following translation may perhaps come nearer the bent of our genius. “ Ceiix quc I’ititeret ou I’opinion nnissait avec lui, non settlement I'estimaietit, mats meme le comblaient de bienfaits; d’antres, sensibles qu’il perdait leur amitie par un sentiment violent d’opposition, sc fesaient un devoir de le respecter. XV. ON IDIOMS. As the translator proceeds, he will naturally meet with expressions or phrases, void of sense, the nature of which may perplex him, and perhaps disable him to go on with his translation. These are called idioms, and are found sometimes in the use of simple expressions, or in the construction of a phrase. Many are the words used idiomatically both in French and in English, and with the view of impressing the translator with the important knowledge of that branch of grammar, we shall dwell only on two expressions ; hand, in English, and coup in French. These, it is hoped, will show how ridiculous the translation would be, were it made literally. English. Hand, Main.—To do things with a high hand, (with arrogance.)—to keep a strict hand, (to be severe,)—my hand is in, —(it is begun, or I understand it,)—to bring up a child to one’s hand, (to educate,)—to bear one in hand, (to deceive,) —to get the better or upper hand, (to outstrip,)—to part even hands, (equal advantage,)—to shake hands with all modesty, (to part with,)—the benefits I received at your hands, (from you,)— under hand dealings, (secrets,)—hand over head, (rashly,)—hand in hand, (agreeing)—before hand, (in advance,)-—on the one hand, (one side,)—on the other hand, (the other side,)—to live from hand to mouth, (to reserve nothing,)—'it is a good hand, (good writing,)—short hand, (contracted writing,)—twelve hands high, (palms,)—he has it from good hands, (authority,)—it ON TRANSLATION. 25 came from several hands, (places,)—to buy things at the best hands, (cheap,)—at the worst hand, (dear,)—we want more hands to do this, (persons,)—it is allowed on all hands, (all sides,)—to have a good hand, {good cards,)—I lost the hand of my watch, (needle,)—the Bible was handed to him, (given,)—the principles handed down to us by our ancestors, (transmitted,) &c. French. Coup, Blow.—Donner un coup de poing, (to box,)— donner un coup de patte, (to c^aw,)—-donner un coup de patte (to lampoon,)—un coup de pied, (a kick,)—donner un coup de pie chez Mr F. (to call at Mr F.)—donner des coup de baton, (to cudgel,)—un coup d’epee, (a thrust,)—un coup de fleuret, (a pass,)—un coup de fusil, (a gun shot,)—un coup de canon, (a cannon shot,)—un coup de fouet, (a lash,)—un coup de dent, (a nip,)—un coup de plume, (the dash of a pen,) —donner un coup de brosse, (to brush,)—un coup de siflet, (a whistling,) — donner un coup de peigne, (to comb,)—un coup d’oeil, (a glance,) au premier coup d’oeil, (at the first view,)—un coup de tempete, (a storm,)—un coup de tonnerre, (a clap of thunder,)—un coup de mer, (high sea,)—un coup de foudre, (thunder bolt,)—un coup de sang, (apoplecticft,)—un coup de soleil, (sun heated,)—un coup de grace, (finishing blow,)—un coup dans I’eau, (beating the air,) —un coup de langue, (slander,)—un coup de main, (brisk attack,) —donner un coup de chapeau, (to salute,)—porter coup, (to hit home,)—un coup de des, (a throw of dice,)—un coup de malheur, (a mischance,)—un coup de partie, (the decisive game,)—un coup sur, (a certainty,)—un coup manque, (a failure,)—un coup d’ami, (afriendly turn,)—un coup d’essai, (first essay,)—un coup de vin, (a draught of wine,)—un mauvais coup, (o bad action,)—un coup, (oncef)—deux coups, (twice,)—encore un coup, (once more,) —pour le coup, (now,)—apres-coup, (too late,)—coup-sur-coup, (without stopping,)—a-tout-coup, (every time,)—tout-a-coup, (suddenly,)—tout-d’un-coup, (at once,) &c. The translator, by the above explanations of hand in English, and coup in French, must now be aware how incorrect his translation would have been, if hand had been translated by main, and coup, by blow. So much for the necessity of rendering one’s self master of the most common idioms of the language, intended to be translated; and it ought to be remembered, that a translation cannot be correct, nor according to the meaning of the original, but just in proportion as the idiomatical meaning of words is understood. 26 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. Before conciuding this short view of French translation, the learner is earnestly admonished to pay a strict attention to Angli- cisms, and Gallicisms, that is, sentences, the construction of which is warranted by grammar, as in English,—a boy of mine,— I am to sup with him to-night,—he is tired of walking,—as to writing, I cannot to-day,—I regret doing that action,—your reading this before him might do harm,—he is ten years old,—the wall is three feet thick,—this is my horse, and that is your Ja- thcr’s,—1 told this many a time.—And in French ; j'ai vial au doigt, my finger is sore,—il s’est coupe le pouce, he cut his thumb, —il vient de I'eglise, he just comes from church,—vous devriez lire souvent, you should read often,—-je n’ai qu’un frere, I have only a brother,-—il a des armes dfeu, he has fire arms,—montiez-moi la halle au ble, show me the corn market, &c. The above phrases are, as we said before, perfectly grammatical in both languages, but yet, as they cannot be rendered literally by the translator, it proves, therefore, that a perfect and familiar acquaintance with the rules of grammar, is the only resource left to ensure a successful translation. ( 27 ) CHAPTER II.

INTRODUCTION TO THE EXTRACTS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE, IN WHICH THE METHOD OF TRANSLATING THE ENGLISH INTO FRENCH IS SHOWN, BY THE MEANS OF INTERLINED FIGURES AND WORDS.

KEY TO THE TRANSLATION. M.f. t. pi. inf. denote Masculine, feminine, singular, plural, and infinitive mood. Italicwhich characters, follows. denote that the word written so, is to be placed after the word a, Imperative,b, c, d, f, o, h, indicate the Tenses.—A means the Present Indicative, h the aa, bb, cc,6 dd, &c. indicate the Compound Tenses. b *>be hconsulted *, . «, ins, the GrammaticalThese small Dictionary.figures indicate the paragraphs which alight to ( immediately) All words abovebetween or parenthesesunder it, and are to to be be used translated as they according are, to the single one (—)must The be elliptical filled up barin.Frenah. in the English line shews that something is omitted, and (——) This bar in the French line shews that the word is like, or nearly simi- (*)lar An to, asterisk the English. denotes that the word above or under must be suppressed. (a)ary A atcaret the refers end ofthe the, translator book. to the identical word in the Grammatical Diction- AllEvery French French verbs verb having between no thetense lines marked is in out,the infinitivemust follow mood. the English.

I. FLEMISH MERCHANT GENEROSITY. Aa merchantmarchand ofa Antwerp,Anvers nommernamed JohnJean Deans,. havingavoir preterlent ana immense sum of money to the Emperor Charles the Fifth, ' 1 somme a argent a -reur —^— •* Quint pder,begged c. hissa Majesty -te deto fairedo himrs thea honour—neur ofa comingvenir, inf. to• dinediner witha THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. a”him. Thea Emperor, reur (lothn’osant to) refuserrefuse ona accountraison of athe obligation——, pi. under* whichqu’il helui was,avail acceptedaccepter, c. the a offer,offie andet aller,c.went (to hischez house) lui at Athe timeheure appointed.indiquee Thea marchandmerchant n’epargner,c.spared nothinga — to plairegratify a hisiss royal—— guest;hole andet (animated10 with) a generositygenerosite, f. (rarelyqu'on rencontreto be met rarement with,) faire,caused c. —fe feufire (tomettre be set) ato a pileamas ofa cinnamon,cannelle andet takingprendre thea billet,bond m. whicha hissa Majesty te avoir,b.had givendonner himi» asa a* garantiesecurity defor hisa argentmoney, jeter,threw c. ?sit intoa thea flames,flammes saying,dire “ Sire,sire youvous neare me now devez out plus of rien my a present. debt." II HENRY IV. OF FRANCE. HUMANITY. When Henry Fourth of France was (advised to) take Paris n •-■■■■ Quatre a etre, C. nr prendre —— (by d'assautan assault) beforea —que thea Kingroi of EspagneSpain’s m troopstroupes arrivedarriver,F. — 44to succoursecourir thea leaguers^ligueurs he«s absolutelyabsolument protester,protested c. againsta cettethe raesure,measure, f. (onpar the) principleprincipe ofa humanity.— — te “ ««I newill veux not,”a dire, said c. he,«« “ exposerexpose thea capital tale to thea miseriesmiseres andet —a horrorshorreurs whicha doiventmust accompagnerfollow suchtel ana evenement,m.event. aI etream thea fatherp£re ofa my»8s peuple,people, m. andet —je veuxwill followsuivre thea example■■ of athe vraietrue mothermere whoa presenter,presented c. herselfse beforea Solomon.■ ■ — Ia (had prefereraismuch rather) nenot pas havea Paris,- thana obtainobtenir nit at thea depens,expense pi. ofde —1’ humanity,.. te andet bya thea sang,m.blood etand —a mort,death f. ofa sotant many de innocent oersonne«,f.persons.” Henry reduire,reduced c. the city to obedience without (the loss of) more than two or a ville, f. (sous son ob&ssance) A perdre nt a deux *4 INTRODUCTORY ANECDOTES. 29 threetroi* burgesses,bourgeois whoa etre,c.were killed.lues. “ Ifa itil etaitwas enin myiss pouvoir,m.power,” dire,c.said thisa humanehumain monarch,monarque “ aI (woulddonnerais give) fiftycinquante thousand mille ecuscrowns — to« redeemracheter those13a citizens,citoyens — to** havea thea satisfaction , f. ofa inform-inform. er,inf.laing — posterity, te thata aI avoir,a.had subduedsoumettre Paris withouta spillingrepandre aa gouttedrop ofa blood.”sang. III. SIR HENRY VANE.—MAGNANIMITY. Ina thea regne,reign m. ofa Charles PremierFirst, thea appointemensfees ofa Sir— Henry— Vane’sin charge,office f. aas treasurertresorier of athe marine,f. navy, though« ils n’etaient— quebut quatre four- pencesous (inpar the) pound,livre by reasonus of thea Hollajidaisegaerre Dutch war, — ilssemonter,B. amounted toa trente£ 30,000 mille livres per par annum.an Ofa thisa circumstancecirconstance, f. t he« avoir,c.had thea ——magnanimity te, f. tod’informer acquaint thea parliament;parlement, m. andet ayobserving ant observe qu’unthat suchtel profit e wastre,B. aa shamefulimigne robberyvol, m. ofsur thea public, ,m. offrir,offered c. tode give177 up hisla privilegepatent, which* hea avoir,had b. obtainedobtenir froma Charles PremierFirst, andet tod’accepter accept ina la lieu,place fora ana commisagent que— hea avoir,b.had (bredmis up au tocou. the business,)rant a salarysalaire,m. ofa deux£ cens 200 livre a-year.a an Thea parliament lement,m. rea- vo. dilylontiers consentir,c.assented to athe proposition,proposal; f. andet asa a* recompensereward for de hislas public iques vertusvirtue, assignir,settled c. ona Sira Henrya ana annuitypension,f. ofa mille£ deux1,200. cens livres(How is manyy en a-t-ilare there) toa whoma weon mightpeut wellis diresay, “alter,h. Go ye* andet faire,H do likewise !’’ t Begin the sentence thus,—he had the magnanimity to acquaint, &c. THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. IV. EARL FITZ WILLI AM. HOSPITALITY. The representative of the noble house of Wentworth, a tif a maison, f. a -—>■ - devotessacrifler a cxinsiderable- -»- portion , f. ofa a immenseprincely fortune f. ina diffusingrepandre «• blessingsbieutaits arounda I’entour dehim. s« Hisa hospitality te estis devenue— proverbial, ■ ale whethera qu’on— considered la considere ina thea splendidsomptueux banquetsa which haveavoir fre-frc- quemmentquently beeneu heldlieu dansat his iss mansions,palais, m. ora ina thea (reception welcome gracieuse) whicht que thea humblea peasantpaysan ora thea paiivrepoor strangeretranger always12 receives.(1’on fait) Thea faligniweary voyageur,m.traveller never 12 needne despairmanque ofa accommodation,logement aif hea pouvoircan unebut fois reach arriver Wentworth au 117 Castle;chateau there,a withouta s’infbrmer,inf.enquiring “ whencejos. hea cometh,vemr oret whitheroii hea goeth,”aller hea trouverhas —10* raffraichissemensrefreshment ina abondanceabundance ; and-et never12 quitterquits thea mansionpalais, lu. withouta (recevoir)— ana ———,invitation f. alwaysi» deto venircall when44 heas passerpasses pax— thata (chemin way. la) Anothera —,m.trait ofA hospitality— i-te froma ' thisa ornement,ornament m. ofa thea BrilanniqueBritish peerage, noblesse,f. etreis morea remarkable. ^-jjuable Hisa seigneurerielordship, danson morea thanaaa one of his estates,tciros avoirhas aa number« ofa peasants,paysan whoa payerpay buta oneuo. chelin,m.shilling parper annuman fora 1 a chaumiere,f.cottage andet —un garden,jardin andet yet44 they€6 etreare always12 invitedinviter on* lethe jour rent-day; de la rente whena (theyon areles regale regaled) (withd'un a) plentifulabondant dinner,diner andet d’in a manniercway which a manifester partakes clairement largely *of thata genuinereelle hospitality 16, f. whicha etreis now1* somewhata ona thea declin,m.decline ina AngleterreEngland. f Say in French—which one makes always to the humble peasant, &c. INTRODUCTORY ANECDOTES. 31 V. THE MEDUSA. KINDNESS. Amonga thea interessantctpeculiar circon——circumstances (qui accompagnerent)attending thea dreadfulterrible naufragewreck of athe French» vessel,vaisseau thea Medusa,Meduse ona thea Coastcotes of — Africa, a few years ago, the following is not among — a I’Afrique * a annees a a sutvante etre a decellesqui sont thea least4,> worthy10 ofa etre,being inf. recorded.rapportees. Aftera (etre passing reste) thirteentreize daysjours ona aa radeau,m.raft, subjectit to all12 sorts120 of privations,besoins andet exposedexposer toa a parchingIrulante chaleurheat whicha producedcauser b. madnessla folie ina alla itsa hideoushideuses forms;formes thea equipage crew at length12 etre, were c. relievedsecourir dansfrom thisa dangereuseperilous situation,——, f. (apres having avoir) perdrelost one* hundredcent and* thirty-fivetrente cinq outa of one* hundredcent and* cinquante. fifty, Ond shoreterre (theyon leswere) crowdedmettre, c. intoa ana hospital,hospital, m. wherea —•les medi- caments,et and aeven thea necessariesbesoins a ofla —vie,B. life (weremanquer, wanting.) b. Ana Englishman,Anglais whoA fairedoes —le bien,m.good (bysecretement stealth), andet —qui wouldrougir, blush E. deto savoirfind (queit ce fame,fut comm) wentaller,c. to* voirsee them.r* Onea ofa thea pauvres poor malheureuxunhappy wretchesnaufrages faire, made c. thea —,signal m. aof A a free-masonfranc-maqon ina dedistress; ilit etre,c.was understood, comprendre andet thea EnglishmanAnglais instantly12 dire, said, c. “ Myi*» brother,frere youil mustfaut venircome to* moimy housechez andet makefaire commeit yourvout home.”chez Thea FrenchmanFrancais genereusementnobly repondre,c.replied, “Myres brother, Ia thankremercier you,vs but44 Ia cannot45 abandonnerleave myira companionscompagnons inde misfor-mal- heurtune.” amener,H." Bring themn withus you,”so etre,was c. the sa repliqueanswer; andet thea hos-hot- THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. pilalicrpitable EnglishmanAnglais maintainedheberger, c. them« alla until>is he«« couldput mtttreplace them71 abeyond 1’abri thedes reachcoups deof 1’adversitemisfortune. —Mr Corread,* a booksellerlibraire ofa Pwis, etre, was B. aone ofa the•——— objects - a of thisa monsieurgentleman’s m hospitality.te

VI. EMPEROR JOSEPH II.— BENEVOLENCE. The Emperor of Germany, Joseph II. had once a petition a ■ — reur a Allemagne second avoir c. is a requete, f. (quipresented lui fut presentee) to him ina behalffaveur ofa a apoor pauvre superannuated reforme officer,officier whoa vivre,lived, b. witha aa familyfatnilie ofa tendix children,enf'ans ina ana indigentdeplorable conditionetat, m. ata somea distance— froma VienneVienna. Thea emperor reur inquireds’informer ofa plusieursseveral yieuxold officersofficiers whethera theya connaitre, knew B. thisa hommeman, andet —il recevoir,received c. fromA chacun all ofa themso ana excellentt characteremoignage (aof son him.egard) Hisa Ma-majeste,m.jesty gavefaire,c. no a answerreponse toa thea requete,petition, m. buta aller,went, c. withouta anya attendants,suite, s. f. toa thea maisonhouse of athe poor officer, whoma hea trouver, found c. ata dinner,diner witha elevenonze children,enfans upona ' somea vegetableslegumes (ofqu'il his avail own planting.)plantes “ aI entendre,a.a.heard dire— queyou hada avoir,b. — dixten children,”enfans saiddire the emperor, “ but here I see eleven.” A reur a 12 a (en vois) onze '• The eleventh,” replied the officer, “ is a poor orphan —I a onzieme repliquer,c. a etre a orphelin,m. que a trouver,AA.found ata myim porte,door; f. andet though44 aI avoir,f.have donefaire alla (ce— queI could j’ai pu) to 44 engagerengage somea persons, jics morea opulentriches thana myself,«o toa providefournir fora (se*him, besoins) alla myi*b endeavoursefforts (haveetre, proved c. in) vain ; aI haveavoir there-m 1NTRODUCTOHY ANECDOTES. 35 fore partagershared myiss smallpetite fortune,portion f. witha him,*> andet —je ilcvcr,brought aa. himj» up" asa myisa owna enfant,child.” m. Thea emperor reur admirer,admired c. thea noble andet gene- reuserous humanity te, f. ofa thisa indigentpauvre hommeman, toa whoma he« discovereddecouvrir, c. himself,se andet dire,said, c. “ aI vouloirdesire thata alla theselas childrenenfans deviennent(may be) my pensionnairespensioners, andet thata you (willcontinuer, continue) F. toa dormergive them :a des— examplesemples ofa virtueveitus and —et d’honneurhonour. aI accordergrant you:s 100cent florins— perpar annuman fora chacuneach ofa them,so andet deux 200 cents florins additionalde plus pour to youra pension.a ller,H.Go to-morrow12 chezto myim tresorier,treasurer, m. wherea you«« (will recevoirreceive) thea premier first quarter’squartier m payment, withet aa commissionbrevet, m, ofa lieutenancylieutenant fora youra eldestnine son.fils "continuer, Continue H. toa etrebe youra children’senfans u» attentifcareful precepteurtutor, andet aI willen henceforthdesormais etre,D.be theirle father.”pere TheA (oldvieillard man,) withet alla hisiss fa-fa. mily,imUe,{. jelter,threw c. himselfrs, pi. at athe feetpies ofa iss,his pi. sovereign, souverain whicha e«,he pi. be-ar. roser,dewed c. withde larmestears ofa reconnaisancegratitude. Thea emperorreur repandredesshed — larmestears himself,so andet aftera (avoir giving donne) somea smallperils presentsa to thea childrenenfans —il retirer,retired c. —.se Whena he** joindre,joined c. hisiss retinue,suite, f. he«* dire,said c. toau CountComte Col- lerdo, “ aI remercierthank GodDieu (de lafor faveur this qu’il day’s m’a faitfavour aujourd’hui) : He«« hathavoir aider,guided aa. mea to discoverdecouvrir aa virtuousvertueux homme man ina —1’ obscurity.”te .3,4 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. VII DUKE OF BEDFORD.—PATRIOTISM. Whena hisiss Grace thea DukeDue ofa Bedford nnegociatedegocier, b. laa peacepaix witha —la France, hese signer,signed c. thea preliminaries minaires witha thea Frenchs minister,ministre —,Choiseul, a and stipulatedstipuler, c. noa farthera fora thea des EastOrientaks IndiaIndes Com- pagnie,pany f. •)-than a (he wasselon advised Pordre du by the) conseilCourt desof — Directors.teurs Aa gentleman,individu aa HollandaisDutch JewJuif ofa great9 abilitiestalens andet d'une— respectable . reputation,character, f. entendrehearing $ this,a ecrire,wrote c. a letterlettre,f. toa thea duke,due pour(informing informer him,)is thata thea OrienlalesEast IndesIndia Compagnie, Company f. avoir,had n. essentiellementmaterially neglectednegliger theiriss ownvrais interest, rets asa theiriss principaleschief conquests—quetes etre,BBwere faitesmade —quemmentsubsequent toa thea epoque,period f. ata whicha theyee avoir, had B. etablirfixed theiriss claimdioit ofa sovereignty;——rainete andet que— ifa theseiss demieres latter conquestsquetes aller,were b. toa beetre restored,rendre unan immense annualannuel revenuerevenu would* inevitablementnecessarily be* perdre,taken e.from * AngleterreEngland, || TheA dukedue ofa Bedford,—-— struckfrapper withde thea forceverite ofa the fait,m.fact, —et yeta beaucoupgreatly embarrassedembarrasser (de —savoir) howa to» act,faire asa les— preli- minairesminaries etre,were b. positivementactually signed,signer repairedaller, c. chezto thea deFrench France mi-minister,nistre andet addressedparler, c. himts thus:44 “ MyMonsieur lord, aI avoirhave committedfaire a great mistake in signing the preliminaries, as the affair of the a grande erreur a signer a ■ ■ ■— naires a a question a a f+ Turn into French,—havingFrench,—the Company heard. of the India East,—plural. %|| TurnPut theinto verb French, in the pastEngland participle. would lose unavoidably a revenue immense. INTRODUCTORY ANECDOTES. S5 IndiaIndes inpossessions mustdoit (be s’etendrecarried jusqu’adown to) thea last9 conquest—quote, f. ina Asia.”Asie Toa thisquoi Choiseul , r replied,epliquer,c. “Youra Gracet astonishestonngr me;vs aI thoughtpenser, B. quo— «sI (hadavoir, been) b. treatingnegocicr witha thea ministerininistre ofa aa grandegreat nation, andet nonnot pas witha aa studentnovice ina politics.,—tique whoa does* nota respecterconsider thea validityte ofa aA (parwritten em<) engagement.”obligation, f. Thea dukeduo re-repondre,c.plied, “ Youra reproach,reproche mymonsieur lord, etreis just;juste buta I« willveux nota ajouter add — treachery to — negligence, nor deliberately betray my country la perfidie a la ■ ** a destein trahir iss pays, m. because■m ««I haveavoir unaccountablyhonteusement neglectednegliger heriss interests ain a singleseule circumstance;——, f. therefore,44 unless44 youra excellencelordship n’agreer,r. agrees toa cedercede thea latter conquests in India, I shall return home in twelve » quetes aux Indes es s’en retourner (en Angleterre) a douze heureshours, andet (je — me) submitsoumettre,D. (the fatea la volonteof my head) (todu an) EnglishAnglais parlement,parliament.” m. Choiseul,f struckrapper dewith thea intrepidityte ofa thea duke,due (yieldedse renditthe point,) andet (la grande)— Britain Bretagne now it (jouir enjoys de) abovea halfa a million tannucllement annually, througha thea firmnessfermete, f. ofa a individuman whoma leit was* onceit mimeeven patriotism tisme se toplaisait calumniate, a calomnier Ona thea terminationconclusion ofa cettethe —reaffair hisis» Graced gaveonner, —c. authe Hollandais Dutch gentlemanJuif the(de treswarmest fortes) recommendation pour to thea English9 Orient East ales IndiaIndes Company,Compagnie whoa conferredassigner, c. upon* him-n a pensiona of £ 500 annuellcannually, J fora thea importantimportant service, pi. whicha he«« avoir,had b. rendered,rendre

J Turn intof French,—a Translate, apension half million. annual of L. 500. 36 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. VIII. THE MAGNANIMOUS PEASANT. Agreata grande inundation ahavingvoir takeneu placelieu (inau the) north13a of—a 1’Italie Italy, (owinga cause deto) ana excessiveenorme quantile fall of a snowneige (qui tombain sur)the a —pesAlps, fol-sui- lowedvre byde a soudainspeedy dege!, thaw, m. thea river* Adige carriedm offc. aa bridgepont,m. nearns Verona, ne " exceptns thea milieu,middle m. part,* ona whicha (il wasy avail) thea maison,house f. ofa thea (toll-gatherer,)commis whoam thus, with hisiss wholea famille, family, f. remained(setrouver,B.) imprisoned entourer (bydes the) waves,dots andet ain momentaryd tout moment danger ,m. of(d’etre destruction. englouti) They31 wereles discovereddecouvrir froma thea bord,m. bank stretchingio» eten- forthdre, B. theirles hands,mains —qui screaming,s'ecrier,B. andet qui— imploringimplorer,B. —io« succour,secours whilea —les fragments ofa thea onlyseule remaining(qui restate) arche,arch f. were* conti- nueUementnually droppingtomber b. intoa thea water.eau Ina thisa extreme danger, , m. aa noblemannoble whoa etre,was B. present, a ComteCount • ofa Pulverini,o (heldffrir out) a bourse,f.purse of a one* hundredcent sequins,— asa a* recompensereward toa anya adventurerindividu whoa woulda prendre take aa bateau,m. boat andpour sauverdeliver thisa vuilheureutcunhappy famille,family. f. Buta thea dangera was* so great* ofa etrebeing in? (borneemporter down) bya thea rapiditydite, f. ofa thea courant,current, m. ofa beingetre 107 dashed against a fragment of the bridge, or of being crushed renverser par a ■ ■ ■- a a pont, m. 44 a etre 107 ecraser bya thea (j«ifalling tombaient) stones, pierres (etaitsi grand)that a noa onea parmiin thea grandvast nombrenumber ofa spectators tours n’euthad couragecourage enoughno to44 attemptformer suchtelle ana exploit.entreprise, f. INTRODUCTORY ANECDOTES. 37 Aa peasantpaysan passingpasser (de alongce cote la) wasetre,c. informedinformer ofa thecette circum-circon- stancestance, andet ofa the (qu'onpromised avail promise) recompense,f.reward. Immediately immediatement jump-sail- tering intoa a bateauboat, hea (by dthe) strengthforce ofa ruinei oars arriver,gained c. theau middlemilieu ofa the river, brought his boat under the pile; and the whole A riviere, f. amener, c. ns ns a pilotis et a toute famillefamily heureusemenlsafely descendeddescendre, c. bya —le meansmoyen ofa a rope.corde, f. “ Courage,” dire,c.said he,e« “ nowis youtt etreare ensafe.” surete Bya des a still44 morea strenuousvigoureux effortseffort, * etand unegreat singuliere strength force ofa brasarm, he«4 broughtramener thea bateauboat andet —la famillefamily toa shore.terre “ Brave citoyenfellow !” exclaimeds’ecrier, c. thea comte,Count, tn. handingdonner thea pursebourse,f. toa him, “ (herevoid is) youriss recompense.”- “ I shall* neverit exposerexpose myisa vie,f.life fora io«— money,”argent repondre,answered C. thea peasant,paysan “myiss travaillabour (procurer,a.un)is sufficientsuffisant livelihoodentretien, m. fora myself,•« —a myiss femmewife, andet a — mes children. enfans donnerGive thea bourse,f.purse toa thisa pauvrepoor family,famille whoa haveavoir perdrelost all.”a IX THE BRITISH TAR. HUMANITY. Duringus thea —,no.siege ofa Acre,—- ana vieuxold sailormatelot (of thenomme name of) Daniel Bryan, then on board Sir Sidney Smith’s ship, Le Tigre, made a a bord — 117 vaisseau faire, c. frequentplusieurs applicationsrequetes to44 etrebe employed ona shore,terre buta hisiss age,m.age and et —.iss deafnesssurdite, f. were* consideredoffrir, b. as• —io« insurmontablesinsuperable disqualifications.obstacles Ata thea premierfirst (stormingassaut, of them. breach,) onea of thea Frenchs generals. —— + Turn into French—by some efforts still more strenuous. THE FRENCH TRANSl.ATOR. wasetre, c.slain. tuer Thea TurksTurcs (strucklui couper, off) c. hisla head,lete andct aftern* iiihti-infiu- manly mangling his body, — threw it out to be devoured by mainement (avoir inutile) ibs corps ils jeter a (de cole) «etre dcvorer a thea dogs.chiens Bryan e ntendre,nn.heard his is9 messmatescamarades describedepeindre thisa horriblehorrid spectacle ,m. ; andet whena uneany chaloupe boat's n 7 equipagecrew returned revenir,B. (from dethe terre shore,) heee s’informer,B.enquired is ifa they« avoir, had b. buriedenterer thea French» general; thea reponse.f.answer que— he«« ordinairementcommonly reeevoir,received b. etre,was, b. “ (Goallez and le fairedo it) yourself.”so Atis last Bryan avoir,c. got permissionleave tod’aller go and* voirsee thea ville,town; f. andet dressedayant misin hisis* besta clothes,hardes —il alter,c.went witha thea surgeonchirurgien ina thea jolly* boat.chaloupe,f. He*« (se procuredprocurer, c.) a pick-axe,pioche, f. a shovel,pelle, f. andet a corde,rope, f. andet requerir,insisted c. upon* (beingqu’on lelet descende down) froma aa port-holesabord, m. closepres (to duthe) beach.rivage Somea youngs messmatescamarades demander,begged c. (avechard instance) deto partagershare hisies danger. ButA Bryan vouloir,would c. nota (permettre permit a)his iss youngs eonipagnons friends deto riquerrisk theiriss lives.vie He«6 dire,said c. que— they etre,were b. troptoo loinfar froma de— 1’ AngleterreEngland — <*to recevoirget —un new» suppliesrenfort, s. ofa hardybraves camaradesfellows. He(« vouloir,c.would allergo alone;a et comme— he «s etre,was b. old« andet deaf,sourd and• hisisa perteloss would* nota etre,E. be ofa anya consequence.importance, f. Thena thea juniorjeunes matelotstars lowered him down with his implements for action. His mettre, c. ■» (a terre) a is* outils a travailler, inf. la premierefirst difficulty te (qu’il rencontra)— etre,c.was tode drive177 awaya thea chiensdogs. Thea French (levelledle coucherent their enpieces joue ;) they«# etre,were b. (readyu to) firetirer atsur thea veteran,—— who,a asa he« professed,dire, B. (etait went venu) to44 enterrerbury thea French» gene-— INTRODUCTORY ANECDOTES. 39 ral,— because44 hisisa countrymencompatriotes avoir, had b. treated recevoir him78 wella when,a twentyvingt ans yearsA ago,a (il— etait) their iss prisoner.nier-f Buta ana officer—cier discerning(qui comprit) Bryan’s uv friendlyamicales ——,pl.intention, threw/placer himselfse acrossdevant thea rangs, file. pi.The a bruitdin desof — armsarmes etre,was c. instantaneously sur Ic champ suspendedsuspendre ; andet (pendantin the un) deadtriste —et so-so- lemnIcmnel interval,—valle ourle BritishAnglais seamanmatelot performedrendre, c. thea devoirs.pl.de right of —la se-— pulture (forau a) general ofa hisiss ennemisfoes. A* fewis joursdays (s’etantpassed, ecoules) andet Sir— Sidney— (ayantbeing ete) informedinformer of Dan Bryan’s achievement, ordered him into his cabin. a Daniel m exploit fit venir, c. is a iss cabane,f. “ ehWell, bien Dan,Daniel ceI (entendrehear dire,aa. —que) you «8 avoir,b.have buriedenterrer thea French-j general ?”—“ Yes,is your183 honour.”—“excellence avoir, Had c. you o« anyiot assistance ?”— “Yes,12 your183 honour.”—1(“excellence I onunderstand) m’a dit que— youe« avoir, had B. nobodya witha youso ?”—“ Buta I*6 avoir,B.had quelqu’un— your iss honour.”—“ Ah— ! whoA (hadetait-ce you ?”)—“ DieuGod Tout-puissant,Almighty, monsieur.sir.”

X.—THE EMPEROR NAPOLEON.—GENEROSITY. Monsieur—— le— Compte dea Polignac avoirhad beenbb. raisedelever toauxhonneurs — honour bya Napoleon; but,a from• * someun unaccountableimpenetrable motive,motif (Ini betrayed fit trahir) thea confiance,f.trust —que hisiea patronprotecteur reposedavoir, b. ina him.as (As soon44 as) Napo- Icon discovered the perfidy, he ordered Polignac to be put decouvrir, c. a perfidie, f. a ordonner, c. (que r) * etre, r. mettre f Finish the sentence, with ily a vingt ans. 40 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. underaux arrest.arrets Nextle lendemainday (he il devaitwas to) have* beenetre tried,juger andet selon in alla probabilityte (wouldil avoir, have F.E. been) condemned,condamner parcequeas hisiss crime,m. guilt was *most undoubted.indubitable Ina thea interim,intervalle Madame Polignac solicit-sollici- ter,c.ed andet obtenir,obtained c. ana audience , f. ofa thea emperor.reur “ e«I etream sorry,fache Madame, fora (your1’amour sake,”)de vous dire,c.said he,sa “ thata your>88 husbandmari (hasetre been)F. implicatedimpliquer ina ana —aire,f.affair whicha 6tre is caracterisermarked throughout a withd’une suchsi deepnoire ingratitude.” “ Heas (peut-etre)may not a (haveetre, been)a. soa coupableguilty asa your>»8 Majesty te supposes,”(le suppose) dire,said c. thea comtessecountess. “ Do• yousa connaitre know yourles husband’smari in signaturesignature, f. ?”demander,c. asked thea emperor,-—-reur asa ashe prendre,b. took a letterlettre,f. froma hisisa pocket,poche, f. andet qu’il— presentedpresenter,u. it tola her. lui Madame— — —de Polignaca hastily la hate glancedlire, c. over* thea letter,lettre reconnaitre,recognized c. thea writing,ecriture andet s’evanouir,c.fainted, (As soona as) sheas serecovered, remettre, cc. Napoleon,— generouslyreusement of-of- frirfering herjs thea letter,lettre dire,said, c. “prendre,H. Take it; a (itc’est is) thea onlya legal—le evidence—,f. againsta youriss husband;mari (thereil y a is) aa feu,m.fire beside a you.”e« Madame de— Polignac avec eagerlyempressement (seseized saisir, c.) thedu important tant document, andet enin anun instant committedlivrer, c. tit toa thea flames.—— Thea vie,life f. ofa Polignac wasc. £pargner,saved; c. f (quant— a) hisisa honourhonneur (ita wasil n’etait be- yendpas au the) powerpouvoir evenmeme ofa thea generosity——te, f. ofa ana emperor—reur deto lere- ra- eheter.deem. f Turn into French—one saved the life to Polignac. INTRODUCTORY ANECDOTE*- 41

ADMIRAL RODNEY. LOYALTY. When Sir George Rodney resided in France, to avoid his A demeurer, b. a « eviter m* creancierscreditors, raehis inalheur,m.distress devenir,c.became lea sujet,subject m. ofa (publicla conversation notoriety.) (Itcette had circonstance long) avoir,bb.been long-temssuspected connaitre by de M.— de Sartine, a the mi-— —trenister ofde —la Police, whoa was* noa ignorer,stranger b. to* hisns merite,merits; s. hee* ac-en cansequencecordingly communiquer,communicated c. hisis a ideasidees toa thea DukeDue ofa Biron,a andet per-en- gager,suaded c. himis to makefaire —a the1’ admiralamiral an1’ offeroffre ofa the commandement,m. command ofa theA French9 flotte,fleet f. (inaux the) Occidentale*West Indies; Indes andet also« deto proposerproffer —lui a very, liberalforte somvne supply ofa money,argent «to (mettre enable en etat) him is tode dischargepayer hisisa pecuniarydettes embarrassments,* In order to accomplish this design with greater ease, the duke « accomplir A dessein,m. a beaucoup d’aisance a due immediately■ . tement envoyer,c.sent a very* gracleuse civil invitation toa Sir— George, tovenir — passerspend somea semainesweeks atchez his lui house;* —ce whicha he•« accepted.accepter, c. Onea morning,jour duringfaisant aa promenade,walk f. ina thea gardens,jardin, m. thea duke,due witha autantdeprudence(quede)great caution and politeness, politesse soundedsender,c. thea admiralamiral ona thea subject.sujet. Andet (pour coming en venir) ata oncea to athe point,point ouvertementopenly declared declarer to• him,is “ that/a asa thea king,roi . hisisa royal• master,maitre (avait intended resolu) que— thea Occidentales West IndesIndies (shoulddeviennent be) the theatre, m. ofa thea present guerre,war, f. he«« 6tre,was b. A C 42 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. commissionedcharger deto makefaire thea mosta unboundedavantageuscs offersoffres toa Sir— George,-— ifa he«« vouloir,would b. quitterquit thea (de VEnglish Angleterre) service,—, m. andet (s’il voulait)— accepteraccept thea commandcommandement ofa a French• esquadron,squadron." m. Thea brave admiral,amiral, -)• witha (beaucoupgreat de) moderationtemper, though44 muchtres agitated,agiter immediatementinstantly repondre,replied: c. “ Myiss malheur,distresses, pi. MonsieurSir, itil estis true,vrai haveavoir drivenchasser mere froma thea bosomsein, m, ofa my»s« country;patrie, f. buta no,a tentation,temptation f. whatever.a (ne peutfairecan estrange alandomer) mere from* herim service,——^ — avoir,Had B. this offreoffer beenetre *a voluntaryspontanee one* ofa yourisa own,part Ia (shouldavoir have)E. deemedregkrder itre comme— ana insult;le,f. buta aI etream glad10 toapprendre learn que—*■ celait proceedsderiver froma a source , f. thatqui cana dofaire no wrong.’’tort J Thea DukeDue ofa Biron, struckfrapper withde thea loyaltyloyaute,f. ofa thea Anglais British officier tar, froma thata moment,m. time becamedevenir,c. hisres sincere friend,ami andet enabledmettre Sir— George (a meme)— tode retoumerreturn dansto hisiss nativenatal country,pays, m. wherea he« soli-solli- citer,c.cited andet obtainedobtenir,c. ana important command.post, m.

XII FILIAL AFFECTION. Aa veteran,a (wornvieillir out) inau the* service,m. ofa France, etre,was c. reducedreformer withouta a pension, , f. although44 he«> avoir,had o. a epousewife and et threetrois childrenenfans quito partager,B.share hisiss wretchedness.misere, f. Hisres sonfils etre,was B. placedplacer ata L’Ecole + Turn into French,—The French admiral, though much agitated, replied in- stantlyX Turn with into great French,—Which temper. not can do wrong. introductory ANECDOTES. 4.S Militaire,_— wherea he«« (might nhave) enjoyedno every.a lescomfort: aissances,f. but a thea strongestvives persuasionsollicitations could<5 nota induceengager himis toa tastegouter (anya thing) buta i»«— coarsebit breadpain andet —10* water.eau Thea Dukedue dea Choiseul aybeing ant ete informedinformer of athe circumstance,circona , f. faireordered venir, c. thea ecolierboy beforea him,so anda demander,c.inquired thea raison,reason f. ofa hisiss abstemiousness.abstinence Thea boy,— witha a manlymale fortitude,courage repondre,replied, c. monsieur“ Sir, when a Ie« avoir,c.had the a honour—neur ofa beingetre, inf. admittedmettre tosous thea protection . ofa thisa royal—le foundation,institution, £ myiso fatherpere conductedconduirc, c. me7s lui-meme— hither. ici We<8 venir,came C. ona foot;pie onsur ourla journey,route -f- thea demandsbesoin, pi. ofa naturenature wereont relievedsatisfaire bydu breadpain andet dewater. 1’eau «6I etre,c.recevoirwas received, myiss fatherpere (me donnablessed la benediction) me, and et —il (s’enre- retourna)turned pourto the * protectionproteger of* aa (dcstituccshelpless de tout)wife epouse and et une— family,famille (As longa as) seI cana (meremember, rappeler) —io« pain,m.bread *of thea blackestnoir <6 (qu’il kind, y ait) with a i««— water,eau (hasavoir, been)aa. theiriss journalierdaily subsistence, aliment + andet even«» that• isil leearned gagne bya everya (species120 of) labourtravaux thata —1’ honour—neur does* nota defendre,forbid, a. ToA thisA nourriture, fare. f. Sir,isa mya perefather etre is returned reduire § ; thereforea whilea he,no my18B mother,mere andet mes— sisters,sceurs areetre compelledobliger deto endureendurer suchtelle une— wretchedness,misere etreis itil possible thata Ia cana enjoyjouir ■ thede 1’ bounteousbienfaisanU needst Turn of the the nature. French thus,—Some bread and some water have satisfied to the + Turn the sentence thus,—Some bread the most black there may be, and some water,§ Say have in beenFreneh,_My their daily father, subsistence. Sir, is reduced to this fare. 44 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. abondanceplenty ofa myme gracious eux sovereign rain ?” Thea dukedue sentir,c.felt thisa cri,m.tale deof —la nature, , f. donnergave —a the1’eleve boy threetrois louis d’or fora —ses pocket-menus- plaisirsmoney, andet promettre,c.promised lui— tode procureprocurer —d sonthe fatherpere a pension., f. Thea (jeuneboy homme) beggedprier,c. —que thea louis d’or (mightetre,o. be) envoyersent toa hisis» father;pere —r-ce which,qui witha thea patentbrevet ofa hisis® pension,f. 4tre,was c. immediately tement executerdone. Thea eleveboy avoir,was c. (patronizedla protection by du the) duke, and became one of the best officers (in the) service of due et devenir, c. a a a —ciers au ■ a France. XIII. THE MONKS OF ST BERNARD.—HOSPITALITY. Thea hospitality — te of thea conventcouvent ofa SaintSt Bernard, anda thea un-con- etantewearied humanity te, f. of thea Monks,Moines danson every a occasion, , pi. haveavoir long-temslong beenetre proverbial, andet numerousnombreux instancesexemples occuroffrir everya season,saison t ofa personnespersons savedsauver bya theiriss interference,soins, pi. or<* relievedsoulager bya their>®a bienfaisancebounty, Ina thea anneeyear 1818,—:— thea repasmeals J que— furnishedpreparer toaux — travellersvoyageurs byle this convent amounted to no fewer than 31,078. couvent se monter, c. au *■ nombre de Thea breedrace, f. ofa des— chiensdogs que— clever,a.kept by* thea moinesmonks § — to« assuterassist themit inA theirlas labourstravaux ofa charitelove, hasavoir, been aa. long-temslong celebratedconnaitre fora itsa saga- cityt6 andet sa f idelity.te' TheA mostA celebratedcelebre ofa thoseu>8 whoa etr.-,A. are noa more,a etre,was B. aa chiendog (qu’oncalled appelait) Barry. Thisa animal servir,served aa. the a + Turn into French Each season offers numerous examples. +5 TurnSay in into French—The French—Which breed the,conventwhich the monks prepared keep. to traveller. INTRODUCTORY ANECDOTES. 45 hospital for• thea spaceespace ofa twelvedouze years,ans duringa whichlesquels time* he•« sauver,c.saved the a vie,lives f. ofa quaranteforty individuals.personnes Onea jourday, thisa interesting resiant animal trouver, found c. a childenfant (in morfondua frozen state,) betweena thea bridgepent ofA Dronaz andet theA ice-houseglacier ofa Bal-— sora; hect immediately tement commencer,began c. toa lecherlick him:s ; andet havingavoir suc-re- ceededussir ina (restoringle rend re animation,) a la vie bya —le meansmoyen ofa hisxsa caresses,a he induire,induced c. thea enfantchild toa liertie himselfi» roundns irehis corpsbody. deIn thisa maniere,f. way ««he emmener, carried c. thea pauvre poor littles innocent,creature, m. asa *if ain triumph,triomphe toa ~the a hospital. (aussitotWhen que) old * ageP— deprivedoter, c. himjs of* —sa strength,force thea Priorprieur of thea conventconvent (mettre pensioned en pension, c.)him js ata Berney, (enby recompense way ofde sesreward. services) Aftera hisisa mort,death, f. onhis hide* was* Pempailler,stuffed c.and et —on ledeposited mettre, c. ina thea museum of that town. The little phial, in which he carried a a a ville, f. a 9 fiole, f. a a e« porter, a. a vivifiantereviving liqueurliquor fora thea {endistressed detresse) travellersvoyageurs whoma he««trouver, found u. a- monga thea mountains,montagnes etreis still« suspendedsuspendre froma hisiss cou,neck. m.

XIV. MUNGO PARK KINDNESS. Whilea Mr— Park was* chercher,B. waiting ona thea bordsbanks of thea Niger for* a passage, thea kingroi ofa thece countrypays, m. fwas on informer,informed c. thata a whites homme man (seintended proposer, n.) deto (fairevisit une visile)him. js Ona thisa intelligence,nouvelle,f. aa mes-mes- + Turn into French actively—One informed the king of that countiy. 46 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. sager,senger m. wasu>» instantlyimmediatement despatched envoyer — «to diretell —a the1’etranger stranger, thata hisise majesty could not possibly admit him to his presence till he te, f. a a abselument admtttie 7s en mw ■ , f. ns •< savoir,understood f. thea cause—, f. ofa hisisb arrival;airivee andet alson pourto warnavertir himi* * io« INTRODUCTORY ANECDOTES. 47 • broiledgnttc poisson,m. fish, etendre,spread c. aa matte,f.mat fora himsu — ' to<« (s’ylie upon,reposer) andet dormer,c. gave him7s —la permission deto continueTester (underchez herelle roof) tillus morning.matin, m. apresHaving avoir, inf. performedfaire thisa bicnfaisantebeneficent action, she«s summonedinviter, c. herlas female• companionscompagnes (to theira filerspinning,) —ce r whicha occupiedoccuper, C. thea principalechief partiepart ofa thea nuit,night, f. whilea theirisb travauxlabour wasils egayaientbeguiled bya (adifferemes variety of) chansonssongs; onea of whicha (wasparaitre, observed) c. bya MonsieurMr Park Park to* etrebe ana (extemporaneousimpromptu, m.effusion,) createdfonder surby hisiss own• adven-aven- ture.tore Thea air— etre,was B. particulierementremarkably sweetdoux andet plaintive,plaintif andet thea wordsmots etre,were b. —ralementliterally (the cefollowing.) qui suit “ Thea windsvents roared,siffler, ». andet thea pluie,f. rain tomber,B.fell. Thea pauvrepoor whites hommeman, epuiserfaint andet weary,fiitiguer venir,c.came and* s’asseoir,c. sat undera ouris 8 arbretree. Hees avoirhas noa mothermere — to bringdormer himrS —im lait,milk, m. noa epousewife — to« moudrcgrind himis —io< ble,corn." m. (enChorus. choeur) (“prendre, Let us) H. pitiepity thede white» 1’homme man ; noa mothermere avoirhas hee» — to« bringdormer him78 —im milk,lait no wife — to grind him — corn,” a dpouse 44 moudre r» im bid.

MUSIC THE HANDMAID OF MERCY. Thea citizenscitoyens ofa Antioch, che irritatedirriter byde somea exactionstaxes whicha thea Emperor reur Theodosius.. —ose avoir,had b. imposedimposer upona them,a (brokese revolterent out into open revolt), and among other excesses, pulled down the sta- ouvertement et a (bien des) 177 c. a — tues of the emperor and — empress, and dashed them to pieces — a a reur et de 1’imperatrice et inter, c. 7« en — 48 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. Shortlybicntot after,a whena thea force,heat f. ofa theira furyrage etre,was c. past,passer Flavianus, vien 18their 8 bishop,eveque faire, took c. a voyage,m.journey toa Constantinople, in order to ap-ap- p.iiserpease Theodosius; ose buta thea emperor rear repelledrejeter, c. (avecindignantly indignation) alla his supplications. The good bishop (was in despair at the) dan- igs prieres A » eveque gemissait du — —ger whichA sembler,seemed B. (impendingmenacer over) hisiss troupeau,m.flock; buta beingetre aa/ personne,f.man of d'une— livelyvive imaginationfancy, andet ayantlearning apris thata thea empe- reurror (wasavoir, in)b. thea habitudehabit, (whilea ses banquetsfeasting,) ofa avoir,having inf. a number« ofa 1 young9 garcons boys — to44 chantersing devantto him, «o hess conceivedconcevoir,c. thea ideaidee ofa faire,inf. making yeta anothera appel,appeal. m. ' He«« (prevailed145 c. with) thosea whoa avoir,b. had thea charge, f. ofa thea songsterschanteurs deto placerplace them under118 hisiss directionordres fora (apeu short) de time.terns At thea premier next festivalbanquet (quiday, arriva) thea attention — ofa Theodosius ose was immediatementinstantly arrestedfixer bya thea peculiarprofond pathos of thea strainsairs (qu’onaddressed chantait devant)to him;80 he»» soon12 decouvrir,discerned c. thea importsens ofa thea supplicationpriere, f. whicha they78 conveyed;contenir, b. andet suchtelle at12 last etre,c.was the effecteffet —theyque es produced,produire, c. thata wateringrepandre 'dans — thea verrecup ofa winevin whicha he« tenir,held B. ina hisla handmain with• his warm tears, he forgot all the displeasure (he had con- * de chaudes larmes + «s oublier, c. a a deplaisir, m. que lui f ceivedavaient against) donne thea Antiochians, iens andet (calleds’ecrier, aloud) c. that ‘ thea villeCity ofa Antioch etre,was b. forgiven."pardonner. held•)• inTurn his intohand. French,—that watering with warm tears the cup of wine which he INTRODUCTORY ANECDOTES. *9

CAPITULATION EXTRAORDINARY. HEROISM. Thea catholics, iques commandedcommander bya thea Dukedue ofa Anjou, besiegedassieger,B. (laRochelle ) inA thea yearannee 1573. ThereA was nearim thea counterscarp,contrescarpe, f. aa moulin,mill, m. of whicha a Captaincapitaine Normand avoir,b.had obtainedobtenir possession aon condition qu’il of protectingdefendre, E. it.ts Hete at ijfirst thoughtpenser, C. ofa fortifyingfortifier it,;• buta seeingvoir thata he“ (wouldpouvoir, not bec. able) to* mettreput itia enin a* stateetat of defence, he contented himself with holding it during the day a «s se contenter, c. * de gardcr^inf. is ue a jour,m. with- a a smallpetit partycorps ofa soldatssoldiers, whenet hees withdrewretircr, c. atau night,soir leav-lais- sering onlya onea sentinelle,sentinel. f. Strozzi, onea of thea catholic iques generals,generaux penserthinking —que hec< mighta derivetirer somea advantageadvantage froma thisa moulin,mill, m. attaquerattacked itc. (oneau moonlight claire de la lunenight) witha aa detachment, , m. and deuxtwo coulevrinesculverins. Aa soldiersoldat of thea IsleUe ofa Rhe, (one ofnomme the name of) Barbot, thea (seulonly qui defender defendait) of“a this bad» poste,station, m. soutenir,c.held isit vaillam-reso- lutely. He« tirer,fired, c. witha ana incredibleincroyablc celerity,te, f. plusieursa number coups ofde shotsfusil froma ana arquebussuse, f. ona thea assailants,1’ennemi and byen varyingchanger thea inflections xions ofa isshis voice,voix he«* faire,c.made themre believecroire thatA he** avoir,B. had plusieursseveral comrades.camarades —le Captaintaine Normand froma a battlementcreneau, m. encouragcr,encouraged c. him, and speakingpurler to himre asa if there(U y) avoir.B.had been* a D 50 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. entiirewhole compagnie,f.company in a thea moulin,in.mill, s’ecrier,c.cried out,* “ thata theyse avoir,b. had cou-no- ragcusementbly maintainedmaintenir theiriss position,”—— buta thata he«• (wouldenvoyer, send) e. a reinforcement soon. Barbot, however, seeing himself on the a renfort, m. u - ■ ■ a voir se a a —,point m. ofa etre,inf.being forced,forcer demander,demanded c. quarter tier fora himselfso and fora —les autresothers ina thea moulin,m.mill, —oe whichqui etre,c.was granted.accorder Hete immediately. tement mettre,c.laid downbas hisles armesarms, and (faire,c.exhibited voir) the* wholen garrison—, f- CDin his“ owna —onne,person. f.

PETER THE GREAT. HOSPITALITY. Thea maison,house, f. orn rather12 —la chaumiere,f.cottage, ina whicha PierrePeter thea Greatgrand demeurer,B.resided during ns (the qu’onfoundation batissait of) SaintSt Petersburg,Petersbourg etreis regarderheld commealmost sacredsacree bya thea Russians, ses and haselle been est (coveredentouree over d’un by a) briquebrick iss buildingbatiment (avec of des) arcades, to« protectproteger iait from theA rava-— —ges ofdu — time.terns, m. (It c’estwas) ata thisa chaumiere,f.cottage, whicha consistsconsister ofa onlya threetrois chambresrooms, thatoil PeterPierre entertainedrecevoir, c. aa HollandaisDutch skipper ca):itaine,m. ; who a hearing(ayant entendu) thata Saint St Petersburg bourg etre.B. was commencebuilding, and thata thea em-— peror avoir,had b. a great» penchant, passion m. fora la— marineships and pour— commerce,le commerce r6soudfe,resolved c. tod’essayer try his fortune, and enaccordingly consequence —il venir,arrived c. witha thea premierlirst merchantmarchand vaisseauvessel thatqui evera remonter.c. sailed up * thea Neva.,m. Thea HollandaisDutchman etrewas thea bearerporteur of a letterlettre,f. ofa introduction* to thea INTRODUCTORY ANECDOTES. 51 capitainecaptain of thea port,—,m. (delapartd’un)from a friend ami ina Holland, de requestingprier him78 (de faireto usageuse de)his isa interestcredit to** procurerprocure A.carg»ison,f.a freight for* him.78 PeterPierre was* travailler,B.working likeu aa' commonordinaire labourerouvrier ina thea Admiralty,amiraute quandas the a navire,m.galliot passedpasser,c. and salutedtirer, c. (withquelques two coupsor threede canon guns.) Th&a emperorreur —en etrc,c.was delighted;rejouir and beingayant ete informed informer of thea Hutch-,Ih.llan. daitman’s u7 business,affaires het« resolvedresoudre tode (have" s’amuser a frolic) witha him.so He accordinglysur quoi commandedcommander theau captaincapitaine of thea port (d’allerto trouver)see thea (maitreskipper, du vaisseau) as soon 44 as he<< —sera debarquerlanded, and —de cnvoyerdirect him78 to thea emperor,reur as1* a merchantmarchand (qui venaitjust de) se fixer,inf.settled there.a PeterPierre serepaired rendre,c. toa thisla chaumierecottage witha hisi»0 empress,epouse who,a to humour the joke, dressed herself in a plain habit, such (pour se preter ala plaisdnterie) prendre,c. * * a simple habille:iient,ni. a asa convenir,B.suited — a thela femme wife ofa a merchant.marchand Thea Dutchman— wasetre,c. intro-. intro-. duireduced to thea emperor, reur whoa receivedrecevoir himis witha beaucoup great dekindness, bonte and theyes se mettre,sat c. (aeating manger) —io« pain,in.bread and —108 fromage,m.cheese, and smok-(a fu- mer)ing inf.together, is fora somea time,terns. PierrePeter thena faire,made c. a marche,m.bargain witha thea merchantmarchand fora a cargaison,f.cargo ; and (justcomme as il venaithe had) de concludedconclure isit, thea officerofficier ofa thea guard,garde,f. whicha hadetre beenbb. changed,relever enteredentrer, c. to44 receiverccevoir —108 orders,ordres and before44 PeterPierre couldne a arrtterstop him,is addresser^c.addressed himis bya theA litre,m.title ofa imperialeimperial majesty.majeste Thea DutchmanHollandais sauter,sprung c. froma hisibs chaise,chair, f« 52 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. tomber,fell C. ona his* kneesgenou beforea thea emperor—reur and imperatriceempress, and im-de- ploredmander, c. forgivenesspardon forde thea freedomliberte, f. —que heee avoir,had b.used, prise PierrePeter jouir,c.enjoyed de the cette scene, scene and raisingClever thea (gut availterrified grand pmr)suppli- — ant,— faire,made c. himn baiserkiss thea main,hand f. of thea imperatriceempress, (fairepresented presence.) him j* withde fifteenquinze hundredcens roubles, donner,gave c. himrs a cargatson,freight, f. and ordonner,c.dered that a his•«> vaisseau,m.vessel, as longa as (her timbersil serait entirerkept together,) (shouldavoir, e. be) permitted(I* droit) tod’entrer enter dans— alla thea RussianRutsss ports, exemptfree of a impStsduty. Thisa —«—,privilege m. faire,c.made thea rapidement rapid fortune ,f. of thea owner.propriotaire,m.

N. B.—The quantity of useful and essential matter introduced in the Gramma- tical Dictionary, having increased its contents beyond contemplation, it has become necessary to retrench a part Of the Introduction, that the price of the Work might not come too high for classes;—hence the origin of the chasm existing between this page and the next.—The learner will read at page 29. line 8. Us nc fussent, instead of Us n'etaient. PART II CONTAINING NARRATIONS, DESCRIPTIONS, BATTLES, NATURAL HISTORY, MYTHOLOGY, NATIONAL CHARACTERS, POLITICAL CHA. RACTERS, LITERARY CHARACTERS, LITERARY CRITI- CISM, LETTERS, MORAL DUTIES, MORAL CHA- RACTERS, MORAL DEFINITIONS, AND ELOQUENCE.

INTRODUCTION TO THE TRANSLATING OF THE FOLLOWING EXTRACTS,

SUMMARY PRECEPTS. Although the Learner may, by this time, be pretty well grounded in the Rules that are to be observed in translating the English into French, or composing the French language,—it may not be amiss, to bring once more before his eye, the chief precepts absolutely necessary to be followed in the attempt. I. Avoid giving a literal meaning to words or phrases, by constantly referring to the Grammatical Dictionary at the end of the Book, where the genius of the French and English languages is contrasted. II. Beware of the English Ellipsis, or the omission of articles; of personal, possessive, relative, demonstrative, and indeterminate pronouns ; of prepositions and conjunctions. III. Endeavour to discover the English inversion, and restore the phrase to its natural order in French, by placing the subject ISO INTRODUCTION. before the verb, and the object after; and recollect, 1st, That all English possessive cases are inversions; 2d, That such phrases as gold watch, oil-painting, jire-arms, French wines, wooden table, &c. are also all inversions. IV. Never fail to render the English passive voice, into an active one in French; which is done by rendering the object of the English phrase, the subject in French. V. Remember that, 1st, when may, nfight, can, and could, denote possibility; 2d, shall, will, and would, a predetermination ; 3d, am, was, and ought, & duty ; 4th,/o go, an immediate /«/«re; and, 5th, just, an immediate past;—that the first is rendered by poavoir, the second by vouloir, the third by devoir, the fourth by aller, and the fifth by venir, before another verb, in the shape of auxiliary verbs; and let their tense agree with that of the Eng- lish. VI. Do not forget to render all English present participles preceded by a preposition, by the infinitive in French. VII. Let the English expressions am, was, when placed before a verb, as I am reading, &c. be disregarded; and use nothing else in French than the present, imperfect, or perfect of the indicative. VIII. Observe when there are two verbs expressing two different actions in the phrase, and be careful to put the unfinished action in the imperfect, and the other in the perfect. IX. Render yourself master of all adjectives and verbs followed by the prepositions d and de; and do not imitate the English preposition, unless it cannot be avoided. X. See if the preposition to before English verbs has the meaning of in order to, or with a design to; if so, use pour in French ; if not, use d or de. XI. Notice all conjunctions governing the subjunctive mood, and cause the subjunctive to agree with the indicative tense of the previous verb. XII. Attend to those rules of French Grammar solely dedicated to Gallicisms, as, j'ai mal au dents, I have the tooth-ache, &c. for on them depend the only construction admitted in the French language. XIII. Lastly, Review often the numerous Rules laid down in the Treatise on Translation at the beginning of the Book. CHAPTER I.

NARRATIONS. I. DISCOVERY OF AMERICA, BY COLUMBUS, A NATIVE OF GENOA, IN THE SERVICE OF SPAIN. o n Friday, the third day of August, in the year one thousand four hundred and ninety-two, Columbus set sail, a little before sun-rise, in presence of a vast crowd of spectators, who sent up their supplications to Heaven for the prosperous issue of the voyage ; which they wished, rather than expected. His squadron, if it merit that name, consisted of no more than three small ves- sels, having on board ninety men. mostly sailors, together with a few adventurers, who followed the fortune of Columbus, and some gentlemen of the Spanish court, whom the queen appointed to accompany him. He steered directly for the Canary islands ; from which, after refitting his ships, and supplying himself with fresh provisions, he took his departure on the sixth day of Sep- tember. Here the voyage of discovery may properly be said to begin ; for Columbus, holding his course due west, left immediately the usual tract of navigation, and stretched into unfrequented and unknown seas. The first day, as it was very calm, he made but little way ; but, on the second, he lost sight of the Canaries; and many of the sailors, already dejected and dismayed, when they contemplated the boldness of the undertaking, began to beat their breasts, and to shed tears, as if they were never more to behold land. Columbus comforted them with assurances of success, and the prospect of vast wealth, in those opulent regions whither he was conducting them. This early discovery of the spirit of his followers taught Columbus, that he must prepare to struggle not only with the unavoidable difficulties which might be expected from the nature of his undertaking, but with such as were likewise to arise from the ignorance and timidity of the people under his command; and he perceived, that the art of governing the minds of men would be no less requisite for accomplishing the discoveries, which he had in view, than naval skill and an enterprising courage. Happily for himself, and for the country by which he was employed, he joined to the ardent temper and in- 132 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. ventive genius of a projecter, virtues of another species, which are rarely united with them. He possessed a thorough knowledge of mankind, an insinuating address, a patient perseverance in executing any plan, the perfect government of his own passions, and the talent of acquiring the direction of those of other men. All these qualities, which formed him for command, were accompanied with that superior knowledge of his profession which begets confidence in times of difficulty and danger. After a voyage of four weeks, during which Columbus found it extremely difficult to restrain the mutinous disposition of his men, the presages of discovering land became so numerous and promising, that he deemed them infallible. For some days, the soundir.g-line reached the bottom ; and the soil which it brought up, indicated land at no great distance. The flocks of birds en- creased, and were composed not only of sea-fowl, but of such land-birds, as could not be supposed to fly far from the shore. The crew of the Pinta observed a cane floating, which seemed to be newly cut, and likewise a piece of timber artificially carved. The sailors aboard the Nigna took up the branch of a tree with red berries, perfectly fresh. The clouds around the setting sun assumed a new appearance ; the air was more mild and warm ; and, during night, the wind became unequal and variable. From all these symptoms, Columbus was so confident of being near land, that, on the evening of the eleventh of October, after public prayers for success, he ordered the sails to be furled, and strict watch to be kept, lest the ships should be driven ashore in the night. During this interval of suspense and expectation, no man shut his eyes ; all upon deck gazing intently towards that quar* ter where they expected to discover the land, which had been so long the object of their wishes. About two hours before midnight, Columbus, standing on the forecastle, observed a light at a distance, and privately pointed it out to two of his people. All three saw it in motion, as if it were carried from place to place. A little after midnight, the joyful sound of land/ land! was heard from the Pinta But, having been so often deceived by fallacious appearances, they were now become slow of belief, and waited, in all the anguish of uncertainty and impatience, for the return of day. As soon as morning dawned, their doubts and fears were dispelled ; they beheld an island about two leagues to the north, whose flat and verdant fields, well stored with wood, and watered with many rivulets, presented to them the aspect of a delightful country. The crew of the Pinta instantly began the Te Deum, as a hymn of thanksgiving to God, and were joined by those of the other NARRATIONS. i33 ships, with tears of joy and of congratulation. This office of gratitude to Heaven was followed by an act of justice to their commander. They threw themselves at the feet of Columbus with feelings of self-condemnation mingled with reverence. They implored him to pardon their ignorance, incredulity, and insolence, which had created him so much unnecessary disquiet, and had so often obstructed the prosecution of his well-concerted plan; and passing, in the warmth of their admiration, from one extreme to the other, they pronounced the man they had so lately reviled and threatened, to be a person inspired by Heaven with sagacity and fortitude more than human, in order to accomplish a design so far beyond the ideas and conceptions of all former ages. As soon as the sun rose, all the boats were manned and armed. They rowed towards the island with their colours displayed, warlike music, and other martial pomp : and, as they approached the coast, they saw it covered with a multitude of people, whom the novelty of the spectacle had drawn together, and whose atti- tudes and gestures expressed wonder and astonishment at the strange objects which presented themselves to their view. Co- lumbus was the first European who set foot in the New World which he had discovered. He landed in a rich dress, and with a naked sword in his hand. His men followed, and, kneeling down, they all kissed the ground which they had so long desired to see. They next erected a crucifix, and, prostrating themselves before it, returned thanks to God for conducting their voyage to such a happy issue. They then took solemn possession of the country for the crown of Castile and Leon, with all the formalities which the Portuguese were accustomed to observe in acts of this kind in their new discoveries. The Spaniards, while thus employed, were surrounded by many of the natives, who gazed, in silent admiration, upon actions which they could not comprehend, and of which they could not foresee the consequences. The dress of the Spaniards, the whiteness of their skins, their beards, their arms, appeared strange and surprising. The vast machines in which they had traversed the ojcean, that seemed to move upon the water with wings, and uttered a dreadful sound resembling thunder, accompanied with lightninggan to respect and smoke,their new struck guests them as awith superior such orderterror, of that beings, they andbe- concluded that they were children of the sun, who had descended to visit the earth. The Europeans were hardly less amazed at the scene now before them. Every herb, and shrub, and tree, was different from 134 the french translator. those which flourished in Europe. The soil seemed to be rich, but bore few marks of cultivation. The climate, even to Spani- ards, felt warm, though extremely delightful. The inhabitants appeared in the simple innocence of nature, entirely naked. Their black hair, long and uncurled, floated upon their shoulders, or was bound in tresses around their heads. They had no beards, and every part of their bodies was perfectly smooth. Their complexion was of a dusky copper colour; their features, singular, rather than disagreeable; their aspect, gentle and timid. Though not tall, they were well-shaped and active. Their faces, and other parts of their body, were fantastically painted with glaring colours. They were shy at first, through fear, but soon became familiar with the Spaniards ; and, with transports of joy, received from them hawks’ bells, glass beads, and other baubles : in return for which, they gave such provisions as they had, and some cotton yarn, the only commodity of value which they could produce. Towards evening. Columbus returned to his ships, accompanied by many of the islanders in their boats, which they called canoes: and, though rudely formed out of the trunk of a single tree, they rowed them with surprising dexterity Thus, in the first interview between the inhabitants of the Old and New Worlds, every thing was conducted amicably, and to their mutual satisfaction. The former, enlightened and ambitious, formed already vast ideas with respect to the advantages which they might derive from those regions that began to open to their view : The latter, simple and undiscerning, had no foresight of the calamities and desolation which were now approaching their country. Robertson. II. CHARLES V.’S RESIGNATION OF HIS DOMINIONS. Charles resolved to resign his kingdoms to his son, with a solemnity suitable to the importance of the transaction; and to perform this last act of sovereignty with such formal pomp, as might leave an indelible impression on the minds, not only of his subjects,' but of his successor. With this view, he called Philip out of England ; where the peevish temper of his queen, which increased with her despair of having issue, rendered him extremely unhappy, and the jealousy of the English left him no hopes of obtaining the direction of their affairs. Having assembled the States of the Low Countries at Brussels, on the 25th of October, 1555, Charles seated himself for the last time in the chair of state ; on one side of which was placed his son, and on NARRATIONS. 1SS the other, his sister, the queen of Hungary, regent of the Nether- lands ; with a splendid retinue of the Grandees of Spain, and princes of the empire, standing behind him. The president of the council of Flanders, by his command, explained, in a few words, his intention in calling this extraordinary meeting of the States. He then read the instrument of resignation, by which Charles surrendered to his son Philip all his territories, jurisdiction, and authority, in the Low Countries; absolving his subjects there from their oath of allegiance to him, which he required them to transfer to Philip his lawful heir, and to serve him with the same loyalty and zeal which they had manifested, during so long a course of years, in support of his government. Charles then rose from his seat, and, leaning on the shoulder of the Prince of Orange, because he was unable to stand without support, he addressed himself to the audience; and, from a paper which he held in his hand, in order to assist his memory, he re- counted with dignity, but without ostentation, all the great things which he had undertaken and performed since the commencement of his administration. He observed, that, from the seventeenth year of his age, he had dedicated all his thoughts and attention to public objects, reserving no portion of his time for the indulgence of his ease, and very little for the enjoyment of private pleasure ; that, either in a pacific or hostile manner, he had visited Germany nine times, Spain six times, France four times, Italy seven times, the Low Countries ten times, England twice, Africa as often, and had made eleven voyages by sea; that, while his health permitted him to discharge his duty, and the strength of his constitution was equal in any degree to the arduous task of governing such extensive dominions, he had never shunned labour, nor repined under fatigue ; that now, when his health was broken, and his vigour exhausted by the rage of an incurable distemper, his growing infirmities admonished him to retire; nor was he so fond of reigning as to retain the sceptre in an impotent hand, which was no longer able to protect his subjects, or to render them happy ; that, instead of a sovereign worn out with diseases, and scarcely half alive, he gave them one in the prime of life, accustomed already to govern, and who added to the energy of youth all the attention and sagacity of maturer years ; that if, during the course of a long administration, he had committed any material error in government, or if, under the pressure of so many and great affairs, and amidst the attention which he had been obliged to give them, he had either neglected or injured any of his subjects, he now implored their forgiveness; that, for his part, he should ever retain a grateful sense of their 136 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. fidelity and attachment, and would carry the remembrance of it along with him to the place of his retreat, as his sweetest consolation, as well as the best reward for all his services; and, in his last prayers to Almighty God, would pour forth his ardent wishes for their welfare. Then, turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees, and kissed his father’s hand, “ If,” says he, “ I had left you, by my death, this rich inheritance, to which I have made such large additions, some regard would have been justly due to my memory on that account; but now, when I voluntarily resign to you what I might have still retained, I may well expect the warmest expressions of thanks on your part. With these, however, I dispense ; and shall consider your concern for the welfare of your subjects, and your love of them, as the best and most acceptable testimony of your gratitude to me. It is in your power, by a wise and virtuous administration, to justify the extraordinary proof which I this day give of my paternal affection, and to demonstrate that you are worthy of the confidence which I repose in you. Preserve an inviolable regard for religion; maintain the catholic faith in its purity; let the laws of your country be sacred in your eyes; encroach not on the rights and privileges of your people: and, if the time shall ever come when you shall wish to enjoy the tranquillity of private life, may you have a son endowed with such qualities, that you may resign your sceptre to him, with as much satisfaction as l give up mine to you.” As soon as Charles had finished this long address to his subjects and to their new sovereign, he sunk into the chair, exhausted, and ready to faint with the fatigue of such an extraordinary effort. During his discourse, the whole audience melted into tears; some, from admiration of his magnanimity ; others, softened by the expressions of tenderness towards his son, and of love to his people ; and all were affected with the deepest sorrow at losing a sovereign, who had distinguished the Netherlands, his native country, with particular marks of his regard and attachment. A few weeks thereafter, Charles, in an assembly no less splendid, and with a ceremonial equally pompous, resigned to his son the crowns of Spain, with all the territories depending on them, both in the Old and in the New World. Of all these vast possessions, he reserved nothing for himself but an annual pension of an hundred thousand crowns, to defray the charges of his family, and to afford him a small sum for acts of beneficence and charity. The place he had chosen for his retreat was the monastery of KarSationa. 137 St Just, in the province of Estremadura. It was seated in a vale of no great extent, watered by a small brook, and surrounded by rising grounds covered with lofty trees. From the nature of the soil, as well as the temperature of the climate, it was esteemed the most healthful and delicious situation in Spain. Some months before his resignation, he had sent an architect thither, to add a new apartment to the monastery for his accommodation ; but he gave strict orders that the style of the building should be such as suited his present situation, rather than his former dignity. It consisted only of six rooms ; four of them in the form of friars’ cells, with naked walls ; the other two, each twenty feet square, were hung with brown cloth, and furnished in the most simple manner. They were all on a level with the ground; with a door on one side into a garden, of which Charles himself had given the plan, and which he had filled with various plants, intending to cultivate them with his own hands. On the other side they communicated with the chapel of the monastery, in which he was to perform his devotion— Into this humble retreat, hardly sufficient for the comfortable accommodation of a private gentleman, did Charles enter with twelve domestics only. He buried there, in solitude and silence, his grandeur, his ambition, together with all those vast projects, which, during half a century, had alarmed and agitated Europe, filling every kingdom in it by turns with the terror of his arms, and the dread of being subjected to his power. III. THE STORY OF A DISABLED SOLDIER. I was born in Shropshire; my father was a labourer, and died when I was five years old ; so I was put upon the parish. As he had been a wandering sort of a man, the parishioners were not able to tell to what parish I belonged, or where I was born y so they sent me to another parish, and that parish sent me to a third. I thought in my heart, they kept sending me about so long, that they would not let me be born in any parish at all; but at last, however, they fixed me. I had some disposition to be a scholar, and was resolved, at least, to know my letters ; but the master of the workhouse put me to business as soon as I was able to handle a mallet; and here I lived an easy kind of life for five years. I only wrought ten hours in the day, and had my meat and drink provided for my labour. It is true, I was not. suffered to stir out of the house, for fear, as they said, I should run away; but what of that ? I had the liberty of the whole house. 3 38 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. and the yard before the door, and that was enough for me. I was then bound out to a farmer, where I was up both early and late; but 1 ate and drank well, and liked my business well enough, till he died, when I was obliged to provide for myself: so I was resolved to seek my fortune. In this manner I went from town to town, worked when I could get employment, and starved when I could get none : when happening one day to go through a field belonging to a justice of peace, I spied a hare crossing the path just before me ; I flung my stick at it:—well, what will you have on’t ? I killed the hare, and was bringing it away when the justice himself met me: he called me a poacher and a villain; and collaring me, desired I would give an account of myself. I fell upon my knees, begged his worship’s pardon, and began to give a full account of all that I knew of my history; but, though 1 gave a very true account, the justice said I could give no account ,• so I was indicted at sessions, found guilty of being poor, and sent up to London to Newgate, in order to be transported as a vagabond. People may say this and that of being in jail, but, for my part, I found Newgate as agreeable a place as ever I was in in all my life. I had plenty to eat and drink, and did no work at all. This kind of life was too good to last for ever; so I was taken out of prison, after five months, put on board a ship, and sent off, with two hundred more, to the plantations. We had but an indifferent passage, for, being all confined in the hold, more than a hundred of our people died for want of sweet air ; and those that remained were sickly enough. When w'e came ashore, w e Were sold to the planters, and I was bound for seven years more. As I was no scholar, for I did not know my letters, I was obliged to work among the negroes; and I served out my time, as in duty bound to do. When my time was expired, I worked my passage home, and glad I was to see old England again, because I loved my country. I was afraid, however, that I should be indicted for a vagabond once more, so I did not much care to go down into the country, but kept about the town, and did little jobs when I could get them. I was very happy in this manner for some time, till one evening, coming home from work, two men knocked me down, and then desired me to stand. They belonged to a press-gang: I was carried before the justice, and, as I could give no account of myself, I had my choice left, whether to go on board a man NAUUATIONS. 139 post of a gentleman I served two campaigns in Flanders, was at the battles of Val and Fontenoy, and received but one wound through the breast here; but the doctor of our regiment soon made me well again. ^ When the peace came on I was discharged ; and, as I could not work, because my wound was sometimes troublesome, I listed for a landman in the East India Company’s service. 1 have fought the French in six pitched battles ; and I verily believe that, if I could read or write, our captain would have made me a corporal. But it was not my good fortune to have any promotion, for I soon fell sick, and so got leave to return home again with forty pounds in my pocket. This was at the beginning of the present war, and I hoped to be set on shore, and to have the pleasure of spending my money; but the government wanted men, and so I was pressed for a sailor before ever I could set foot on shore. The boatswain found me, as he said, an obstinate fellow : insisted that I understood my business, but that I liked to be idle u but I knew nothing of sea-business, and he beat me, without considering what he was about. I had still, however, my forty pounds, and that was some comfort to me under every beating ; and the money I might have had to this day, but that our ship was taken by the French, and so I lost all. Our crew was carried into Brest, and many of them died, because they were not used to live in a jail; but, for my partj it was nothing to me, for I was seasoned. One night, as I was a- sleep on the bed of boards, with a warm blanket about me, for 1 always loved to lie well, I was awakened by the boatswain, who had a dark lantern in his hand: “ Jack,” says he to me, “ will you knock out the French Gentry’s brains ?” I don’t care, says I, striving to keep myself awake, if I lend a hand. “ Then follow me,” says lie, and I hope we shall do business.” So up 1 got, and went with him to fight the Frenchmen. I hate the French, because they are all slaves, and wear wooden shoes. Though we had no arms, one Englishman is able to beat five French at any time; so we went down to the door, where both Gentries were posted, and, rushing upon them, seized their arms in a moment, and knocked them down. From thence nine of us ran to the quay, and seizing the first boat we met, got out of the harbour, and put to sea. We had not been here three days before we were taken up by the Dorset privateer, who were glad of so many good hands, and we consented to run our chance. However, we had not so much good luck as we expected. In three days we fell in with the Pompadour privateer. 140 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. of forty guns, while we had but twenty-three ; so to it we went, yard-arm and yard-arm. The fight lasted for three hours, and I verily believe we should have taken the Frenchman, had we but some more men left behind : but unfortunately, we lost all our men just as we were going to get the victory. I was once more in the power of the French, and I believe it would have gone hard with me had I been brought back to Brest; but, by good fortune, we were retaken by the Viper. 1 had almost forgot to tell you, that in that engagement I was wounded in two places ; I lost four fingers of the left hand, and my leg was shot off. If I had had the good fortune to have lost my leg and use of my hand on board a king’s ship, and not aboard a privateer, I should have been entitled to cloathing and main- tenance during the rest of my life! but that was not my chance. One man’s born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and another with a wooden ladle. However, I enjoy good health, and will ever love liberty and Old England. Liberty, property, and Old England for ever, huzza ! Thus saying, he limped off, leaving me in admiration at his intrepidity and content; nor could I avoid acknowledging, that an habitual acquaintance with misery serves better than philosophy to teach us to despise it. Goldsmith. IV. TRIAL, EXECUTION, AND CHARACTER OF CHARLES I. The king being brought into court, the solicitor, in the name of the Commons, represented, that Charles Stuart, having been admitted king of England, and entrusted with a limited power ; yet, nevertheless, from a wicked design to erect an unlimited and tyrannical government, had traitorously and maliciously levied war against the present parliament, and the people whom they represented; and was, therefore, impeached as a tyrant, traitor, murderer, and a public and implacable enemy to the commonwealth. After the charge was finished, the president directed his discourse to the king, and told him, that the court expected his answer. Though long detained a prisoner, and now produced as a criminal, Charles sustained the dignity of a monarch. With great temper, he represented. That, having been engaged in a treaty with his houses of Parliament, and having finished almost every article, he had expected to be brought to his capital in another manner, and to have been restored to his liberty and power : that he could not perceive any appearance of the Upper House, NARRATIONS. 141 so essential a member of the Parliament; and that even the Com- mons, who pretended to try him, were, he understood, themselves bereaved of their freedom : that he acknowledged, without scruple, that he had a trust committed to him, and one most sacred, the liberties of his people, and he would not now betray them, by recognising the authority of a court founded on the most atrocious violence and usurpation : that those who arrogat- ed a title to sit as his judges, were born his subjects, and born nosubjects wrongthat, to those laws without which sheltering determined himself that under“ the kingthis generalcan do maxim, he was able, by the most satisfactory reasons, to justify his taking up arms, a measure to which he had recourse solely in his own defence; but, in order to preserve an uniformity of conduct, he must, at present, forego the apology of his innocence, lest, by ratifying their usurped jurisdiction, he should be branded as the betrayer, instead of being applauded as the martyr, of the constitution. Three times was Charles produced before the court; and as often he declined its authority. On the fourth, the judges having examined some witnesses, by whom it was proved that the king had appeared in arms against the forces commissioned by the parliament, sentence of death was pronounced against him. He seemed very anxious, at this time, to be admitted to a con- ference with the two Houses ; and it was supposed that he intended to resign the crown to his son: but the court refused compliance, and considered that request as nothing but an artifice to delay justice. It is confessed, that the king’s behaviour, during the conclud- ing scenes of his life, does honour to his memory; and that, in all appearances before his judges, he never forgot his part, either as a prince or as a man. The people, though under the rod of lawless unlimited power, could not forbear, with the most ardent prayers, pouring forth their wishes for his preservation, and, in his present distress, they, by their generous tears, avowed him for their monarch, whom, in their misguided fury, they had before go violently rejected. One of the soldiers, seized by conta- gious sympathy, requested from Heaven a blessing on oppressed toand the fallen ground majesty in the : his king’s officer presence overhearing : “ The the prayer,punishment, beat himme- thinks, exceeds the offence,” was the reflection which Charles formed on that occasion. Three days were allowed the king between his sentence and his execution. This interval he passed with great tranquillity, chiefly in reading and devotion. All his family that remained 142 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. in England were allowed access to him. It consisted only of the princess Elizabeth and the duke of Gloucester ; for the duke of York had made his escape. Gloucester was little more than an infant; the princess, notwithstanding her tender years, shewed an advanced judgment; and the calamities of Her family had made a deep impression on her mind. After many pious consolations and advices, the king gave her charge to tell the queen, that during the whole course of their union, he had never once, even in thought, failed in his fidelity towards her; and that his conjugal tenderness and his life could only terminate together. On the morning of the fatal day (January 30th) Charles rose early; and, calling Herbert, one of his attendants, he bade him employ more than usual care in dressing him, and preparing him for so great a solemnity. Juxon, bishop of London, a man endowed with the same mild and steady virtues by which the king himself was so much distinguished, assisted him in his de- votions, and paid the last melancholy duties to his friend and sovereign. The street before Whitehall was the place destined for the execution: for it was intended, by choosing that situation, in sight of his own palace, to display more evidently the triumph of popular justice over royal majesty. When the king came upon the scaffold, he found it so surrounded with soldiers, that he could not expect to be heard by any of the people: he addressed his discourse, therefore, to the few persons who were about him, particularly Colonel Tomlinson, to whose care he had lately been committed, and upon whom, as upon many others, his amiable deportment had wrought an entire conversion. He jus- tified his own innocence in the fatal wars, and observed, that he had not taken arms till after the parliament had enlisted forces ; nor had he any other object in his warlike operations, than to preserve that authority entire, which his predecessors had transmitted to him. But, though innocent towards his people, he acknowledged the equity of his execution in the eyes of his Maker; and observed, that an unjust sentence towards another, which he had suffered to take effect, was now punished by an unjust sentence upon himself. He forgave all his enemies, even the chief instruments of his death ; but exhorted them and the whole nation, to return to the ways of peace, by paying obedience to their lawful sovereign, his son and successor. While he was preparing himself for the block, Bishop Juxon called to him, “ There is, sir, but one stage more; which, though turbu- lent and troublesome, is yet a very short one. Consider, it will soon carry you a great way; it will carry you from earth to NARRATIONS. 143 heaven: and there you shall find, to your great joy, the prize to which you hasten—a crown of glory.” “ I go,” replied the king, “ from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown ; where no disturbance can have place.” At one blow was his head severed from his body. A man in a vizor performed the office of execu- tioner ; another, in a like disguise, held the head up to the spectators, and cried aloud, “ This is the head of a traitor.” Charles was executed in the forty-ninth year of his age, and the twenty-fourth of his reign. He was of a middling stature, strong, and well proportioned. His visage was pleasing, but had a melancholy aspect, probably owing to the continual troubles in which he was involved. Had he been born an absolute prince, his humanity and good sense would have rendered his reign happy, and his memory precious; had the limitations on prerogative been, in his time, quite fixed and certain, his integrity would have made him regard, as sacred, the boundaries of the constitution. Unhappily, his fate threw him into a period when the precedents of many former reigns savoured strongly of arbitrary power, while the genius of the people ran violently towards liberty. By adhering too long and pertinaciously to those despotic principles of government which he had unfortunately imbibed, he lost the affection of his subjects, and increased the innovating disposition of the parliament; till, at last, by gradual encroachments, the kingly power was entirely subverted, and the monarch himself was deprived both of his crown and hi» life. V. A TRUE STORY OF A POOR CLERGYMAN OF THE ISLAND OF ILAY, AND THE DUKE OF ORMOND. In Queen Anne’s reign, the British Augustan age, few made a more illustrious figure than Butler, Duke of Ormond, who was a particular favourite of the queen, and whom she had appointed to be lord-lieutenant of Ireland. On his passage to undertake his government, he was forced in, by contrary winds, upon the then almost barren island of Hay; where his Excellency could find no tolerable accommodation bnt in a poor episcopal clergyman’s house, which contained .only two or three small apartments, and these very ill furnished. However, these inconveniences were amply compensated by the cheerful and happy disposition of the landlord, and the frugal, but decent hospitality, with which his Grace was particularly delighted. The wind, some days after, shifting about, the Duke and his retinue prepared for setting out again ; but, before he went on 144 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. board, being at breakfast, he asked his landlord what his living was. “ Only twenty-two pounds,” replied Joseph ; for that was the Clergyman’s name. His Excellency, surprised, asked him how he came to have things so neat and comfortable, on so small a salary. “ Why,” replied he, “my wife, Rebecca, is an excellent housewife; and, as we have two cows, she sells the milk and cheese, and almost supports the family ; whilst I reserve my twenty-two pounds for clothes, and our children’s education, which, at all events, I am determined to give them ; and then, the world is before them, let them shift for themselves.” Or- mond was charmed at the sight of so much contentment and genuine felicity, which this poor, but generous clergyman enjoyed ; and, having made the careful wife a handsome present, he promised to do still something more for Joseph, her husband, and immediately went on board. Joseph having, with anxiety, waited in vain, from time to time, to hear of something being done in his favour, at last he took the resolution of going to Dublin, and pushing his fortune ; for which this seemed the only chance he could ever have in his whole life. Fully bent on this design, he set out, and soon arrived at the metropolis of Ireland. Being a man of some abilities, he imagined the best way to attain his end would be, if possible, by preaching before his Excellency, and using every stroke of address, to remind him of his reception in Hay, and the promise he had made. In this way he thought he would be more likely to succeed, than by a blunt indelicate application at his Excel- lency’s oWn lodgings. Having obtained permission from the dean to preach in the cathedral next Sunday, he mounted the pulpit, and read, for his text, the following words :—“ But the chief butler (his Grace’s name was Butler) remembered not Joseph, but forgot him.”—In descanting on this text, he used his utmost efforts to point out the unhappy tendency that high life has upon the great, in making them overlook beneficent actions done them on some occasions, by those that even tread in the humblest paths of indigence and obscurity; and, having delineated this unjustifiable tenor of conduct at some length, he fully accomplished his design, by making this ingenious and striking application And now, my honoured hearers, let us turn our thoughts inward, and question ourselves—Did 1 ever get a kind office done me by one of an inferior station in life, and to whom a bountiful Providence had not been so liberal, as to worldly affluence, but had bestowed more valuable favours—those of a kind, generous, and open heart; and, like the poor widow in the gospel, that freely gave a NARRATION*. 145 mite, though it was all her living ; and have I overlooked such generosity, and basely forgot to reward it seven-fold P Have I ever, in my life, been in such a situation, exposed to the incle- mency of the storm, and where conflicting elements seemed to conspire for my ruin ? And did ever any of a low, but contented station of life, with open arms receive me and my weather- beaten attendants into his house ; while, perhaps, his equally kind spouse was busy in heaping on plenty of fuel to recall the heat into our chilled and benumbed limbs, and, with the utmost soli- citude, preparing a repast of decent, plain, and comfortable food, to revive our exhausted spirits, and to cherish our hearts, now secure from the impetuosity of the winds and waves; nor would the kind pair permit us to venture away from their frugal, but happy abode, till serener weather, and milder skies, invited our departure, although they had no hopes, or, at least, no certainty, of retaliation, on my partand have I allowed such benevolence to pass unrewarded, and, ashamed to acknowledge my benefac- tors, have I suffered them to languish under the iron grasp of poverty, and, possibly, to solicit the cold hand of charity in vain ?” Here the duke, who was all along attentive to the sermon, could not help examining his own conduct; and, upon recollection, found that he himself had been guilty of some pieces of negligence, equally criminal, and perfectly similar to that which had just been described in so affecting colours. But he was still more struck, when, upon a thorough examination of the parson, he found that he bore a strong resemblance to the figure and features of his own hospitable landlord in the island of Hay ; and whom, till brought to recollection by this affecting discourse, he had most shamefully forgotten : upon which, turning to one of his lords, he asked him, “ If this was not their old landlord in Hay ?’’ To which he replied, “ Please your Excellency, I think it is.” “ Cause him, after service, to come and dine with me.” Joseph being brought in, and set down, the duke asked him, if he did not come from Hay, and was not his design to put him in mind of his promise to provide for him ? Here Joseph blush- ed, confessed that it was he, and that his sole intention was to recall to his remembrance the promise he had made, as he imagined his Excellency’s neglect of him did not arise from a contempt of his inferiority of station, or any other ungenerous motive, but from the vast and important concerns of the government with which he was entrusted. To which the duke replied, “ You are a worthy man !” and, immediately after dinner, he or- K 146 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. dered some of his clerks to look over the vacancies of the church. The clerks, after searching, told his Excellency there was none but a living of four hundred pounds per annum. The duke answered, “ There is none more deserving of it than this generous worthy man and immediately preferred Joseph, from his twenty-two pounds a year, to four hundred ! But mark the transitions of fortune! In the succeeding reign, through the injustice of faction, the duke was divested of all his dignities ; and, escaping a trial by retiring to France, he was at- tainted for high treason, and his estates were forfeited to the crown. The generosity of his former friends for some time supplied him ; but these aids were soon withdrawn, and the once great duke of Ormond now found himself treading in the lowest paths of fortune, and surrounded with all the horrors of indigence and contempt. But how agreeably was he surprised, to meet with a supply from a very unexpected channel, namely, his old friend Joseph !—That generous-hearted man, hearing of his great patron and benefactor’s misfortunes, thought it his duty to spare as much as he could out of his benefice, to succour that great and good man from whom he had all his living; and, therefore, one day he says to his wife, “ Becca, my dear, you have heard what has happened to the duke of Ormond, who liberally put us into our present affluent situation; and you know very well we can contrive to live comfortably upon one hundred pounds a- year: what would you think of settling three hundred pounds a- year upon our generous patron for life ; for, I hear, to the disgrace of his friends, he is in danger of perishing from real want.” Becca readily consented to so noble a proposal; and immediately Joseph modestly remitted to the duke the first quarter of his annuity. Struck with new obligation, his Grace wrote a full account of it to a great personage at court, who was so charmed with this instance of true generosity in Joseph, that he got him preferred to a second living; which made him worth eight hundred pounds a-year. But, prior to this second preferment, the duke of Ormond died in exile, so that Joseph had it now no longer in his power to relieve the wants and alleviate the misfortunes of his noble benefactor; who was now secure from the blustering storms of adversity, in that land of silence, “ where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest." NARRATIONS. 147 VI. THE WIDOW AND HER SON. During niy residence in the country, I used frequently to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments, its dark oaken pannelling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country, is so holy in its repose ; such a pensive quiet reigns over the face of nature, that every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently springing up within us. I do not pretend to be what is called a devout man ; but there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid the beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience no where else; and if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday, than on any other day of the seven. But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian, was a poor decrepid old woman, bending under the Weight of years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. The fingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all society ; and to have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer—habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes could not permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart—I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir. I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was so delightfullyon a knoll, roundsituated, which that a itsmall frequently stream madeattracted a beautiful me. It bend,stood and then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still sunny morning, watching wo labourers who were digging a grave. They had chosen one 14-8 THE FKENCH TRANSLATOR. of the most remote and neglected corners of the church-yard ; where, from the number of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe; but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the. deceased—the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported by a humble friend, who was endeavouring to comfort her. A few of the neighbouring poor had joined the train, and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now shouting with un- thinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer book in hand, attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was pennyless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church door ; his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave; and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words. I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On it were incribed the name and age of the deceased—“ George Sommers, aged 26 years.” The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer, but I could perceive, by a feeble rock- ing of the body, and a convulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother’s heart, f The service being ended, preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and affection; directions given in the cold tones of business ; the striking of spades into sand and gravel, which, at the grave of those we love, is of all sounds the most withering. The hustle around seemed to NARRATIONS. 1+9 waken the mother from a wretched reverie. She raised her glaz- ed eyes, and looked about with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke into an agony of grief. The pool- woman who attended her took her by the arm, endeavouring to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something like consolation—“ Nay, now—nay, now—don’t take it so sorely to heart." She could only shake her head and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted. As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her ; but when, on some accidental ob- struction, there was a justling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the mother burst forth; as if any harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. I could see no more—my heart swelled into my throat—my eyes filled with tears—I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the church-yard, where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed. When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart ach- ed for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich ? they have friends to soothe—pleasures to beguile—a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of the young ? Their growing minds soon close above the wound— their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure—their green and ductile affections soon twine round new objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe —the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for no after-growth of joy—the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the last solace of her years; these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impotency of consolation. Washington Irvine. CHAPTER II.

DESCRIPTIONS. I. THE GHOTTO OF AN 1TPAROS. Or all the subterraneous caverns now known, the grotto of Antiparos, an inconsiderable island in the Archipelago, is the most remarkable, as well for its extent as for the beauty of its sparry incrustations. This celebrated cavern was first explored by one Magni, an Italian traveller, in the seventeenth century. “ Having been informed," says he, “ by the natives of Paros, that in the little island of Antiparos, which lies about two miles from the former, a gigantic statue was to be seen at the mouth of a cavern, the French consul and myself resolved to pay it a visit. After we had landed on the island, and walked about four miles through the midst of beautiful plains and sloping wood- lands, we at length came to a little hill, on the side of which yawned a horrible cavern, that by its gloom struck us with terror, and almost repressed curiosity. Recovering the first surprise, however, we entered boldly; and had not proceeded above twenty paces, when the supposed statue of the giant presented itself to our view. We quickly perceived, that what the ignorant natives had been terrified at as a giant, was nothing more than a sparry concretion formed by the water dropping from the roof of the cave, and by degrees hardening into a figure, which their fears had transformed into a monster. Incited by this extraordinary appearance, we were induced to proceed still farther into this subterranean abode. As we proceeded, new wonders offered themselves : the spars, formed into trees and shrubs, presented a kind of petrified grove; some white, some green, and ail receding in due perspective. They struck us with the more amazement, as we knew them to be the mere productions of Nature, who, hitherto in solitude, hart in her playful moments dressed the scene as if for her own amusement. We had yet seen but a few of the wonders of the place, and were introduced only into the portico of this amazing temple. In one comer of this half-illuminated recess there appeared an opening about three feet wide, which seemed to lead to a place DESCRIPTIONS. 151 totally dark, and which one of the natives assured us contained nothing more than a reservoir of water. Upon this information, we made an experiment by throwing down some stones, which rumbling along the side of the descent for some time, the sound seemed at last quashed in a bed of water. In order, however, to be more certain, we sent in a Levantine mariner, who, on the promise of a good regard, ventured with a flambeau in his hand into this narrow aperture. After continuing within it for about a quarter of an hour, he returned, bearing in his hand some beautiful pieces of white spar, which art could neither equal nor imitate. Upon being informed by him that the place was full of these beautiful incrustations, I ventured in with him about fifty paces, anxiously and cautiously descending by a steep and dangerous way. Finding, however, that we came to a precipice which led into a spacious amphitheatre, if I may so call it, still deeper th$n any other part, we returned; and being provided with a ladder, torch, and other things to expedite our descent, our whole company, one by one, ventured into the same opening; and, descending one after another, we at last saw ourselves all together in the most magnificent part of the cavern. Our candles being now all lighted up, and the whole place completely illuminated, never could the eye be presented with a more glittering or a more magnificent scene. The whole roof hung with solid icicles, transparent as glass, yet hard as marble. The eye could scarcely reach the lofty and noble ceiling; the sides were regularly formed of spars ; and the whole presented the idea of a superb theatre, illuminated by an immense profusion of lights. The floor consisted of solid marble, and in several places magnificent columns, thrones, altars, and other objects appeared, as if nature had designed to mock the curious productions of art. Our voices, upon speaking or singing, were redoubled to an astonishing loudness; and upon the firing of a gun, the noise and reverberations were almost deafening. In the midst of this grand amphitheatre rose a concretion of about fifteen feet high, that in some measure resembled an altar; and we caused mass to be celebrated there. The beautiful columns that shot up round the altar appeared like candlesticks ; and many other natural objects represented the customary ornaments of this rite. Below even this spacious grotto there seemed another cavern, down which I ventured with my former mariner, and descended about fifty paces by means of a rope. 1 at last arrived at a small spot of level ground, where the bottom appeared different from I a 2 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. that of the amphitheatre, being composed of some clay, yielding to the pressure, and into which I thrust a stick to the depth of six feet. In this, however, as above, numbers of the most beautiful crystals were formed, one of which particularly resembled a table. Upon our egress from this amazing cavern, we perceived a Greek inscription upon a rock at the mouth, but so obliterated by time that we could not read it distinctly. It seemed to im- port that one Antipater had come hither; but whether he pene- trated into the depths of the cavern, he does not think fit to inform us.—This account of so beautiful and striking a scene may serve to give us some idea of the subterranean wonders of Na- ture. Goldsmith. II. I.OCH KETTERIN, IN SCOTLAND. When you enter into the Trosachs, there is such an assem- blage of wildness and of rude grandeur, as beggars all description, and fills the mind with the most sublime conceptions. It seems as if a whole mountain had been torn in pieces, and frit- tered down by a convulsion of the earth, and the huge fragments of rocks, and woods, and hills, scattered in confusion into the east end, and on the sides of Loch Ketterin. The access to the lake is through a narrow pass of half a mile in length, such as JSneas had in his dreary passage to visit his father's home ; “ vas- ioque immanif hialu.” The rocks are of stupendous height, and seem ready to close above the traveller’s head, and to fall down and bury him in their ruins. A huge column of these rocks was, some years ago, torn with thunder, and lies in very large blocks near the road, which must have been a tremendous scene to pas- sengers at that time. Where there is any soil, their sides are covered with aged weeping birches, which hang down their venerable lofcks in waving ringlets, as if to cover the nakedness of the rocks. The sensible horizon is bounded by these weeping birches on the summit of every hill, through which are seen the motion of the clouds as they shoqt across behind them. Travellers who w ish to see all they cati of this singular pheno- menon, generally sail west, on the &-outh side of the lake, to the rock and den of the ghost, whose dark recesses, from their gloomy appearance, the imagination of superstition conceived to be the habitation of supernatural beings. In sailing you discover many arms of the lake. Here a bold headland, where black rocks dip in unfathomable water; there the white sand in the bottom of a DESCRIPTIONS. 153 bay, bleached for ages by the waves. In walking on the north side, the road is sometimes cut through the face of the solid rock, which rises upwards of two hundred feet perpendicular above the lake; sometimes the view of the lake is lost; then it hurts suddenly on the eye, and a cluster of islands and capes appear, at different distances, which gives them an apparent motion of different degrees of velocity, as the spectator rides along the opposite beach : at other times his road is at the foot of rugged and stupendous cliffs, and trees are growing where no earth is to be seen. Every rock has its echo; every grove is vocal by the melodious harmony of birds, or by the sweet airs of women and children gathering filberts in their season. Down the side of the opposite mountain, after a shower of rain, flow a hundred white streams, which-rush with incredible velocity and noise into the lake, and spread their froth upon its surface. On one side, the water eagle sits in majesty undisturbed, on his well-known rock, in sight of his nest on the top of Benvenu; the heron stalks among the reeds in search of his prey; and the sportive ducks gambol on the waters, or dive below. On the other, the wild goats climb where they have scarce ground for the soles of their feet; and the wild fowls perched on trees, or on the pinnacle of a rock, look down with composed defiance at man. Both by land and water there are so. many turnings and windings, so many heights and hollows, so many glens, and capes, and bays, that one cannot advance twenty yards without having his prospect changed by the continual appearance of new objects, while others are constantly retiring out of sight. The scene is closed by a west view of the lake, for several miles, having its sides lined with alternate clumps of wood and arable fields, and the smoke rising in spiral column^ through the air, from villages which are concealed by the1'intervening wdods; and the prospect is bounded by the towering Alps of Arroquhar, which are chequered with snow, of hide their heads in the clouds. Dr James Robertson. Ill A PALACE IN ABYSSINIA. The place, which the wisdom or policy of antiquity had destined for the residence of the Abyssinian princes, was a spacious valley in the kingdom of Amhara, surrounded on every side by mountains, of which the sjunmits overhang the middle part The only passage by which it could be entered, was a cavern that passed under a rock, of which it had been long disputed 154 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. whether it was the work of nature or of human industry. The J outlet of the cavern was concealed by a thick wood; and the mouth which opened into the valley was closed by gates of iron, forged by the artificers of ancient days, so massy, that no man,* ' ' without the help of engines, could open or shut them. From the mountains on every side, rivulets descended, that filled all the valley with verdure and fertility, and formed a lake in the middle, inhabited by fish of every species, and frequented by every fowl whom nature has taught to dip the wing in water. This lake discharged its superfluities by a stream which en^edj a dark cleft of the mountain on the northern side, and fell, w ith dreadful noise, from precipice to precipice, till it was heard no more. The sides of the mountains were covered with trees; the banks of the brooks were diversified with flowers; every blast shook spices from the rocks; and every month dropped fruits upon the ground. All animals that bite the grass, or browse the shrub, whether wild or tame, wandered in this extensive circuit, secured from beasts of prey by the mountains which confined them. On one part were flocks and herds feeding in the pastures; on another, all the beasts of chase frisking in the lawns : the sprightly kid was bounding on the rocks ; the subtle monkey frolicking- in the trees; and the solemn elephant reposing in the shade. All the diversities of the world were brought together; the blessings of nature were collected, and its evil extracted and ex- cluded. The valley, wide and fruitful, supplied its inhabitants with the necessaries of life, and all delights and superfluities were added at the annual visit which the emperor paid his children, when the iron gate was opened to the sound of music; and, during eight days, every one that resided in the valley was required to propose whatever might contribute to make seclusion pleasant, to fill up the vacancies of attention, and lessen the tediousness of time. Every desire was immediately granted. All the artificers of pleasure were called to gladden the festivity : the musicians exerted the power of harmony, and the dancers showed their activity before the princes, in hopes that they should pass their lives in blissful captivity, to which those only were admitted whose performance was thought able to add novelty to luxury. Such was the appearance of security and delight which this retirement afforded, that those to whom it was new, always desired that it might fee perpetual; and as those on whom the iron gate had once closed, were never suffered to return, the efiFect of longer experience could not be known. Thus every year pro- DESCRIPTIONS. 155 duced new schemes of delight, and new competitors for impri- sonment. Tlje palace stood on an eminence raised about thirty paces above the surface of the, lake. It was divided into many squares or courts, built with greater or less magnificence, according to the rank of those for/whom they were designed. The roofs were turned into arches of massy stone^ joitieji by a cement that grew harder by time ; and the building stood from ceptury tp century, deriding the solstitial rains and equinoctial hurricanes, Without need of reparation. ^. f ■ ■ ■ a . This house, which was so large a§ to be fully known to none but some ancient officersj jyho^uccessively inherited the secrets of the place, was built as lY suspicion herself had dictated the plan. To every room there was an open and secret passage every square had a communication with the rest, either from the upper stones private gallerie^, or by subterranean passages from the lower apartment^. *•'- Many of the columns had unsuspected cavities, in which a long r^ce of monarchs had deposited their treasures. ^'TKejr then closgd up the opening with marble, which was never to be removed But in the utmost exigencies of the kingdom ; and recorded their accu/nulations in a book, which was itielf concealed "in b tower, not entered but' by the emperor, attended by the prince who stood next in succession.

IV. THE FALLS OF THE CLYDE. The Falls of the Clyde principally interest the stranger; and we shall begin with the uppermost one, although, to come at it, we are obliged to pass the second fail, or Corra Linn. The uppermost one is somewhat above two miles and a quarter from La- nark, and from the estate in which it is situated, is called the Bonniton Fall'or Linn. From Bonniton-house, a very neat and elegant modern building, you arrive at the Linn, by a most romantic walk along the Clyde, leaving the pavilion and Corra Linn on your right hand. At some little distance from the fall, the walk, leading to a rock that juts out and overhangs the river, bringster : but you no allstranger at once rests within satisfied sight withof this this beautiful view ; he sheet still pressesof wa- onwards along the walk, till, from the rock immediately above the Linn, he sees the whole body of the river precipitate itself into the chasm below. The rock over which it falls is upwards of twelve feet of perpendicular height, from which the Clyde 156 IE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. makes one precipitate tumble or leap into a hollow den ; whence some of it again recoils in froth and smoking mist. Above, the river exhibits a broad, expanded, and placid appearance, beautifully environed with plantations of forest trees. This appearance is suddenly changed at the fall; and, below it, the river is narrow, contracted, and angrily boils and thunders among rocks and precipices. The same beautiful and romantic walk conducts you back again, along the precipice that overhangs the river, both sides of which are environed by mural rocks, equidistant and regular, forming, as Mr Pennant expresses it, “ a stupendous natural masonry,” from whose crevices choughs, daws, and other wild birds, are incessantly springing. You descend along the river for about half a mile, till you arrive at Corra Linn, so called from an old castle and estate upon the opposite bank. The old castle fall, with Corra-house, and the rocky and woody banks of the Clyde, form of themselves a beautiful and grand coup d’ceil; but nothing can equal the striking and stupendous appearance of the fall itself, which, when viewed from any of the different seats placed here and there along the walks, must fill every unaccustomed beholder with astonishment. The tremendous rocks around, the old castle upon the opposite bank, a corn-mill on the rock below, the furious and impatient stream foaming over the rock, the horrid chasm and abyss un- derneath your feet, heightened by the hollow murmur of the water, and the screams of wild birds, form a spectacle at once tremendous and pleasing. A summer-house or pavilion is situated over a high rocky bank that overlooks the Linn. From its uppermost room it affords a very striking prospect of the fall, for all at once, on throwing your eye towards a mirror, on the opposite side of the room from the fall, you see the whole tremendous cataract pouring as it were upon your head. The Corra Linn, by measurement, is found to be 84 feet in height. The river does not rush over in one uniform sheet like the Bonniton Linn, but in three different, though almost imperceptible, precipitate leaps. On the southern bank, and when the sun shines, a rainbow is perpetually seen forming itself upon the mist and fogs, arising from the violent dashing of the waters. \ Lockhart. 5.—the town of Constantinople. A certain French author says, Constantinople is twice as big as Paris. It does not appear to me to be much bigger than Lon- DESCRIPTIONS. 157 Uon; and I am apt to think it is not so populous. Theburying- fields about it are certainly much larger than the whole city. It is surprising what a vast deal of land is lost this way in Turkey. Sometimes I have seen burying-places of several miles, belonging to very inconsiderable villages, which were formerly great towns, and retain no other mark of their ancient grandeur than this dismal one. , . - On no occasion do they ever remove a stone that serves for/a monument. Some of them are costly enough, being very fine marble. They set up a pillar, with a carved turban on the top of it, to the memory of a man, and as the turbans, by their different shapes, show the quality or profession, it is in a manner putting up the arms of the deceased. Besides, the pillar commonly bears an inscription in gold letters. The ladies have a simple pillar, without other ornaments ; except those that die unmarried, who have a rose on the top of their monument. The sepulchres of particular families are railed in, and planted. round with trees. Those brthe sultans, and some great men, have lamps constantly burning in them. The exchanges are all noble buildings, full of fine alleys, the greatest part supported with pillars, and kept wonderfully neat. Every trade has its distinct alley, where merchandise is disposed in the same order as in the New Exchange, "London. The jewellers’ quarter shows so much riches, such a vast quantity of diamonds, and all kinds of precious stones, that they dazzle the sight. The embroiderers’ is also very glittering ; and people walk here as much for diversion as business. The markets are most of them handsome squares, and admirably well provided, perhaps better than in any other part of the world. I have taken care to see as much of the seraglio here as is to be seen. It is on a point of land running into the sea; a palace of prodigious extent, but very irregular. The gardens take in a large compass of ground, full of high cypress-trees, which is all I know of them. The buildings are all of white stone, leaded on the top, with gilded turrets and spires, which look very magnificent ; and, indeed, I believe there is no Christian kirtg’s palace half so large. There are six large courts in it, all built round, and set with trees, having galleries of stone ; one of these for the guard, another for the slaves, another for the officers of the kit- chen, another for the stables, the fifth for the divan, and the sixth for the apartment destined for audiences. On the ladies’ side, there are at least as many more, with distinct courts belonging to their attendants. The climate about Constantinople is delightful in the highest 158 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. degree. I am now sitting on the fourth of January with the windows open, enjoying the warm sun-shine, while you are freez- ing over a sad sea-eoal fire; and my chamber is set out with car- nations, roses, and jonquilles, fresh from my garden. The pleasure of going in a barge to Chelsea is not comparable to that of rowing upon the canal of the sea here; where, for twenty miles together down the Bosphorus, the most beautiful variety of prospects present themselves. The Asiatic side is covered with fruit-trees, villages, and the most delightful land- scapes in nature : on the European stands Constantinople, situated on seven hills. The unequal heights make it seem twice as large as it is, though one of the largest cities in the world ; showing an agreeable mixture of gardens, pine and cypress trees, palaces, mosques, and public buildings, raised one above another with as much beauty, and appearance of symmetry, as any person ever saw in a cabinet adorned by the most skilful hands, where jars show themselves above jars, mixed with canisters, babies, and | candlesticks. This is a very odd comparison, but it gives me an exact idea of the thing. Lady M. W. Montague. VI. THE VALE OF KESWICK IN CUMBERLAND. This delightful vale is thus elegantly described by the late ingenious Dr Brown, in a letter to a friend. In my way to the north from Hagley, I passed through Dove- dale ; and, to say the truth, was disappointed in it. When I came to Buxton, I visited another or two of their romantic scenes; but these are inferior to Dovedale. They are all but poor minia- tures of Keswick; which exceeds them more in grandeur than you can imagine ; and more, if possible, in beauty than in grandeur. Instead of the narrow slip of valley which is seen at Dovedale, you have at Keswick a vast amphitheatre, in circumference about twenty miles. Instead of a meagre rivulet, a noble living lake, ten miles round, of an oblong form, adorned with a variety of wooded islands. The rocks indeed of Dovedale are finely wild, pointed, and irregular ; but the hills are both little and unani- mated ; and the margin of the brook is poorly edged with weeds, ofmorass, the lake, and seebrushwood. a rich and Butbeautiful at Keswick, landscape you of will, cultivated on one fields, side rising to the eye in fine inequalities, with noble groves of oak, happily dispersed, and climbing the adjacent hills, shade above shade, in the most various and picturesque forms. On the op- DESCRIPTION'S. 1.5 9 posite shore, you will find rocks and cliffs of stupendous height, hanging broken over the lake in horrible grandeur; some of them a thousand feet high ; the woods climbing up their steep and shaggy sides, where mortal foot never yet approached. On these dreadful heights the eagles build their nests : a variety of water- falls are seen pouring from their summits, and tumbling, in vast sheets, from rock to rock, in rude and terrible magnificence; while on all sides of this immense amphitheatre, the lofty mountains rise around, piercing the clouds in shapes as spiry and fantastic as the very rocks of Dovedale. To this I must add the frequent and bold projection of the cliffs into the lake, forming noble bays and promontories: in other parts, they finely retire from it, and often open in abrupt chasms or clefts, through which at hand you see rich and uncultivated vales ; and beyond these, at various distance, mountain rising over mountain; among which, new prospects present themselves in mist, till the eye is lost in an agreeable perplexity WhereAnd pictures active thingsfancy travelsunseen beyond sense, Were I to analyse the two places into their constituent principles, I should tell you, that the full perfection of Keswick consists of three circumstances ; beauty, horror, and immensity, united ; the second of which alone is found in Dovedale. Of beauty it hath little. Nature having left it almost a desert: neither its small extent, nor the diminutive and lifeless form of the hills, admit magnificence. But, to give you a complete idea of these three perfections, as they are joined in Keswick, would require the united powers of Claude, Salvator, and Poussin. The first should throw his delicate sunshine over the cultivated vales, the scattered cots, the groves, the lake, and wooded islands. The second should dash out the horror of the rugged cliffs, the steeps, the hanging woods, and foaming water-falls; while the grand pencil of Poussin should crown the whole, with the majesty of the impending mountains. So much for what I would call the permanent beauties of this astonishing scene. Were I not afraid of being tiresome, I could now dwell as long on its varying or accidental beauties. I would sail round the lake, anchor in every bay, and land you on every ofpromontory prospect; andthe island.woods, rocks,I would cliffs, point andout themountains, perpetual by change turns vanishing or rising into view : now gaining on the sight, hanging over our heads in full dimensions, beautifully dreadful: and 160 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. now, by a change of situation, assuming new romantic shapes ; retiring and lessening on the eye, and insensibly losing themselves in an azure mist. I would remark the contrast of light and shade, produced by the morning and evening sun ; the one gilding the western, the other the eastern side of this immense amphitheatre ; while the vast shadow projected by the mountains, buries the opposite part in a deep and purple gloom, which the eye can hardly penetrate. The natural variety of colouring which the several objects produce, is no less wonderful and pleasing : the ruling tints in the valley being those of azure, green, and gold : yet ever various, arising from an intermixture of the lake, the woods, the grass, and corn-fields : these are finely contrasted by the grey rocks and cliffs ; and the whole heightened by the yellow streams of light, the purple hues and misty azure of the mountains. Sometimes a serene air and clear sky disclose the tops of the highest hills ; at other times, you see the clouds involving their summits, resting on their sides, or descending to their base, and rolling among the valleys, as in a vast furnace. When the winds are high, they roar among the cliffs and caverns like peals of thunder; then, too, the clouds are seen in vast bodies sweeping along the hills in gloomy greatness, while the lake joins the tumult, and tosses like a sea. But in calm weather, the whole scene becomes new : the lake is a perfect mirror, and the landscape in all its beauty; islands, fields, woods, rocks and mountains, are seen inverted and floating on its surface. 1 will now carry you to the top of a cliff, where, if you dare approach the ridge, a new scene of astonishment presents itself; where the valley, lake, and islands, seem lying at your feet; where this expanse of water appears diminished to a little pool, amidst the vast and immeasurable objects that surround it; for here the summits of more distant hills appear beyond those you have already seen ; and, rising behind each other in successive ranges and azure groups of craggy and broken steeps, form an immense and aweful picture, which can only be expressed by the image of a tempestuous sea of mountains. Let me now conduct you down again to the valley, and conclude with one circumstance more; which is, that, by still moon-light, (at which time the distant water-falls are heard in all their variety of sound,) a walk among these enchanting dales opens such scenes of delicate beauty, repose, and solemnity, as exceed all description. VII FONTHILL ABBEY. This princely and magnificent domain is situate in Wiltshire, DESCRIPTIONS. 161 nntl previous to its sale in October 1822, was for a month or two opened to visitors at a guinea each. Upwards of 10,000jindividuals eagerly embraced the opportunity of beholding this almost orien- tal scene of grandeur and magnificence. Since the days of Henry the Eighth, there has been nothing in England that might be compared with the scenes to which the opening of this edifice has given rise. Before his time it was no unusual spectacle to see gallant knights and high-born maid- ons, nobles, and commoners of every rank, squires, peasants, and mendicants, crowding after each other, in their various costume, some riding gaily caparisoned and high-spirited coursers, some on gentle palfreys, some on mules, and some goading obstinate donkeys along the public roads, at those stated seasons of peni- tence which were dedicated to pilgrimages. The cathedral of Canterbury offered a favourite shrine to the devotees of those days, although it would appear that Stothard’s characteristic picture of a pilgrimage to that place, would have better suited one of the earlier scenes of a similar kind which took place when the monaste- ries and abbeys of Glastonbury frowned in their glory. Could we but for a moment imagine that it is a religious and not worldly object, which has been seducing thousands to the Abbey of Font- hill for the last two months, and still continues to attract them, a picture of the groups daily moving towards it, and in the glades and woods around it, would be at least as diversified, and perhaps as interesting as the well-known sketch I have mentioned. In order to understand the effect of this extraordinary structure, you must imagine a lofty hill completely surrounded by a circle of lesser hills, of which it forms nearly the centre. It com- mands the whole of them. They are distant from it about five or six miles, and all around it being in some parts regular, in some beautifully undulated, in'others bold and abrupt. The interval between the central hill and those in the circumference is hol- lowed out by the hand of nature into R number of irregular valleys, whose deepest recesses are in the immediate neighbourhood of the abbey. The sides of the surrounding hills present, for the most part, gentle and extended declivities, though here and there, in the half distance, breasts of land suddenly swell out from the bosom of the vale, which give diversity and shading to the prospect. On the west, north, and particularly on the south, these hills and breasts of land are thickly wooded, the declivities are divided into fields of corn or pasture, the valleys are planted with shrubs and choice trees in the most picturesque taste, and in some places L 162 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. they are laid out in green lawns and gardens, which always fas- cinate the eye. Upon the summit of the centra) hill stands Fonthill Abbey, thus commanding pa every side such varied and enchanting prospects as are scarcely to be found in any other part of Eng- land—rich, without gorgeousness,—harmonious, without monotony,—simple, without negligence ; such as we conceive in imagination when we dream of the Happy Valley of Rasselas. The edifice is built in the monastic style, and presents in present and solid perfection a pile of Gothic architecture, not unlike that of Westminster Abbey. It is in the form of a cross, the longest branch of which extends toward the east,- the shortest to the west; the two side aisles are of equal length, one to the north, the other to the south, the whole four branches being in excellent proportion. The centre, where the four divisions meet, is in the shape of an octagon, which is formed by eight double clustered piers of great height and massive beauty. These piers sustain eighty lofty arches, and upon these arches is raised an immense tower, which forms the principal external feature of the Abbey. It is very near 280 feet in height, and rises in a square form from between four pediments. Lofty as it is, it is yet unfinished; the spire remains to be added, which, from the proportion, must be raised at least 120 feet. It is to be surmounted by a cross, and the whole, when finished, will present a tower and spire whose highest point will be four hundred feet from the ground. Some idea may be formed of the extensive view which the highest galleries will afford, when it is observed that the base of the tower is as high as the top of the spire of Salisbury Cathedral, which is remarkable for its altitude. The grand entrance to this curious and splendid Abbey is by the western door, (the head of the cross), which is of majestic dimensions, in the Gothic pointed style, and opens to the hall. The roof is of oak, finely carved, and decorated in the old baronial style, with many shields, which are emblazoned with various family quarterings. The hall is lighted by three Gothic windows, which are on the right hand, and beautifully painted after the manner of some ancient specimens in the Cathedral of Canterbury. On the left hand are three recesses hung with crimson curtains, to correspond with the windows ; in the central recess there is a marble statue of Mr Beckford’s grandfather, Alderman, and twice Lord Mayor of London, so distinguished for the stern reply which he made to the late King, on receiving an unfavourable answer to the city remonstrance. A flight of stone steps, which extend nearly the whole width of the hall, lead to the octagon before mentioned. The roof of the hall and entrance seem, how- DESCRIPTIONS. 16’3 ever, much too lofty for its interior length. When you are about to be admitted by such a noble entrance, you expect to traverse a lengthened and level aisle; instead of this, the stone steps meet you almost immediately after you enter, and you feel that the deco- ' rations of the hall, beautiful as they are, by no means compensate for the want of space. This, however, is a defect which the proportions of the edifice would not admit of being remedied. After ascending the flight of steps, and passing the landing- place, you enter the octagon, from whence you have at once a view of the four branches of the cross. But it is not to these that ■ft stranger at first turns his attention. In fact, he has scarcely any discretion at the moment, for he is struck with the greatest surprise and admiration by the octagon itself, which is almost sublime. It is finished at the top by a vaulted roof, the height of which is one hundred and thirty feet from the ground. It is so far the interior of the great tower. It is lighted in the lantern by eight windows richly painted, but its most magnificent ornaments are four large Gothic windows, placed between the piers of four of the arches which sustain the tower. Three of these windows, which are of noble dimensions, are painted after a simple and very beautiful pattern, which has been taken from some windows in the monastery of Batalha in Portugal. It is a ruby rosette, with a yellow centre, encompassed by four leaves of mazarene J>lue, with a yellow border. It is the same in every compartment, and the whole frame is bordered with yellow. When, on a serene and clear day, the sun beams on one of those windows, his light appears in the interior of the octagon, mo- dified into the various hues of the compartments ; and the Ob- jects upon which it falls seem for the moment as if they had been suddenly painted in supernatural colours by some genii of the skies. The fourth window is dimmed to a sea-green, as it is shown only by a feeble light from the tower stair-case; the ba- lustrade of which winds almost close to it. In the eastern arch of the octagon, opposite the grand western entrance, there is an organ gallery, and about half way up between the Batalha windows and the laptern, there are four Go- thic arches, which communicate, by a gallery that runs all round* with four apartments in the tower, called the Nunneries. They are small, square, dark apartments, and would be called cells but for the baronial tapestry with which they are hung. CHAPTER III.

BATTLES. I BATTLE OF PHARSALIA. A s the armies approached, the two generals went from rank to rank encouraging their troops. Pompey represented to his men, that the glorious occasion which they had long besought him to grant was now before them; “ and indeed,” cried he, “ what advantages could you wish over an enemy, that you are not now possessed of? Your numbers, your vigour, a late victory, all assure a speedy and an easy conquest of those harassed and broken troops, composed of men worn out with age, and impressed with the terrors of a recent defeat. But there is a still stronger bulwark for our protection than the superiority of our strength—the justice of our cause. You are engaged in the defence of liberty and of your country ; you are supported by its laws, and followed by its magistrates ; you have the world spectators of your conduct, and wishing you success. On the contrary, he whom you oppose is a robber and oppressor of his country, and almost already sunk with the consciousness of his crimes, as well as the bad success of his arms. Shew, then, on this occasion, all that ardour and detestation of tyranny that should animate Romans, and do justice to mankind.” Caesar, on his side, went among his men with that serenity for which he was so much admired in the midst of danger. He insisted on nothing so strongly to his soldiers as his frequent and unsuc- cessful endeavour for peace. He talked with terror of the blood he was going to shed, and pleaded only the necessity which urged him to it. He deplored the many brave men that were to fall on both sides, and the wounds of his country, whoever should be victorious. His soldiers answered his speech with looks of ardour and impatience ; which observing, he gave the signal to begin. The word on Pompey’s side, was Hercules the invincible: that on Caesar’s, Venus the victorious. There was only so much space between both armies as to give room for fighting; wherefore Pompey ordered his men to receive the first shock, without moving out of their places, expecting the enemy’s ranks to be put in disorder by their motion. Caesar’s soldiers were now BATTLES. 165 rushing on with their usual impetuosity, when, perceiving the enemy motionless, they all stopped short as if by general consent, and halted in the midst of their career. At this critical juncture, a terrible pause ensued, in which both armies continued to gaze upon each other with mutual terror.— At length, Caesar’s men having taken breath, ran furiously upon the enemy, first discharging their javelins, and then drawing their swords. The same method was observed by Pompey's troops, who as vigorously opposed the attack. His cavalry also were ordered to charge at the very onset, which, with the multitude of archers and slingers, soon obliged Caesar’s men to give ground: whereupon Caesar immediately ordered the six cohorts, that were placed as a reinforcement, to advance, with orders to strike at the enemy’s faces. This had its desired effect. The cavalry, that were but just now sure of victory, received an immediate check. The unusual method of fighting pursued by the cohorts, their aiming entirely at the visages of the assailants, and the horrible disfiguring wounds they made, all contributed to intimidate them so much, that, instead of defending their persons, their only endeavour was to save their faces. A total rout ensued of their whole body, which fled in great disorder to the neighbouring mountains, while the archers and slingers, who were thus abandoned, were cut to pieces. Caesar now commanded the cohorts to pursue their success, and, advancing, charged Pompey’s troops upon the flank. This charge the enemy withstood for some time with great bravery till he brought up his third line. Pompey’s infantry, being thus doubly attacked, in front by fresh troops, and in the rear by the victorious cohorts, could no longer resist, but fled to their camp. The right wing, however, still valiantly maintained their ground. But Caesar, being now convinced that the victory was certain, with his usual clemency cried out, to pursue the strangers, and to spare the Romans ; upon which they all laid down their arms, and received quarter. The greatest slaughter was among the auxiliaries, who fled on all quarters, but principally went for safety to the camp. theThe break battle of daybetween till noon, the contending although thearmies weather had now was lastedextremely from hot: the conquerors, however, did not remit their ardour, being victoryencouraged not completeby the example till he becameof their master general, of thewho enemy’s thought camp. his Accordingly, marching on foot at their head, he called upon them to follow and strike the decisive blow. The cohorts who were left to defend the camp, for some time made a formidable resist- 166 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. anCe, particularly a great number of Thracians and other barba- rians, who were appointed for its defence. But nothing could resist the ardour of Caesar’s victorious army : they were at last driven from their trenches, and all fled to the mountains not far off- Caesar, seeing the field and camp strewed with his fallen countrymen, was strongly affected at so melancholy a prospect, and could not help , crying out to one that stood near him, “ They would have it so.”—Upon entering the enemy’s camp, every object presented fresh instances of the blind presumption and mad- ness of his adversaries. On all sides were to be seen tents adorned with ivy and branches of myrtle, couches covered with purple, and sideboards loaded with plate. Every thing gave proofs of the highest luxury, and seemed rather the preparatives for a banquet, the rejoicing for a victory, than the dispositions for a battle. As for Pompey, who had formerly shown such instances of courage and conduct, when he saw his cavalry routed, on which he had placed his sole dependence, he absolutely lost his reason. Instead of thinking liow to remedy this disorder, by rallying such troops as fled, or by opposing fresh troops to stop the progress of the conquerors, being totally amazed by this unexpected blow, he returned to the camp, and in his tent waited the issue of an event which it was his duty to direct, not to follow. There he remained for some moments without speaking; till, being told that the camp was attacked, “ What," says he, “ are we pursued to our very entrenchments ?” and, immediately quitting his armour for a habit more suitable to his circumstances, he fled on horseback, giving way to all the agonizing reflections which his deplorable condition must naturally suggest.—In this melancholy manner he passed along the vale of Tempe, and, pursuing the course of the river Peneus, at last arrived at a fisherman's hut, in which he passed the night. From thence he went on board a little bark, and, keeping along the sea-shore, he descried a ship of some burden, which seemed preparing to sail, in which he embarked, the master of the vessel still paying him the homage which was due to his former station. From the mouth of the river Peneus he sailed to Amphipolis ; where finding his affairs desperate, he steered to Lesbos. II.,— BATTLE OF HASTINGS. Harold hastened, by quick marches, to reach the new inva- der. But, though he was re-enforced at London and other rXLE8. 167 places with fresh troops, he found himself also weakened by the desertion of his old soldiers, who, from fatigue and discontent, secretly withdrew from their colours. His brother Gurth, a man of bravery and conduct, began to entertain apprehensions of the event; and remonstrated with the king, that it would be better policy to prolong the war ; at least, to spare his own person in the action. He urged to him, that the desperate situation of the Duke of Normandy made it requisite for that prince to bring matters to a speedy decision, and put his whole fortune on the issue of a battle ; but that the king of England, in his own country, beloved by his subjects, provided with every supply, had more certain and less dangerous means of ensuring to himself the victory. Further, that the Norman troops, elated, on the one hand, with the highest hopes, and seeing, on the other, no resource in case of a discomfiture, would fight to the last extremity; and, being the flower of all the warriors of the Continent, must'be regarded as formidable to the English: that, if their first fire, which is almost the most dangerous, were allowed to languish for want of actions; if they were harassed with small skirmishes, straitened in provisions, and fatigued with the bad weather and deep roads during the winter season, which was approaching, they must fall an easy and a bloodless prey to their enemy : that, if a general action were delayed, the English, sensible of the im- minent danger to which their properties as well as liberties were exposed from those rapacious invaders, would hasten from all quarters to his assistance, and would render his army invincible: that, at least, if he thought it necessary to hazard a battle, he ought not to expose his own person ; but reserve, in case of disastrous accidents, some resource to the liberty and independence of the kingdom : and that, having once been so unfortunate as to be constrained to swear, and that upon the holy relics, to support the pretensions of the Duke of Normandy, it were better that the command of the army should be entrusted to another, who, not being bound by those sacred ties, might give the soldiers more assured hopes of a prosperous issue to the combat. Harold was deaf to all these remonstrances. Elated with his past prosperity, as well as stimulated by his native courage, he resolved to give battle in person ; and for that purpose, he drew near to the Normans, who had removed their camp and fleet to Hastings, where they fixed their quarters. He was so confident of success, that he sent a message to the duke, promising him a sum of money, if he would depart the kingdom without effusion of blood. But his offer was rejected with disdain j and William, not to be behind with his enemy in vaunting, sent 168 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. him a message by some monks, requiring him either to resign the kingdom, or to hold it of him in fealty, or to submit their cause to the arbitration of the pope, or to fight him in single combat. Harold replied, that the god of battles would soon be the arbiter of all their differences. The English and Normans now prepared themselves for this important decision : but the aspect of things, on the night before the battle, was very different in the two camps. The English spent the time in riot, and jollity, and disorder; the Normans in silence, in prayer, and in the other functions of their religion. On the morning, the duke called together the most considerable of his commanders, and made them a speech suitable to the occasion. He represented to them, that the event, which they and he had long wished for, was approaching ; the whole fortune of the war now depended on their swords, and would be decided in a single action : that, never army had greater motives for ex- erting a vigorous courage, whether they considered the prize which would attend their victory, or the inevitable destruction which must ensue upon their discomfiture : that, if their martial and veteran bands could once break those raw soldiers, who had rashly dared to approach them, they conquered a kingdom at one blow, and were justly entitled to all its possessions as the reward of their prosperous valour : that, on the contrary, if they remitted in the least their wonted prowess, an enraged enemy hung upon their rear, the sea met them in their retreat, and an ignominious death was the certain punishment of their imprudent cowardice: that, by collecting so numerous and brave a host, he had insured every human means of conquest; and the commander of theenemy, by his crimnal conduct, had given him just cause to hope for the favour of the Almighty, in whose hands alone lay the event of wars and battles; and, that a perjured usurper, anathematised by the sovereign pontiff, and conscious of his own breach of faith, would be struck with terror on their appearance, and would prognosticate to himself that fate which his multiplied crimes had so justly merited. After this speech, the duke divided his army into three lines. The first, led by Montgomery, consisted! of archers and light-armed infantry; the second, commanded by Martel, was composed of his bravest battalions, heavy-armed, and ranged in close order: his cavalry, at whose head he placed himself, formed the third line; and were so disposed, that they stretched beyond the infantry, and flanked each wing of the army. He ordered the signal of battle to be given ; and the whole army moving at once, and singing the hymn or song of Roland, the BATTLES. famous peer of Charlemagne, advanced in order and with alacrity towards the enemy. Harold had seized the advantage of a rising ground; and having likewise drawn some trenches to secure his flanks, he resolved to stand on the defensive, and to avoid all action with the cavalry, in which he was inferior. The Kentish men were placed in the van ; a post which they had always claimed as their due. The Londoners guarded the standard; and the king himself, accompanied by his two valiant brothers, Gurth and Leof- win, dismounting, placed himself at the head of his infantry, and expressed his resolution to conquer, or to perish in the action. The first attack of the Normans was desperate, but was received with equal valour by the English ; and, after a furious combat, which remained long undecided, the former, overcome by the difficulty of the ground, and hard pressed by the enemy, began to relax their vigour, then to retreat; and confusion was spreading among the ranks, when William, who found himself on the brink of destruction, hastened with a select band to the relief of his dismayed forces. His timely presence restored the action: the English were obliged to retire with loss: and the duke, ordering his second line to advance, renewed the attack with fresh forces, and with redoubled courage. Finding that the enemy, aided by the advantage of ground, and animated by the example of their prince, still made a vigorous resistance, he tried a stratagem, which was very delicate in its management, but which seemed advisable in his desperate situation, where, if he gained not a decisive victory, he was totally undone: he commanded his troops to make a hasty retreat, and to allure the enemy from their ground, by the appearance of flight. The artifice succeeded against those unexperienced soldiers, who, heated by the action, and sanguine in their hopes, precipitately followed the Normans into the plain. William gave orders, that at once the infantry should face about upon their pursuers, and the cavalry make an assault upon their wings, and both of them pursue the advantage, which the surprise and terror of the enemy must give them in that critical and decisive moment. The English were repulsed with great slaughter, and driven back to the hill; where, being rallied by the bravery of Harold, they were able, notwithstanding their loss, to maintain the post, and continue tbe combat. The duke tried the same stratagem a second time, with the same success : but, even after this double advantage, he still found a great body of the English, who, maintaining themselves in firm array, seemed determined to dispute the victory to the last extremity. He ordered his heavy-. 170 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. armed infantry to make an assault upon them ; while his archers, placed behind, should gall the enemy, who were exposed by the situation of the ground, and who were intent on defending themselves against the swords and spears of the assailants. By this disposition he at last prevailed. Harold was slain by an ar- row, while he was combating with great bravery at the head of his men. His two brothers shared the same fate; and the Eng- lish, discouraged by the fall of those princes, gave ground on all sides, and were pursued by the victorious Normans. A few troops, however, of the vanquished, had still the courage to turn upon their pursuers; and, attacking them in deep and miry ground, obtained some revenge for the slaughter and dis- honour of the day. But the appearance of the duke obliged them to seek their safety by flight; and darkness saved them from any farther pursuit by the enemy. Thus was gained, by William, Duke of Normandy, the great and decisive victory of Hastings, after a battle which was fought from morning till sunset, and which seemed worthy, by the heroic valour displayed by both armies, and by both commanders, to decide the fate of a mighty kingdom. William had three horses killed under him ; and there fell near fifteen thousand men on the side of the Normans. The loss was still more considerable on that of the vanquished; besides the death of the king and his two brothers. The dead body of Harold was brought to William, and was generously restored, without ransom, to his mother. The Norman army left not the field of battle without giving thanks to Heaven, in the most solemn manner, for their victory; and the prince, having refreshed his troops, prepared to push, to the utmost, his advantage against the divided, dismayed, and discomfited English. Hume.

III. BATTLE OF AGINCOURT. It was the dying injunction of the late king to his son, not to allow the English to remain long in peace, which was apt to breed intestine commotions, but to employ them in foreign expeditions, by which the prince might acquire honour ; the nobility, in sharing his dangers, might attach themselves to his person ; and all the restless spirits find sufficient occupation. The natural disposition of Henry inclined him to follow this advice, and the civil disorders of France, which had been prolonged be- ■vond those of England, opened a full career to his ambition. To BATTLE*. 171 give his intended attack something like the appearance of justice, he sent ambassadors, offering a perpetual peace and alliance, on condition of being put in possession of all those provinces which had been wrested from the English during the former reigns, and of espousing Catherine, the French king’s daughter, with a suitable dowry. These exorbitant demands not being complied with, Henry collected an army of 6000 men at arms and 24,000 foot; and, landing near Harfleur, he immediately began the siege of that place, which, after some time, he took by storm, putting all the garrison to the sword. The fatigues of the siege, however, and the unusual heat of the season, had so wasted the English army, that Henry could undertake nothing farther, but was obliged to think of returning to England. As his transports could not anchor in an open road upon the enemy’s coast, he had dismissed them ; and he lay under the necessity of marching by land to Calais, before he could reach a place of safety. A French army of 54,000 men was by this time assembled in Normandy ; and Henry offered to sacrifice his conquest of Harfleur for a safe passage to Calais; but, his proposal being rejected, he determined to make his way by valour and conduct. That he might not discourage his men by the appearance of flight, he made slow and deliberate jour- neys till he reached the Somme, which he crossed near St Quin- tin. After he had also passed the small river of Ternois at Blange, he was surprised to observe, from the heights, the whole French army drawn up in the plains of Agincourt (or Azincourt), and so posted, that it was impossible for him to proceed on his march without coming to an engagement. Nothing could be more alarming than the battle upon which his safety now depended. The English army was little more than half the number which had disembarked at Harfleur ; and they laboured under every discouragement and necessity. The enemy was four times more numerous; was headed by the Dau- phin and all the princes of blood; and was plentifully supplied with provisions of-every kind. Henry’s situation was exactly similar to that of Edward III. at Cressy, and that of the Black Prince at Poictiers; and the memory of these great events in- spiring the English with courage, made them hope for a like de- theliverance same fromprudent their conductpresent whichdifficulties. had beenThe kingfollowed also observedby those great commanders: he drew up his army on a narrow ground between two woods, which guarded each flank ; and, in that posture, he patiently expected the attack of the enemy. * Had the French general been able, either to reason justly upon 172 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. the present circumstances of the two armies, or to profit by past experience, he would have declined a combat, and waited till necessity, obliging the English to advance, would have forced them to relinquish the advantages of their situation. But the impetuous valour of the nobility, and a vain confidence in superior numbers, brought on this fatal action, which proved the source of infinite calamities to their country. The French archers on horseback and their men at arms, crowded in their ranks, advanced upon the English archers, who had fixed palisadoes in their front to break the impression of the enemy, and who safely plied them, from behind the defence, with a shower of arrows which nothing could resist. The clayey soil, moistened by some rain which had lately fallen, proved another obstacle to the French cavalry. The wounded men and horses discomposed their ranks ; the narrow compass in which they were pent, hindered them from recovering any order: the whole army was a scene of confusion, terror, and dismay: and Henry, seizing upon the critical moment, ordered the English archers, who were light and unincumbered, to advance upon the enemy. They fell with their battle-axes upon the French, who, in their present posture, were incapable either of attacking or of flying .- they hewed them in pieces without resistance; and, being seconded by the men at arms, who also pushed on against the enemy, they covered the field with the killed and wounded. After all appearance of opposition was over, the English had leisure to make prisoners; and, having advanced with uninterrupted success to the open plain, they there saw the remains of the French rear-guard, which still maintained the appearance of a line of battle. At the same time, they heard an alarm from behind: some gentlemen of Picardy, having collected about 600 peasants, had fallen upon the English baggage, and were doing execution on the unarmed followers of the camp, who fled before them. Henry, seeing the enemy on all sides of him, began to entertain apprehensions from his prisoners ; and he thought it necessary to issue general orders for putting them to death: but, on discovering the truth, he stopped the slaughter, and was still able to save a great number. In this battle, the French lost ten thousand men killed, and fourteen thousand prisoners ; the English, it is said, only forty men in all:—Henry interrupted not his march after the action, but proceeded immediately to Calais, and thence to England. He concluded a truce with the enemy; and it was not till after an interval of two years, that any English troops appeared in France. Goldsmith. BATTLES. 173 IV SIEGE OF ORLEANS. On the death of Henry the Fifth, the parliament assumed the power of arranging the whole administration. They appointed the duke of Bedford protector or guardian of the kingdom : his brother, the duke of Gloucester, was invested with the same dignity during Bedford’s absence in France; and, in order to limit the power of both these princes, they established a council, without whose advice and approbation no measure of importance could be determined. The person and education of the infant prince was committed to Henry Beaufort, cardinal of Winchester. Nothing very interesting occurred in either country till the present year, when the duke of Bedford, having received some reinforcements from England, undertook the siege of Or- leans, a place which, at this time, was become the most important in France. The English had carried several of the fortifica- tions, and seemed to be advancing by slow degrees towards the completion of the enterprise, when relief was brought to the town, and the siege raised, by means the most unlooked for and extraordinary. In the village of Domremi, near Vaucouleurs, on the borders of Lorraine, there lived a country girl of twenty-seven years of age, called Joan d’Arc, who was servant in a small inn ; and who, in that station, had been accustomed to tend the horses of the guests, to ride them without a saddle to the watering- place, and to perform other offices, which, in well frequented inns, commonly fall to the share of men-servants. This girl was of an irreproachable life, and had not hitherto been remarked for any singularity. It is easy to imagine, that the present situation of France was an interesting object to persons even of the lowest rank, and would become the frequent subject of conversation. The siege of Orleans, the progress of the English before that place, the importance of saving this city and its brave defenders, had attracted the attention of every one; and Joan, inflamed by the general sentiment, was seized with a wild desire of assisting her sovereign in his distresses. Her mind, brooding day and night on this favourite object, shemistook fancied the thatimpulses she saw of visions,passion andfor heardheavenly voices, inspirations, exhorting andher to re-establish the throne of France, and to expel the foreign in- V un all]i the^ dangers commonwhich might intrepidity attend ofher temper in such made a herpath; overlook and. 174 THE FItENCH TRANSLATOR. thinking herself destined by Heaven to this office, she threw aside all that bashfulness and timidity which were natural to her sex, her years, and her low station. She went to Vaucouleurs ; procured admission to Baudricourt the governor; informed him of her inspirations and intentions ; and conjured him not to neglect the voice of God, who spoke through her, but to second those heavenly revelations w'hich impelled her to this glorious enterprise. Baudricourt treated her at first with some neglect; but, on her frequent returns to him, and importunate solicitations, he began to remark something extraordinary in the maid, and was inclined, at all hazards, to make the experiment. He entered at last into the schemes of Joan, and gave her some attendants, who conducted her to the French court at Chinon. It is pretended, that Joan, immediately on her admission, knew the king, though she had never seen his face before, and though he purposely kept himself in the crowd of courtiers, and had laid aside every thing in his apparel which might distinguish him : that she offered, in the name of the supreme Creator, to raise the siege of Orleans, and conduct him to Itheims to be there crowned and anointed; and, on his expressing doubts of her mission, revealed to him, before some sworn confidants, a secret, which was unknown to all the world except himself, and which nothing but a heavenly inspiration could have discovered to her : and that she demanded, as the instrument of her victories, a particular sword which was kept in the church of St Catherine of Fierbois, and which, though she had never seen it, she described by all its marks, and by the place in which it had long lain neglected. This is certain, that all these miraculous stories were spread abroad, to captivate the vulgar. ' The more the king and his ministers were determined to give into the illusion, the more scrupulous they pretended to be. An assembly of grave doctors and theologians cautiously examined Joan’s mission, and pronounced it undoubted and supernatural. A ray of hope began to break through that despair in which the minds of all men were before enveloped. Heaven had now declared itself in favour of France, and had determined to take vengeance on her insolent enemies. After these artificial precautions had been for some time employed, Joan’s requests were complied with. A supply of provisions was to be conveyed into the town : Joan, at the head of some French troops, covered the embarkation on the Loire, and entered Orleans at the head of the convoy. The English were struck with astonishment and religious awe at that temerity which they thought nothing but supernatural assistance could UATTLES. 175 inspire. But their amazement was soon increased in consequence of a sally from the town. Joan led on the besieged, arrayed in her military garb, and encouraging them by her words and actions. The English found it impossible to resist troops animated by such superior energy ; and, after a considerable loss, they were obliged to raise the siege, and retreat with all imaginable precaution. The raising of the siege of Orleans was one part of the maid’s promise to Charles : the crowning him at Rheims was the other. To this place he now set out at the head of twelve thousand men. He passed by Troyes, which opened its gates to him : Chalons imitated the example • and Rheims sent him a deputation with its keys, on his approach to it. The ceremony of his coronation was here performed with the holy oil, which a pigeon had brought to king Clovis from heaven on the first establishment of the French monarchy. The maid of Orleans (for by that appellation was Joan now called) stood by his side in complete armour, and displayed her sacred banner which had dissipated and confounded her fiercest enemies; and the people shouted with the most unfeigned joy on viewing such a compli- cation of wonders. After the conclusion of the ceremony, the maid threw herself at the king’s feet, embraced his knees, and, with a flood of tears, which pleasure and tenderness extorted from her, she congratulated him on this singular and marvellous event. V. BATTLE OF LODI. As the route to Milan opened by he French could not be regarded as safe while the Austrians commanded the Adda, Bona- parte had disposed his forces in such a manner as to be able to unite them in three hours at any one point; but Beaulieu had placed the Adda between himself and the! French, waiting at the foot of the bridge, one hundred toises in length,' where he relied on arresting the enemy’s progress, by placing a formidable train of heavy artillery. The passage of this bridge at the town of Lodi was more hazardous than crossing the Po ; and it was at the head of this bridge, on the side nearest the city, that the toFrench plant General,two pieces under of cannon, a tremendous to prevent shower the ofenemy grape-shot,, from break- was ing it down, while a column was organizing for the purpose of forcing the pass. The French troops entered Lodi, while the Austrian General defended the passage of the bridge with thirty pieces of cannon and his whole army drawn up in order for battle. U€ THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. Napoleon, fully aware that the whole result of the campaign depended upon the fate of this action, as by defeating the Aus- trians he should become master of the surrounding country, and that the enormous magazines of his opponents would thereby fall into the conqueror’s hands, had recourse to the ensuing vigorous but laconic address to his troops a few minutes prior to the general onset:— “ Frenchmen, here is starvation;—there is the enemy, and beyond him—plenty!—March !” The conflict of Lodi decided the fate of the Italian campaign; for, notwithstanding the success of the French on several occasions, and the pusillanimity of the smaller powers of Italy, the Piedmontese were still numerous, and a well appointed army of the Austrians holding the left bank of the Adda, rendered the possession of Milan insecure to the French. It was an object with Bonaparte, therefore, to force the bridge of Lodi, which crosses the Adda at a place where the river is two hundred yards wide, and the breadth of the bridge is about ten. A battery of cannon commanded the whole length of the structure by a raking fire, while other batteries, above and below, threatened destruction to any force that should attempt to cross. It would have been wiser, however, in the Austrian general, to have cut the bridge, or to have placed a fire-ship under it. Without losing a moment, though it was late in the evening: when he arrived at Lodi, Bonaparte thinking, as Caesar would have thought, that nothing was done while any thing remained to be effected, ordered the passage to be attempted, and a column of the French, headed by the principal general officers of their army, persevered, therefore, after a moment’s hesitation, under a deadly fire,'—this most singular instance of military enthusiasm and audacity was crowned with complete success. The Austrians were driven from their batteries, the Piedmontese army lost all spirit of resistance, and the people of Italy, as if awaking from a dream of many ages at the cry of liberty, aided the arms of France, by overturning the government of their respective sovereigns. Bonaparte having formed his artillery into one battery, a very brisk cannonade continued for several hours, while the French battalions arrived at the charge-step, shouting Vive la Republique f In this manner they gained the bridge, but the fire of the Impe- asrialists they wasadvanced, so terrible and that at length they weregave mowedway: they down were, by however,columns soon rallied, the havoc continuing as terrible as before, which compelled them to fall back a second time ; but Napoleon, fixed BATTLES. 177 in liis resolve, still urged his troops, and again they rushed over the bodies of the dead and the dying, while Generals Berthier, Massena, Cervoni,. Dalmagne, Lasnes, and Dupat, ranged themselves at the head of the column and traversed the bridge; and, while the French began to force this passage. Generals Rusca, Augereau, and Bayrand, having passed the Adda, with their divisions, a few miles below Lodi, they, unexpectedly to the Austrians, came up at the same juncture,' and began the attack upon their rear, at the very time they conceived the whole French army concentrated upon the opposite side of the river. This sudden attack turned the balance in favour of the French; the Austrian artillery was carried; their order of battle broken up ; and terror, dismay, and slaughter were apparent in every direction. The loss of Beaulieu in the affair of Lodi amounted to nearly three thousand in killed, wounded, and prisoners, together with twenty pieces of cannon. The Imperialists, with the remains of their army, fled for safety to the walls of Mantua, abandoning in their route Pizzighitone, Cremona, and the Milanese, to the enemy. On the 12th, the French entered Pizzighitone ; Cremona opened her gates without resistance ; and, on the 15th, the vanguard took possession of Milan, having become masters of Pavia on their route, where they found the major part of the immense magazines of the Austrian army. Though the castle of Milan still continued to hold out, Lombardy was conquered, and the tri-coloured standard floated from one extremity of the Lake of Como and the Grison frontiers to the very gates of Parma. After the desperate attempt of the bridge of Lodi, the passage of which was in a great measure due to the personal courage of Generals Berthier and Massena, who gave a glorious example to the army by precipitating themselves in the foremost ranks, and thus conducting the grenadiers to victory, Napoleon sent the following report to the French directory, the style of which, as a testimony of the bravery of the troops under his command, is too striking not to be recorded on the page of history. “ If we have lost few men,” said he, “ this fortunate circumstance is due to the prompt execution and the sudden effect produced on the enemy’s forces by the immense masses rushing forward, and likewise to the dreadful fire of our invincible column. Were I called upon to designate the soldiers who have distinguished themselves in this battle, I should be obliged to name every carabineer of the advanced guard, and nearly all the staff- officers ; but I shall not omit in particular the intrepid Berthier, who served on that occasion as cannoneer, cavalier, and grenadier.” M CHAPTER IV. NATURAL HISTORY. I. MAN. The Polar regions are universally allowed to exhibit the most marked difference in the human race; the Laplanders., the Es- quimaux Indians, the Samoid Tartars, the inhabitants of Nova Zembla, the Borandians, the Greenlanders, and the natives of Kamts- chatka,form the first variety, and maybe considered as a distinct set of people, all resembling each other in their form, stature, customs, and ignorance of mind. Born under a rigorous climate, where Na- ture’s productions are coarse and few, their stature seems to have been as much affected by the hardness of their fare, as their complexion appears to have been darkened by the severity of the cold. Their persons are as uncouth, as their manners are uncultivated ; their face large and broad, the nose flat and short, the eyes of a yellowish brown inclining to blackness, the eye-lids drawn towards the temples, the cheek-bones high, the mouth large, the hair black and straight, and the colour of the skin a dark-greyish. In all these different nations the women bear so striking a similitude to the men, that it is difficult to distinguish the difference between them. There is not only a personal resemblance in the inhabitants of these rigid climes, but their manners and inclinations are the same, for they are all equally rude, stupid, and superstitious. The second great variety in the human species seems to be that of the Tartar race. The Tartar country, taken in general, comprehends the greatest part of Asia, and is consequently a general name given to a number of nations of various forms and complexions. All these nations have the upper part of the visage very broad and wrinkled, even during the period of youth. Their noses are short and flat; their eyes little, and sunk in their heads; their cheek-bones high ; the lower part of their face narrow ; their chin long ; their teeth of an enormous size, and separated from each other ; their eye-brows thick, large, and covering their eyes ; their complexion olive, and the hair black : they are of a middle size, extremely strong, and very robust: NATURAL HISTORY. 179 they all lead a vagrant, wandering life, remaining under tents formed of different skins: their food is that of horse or camel’s flesh, which they either eat raw, or sodden, by placing it between the horse and the saddle: their drink is the milk of the mare, fermented with millet ground into meal: their head is shaven, except one lock of hair, which is left at the top, and is allowed to grow long enough to form into tresses, which hang down on each side the face. The third variety in the human species, is that of the Southern Asiatics, the form of whose features and persons may easily be distinguished from the Tartar race. They are in general of a slender shape, with long, straight, black hair, often with Roman noses, and resembling Europeans in stature and shape, though they differ from them in the colour of their skin. The women are both delicate and cleanly, and frequently accustom themselves to the use of the bath; their colour is olive ; and the men are allowed to be both cowardly and effeminate, which in some degree may be occasioned by the influence of the climate, which, by tending to relax and enervate the body, must of course lessen the vigour of the mind : Yet there is a degree of humanity amongst some of these unenlightened people, that proves the natural goodness of their hearts; for they not only refuse to eat any thing that has life, but are fearful of killing the meanest insect. The fourth variation in the human species is to be found a- mong the negroes of Africa. This gloomy race of mankind may be said to extend from the southern parts of Africa, from eighteen degrees north of the Line, to its extreme termination at the Cape of Good Hope. Each of the Negro nations, it must be owned, differ from each other; like us, they have peculiar countries remarkable for beauty or deformity. Those of Guinea, for example, are extremely ugly, and have an unpleasant scent attached to their persons ; whilst those of Mosambique are allowed to be beautiful, and are entirely free from a disagreeable smell. The negroes, in general, are of a black colour, with a remarkable smooth and polished skin : their hair is short, soft, and woolly, and the beard partakes of the same qualities: their eyes are generally of a deep hazel; their noses flat and short; their lips thick, and their teeth of an ivory whiteness. They are in general allowed to be indolent, mischievous, and revengeful; though many instances might be brought to evince the goodness of their hearts, and to prove, that where they are treated with kindness and- com- passion, their Jidelity and attachment know no bounds. The fifth and last division of the human race is comprised 180 FHENCH TRANSLATOR. under the term of Europeans, a set of people who possess those superior advantages which religion and refinement naturally produce : In these may be included the Georgians and Circassians ; the Mingrihans, the natives of Asia Minor and the northern parts of Africa, together with part of those countries that lie north of the Caspian Sea. The inhabitants of countries so remote from each other, of course must vary in their manners and designs ; but in their form and persons there is a striking similitude, and little variation in the colour of their skin: in that respect the Europeans have an advantage which no other part of the world enjoys ; for a fair complexion (if I may so express it) seems a transparent covering to the soul: impressions of joy vermilion the cheek, whilst sympathy and sorrow turn it pale; and the sensations of the heart may be traced in the countenance, without applying to the aid of speech. Though this personal superiority is allowed to be desirable, it is trifling when compared with that of the mind ; there the European must feel his pre-eminence, and gratefully acknowledge the blessings of his fate. II THE HORSE. Of all the animals in the Brute Creation, the Horse doubtless claims pre-eminence, whether we consider him beautiful in form, swift in motion, or beneficial to the ease and comfort of mankind. To have an idea of this noble animal in his native simplicity, we are not to look for him in the pastures or stables to which he has been consigned by man, but in those wild and extensive plains where he has been originally produced ; where he ranges without controul, and enjoys that freedom bounteous Nature gave. The continual verdure of the fields supply his wants, and the genial clime seems suited to a constitution which Nature has adapted to bear heat. His enemies of the forest are but few, and he finds safety in the society of his friends. In that happy state of nature and independence, five or six hundred of these animals herd together; and, in the boundless tracts of Africa and New Spain, by care elude the danger of surprise. The Arabian breed has been diffused into Egypt, Barbary, and Persia; and, in the latter place, we are told by Marcus Paulus, that there were studs of white mares of the most beautiful form, to the amount of ten thousand. The horses of these countries greatly resemble each other : they are usually of a slender make; their legs fine, bony, and far apart; a thin mane ; a NATURAL HISTORY** 181 fine crest; a beautiful head; the ear small, and well pointed; the shoulder thin ; the side rounded, without any unsightly pro- minence ; the croup is rather of the longest, and the tail is generally set high. If we consult the ancients on the nature and quality of this animal, we shall learn, that the Grecian (and particularly those of Thessaly) had the reputation of being excellent for war ; but those of Achaia exceeded all others in size ; but that Egypt bred the greatest number, and that in beauty they would not yield to any other clime. If the Egyptians were proud of the qualities of this animal, the English have no less reason to be vain ; for, so much care has been taken to improve the breed, that they may vie with the fleetest of the Arabian race. An ordinary racer will go over a mile of ground in the space of two minutes ; but Childers, a horse that never yet was equalled at Newmarket, performed it within a few seconds of one. THE ASS. Although this animal is very easily distinguished from the horse at first sight, yet, upon closer inspection, their similitude is very striking; they have both the same outline in the external parts, and in the internal the resemblance is equally the same. From this apparent conformation in their shape, it might be imagined that their species were the same, and that the ass was merely the horse degenerated, from a total inattention to its breed : but that this opinion is completely erroneous, has been proved by arguments that admit of no appeal; I shall therefore consider the Ass as totally distinct from that more noble animal which has been so recently described. The Wild Ass has by some writers been confounded with the Zebra, although they are of a very different race; for the former is not streaked like the latter, neither is he near so beautiful in shape. His figure differs little from the Ass of this country, though the colour of his skin is much more bright; and there is a white streak runs from the head to the tail. He is found in many of the Archipelago larlyIslands abound, ; but inand the are deserts peculiarly of Lybia remarked and Numidia for the theyswiftness particu- of their flight. So completely wild are they in their nature, that, at the sight of a man, they begin to bray, and stop short altogether, until he approaches near, when they all set off with the greatest speed, and are entangled in those traps which are 182 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. placed for the purpose of impeding their flight. The natives catch them for the sake of their flesh, which they consider as a delicious treat; and of the skins they make that kind of leather which is known amongst us by the name of shagreen. The ass, like the horse, was originally imported into America by the Spaniards, where the breed has multiplied into such vast numbers that they often are considered as a nuisance to the States, and regular hunts are formed for their destruction, as if they were of the carnivorous race. IV.—;the cow. Amidst the various animals with which the world abounds, none is more estimable than the Cow. The horse is in general the property of the rich; the sheep thrive but in a flock, and constantly require the utmost care; but the cow is the poor man’s pride, his riches, and support. The climate and pasture of Great Britain seem peculiarly to agree with its nature and frame, for as it is more regardful of the quantity than the quality of its food, in many countries it finds it difficult to obtain a sufficient supply. In different parts of England great varieties are seen, occasioned by the richness of the soil ; but in Scotland, Ireland, and the Isle of Man, they very much decrease in size. The age of this animal is easily known, either by examining the teeth or horns; the under jaw is furnished with eight cutting teeth, the two centre ones of which, at ten months, drop out, and are replaced by others, broader, but not so mhite ; at the age of sixteen months the two next disappear, and their place is supplied in the same manner as before : thus at the end of every six months the creature loses and regains its teeth, so that when it arrives at the age of three years the whole set is completely renewed. For some time they remain tolerably white and even - but, as the animal advances in age, their colour and regularity gradually change, and mastication becomes so difficult, that the creature often dies from not being able to chew a sufficient quantity of food. The horns are, perhaps, a more determinate method of ascer- taining the animal’s age; for, at three years old, it completely sheds them, and new ones arise in their place; which every year receives a fresh ring, and by that means prove a register of its life. The pains which the English have taken to bring horned cattle to perfection, has been amply repaid by the superiority of NATURAL history. 183 their breed; for, by mixing them with those of foreign countries, they have increased their beauty as well as their strength. V.—THE SHEEP. In the remote and unpolished ages of antiquity, the office of a shepherd was held in high esteem, and the care of a flock thought no degradation to the man who was possessed both of abilities and wealth—The Sheep, in its present domestic state, seems little calculated to struggle either with danger or distress, as its stupidity appears to render it incapable of exertion, even to preserve its inoffensiv. life; therefore, if it did not rely upon man for protection, its natural enemies would soon exterminate the race. The moufflon, which is the sheep in a savage state, is a creature at once bold and fleet, ready to oppose all animals which bear some proportion in size, or to fly from those which would conquer by their strength human art seems to have changed their nature, and totally to have destroyed every appearance of sense; its large eyes, separated far from each other, only exhibit a vacant stare; and it merely appears as a lumpish mass of flesh, supported upon four legs unequal to the weight. Sheep, like other ruminant animals, are destitute of upper front teeth, but, like the cow, have eight in the lower jaw, which at stated periods they also change. Yet this animal, in its domestic state, is too well known to require detail; but if we would see it in an advantageous point, we must seek it in the deserts of Africa, or Siberia’s plains. The woolly sheep, as it is seen among us, is only found in Europe and some of the temperate provinces in Asia; and when these are transported into warm- er climes, they lose the wool, and assume a hairy covering more calculated to make them endure the intensity of the heat. VI.—THE LION. Though man can endure both heat and cold, and his constitution in general is not materially affected by the clime, yet all inferior animals in the creation derive health and vigour from their native air. The rein-deer thrives but in its fields of ice; and the lion degenerates when removed from beneath the Line. Most animals are found larger, fiercer, and stronger, in a warm than in a cold and temperate clime; they are likewise allowed to be more enterprising and courageous, as their dispositions seem 184 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOK. to partake of the ardour of the soil. The lion produced under the burning sun of Africa is of all creatures the most terrible and the most undaunted ; those, however, that are bred in more temperate countries, or near the top of cold and lofty mountains, are far less dangerous than those which are bred in the valleys beneath. The lions of mount Atlas, the tops of which are covered with eternal snows, have neither the strength nor the ferocity of those which are natives of Bildulgerid or Zaara, where the plains are covered with burning sands. The outward form of the lion seems to speak the internal generosity of his nature. His figure is striking, his look bold and confident, his gait proud, and his voice terrible: his stature is not overgrown, like that of the elephant or rhinoceros; nor his shape clumsy, like that of the hippopotamus, or ox : it is compact, well proportioned, sizeable; a perfect model of strength, combined with agility : his face is broad, and some have thought that it resembles the human kind; it is surrounded with a very long mane, which gives it a most majestic appearance: the top of the head, the temples, the cheeks, the under jaw, the neck, the breast, the shoulder, the hinder parts of the legs, and the belly, are all furnished with long hair, whilst the other part of the body is covered with very short: the tongue of the animal is rough, and beset with prickles; its eyes are bright and fiery, nor even in death does this terrible look forsake them : the length of the mane increases with its years, yet is neither coarse or rough like that of the horse ; but is of the same pliancy of texture as that which covers the other part of the body : the general colour of the hair is yellow ; and the formation of its eyes resembles a cat’s: for this reason he seldom appears in open day, but prowls about for food by night, and boldly attacks all animals that come in his way. The roar of the lion is so loud and tremendous, that when re- echoed by the mountains, it resembles the sound of distant thunder, and all the animal creation fly before the sound. VII. THE TIGER. If a beautiful form could compensate for a depraved disposition, the tiger would obtain pre-eminence over the animal race. Unfortunately, however, this creature’s propensities are all of so vicious and malignant a kind, that though we may admire its external covering, we must despise that which it internally contains ; and believe that Providence bestows beauty upon so des- NATURAL HISTORY. 185 picable an animal to prove, that when it is not attached to merit, it neither deserves to be estimated nor prized. The chief and most remarkable difference in the tiger, from every other animal of the mottled kind, is in the shape of its colours, which run in streaks or bands in the same direction as his ribs. The leopard, the panther, and the ounce, are all in a certain degree marked like this animal, only that the lines are broken by round spots which cover the whole surface of the skin; whilst those on the tiger stretch lengthwise, and seldom, if ever, are round ones to be seen. The tiger is likewise a larger animal, though more slender than the others in proportion to its size ; and its form so completely resembles a cat’s, that we can hardly believe them to be of a different race. Though the tiger is generally ranked next to the lion, it is destitute of those qualities for which that animal is admired ; yet possesses all those noxious propensities for which it is universally condemned. To pride, courage, and strength, the lion joins greatness, clemency, and generosity; but the tiger is fierce without provocation, and cruel without necessity. The lion seldom ravages except when excited by hunger ; the tiger, on the contrary, though glutted with slaughter, is never satisfied, but still continues the carnage, and seems to have his courage inflamed by not meeting with resistance. VIII. THE CAT. Of all the animals when young, there is none more prettily playful than the kitten ; but, as its years increase, it seems gradually to lose its sportive habits, and the innate treachery of its class prevails. From being naturally ravenous, education teaches it to disguise its appetites, and to watch a favourable moment for seizing its prey. Supple, artful, and insinuating, it disguises its intentions until it can execute them without danger; and, instead of making an open attack, conceals itself in ambush, like a designing foe. The weapons of this animal are both its teeth and claws ; the former of which amount to thirty, and seem calculated for tearing rather than chewing its food : the claws are remarkable both for sharpness and strength, and they never suffer any thing to escape that once comes within their grasp. The cat has only the appearance of attachment; and it may easily be perceived, by its timid approaches, and side-long looks, that it either dreads its master, or distrusts his kindness ; it is assiduous rather for its 3 86 E'FRENCH TRANSLATOR. own pleasure, than to please ; and obtains confidence merely to abuse it. The form of its body, and its temperament, perfectly correspond with its disposition ; active, cleanly, delicate, and voluptuous, it shews a peculiar fondness for comfort and ease: it is timid and mistrustful, because its body is weak, and its skin more tender and thin than a dog’s, therefore they appear to be constantly in dread of blows. The cat is seldom known to make an attack upon those animals which are capable of defence, but birds and mice are its favourite food: it also eats the young of rabbits and hares; and, when very hungry, will devour bats, moles, toads, and frogs. IX.—THE DOG. The dog is allowed to be the most intelligent of all quadru- peds, and one that doubtless is to be most admired ; for, in depen* . dent of his beauty, his vivacity, and swiftness, he gives the most J manifest proofs of his attachment, to mankind. In his savage ’ state he may have been a formidable enemy, but to view him at present, he seems only anxious to please ; he willingly crouches before his master, and is ready to lick the dust from his feet; he waits his orders, consults his looks, and is more faithful than half the human race. He is constant in his affections, friendly without interest, and grateful for the slightest favour he can receive : easily forgets both cruelty and- oppression; and disarms resentment by submissively yielding to the will of those whom he studiously endeavours to serve and please. His sagacity can only be exceeded by his fidelity ; for he will discover a beggar by the appearance of his clothes : and when at night he is put in charge of the house, no sentinel can protect it with greater care. If he happens to scent a stranger at a distance, his voice instantly sounds the alarm; and if they attempt to break in upon the territories, they are in danger of forfeiting either their limbs or life. From hence we may see of what importance this animal may be considered to the human race; it protects them from rapine, guards them from invasion, and shows an attachment that must at once both delight and please. It assists them in the destruction of such animals as are obnoxious to their interest, aids them in conquering those which contribute to their delight, and even when worn out by age or exertion, their skin is capable of being converted into use. The dog, thus serviceable in himself, when taken into a par- ticipation of empire, exerts a degree of superiority over all ani- NATURAL HISTORY. 187 trials that require human protection. The flock and the herd obey his voice more readily than even that of the shepherd or the herdsman; he conducts them, guards them, keeps them from danger, vand seems to consider their enemies as his own. X. THE EAGLE. The golden eagle is the largest and noblest of all the class of birds that bears the kingly name ; and as the lion obtains pre- eminence amongst animals, so the eagle is allowed to possess it amongst birds : it weighs between twelve and thirteen pounds ; and the wings, extended, measure upwards of seven feet; the eye is of a bright hazel, and both the sight and smelling are remarkably acute: the head and neck are clothed with narrow sharp-pointed feathers, of a deep brown colour; but those on the crown of the head, as the bird increases in age, become white: the wings, when clothed, reach to the end of the tail; the quill feathers are of a chocolate colour, and the shafts white; the tail is of a deep brown, irregularly barred, and blotched with an obscure ash; the legs are yellow, short, and very strong, three inches in circumference, and feathered to the very feet: the toes are covered with large scales, and armed with the most formidable claws, the middle of which are two inches in length. The eagle, as has been observed, obtains pre-eminence amongst birds, from magnanimously disdaining to take advantage of those animals, which, from their inferiority in strength and size, could easily become its prey ; and it is not until having for a length of time been provoked by the taunting cries of the rook and magpie, that this generous creature is induced to punish their temerity. The eagle likewise refuses to share the plunder of any other bird; and when once it has made a meal of any animal, it never returns to it again, but leaves it to be devoured by those rapacious birds whose appetites may be less delicate than his own. XI. THE WHALE. The whale is doubtless the largest animal in creation. The thirdGreenland of its whalesize, and is a usually heavy animal,measures the from head sixty of which to seventy makes feet: one the fins on each side are from five to eight feet in length; and the tail, which always lies flat upon the water, is said to measure twenty-four feet in breadth : this is their only instrument of de- 1 88 THE IFRENCH TRANSLATOR. struction ; for the fishermen’s boats are often overset with a single blow; and with this it forces its passage through the immeasurable ocean ; and only, in turning, makes use of the fins. Though the fins are not the means of promoting the whale’s progress, yet the female applies to their aid when pursued or in distress ; for in those cases she puts her young between her shoulders, and prevents them from falling off, by supporting them with her fins. The cleft of the mouth is above twenty feet long, and the upper jaw is furnished with barbs like the pipes of an organ, of which the whalebone in ladies’ dresses is entirely composed: and the other bones of this enormous animal are not converted to the slightest use. The tongue appears fixed in the lower jaw, and resembles a large lump of fat, sufficient to fill several hogsheads with oil: the eyes are not larger than those of an ox, but placed very far back in the head; and, though there is no external appearance of an ear, yet there is a black spot near the eye which covers the auditory nerve; and its sense of hearing is by anatomists thought to be very acute: the spout-hole, or nos- tril, through which they breathe, and return the water they have taken into their mouths, has outwardly but one opening, though, upon an inward examination, two channels may be seen; and the noise the animal makes, when spouting the water through them, may be plainly distinguished the distance of a league; the skin is smooth and generally black, marbled over with spots of yellow and white; the outward one appears about the consistency of parchment, but the inward one is more than twenty times as thick; under this covering lies the fat or blubber, which is always from eight to twelve inches deep. XII.—THE RATTLESNAKE. The rattlesnake is an inhabitant of the New Continent; the usual length is four or five feet, though they are sometimes known to measure six; and the bodies of those are about as thick as a man’s thigh. Though larger than the viper, it bears a resemblance to it, having a large head and a small neck; but the eye is furnished with a nictitating membrane, and over each is sus- pended a large scale. The fangs of this animal are much more dreadful than the viper’s; and the body of it is entirely covered with scales; those upon the back are between an orange and a tanny; and those on the belly, an ash inclining to lead. . The most extraordinary part of this animal’s history consists in that rattling noise which it makes with its tail, occasioned by NATURAL H1ST0RV. t89 a collection of bones, which, when taken out, very much resemble the different links in a curb-bridle’s chain. These rattles they shake with a prodigious degree of quickness whenever they are disturbed, or are in pursuit of their prey; and the peccary and the vulture are the only creatures that hear the sound without the slightest appearance of dismay; these dart down and seize the formidable animal, so as to prevent it from being able to bite, and devour its body without receiving the slightest injury, or experiencing any bad effect. The very instant a wound is inflicted by this destructive animal, the pain is excruciating, and the part inflames and swells; the eyes become red, the head enlarges, the heart palpitates, and the whole frame is parched with heat. In this agony the wounded person remains five or six hours, and, if his constitution happens to be robust, double that space of time, by the end of which the whole mass of blood becomes corrupted, a mortifica- tion ensues, and the ill-fated being dies ! XIII.—THE BEE. Three different sorts of bees inhabit every hive.—The first part of these are the labouring bees, of which greater part of the community are composed; they are supposed to be of a neuter gender, and their chief employment consists in supplying the young ones with food. The second sort are termed drones; these are thought to be males, and there are about a hundred to seven thousand in every hive. The third are of a much larger form, and there are generally from one to four or five in a hive: these are distinguished by the name of queens ; and from these alone proceed the eggs which are to replenish the community on the following year. In examining the structure of the common working bee, the first remarkable part is the trunk, which serves to extract the honey from the flowers j it is not formed in the manner of a tube by which the fluid is sucked up, but like a besom to sweep, or a tongue to lick it away. It is likewise furnished with teeth for the purpose of making wax, which, like the honey, is gathered from different flowers, and is formed of that dust which contributes to the fecundation of plants, which the industrious little animal rolls into balls, and places them in two cavities in the thighs of its hind legs, and flies home laden with its useful store. The belly of the bee is divided into six rings, and, besides the intestines, contains the honey-bag, the venom-bag, and the 190 . THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. sting; the former is as transparent as crystal, and contains the honey which has been crushed from the flowers, part of which is always deposited in the cells, and the rest serves the little animal for food ; and the sting, which is composed of two darts, defends it from the attacks of the more indolent tribes, who, but from the dread of this envenomed weapon, would support themselves at the expence of this industrious labourer’s toil. When they begin to work in their hives, they divide themselves into four companies ; one of which roves through the gardens and fields in search of materials for composing their cells; another is employed in laying out the partitions ; a third is occupied in making the insides smooth from corners and an- gles ; and a fourth company bring food for the rest, or relieve those which return from their laborious toil. THE ANT. The common ants of Europe are of two or three different kinds, some red, some black, some with and some without stings; and those which are unprovided with these weapons of defence, have the power of spurting a pungent liquor from their hinder parts, which creates a great degree of irritation upon the skin. The industry practised by this numerous body has become proverbial both in ancient and modern times, though the opinions which were entertained by the former are now known to have been misapplied. The granaries of corn which they supposed to have been collected into the republic as a means of support, during their winter’s retreat, is now known to be brought as an internal defence to their habitation, or as a supply to the young ones which are not strong enough to search for food, as from the time 'that the frigid season commences they become completely torpid, and never eat. The working ants may be considered as the most useful part of this community ; and it is impossible to describe the assiduity and attention which they display in the care of their young; in cold weather they take them in their mouths, without offering them the slightest injury, and carry them to the very depths of their retreat; in a fine day they remove them with the same precaution towards the surface of their abode, that they may be bringenlivened provisions and invigorated to those who by remain the sun’s idle atreviving home, carryheat; out they the dead bodies of their companions, and are constantly occupied in some useful employment, or in preparing food for their young- CHAPTER V.

MYTHOLOGY.

I. SATURN. SaturnuSj a son of Coelus, or Uranus, by Terra, called also1 Titea, Thea, or Titheia. He was naturally artful, and by means of his mother, he revenged himself on his father, whose cruelty to his children had provoked the anger of Thea, and prevented him from increasing the number of his children, whom he treated with unkindness, and confined in the infernal regions. After this the sons of Ccelus were restored to liberty, and Saturn obtained his father’s kingdom by the consent of his brother, provided he did not bring up any male children. Pursuant to this agreement, Saturn always devoured his sons as soon as born, because, as some observe, he dreaded from them a retaliation of his unkindness to his father, till his wife Rhea, unwilling to see her children perish, concealed from her husband the birth of Ju- piter, Neptune, and Pluto, and instead of the children she gave him large stones, which he immediately swallowed without perceiving the deceit. Titan was some time after informed that Sa- turn had concealed his male children, therefore he made war against him, dethroned and imprisoned him with Rhea; and Ju- piter, who was secretly educated in Crete, was no sooner grown up, than he flew to deliver his father, and to replace him on the throne. Saturn, unmindful of his son’s kindness, conspired against him, when he heard that he raised cabals against him, but Jupiter banished him from his throne, and the father fled for safety into Italy, where the country retained the name of Lalium, as being the place of his concealment (lateo). Janus, who was then king of Italy, received Saturn with marks of attention, he made him his partner on the throne; and the king of heaven employed himself in civilizing the barbarous manners of the people of Italy, and in teaching them agriculture and the useful and liberal arts. His reign there was so mild and popular, so bene- 192 THE EHENCII TRANSLATOR. ficent and virtuous, that mankind have called it the golden age, to intimate the happiness and tranquillity which the earth then enjoyed.—The god is generally represented as an old man bent through age and infirmity. He holds a scythe in his right hand, with a serpent which bites its own tail, which is an emblem of time and the revolution of the year. II.—CYBELE. CYbeLe, a goddess, daughter of Ccelus and Terra, and wife of Saturn. According to Diodorus, she was the daughter of a Lydian prince called Menos, by his wife Dindymene, and he adds, that as soon as she was born she was exposed on a mountain. She was preserved and suckled by some of the wild beasts of the forest, and received the name of Cybele from the mountain where her life had been preserved. When she returned to her father’s court, she had an intrigue with Atys, a beautiful youth. Cybele was generally represented as a robust woman, far advanced in her pregnancy, to intimate the fecundity of the earth. She held keys in her hand, and her head was crowned with rising turrets, and sometimes with the leaves of an oak. She sometimes appears riding in a chariot drawn by two tame lions; Atys follows by her side, carrying a ball in his hand, and supporting himself upon a fir tree, which is sacred to the goddess. Some- times Cybele is represented with a sceptre in her hand, with her head covered with a tower. She is also seen with many breasts, to show that the earth gives aliments to all living creatures ; and she generally carries two lions under her arms. From Phrygia the worship of Cybele passed into Greece, and was solemnly established at Eleusis, under the name of the Eleusinian mysteries of Cretes.—It is supposed that the mysteries of Cybele were first known about 1580 years B. C. The Romans were particularly superstitious in washing every year, on the 6th of the calends of April, the shrine of the goddess in the waters of the river Almon. III. JUPITER. Jupiter, the most powerful of all the gods of the ancients. According to the opinion of the mythologists, Jupiter was saved from destruction by his mother. As soon as he was a year old, Jupiter found himself sufficiently strong to make war against the Titans, who had imprisoned his father because he had brought MYTHOLOGY. 193 Up male children. The Titans were conquered, and Saturn set at liberty by the hands of his son. Saturn, however, soon after, apprehensive of the power of Jupiter, conspired against his life, and was, for this treachery, driven from his kingdom, and oblige ed to fly for safety into Latium. Jupiter, now become the sole master of the empire of the world, divided it with his brothers. He reserved for himself the kingdom of heaven, and gave the empire of the sea to Neptune, and that of the infernal regions to Pluto. The peaceful beginning of his reign was soon interrupted by the rebellion of the giants, who were sons of the earth, and who wished to revenge the death of their relations the Titans. They were so powerful that they hurled rocks, and heaped up mountains upon mountains, to scale heaven, so that all the gods to avoid their fury fled to Egypt, where they escaped from the danger by assuming the form of different animals. Jupiter, however, animated them, and by the assistance of Hercules, he totally overpowered the gigantic race, which had proved such tremendous enemies. The worship of Jupiter surpasses that of the other gods in solemnity. His altars were not, like those of Saturn and Diana, stained with the blood of human victims, but he was delighted with the sacrifice of goats, sheep, and white bulls. The oak was sacred to him, because he first taught mankind to live upon acorns. He is generally represented as sitting upon a golden or ivory throne, holding, in one hand, thunderbolts just ready to be hurled, and in the other, a sceptre of cypress. His looks express majesty, his beard flows long and neglected, and the eagle stands with expanded wings at his feet.—Jupiter had several oracles, the most celebrated of which were at Dodona, and Ammon, in Lybia. IV.—JUNO. Juno, a celebrated deity among the ancients, daughter of Sa- turn and Ops. She was sister to Jupiter, Pluto, Neptune, Vesta, Ceres, &c. She was born at Argos, or, accordingto others, in Samos, and was entrusted to the care of the Seasons, or, as Homer and Ovid mention, to Oceanus and Tethys. Some of the inhabitants of Argolis supposed that she had been brought up by the three indaughters Arcadia, of maintained, the river Asterion; that she andhad thebeen people educated of Stymphalus, under the care of Temenus, the son of Pelasgus. Juno was devoured by Saturn, according to some mythologists ; and according to Apol- lodorus, she was again restored to the world by means of a potion which Metis gave to Saturn, to make him throw up the stone N 194 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. which his wife had given him to swallow instead of Jupiter.—Ju- piter was not insensible to the charms of his sister. The nuptials of Jupiter and Juno were celebrated with the greatest solemnity : the gods, all mankind, and all the brute creation, attended. Chelone, a young woman, was the only one who refused to come, and who derided the ceremony. For this impiety Mercury changed her into a tortoise, and condemned her to perpetual silence ; from which circumstance the tortoise has always been used as a symbol of silence among the ancients. By her marriage with Jupiter, Juno became queenof all thegods, and mistress of heaven and earth. Her conjugal happiness, however, was frequently disturbed by the numerous amours of her husband, and she shewed herself jealous and inexorable in the highest degree. Her severity to the mistress and illegitimate children of her husband was unparalleled. She persecuted Hercules and his descendants with the most inveterate fury; and her resentment against Paris, who had given the golden apple to Venus in preference to herself, was the cause of the Trojan war, and of all the miseries which happened to the unfortunate house of Priam.—She is represented sitting on a throne with a diadem on her head, and a golden sceptre in her right hand. Some peacocks generally sat by her, and a cuckoo often perched on her sceptre, while Iris behind her displayed the thousand colours of her beautiful rainbow. She is sometimes carried through the air in a rich chariot drawn by peacocks. V NEPTUNE. Neptune, a god, son of Saturn and Ops, and brother to Ju- piter, Pluto, and Juno. He was devoured by his father the day of his birth, and again restored to life by means of Metis, who gave Saturn a certain potion. Neptune shared with his brothers the empire of Saturn, and received as his portion the kingdom of the sea. This, however, did not seem equivalent to the empire of heaven and earth, which Jupiter had claimed, therefore he conspired to dethrone him, with the rest of the gods. The conspiracy was discovered, and Jupiter condemned Neptune to build the walls of Troy. A reconciliation was soon after made, and Neptune was re-instated in all rights and privileges. Neptune disputed with Minerva the right of giving a name to the capital of Cecropia, but he was defeated, and the olive which the goddess suddenly raised from the earth was deemed more serviceable for the good of mankind, than the horse which Neptune had produced by striking the ground with his trident, as that animal MYTHOLOGY. 195 is the emblem of war and slaughter. This decision did not please Neptune; he renewed the combat by disputing for Trcezene, but Jupiter settled their disputes by permitting them to be conjointly worshipped there, and by giving the name of Polias, or the pro- tectress of the city, to Minerva, and that of king of Trcezene to the god of the sea. Neptune, as being gdd of the sea, was entitled to more power than any of the other gods, except Jupiter. The ocean, rivers, and fountains, were subjected to him ; he also could cause earthquakes at his pleasure, and raise islands from the bottom of the sea with a blow of his trident. The worship of Neptune was established in almost every part of the earth, and the Libyans in particular venerated him above all other nations, and looked upon him as the first and greatest of the gods.—He was generally represented sitting in a chariot made of a shell, and drawn by sea horses or dolphins. Some- times he is drawn by winged horses, and holds his trident in his hand, and stands up as his chariot flies over the surface of the sea. Homer represents him as issuing from the sea, and in three steps crossing the whole horizon. VI.—PLUTO. Pluto, a son of Saturn and Ops, inherited his father’s kingdom with his brothers Jupiter and Neptune. He received as his lot the kingdom of hell, and whatever lies under the earth ; and as such he became the god of the infernal regions, of death and funerals. From his functions, and the place he inhabited, he received different names. As the place of his residence was obscure and gloomy, all the goddesses refused to marry him ; but he determined to obtain by force what was denied to his solicitations. As he once visited the island of Sicily, after a violent earthquake, he saw Proserpine, the daughter of Ceres, gathering flowers in the plains of Enna, with a crowd of female attendants. He became enamoured of her, and immediately carried her away upon his chariot drawn by four horses. To make his retreat the more unknown, he opened himself a passage through the earth, by striking it with his trident either in the lake of Cyane in Sicily, or on the borders of the Cephisus in Attica. Pluto is generally represented as holding a sceptre with two teeth; he has also keys in his hands, to intimate that whoever enters his kingdom can never return. He is looked upon as a hard-hearted and inexorable god, with a grim and dismal- coun- tenance, and for that reason no temples were raised to his honour as to therest of the superior gods. Black victims, and particularly J96 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. a bull, were the only sacrifices which were offered to him, and their blood was not sprinkled on the altars, or received in ves- sels, as at other sacrifices, but it was permitted to run down into the earth, as if it were to penetrate as far as the realms of the god. VII. APOLLO. Apollo, son of Jupiter and Latona, called also Phoebus, is often confounded with the sun. Apollo was the god of all the fine arts, of medicine, music, poetry, and eloquence, of all which he was deemed the inventor. When his son ASsculapius had been killed with the thunders of Jupiter, for raising the dead to life, Apollo, in his resentment, killed the Cyclops who had fabricated the thunderbolts. Jupiter was incensed at this act of violence, and he banished Apollo from heaven, and deprived him of his dignity. The exiled deity came to Admetus king of Thes- saly, and hired himself to be one of his shepherds, in which ig- noble employment he remained nine years; from which circumstance he was called the god of shepherds, and at his sacrifices a wolf was generally offered, as that animal is the declared enemy of the sheepfold. During his residence in Thessaly, he rewarded the tender treatment of Admetus. He was not the inventor of the lyre, as some have imagined, but Mercury gave it him, and received as a reward the famous caduceus with which Apollo was wont to drive the flocks of Admetus. His contest, with Pan and Marsyas, and the punishment of Midas, are well known. Apollo is generally represented with long hair, and the Ro- mans were fond of imitating his figure, and therefore in their youth they were remarkable for their fine heads of hair, which they cut short at the age of seventeen or eighteen. He is always represented as a tall beardless young man, with a handsome shape, holding in his hand a bow, and sometimes a lyre; his head is generally surrounded with beams of light. He was the deity who, according to the notions of the ancients, inflicted plagues, and in that moment he appeared surrounded with clouds. His worship and power were universally acknowledged: he had temples and statues in every country, particularly in Egypt, Greece, and Italy. VIII. —VENUS. Venus, one of the most celebrated deities of the ancients. She was the goddess of beauty, the mother of love, the queen of MYTHOLOGY. 197 laughter, the mistress of the graces and of pleasures. She arose from the sea near the island of Cyprus, or, according to Hesiod, of Cythera, whither she was wafted by the zephyrs, and received on the sea-shore by the seasons, daughters of Jupiter and Themis. She was soon after carried to heaven, where all the gods admired her beauty, and all the goddesses became jealous of her personal charms. Jupiter attempted to gain her affections, and even wished to offer her violence, but Venus refused, and the god, to punish her obstinacy, gave her in marriage to his ugly and deformed son Vulcan. Her great partiality for Adonis made her abandon the seats of Olympus, and her regard for Anchises obliged her often to visit the woods and solitary retreats of mount Ida. The power of Venus over the heart was supported and assisted by a celebrated girdle, called zone by the Greeks, and cestus by the Latins. This mysterious girdle gave beauty, grace, and elegance, when worn even by the most deformed; and it excited love, and rekindled extinguished flames. Juno herself was indebted to this powerful ornament, to gain the favours of Jupiter; and Venus, though herself possessed of every charm, no sooner put on her cestus, than Vulcan, unable to resist the influence of love, forgot all the intrigues and infidelities of his wife, and fabricated arms even for illegitimate children. The contest of Venus for the golden apple of Discord is well known. She gained the prize over Pallas and Juno, and rewarded her impartial judge with the hand of the fairest woman in the world.—The worship of Venus was universally established; statues and temples were erected to her in every kingdom. The rose, the myrtle, and the apple, were sacred to Venus; and among birds, the dove, the swan, and the sparrow, were her favourites.—She is generally represented with her son Cupid, on a chariot drawn by doves, or at other times by swans and sparrows. IX MARS. Mars, the god of war among the ancients, was the son of Ju- piter and Juno, according to Hesiod, Homer, and all the Greek poets, or of Juno alone, according to Ovid. The amours of Mars and Venus are greatly celebrated. In the wars of Jupiter and the Titans, Mars was seized by Otus and Ephialtes, and confined for fifteen months, till Mercury procured him his liberty. During the Trojan war Mars interested himself on the side of the Trojans, but whilst he defended these favourites of Venus with uncommon activity, he was wounded by Diomedes, and hastily- retreated to heaven to conceal his confusion and his resentment. 19$ THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. and to complain to Jupiter that Minerva had directed the unerr- ing weapon of his antagonist.—The worship of Mars was not very universal among the ancients; his temples were not numerous in Greece, but in Rome he received the most unbounded honours, and the warlike Romans were proud of paying homage to a deity whom they esteemed as the patron of their city, and the father of the first of their monarchs. His most celebrated temple at Rome was built by Augustus after the battle of Philippi. It was dedicated to Mars ultor, or the avenger.—Mars was generally represented in the naked figure of an old man, armed with a helmet, a pike, and a shield. Sometimes he appeared in a military dress, and with a long flowing beard, and sometimes without. He generally rode in a chariot drawn by furious horses, which the poets called Flight and Terror. X. MINERVA. Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, war, and all the liberal arts, was produced from Jupiter’s brain without a mother. The god, as it is reported, married Metis, whose superior prudence and sagacity above the rest of the gods, made him apprehend that the children of such an union would be of a more exalted nature, and more intelligent than their father. To prevent this, Jupiter devoured Metis in her pregnancy, and some time after, to relieve the pains which he suffered in his head, he ordered Vulcan to cleave it open. - Minerva came all armed and grown up from her father’s brain, and immediately was admitted into the assembly of the gods, and made one of the most faithful counsellors of her father. The power of Minerva was great in heaven; she could hurl the thunders of Jupiter, prolong the life of men, bestow the gift of prophecy, and, indeed, she was the only one of all the divini- ties whose authority was equal to that of Jupiter. The actions of Minerva are numerous, as well "as the kindness by which she endeared herself to mankind. Her quarrel with Neptune concerning the right of giving a name to the capital of Cecropia, deserves attention. The assembly of the gods settled the dispute by promising the preference to which- ever of the two gave the most useful and necessary present to the inhabitants of the earth. Neptune, upon this, struck the ground with his trident, and immediately a horse issued from the earth. Minerva produced the olive, and obtained the victory by the unanimous voice of the gods, who observed that the olive, as the emblem of peace, is far preferable to the horse, the symbol of war and bloodshed. The victorious deity called the capital A the. MYTHOLOGY. 199 nee, and became the tutelar goddess of the place. The worship of Minerva was universally established; she had magnificent temples in Egypt, Phoenicia, all parts of Greece, Italy, Gaul, and Sicily. Sais, Rhodes, and Athens, particularly claimed her attention, and it is even said, that Jupiter rained a shower of gold upon the island of Rhodes, which had paid so much veneration, and such an early reverence to the divinity of his daughter. The festivals celebrated in her honour were magnificent. Minerva was represented in different ways, according to the different characters in which she appeared. She generally appeared with a countenance full more of masculine firmness and composure, than of softness and grace. Most usually she was represented with a helmet oh her head, with a large plume nod- ding in the air. In one hand she held a spear, and in the other a shield, with the dying head of Medusa upon it. Sometimes this Gorgon’s head was on her breast-plate, with living serpents writhing round it, as well as round her shield and helmet. In most of her statues she is represented as sitting, and sometimes she holds in one hand a distaff, instead of a spear. When she appeared as the goddess of the liberal arts, she was arrayed in a variegated veil, which the ancients called peplum. Sometimes Minerva’s helmet was covered at the top with the figure of a cock, a bird which, on account of his great courage, is properly sacred to the goddess of war. Some of her statues represented her helmet with a sphinx in the middle, supported on either side by griffins. XI.—MERCURY. Mercury, a celebrated god of antiquity, called Hermes by the Greeks. Mercury was the messenger of the gods, and of Jupiter in particular; he was the patron of travellers and of shepherds; he conducted the souls of the dead into the infernal regions, and not only presided over orators, merchants, declaim- ers, but he was also the god of thieves, pickpockets, and all dishonest persons. His name is derived a mercibus, because he was the god of merchandize among the Latins. He was born, according to the more received opinion, in Arcadia, on mount Cyl- lene, and in his infancy he was entrusted to the care of the Sea- sons. The day that he was born, or more probably the following day, he gave an early proof of his craftiness and dishonesty, in stealing away the oxen of Admetus which Apollo tended. He gave another proof of his thievish propensity, by taking also the quiver and arrows of the divine shepherd; and he increased his 200 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. fame by robbing Neptune of his trident, Venus of her girdle, | Mars of his sword, Jupiter of his sceptre, and Vulcan of many of his mechanical instruments. These specimens of his art re- 1 commended him to the notice of the gods, and Jupiter took him as his messenger, interpreter, and cup-bearer in the assembly of j the gods. This last office he discharged till the promotion of Ga- nymede. He was presented by the king of heaven with a wing- ; ed cap called petasus, and with wings for his feet called talaria. He had also a short sword called herpe, which he lent to Perseus, j With these he was enabled to go into whatever part of the universe he pleased with the greatest celerity, and besides he was permitted to make himself invisible, and to assume whatever shape he pleased. As messenger of Jupiter, he was intrusted with all his secrets. He was the ambassador and plenipotentiary of the gods, and he was concerned in all alliances and treaties. He was the confidant of Jupiter’s amours, and he often was set to watch over the jealousy and intrigues of Juno. The invention of the lyre and its seven strings is ascribed to him. This he gave to Apollo, and received in exchange the celebrated caduceus with which the god of poetry used to drive the flocks of king Admetus. His worship was well established, particularly in Greece, Egypt, and Italy. He was worshipped at Tanagra in Bceotia, under the name of Criophorus, and represented as carrying a ram on his shoulders, because he delivered the inhabitants from a pestilence, by telling them to carry a ram in that manner round the walls of their city. The Roman merchants yearly celebrated a festival on the 15th of May, in honour of Mercury, in a temple near the Circus Maximus. Sometimes he is represented sitting upon a Cray fish, holding in one hand his caduceus, and in the other the claws of the fish. At other times he is like a young man without a beai-d, holding in one hand a purse, as being the tutelary god of merchants, with a cock on his wrists as an emblem of vigilance, and at his feet a goat, a scorpion, and a fly. The Greeks and Romans offered tongues to him by throwing them into the fire, as he was the patron of speaking, of which the tongue is the organ. Sometimes his statues represent him as without arms, because, according to some, the power of speech can prevail over every thing, even without the assistance of arms. Xll. BACCHUS. Bacchus was son of Jupiter and Semele, the daughter of Cadmus. After she had enjoyed the company of Jupiter, Semele was deceived, and perished by the artifice of Juno. Bacchus is the Osiris of the Egyptians, and his history is drawn from the MYTHOLOGV. 201 Egyptian traditions concerning that ancient king. Bacchus assisted the gods in their wars against the giants, and was cut to pieces ; but the son of Semele was not then born ; this tradition therefore is taken from the history of Osiris, who was killed by his brother Typhon, and the worship of Osiris has been introduced by Orpheus into Greece, under the name of Bacchus. In his youth he was taken asleep in the island of Naxos, and carried away by some mariners, whom he changed into dolphins, except the pilot, who had expressed some concern at his misfortune. His expedition into the east is most celebrated. He marched, at the head of an army composed of men, as well as of women, all inspired with divine fury, and armed with thyrsuses, cymbals, and other musical instruments. The leader was drawn in a chariot by a lion and a tiger, and was accompanied by Pan and Si- lenus, and all the Satyrs. His conquests were easy, and without bloodshed: the people easily submitted, and gratefully elevated to the rank of a god the hero who taught them the use of the vine, the cultivation of the earth, and the art of making honey. As he was the god of vintage, of wine, and of drinkers, he is generally represented crowned with vine and ivy leaves, with a thyrsus in his hand. His figure is that of an effeminate young man, to denote the joys which commonly prevail at feasts ; and sometimes that of an old man, to teach us that wine taken immoderately will enervate us, consume our health, render us lo- quacious and childish like old men, and unable to keep secrets. The panther is sacred to him, because he went in his expedition covered with the skin of that beast. The magpie is also his favourite bird, because in triumphs people were permitted to speak with boldness and liberty. Bacchus is sometimes represented like1 an infant, holding a thyrsus and clusters of grapes with a horn. He often appears naked, and riding upon the shoulders of Pan, or in the arms of Silenus, who was his foster father. XIII. DIANA. Diana was the goddess of hunting. According to Cicero, there were three of this name j a daughter of Jupiter and Proser- pine, who became mother of Cupid ; a daughter of Jupiter and Latona; and a daughter of Upsis and Glauce. The second is the most celebrated, and to her all the ancients allude. She obtained from her father the permission to live in perpetual celibacy, and to preside over the birth of children. To shun the society of men, she devoted herself to hunting, and obtained the permission of Jupitcr to have for her attendants 60 of the Oceanides, 202 FRENCH TRANSLATOR. and 20 other nymphs, all of whom, like herself, abjured the use of marriage. She is represented with a bent bow and quiver, and attended with dogs, and sometimes drawn in a chariot by two white stags. Sometimes she appears with wings, holding a lion in one hand, and a panther in the other, with a chariot drawn by two heifers, or two horses of different colours. She is represented taller by the head than her attendant nymphs ; her face has something manly, her legs are bare, well shaped, and strong, and her feet are covered with a buskin, worn by hun- tresses among the ancients. She was supposed to be the same as the moon, and Proserpine or Hecate, and from that circumstance she was called Triformis: and some of her statues represented her with three heads, that of a horse, a dog, and a boar. The goddess is generally known in the figures that represent her, by the crescent on her head, by the dogs which attend her, and by her hunting habit. The most famous of her temples was that of Ephesus, which was one of the seven wonders of the world. XIV—THE MUSES. Mus.®, certain goddesses who presided over poetry, music, dancing, and all the liberal arts. They were daughters of Jupi- ter and Mnemosyne, and were nine in number; Clio, Euterpe, Thalia, Melpomene, Terpsichore, Erato, Polyhymnia, Calliope, and Urania. Apollo, who was the patron and the conductor of the Muses, has received the name of Musagetes, or leader of the Muses. The same surname was also given to Hercules. The palm tree, the laurel, and all the fountains of Pindus, Helicon, Parnassus, &c. were sacred to the Muses. They were generally represented as young, beautiful, and modest virgins. They were fond of solitude, and commonly appeared in different attire, according to the arts and sciences over which they presided. Sometimes they are represented dancing in a chorus, to intimate the connexion existing between the liberal arts and sciences. History belonged to Clio, music to Euterpe, comedy to Thalia, tragedy to Melpomene, dancing to Terpsichore, poetry to Erato, songs to Polyhymnia, eloquence to Calliope, and astronomy to Urania The worship of the Muses was universally established, particularly in the enlightened parts of Greece, Thessaly, and Italy. No sacrifices were ever offered to them, though no poet ever began a poem without a solemn invocation to the goddesses who presided over verse. There were festivals instituted in their honour in several parts of Greece, especially among the Thes- pians, every fifth year. CHAPTER VI.

NATIONAL CHARACTERS.

I. CAUSES OF NATIONAL CHARACTERS. The vulgar are very apt to carry all national characters to extremes ; and having once established it as a principle that any people are knavish, or cowardly, or ignorant, they will admit of no exception, but comprehend every individual under the same character. Men of sense condemn these undistinguishing judg- ments ; though at the same time they allow that each nation has a peculiar set of manners, and that some particular qualities are more frequently to. be met with among one people than among their neighbours. The common people in Swit- zerland have surely more probity than those of the same rank in Ireland ; and every prudent man will, from that circumstance alone, make a difference in the trust which he reposes in each. We have reason to expect greater wit and gaiety in a Frenchman than in a Spaniard, though Cervantes was born in Spain. An Englishman will naturally be thought to have more wit than a Dane, though Tycho Brahe was a native of Denmark. Different reasons are assigned for these national characters, while some account for them from moral, and others from physical causes. By moral causes I mean all circumstances which are fitted to work on the mind, as motives or reasons, and which render a peculiar set of manners habitual to us. Of this kind are the nature of the government, the revolutions of public affairs, the plenty or penury in which the people live, the situation of the nation with regard to its neighbours, and such like circumstances. By physical causes, I mean those qualities of the air and climate, which are supposed to work insensibly on the temper, by altering the tone and habit of the body, and giving a particular complexion; which, though reflection and reason may sometimes overcome, yet will it prevail among the generality of mankind, and have an influence on their manners. That the character of a nation will very much depend on mo- 204 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. ral causes, must be evident to the most superficial observer ; since a nation is nothing but a collection of individuals, and the manners of individuals are frequently determined by these causes. As poverty and hard labour debase the minds of the common people, and render them unfit for any science and ingenious profession, so where any government becomes very oppressive to all its subjects, it must have a proportional effect on their temper and genius, and must banish all the liberal arts from amongst them. The same principle of moral causes fixes the characters of different professions, and alters even the disposition which the particular members receive from the hand of nature. A soldier and a philosopher are different characters in all nations and all ages, and this difference is founded on circumstances, whose operation is external and unalterable. The uncertainty of their life makes soldiers lavish and generous, as well as brave: their idleness, as well as the large societies which they form in camps or garrisons, inclines them to pleasure and gallantry; by their frequent change of company they acquire good breeding and an openness of behaviour; being employed only against a public and open enemy, they become candid, honest, and undesigning; and as they use more the labour of the body than the mind, they are commonly thoughtless and ignorant. ’Tis a trite but not altogether a false maxim, that philosophers of all countries are the same ; and though the character of the profession will not in every instance prevail over the personal character, yet is it sure always to predominate with the greater number. For as chemists observe, that spirits when raised to a certain height are all the same, from whatever materials they be extracted ; so these men being elevated above humanity, acquire an uniform character which is entirely their own, and which is, in my opinion, generally speaking, not the most amiable that is to be met with in human society ; it is in most points opposite to that of a soldier, as is the way of life from which Humesit is derived. Essays. II. THE EGYPTIANS. The Egyptians had the misfortune to differ in their opinions and religious ceremonies. In one place they worshipped the crocodile ; in another the ichneumon, the enemy of the crocodile : in one province they were afraid to kill a sheep, and lived up- NATIONAL CHARACTERS. son on the flesh of goats ; while in another, goats were superstitiously respected, and they lived upon mutton : from whence sprung reproaches of impiety, hatred, and quarrels. When once superstition takes root among men, it shows itself by springing up in a thousand hideous shapes. In the beginning of their establishment, the Egyptians sacrificed human victims : they reckoned it a duty neither to eat beans nor wheat, and their bread was made of olyra, probably rice. They abhorred some animals as unclean, especially hogs. They looked upon foreigners with a religious aversion, and to such a degree, that they durst not eat with them, nor make use of any utensil belonging to them, nor even put a bit of meat into their mouths which had been cut with one of their knives. On the feast of Isis, both men and women scourged themselves, and committed most horrid indecencies on that of Diana. They consulted their animal deities as oracles. The manners of the Egyptians were as fantastical as their religion. Respect for parents and for old age, gratitude for benefits, love of peace, and an attachment to old customs, made their principal virtues ■ to which they added great faults and a number of vices. Idle and effeminate, they employed themselves in spinning, while the women, who were mistresses at home, likewise managed their business abroad. They obliged the female and not the male children to take care of their parents ; they despised and hated foreigners ; they fancied nothing could be good or beautiful which was not of their own country : prejudices exceedingly injurious to society, and destructive of the public good. One custom, which Herodotus tells us was established in AtEgypt, their willmeals, not and help even us atto theirjudge parties favourably of pleasure, of their the manners.figure of death in wood, or according to some authors, a dead body, was introduced in a coffin, and presented to each of the company with these words. Drink and rejoice, for to this complexion you mill come at last. Millot’s Universal History. III. THE GREEKS. eitherLycurgus because andtheir Solon ideas having were not followed the same, quite or differentthe genius systems, of the people was not suited to receive the same kind of laws, Sparta and Athens formed a very extraordinary contrast. The one was 206 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. devoted entirely to war, and no citizen could have any other employment; he must therefore either prove a hero, or renounce his country : the other received all the arts, and every kind of learning ; every Athenian was obliged to be a soldier in case of necessity, but he might also be whatever he pleased, provided he was engaged in some employment. There, a rigorous poverty destroyed the springs of avarice and self-interest, and chained up every passion but those which prompted to glory or promoting the good of the state : here, the prospect of wealth encouraged industry, commerce, and genius, and the heart was equally engaged in advancing public and private interest. At Sparta, the habit of implicit obedience was contracted from the cradle, and continued through life; and the generals or magistrates needed only to give the signal to have their purposes immediately executed : At Athens, they endured subjection and restraint with impatience ; loved licentiousness under the name of liberty, giving themselves up to their unbridled fancy ; and often insulted the laws and the magistrates, because their power was too weak to prevent their becoming the sport of a popular assembly. The excessive austerity of the Spartans, which from education became a second nature, confirmed a government, founded upon the manners ; and the strength of government, in its turn, supported that against the propensities of human nature. The A- thenian manners, softened by a relish for pleasures, and wavering from a want of established principles, could not be amended by a bad plan of government, and therefore could not fail to increase the mischief. The haughty, inflexible, and imperious Spartan, always anxious to command, often became cruel and unjust in following a regular system of politics: the Athenians, valiant, brave, ingenious, industrious, gentle, and polite, but vain, trifling and inconstant, distinguished themselves by glorious actions and noble works, amidst an infinite number of faults. The manner in which these two states treated their slaves, sufficiently displays the difference of their character. In comparison of the Helotes, the Athenian slaves were the happiest of mankind. In case of grievance, they had a right to apply to justice for redress against their masters : they were allowed to purchase land, and to redeem themselves, when they had amassed a sufficient sum for that purpose; they were often made free, as a recompence for their services, or from pure generosity, and then they made choice of patrons who protected their interests. As much as the Helotes justly detested the Spartans, so much ought the Athenian slaves to have been attached to their masters, if it were possible to inspire a love for slavery. NATIONAL CHARACTERS. 207 This humanity, which extended even to the brutes, certainly proceeded in a great measure from the cultivation of the mind. A taste for learning, which contributes so much to soften the manners, had already been begun to be displayed in Attica. Millot’s Universal History* IV. THE ROMANS. Montesquieu makes the following important remark : • “ We observe,” says he, “that our armies at present are greatly diminished by excessive fatigue; yet by that very thing those of Rome were preserved. I believe the reason is, that they were kept in constant exercise, while our soldiers pass incessantly from the severest toil to extreme idleness, which is of all things the most likely to destroy them. The Roman soldiers were accustomed to march twenty, sometimes twenty-four miles in five hours, carrying at the same time a weight of sixty pounds. They were kept in constant practice of running and jumping in armour • in their common exercise they carried swords, arrows and javelins, double the weight of their ordinary arms, and these exercises were continual.” Is it surprising that such soldiers, under strict discipline, gained so many victories ? We have seen how useful military rewards and punishments have been from the earliest ages, to support discipline and inspire courage j both of which were prudently distributed. Though they inflicted punishments, such as the bastinado, and even death, nothing had so powerful an effect as shame and disgrace. All kinds of rewards, variety of crowns, triumphs, ovations, the spolia opima, derived their value from the honours which accompanied them, till the love of money made riches to be preferred before honour; the natural consequence of extensive conquests, and the infallible sign of a speedy decay. During the second Punic war, the Porcian law forbid a Roman citizen to be beaten with rods. It was to be expected that this, softening the severity of the ancient laws, would inspire the people with sentiments still more noble. Though it is taken notice of by very few writers, yet to popu- lation, which was the effect of sound morals and a sacred regard for marriage, Rome chiefly owed her prosperity. Not long after the first Punic war, the censors, finding the number of citizens greatly diminished, exacted an oath from all that were not married, that they would enter into that state, and only with a view of raising subjects to the republic. It is very extraordinary, that though we find a number of ves- 208 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. tals suffering for having violated their vows of virginity in every age, yet in the whole space of five hundred years, notwithstanding the indulgence of the laws, we hear not of a single instance of a divorce : which on the one hand, must have been owing to the very dangerous temptations to which the vestals were exposed ; while on the other, the conjugal union was confirmed by sound morals. It was from their connection with Greece that the Romans became enlightened, and their taste and manners refined. Terence and Plautus extricated the Roman stage from barbarity. The last has more of the comic power, the piquant bitter salt of Aristo- phanes ; but the other, who is still read with the greatest pleasure, transplanted the Attic elegance of Manander into a country where nothing but thorns had been produced, if we may use the expression, before the time of these two poets. It has been alleged, that Scipio Emilianus and Laelius joined him in the composition of his pieces ; which is equally an encomium upon them, and upon Terence. These great men were accompanied upon their expeditions by Polybius the historian, and Panaetius the philosopher. By this time, the love of the helles leilres, philosophy, and the sciences, had cleared off that savage rust which the Romans had derived from their ancestors. Millot’s Universal Hislort/. V. THE SWISS. Among a spirited people, tyranny has been always productive of liberty. Oppressed after being free, they have taken arms a- gainst their tyrants ; even defied death, in order to break the yoke of oppression, and carried their point by heroism and perseverance. Happy in their independence, if they strengthen their government by good laws, and such as are proper to guard against the causes of dissolution, arising either from the nature of things or political events. No state appears less exposed to this, than the confederated republic of the thirteen Swiss Cantons. It took its rise in 1307, and was at first composed only of three cantons, Schwitz, Uri, and Underwalden, which revolted against the emperor Albert. In a short time Lucerne joined the confederacy, which was afterwards strengthened by the accession of Zurich, Zug, Glaris, and Berne. Friburg and Soleure joined it tin 1481 ; Basle, Schaff- hausen, and Appenzel, entered into it at the beginning of the six- teenth century. These members of the Helvetic body were na- NATIONAL CHARACTERS. 209 turally united by a common interest, and to this union they owed their strength and security. Independent on one another, governed each by their own laws and magistrates, but leagued for mutual defence, they have acquired a lasting tranquillity amidst the convulsions of Europe. One of our sybarites, at sight of their rugged mountains covered with snow, their towns without luxury or public diversions, and almost all poor, will look upon the Swiss as unhappy. But the sage will perceive, that their happiness consists in that active poverty, and that masculine simplicityj which confine their wants, and furnish necessaries : preserve their morals, and give a zest to the true pleasures of nature ; which make men virtuous, free, and content. All being on a level, that is, equally subject to the laws, the difference of fortune is not sufficiently great among them to enable any to become masters of the others. In most of the cantons, the people have the right of bearing offices ; and the magistrates cannot abuse a power which is limited by time, and restrained by the public superintendence. Simple and equitable laws are executed without restraint; and the statutes acquire their greatest strength from the manners. A singular proof of their prudence is, that their political harmony makes them almost forget the difference of religion. The civil wars which fanaticism kindled at the beginning of the reformation, were extinguished in a short time. Four protestant cantons, Basle, Schauffhausen, Berne, and Zurich; twro, Claris and Appenzel, containing a mixture of protestants and catholics ; and the seven others, which are entirely catholics, formed a peaceable union, even at the time when Europe was still reeking with the blood which had been spilt under the pretence of religion. The greater progress that knowledge made among the Swiss, the more convincing was that lesson of Christian morality, that all men are brethren, and that no difference in doctrine ought to break so respectable ties. VI—French and ENGLisri. to Thehave French,experienced of allno alterationnations, possess whatever a character for many which ages. seemsThat nation has always been brave, gay, sincere, presumptuous, fickle, and inconsiderate; but it must be conceded that the heart is the seat of their virtues, and the head that of their vice£ The great defect of that nation, is, to be always young, rarely to become men ; and as they arrive seldom at a mature age. O 210 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. they pass from youth to caducity, without having felt the advantages derived from that period of life, where the vigour of youth is tempered by reflection and good sense. The talents of the French are announced early; but, through dissipation, they are often neglected ; and, in general, the number of those who can speak from experience or cultivation is very limited. The French are composed of strength and weakness, and seem to unite the two extremes. According to the general opinion, they are effeminate, although courageous and hardy,—at times lavish and splendid, without real generosity,—good warriors, but fond of formalities and minutiae,—excellent theorists, and indifferent practitioneVs,—expert in the art of gaining applause, without specific brilliant qualities,'—serious in trifles, and gay in the most important duties,—women before ladies’ toilets, yet heroes in the field of war;—lastly, they are as ready to abandon a system or a friend, as a custom or a fashion. As for the English, whose character of integrity, firmness, and simplicity, is well known,—they are influenced by the incle- mency of their climate, and seem to partake of a certain intemperance, melancholy, and gloom, which give them a thoughtful physiognomy, and a kind of gravity that cannot be got rid of, even in the midst of their pleasures. Being a mixture of German and French blood, the English cannot conceal their double origin; its royal, aristocratical, and democratical government; its religion, less pompous than the Catholic, and more splendid than the Calvinistic; its military both: heavy and active; its literature, arts, language, customs, forms of the body, every thing in short, betrays the double source from which their national character flows. Although a reflecting nation, the English exhibit many proofs of instability in their ideas; they are humane, yet fond of sanguinary sights; moderate in their dress, and intemperate at their table ; slow in their resolution, quick in their amusements ; divided upon internal politics, and united as to external; just among themselves, and tyrannical towards foreigners; lastly, wise and cool, and yet easily to be moved and to be deceived. Looking back to the ancient ages, those times when ferocious manners scarcely left any vestiges of humanity ; where savage, yet vicious nature, rushed headlong into all sorts of crimes; where only merciless tyrants and stupid slaves were to be seen, as in the times of feodal lords and princes both in France and in England; where entire nations were governed by monstrous prejudices ; where a sanguinary anarchy erected the right of the strongest into the only law; where superstition, so destructive NATIONAL CHARACTERS. 211 of itself, kindled the rage of fanaticism, by erecting auto-de-fes, and inventing other torments, suggested by English and French inquisitions ; where civil wars continually renewed the massacres of the people; in a word, where there was nothing to be met but stupidity, blindness, injustice, barbarity, oppression, the blackest crimes and severest calamities ; we must then be sensible of the value of the arts and sciences, social manners, and beneficent, though imperfect laws, which are enjoyed by a great part of Europe, and especially in France and in England; and must confess, that, amidst great abuses and great vices, reason brought to the highest pitch of improvement, opens the way for prudence and happiness, and softens the calamities of life. The English have, from the first, distinguished themselves by a depth of genius in the culture of the sciences, which can never be disputed with them; the French have displayed, in the belles lettres, with agreeable and sublime talents, those graces and that taste by which they are characterised. The former have afterwards displayed the brightest charms of poetry, imagination, elegance, and true beauty, united to the treasures of knowledge and reason ; the latter have contended with them in their turn, and not without success, by a strength of genius capable of penetrating whatever is within the reach of human understanding. If the first are superior from a connected train of thought and a steady perseverance, in which they are favoured by the national character; the second perhaps excel in a delicacy of feeling, a justness of method and clearness of style, which even their rivals sometimes acknowledge, by imitating them. In a word, one may venture to say, that both nations share between them the glory of furnishing models for all Europe, and instruct- ing it in whatever is worthy the attention of mankind. VII. THE ITALIANS. In their external deportment, the Italians have a grave solemnity of manner, which is sometimes thought to arise from a natural gloominess of disposition. The French, above all other nations, are apt to impute to melancholy the sedate serious air which accompanies reflection. I am often struck with the fine character of countenance to be seen in the streets of Rome. I never saw features more expressive of reflection, sense, and genius. In the very lowest ranks, there are countenances which announce minds fit for the highest and most important situations: and we cannot help regretting. 212 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. that those to whom they belong, have not received an education adequate to the natural abilities we are convinced they possess, and been placed where these abilities could be brought into action. As to the manners of the Italians, they are said to be affable, courteous, ingenious, sober, and witty; but extremely jealous, vindictive, deceitful, ceremonious, and superstitious in their disposition. They are a medium between the French and the Spa- niard, not so volatile as the first, nor so grave and solemn as the last. With respect to sciences, they are in some measure behind France and England; but none can excel them in the liberal arts, for no better politicians, poets, painters, sculptors and musicians, can be found in Europe. Strangers, on their arrival at Rome, form no high idea of the beauty of the Roman women, from the specimens they see in the fashionable circles to which they are first introduced. There are some exceptions ; but, in general, it must be acknowledged, that the present race of women of high rank are more distinguished by their other ornaments than by their beauty. The peasantry of no country in Europe can stand a comparison, in point of looks, with those of England. That rank of people have the conveniences of life in no other country in such perfection ; they are nowhere else so well fed, so well defended from the injuries of the seasons ; and now here else do they keep themselves so perfectly clean, and free from all the vilifying effects of dirt. The English country-girls, taken collectively, are unquestionably the handsomest in the world. The female peasants of most other countries, indeed, are so hard worked, so ill fed, so much tanned by the sun, and so dirty, that it is difficult to know whether they have any beauty or not. Yet it is allowed by some, that, in spite of all these disadvantages, there are sometimes found among the Italian peasantry, countenances highly interesting, and which are preferable to all the cherry cheeks of Lancashire. VIII. THE SPANIARDS. Were the picture of the Spaniards to be drawn from the mani- fold sketches traced by their countrymen, every province in the kingdom would, in its turn, appear a Paradise and a Pandemo- nium, a seat of holy spirits and a receptacle of malicious devils. The Catalonians appear to be the most active, stirring set of men, the best calculated for business, travelling, and manufacto- ries. The Valencians are a more sullen, sedate race; better adapted to the occupations of husbandmen, less eager to change NATIONAL CHARACTERS. 213 place, and of a much more timid suspicious cast of mind than the former. The Andalusians seem to me the greatest talkers and rhodomontadoes of Spain. The Castilians have a manly frankness, and less appearance of cunning and deceit. The New Cas- tilians are perhaps the least industrious of the whole nation ; the Old Castilians are laborious, and retain more of the ancient simplicity of manners ; both are of a firm determined spirit. The Arragonese appear to be a mixture of the Castilians and Catalonians, rather inclining to the former. The Biscayners are acute and diligent, fiery, and impatient of controul; more resembling a colony of republicans than the province of an absolute monarchy. The Galicians are a plodding, pains-taking race of mortals, that roam over Spain in search of a hard-earned subsistence. The listless indolence, equally dear to the uncivilized savage and to the degenerate slave of despotism, is nowhere more indulged than in Spain. Thousands of men, in all parts of . the realm, are seen to pass the whole day wrapped up in a cloak, standing in rows against a wall, or dozing under a tree. In total want of every excitement to action, the springs of their intellectual faculties forget to play, their views grow confined within the wretched sphere of mere existence, and they scarce seem to hope or foresee any thing better than their present state of vegetation. They feel little or no concern for the welfare or glory of a country, where the surface of the earth is engrossed by a few overgrown families, who seldom bestow a thought on the condition of their vassals. The poor Spaniard does not work, unless urged by irresistible want, because he perceives no advantage to accrue from industry. As his food and raiment are purchased at a small expense, he spends no more time in labour, than is absolutely necessary for procuring the scanty provision his abstemiousness requires. I have heard a peasant refuse to run an errand, because he had that morning earned as much as would last him the day, without putting himself to any farther trouble. The national qualities, good and bad, conspicuous in the lower classes of men, are easily traced, and very discernible, in those of higher rank ; for their education is too much neglected, their minds too little enlightened by study or communication with other nations, to rub off the general rust with which the Spanish genius has, for above an age, been as it were encrusted. The public schools and universities are in a despicable state of ignorance and irregularity. Some feeble hopes of future reformation is indulged by patriots ; but time must show what probabilities they are grounded on. Swinburne. CHAPTER VII. POLITICAL CHARACTERS. I. POMPEY. Pompey had early acquired the surname of the Great, by that sort of merit which, from the constitution of the republic, necessarily made him great; a fame and success in war, superior to what Rome had ever known in the most celebrated of her generals. He had triumphed, at three several times, over the three different parts of the known world, Europe, Asia, Africa: and by his victories had almost doubled the extent, as well as the re- venues of the Roman dominion; for, as he declared to the people on his return from the Mithridatic war, he had found the lesser Asia the boundary, but left it the middle of their empire. He was six years older than Caesar; and while Caesar, immer- sed in pleasures, oppressed with debts, and suspected by all honest men, was hardly able to shew his head, Pompey was flourishing in the height of power and glory, and, by the consent of all parties, placed at the head of the republic. This was the post that his ambition seemed to aim at, to be the first man in Rome; the leader, not the tyrant of his country; for he more than once had it in his power to have made himself the master of it without any risk, if his vi. ‘ue, or his phlegm at least, had not restrained him : but he lived in a perpetual expectation of receiving from the gift of the people, what he did not care to seize by force; and, by fomenting the disorders of the city, hoped to drive them to the necessity of creating him dictator. It is generally observed, that while Caesar made no difference of power, whether it was conferred or usurped, whether over those who loved, or those who feared him, Pompey seemed to value none but what was offered; nor to have any desire to govern, but with the good-will of the governed. What leisure he found from his wars, he employed in the study of polite letters, and especially of eloquence, in which he would have acquired great fame, if his genius had not drawn him to the more daz- zling glory of arms : yet he pleaded several causes with applause, in the defence of his friends and clients ; and some of them in POLITICAL characters. 215 conjunction with Cicero. His language was copious and elevated ; his sentiments just; his voice sweet; his action noble, and full of dignity. But his talents were better formed for arms than the gown; for, though in both he observed the same discipline, a perpetual modesty, temperance, and gravity of outward behaviour ; yet in the licence of camps the example was more rare and striking. His person was extremely graceful, and imprint- ing respect; yet with an air of reserved haughtiness, which became the general better than the citizen. His parts were plausi- ble, rather than great; specious, rather than penetrating; and his views of politics but narrow ; for his chief instrument of governing was dissimulation. As he was generally allowed to be a better soldier than a statesman, so what he gained in the camp he usually lost in the city; and though adored when abroad, was often affronted and morti- fied at home, till the imprudent opposition of the senate drove him to that alliance with Crassus and Caesar, which proved fatal both to himself and the republic. He took in these two, not as the partners, but the ministers rather of his power; that by giving them some share with him, he might make his own authority uncontroulable: he had no reason to apprehend that they could ever prove his rivals; since neither of them had any credit or character of that kind, which alone could raise them above the laws; a superior fame and experience in war, with the militia of the empire at their devotion: all this was purely his own ; till, by cherishing Caesar, and throwing into his hands the only thing which he wanted, arms, and military command, he made him at last too strong for himself, and never thought so till too late. Cicero warmly dissuaded Pompey both from his union and his breach with Caesar; and after the rupture, as warmly still, the thought of giving him battle: if any of these counsels had been followed, Pompey had preserved his life and honour, and the republic its liberty. But he was urged to his fate by a natural superstition, and attention to those vain auguries, with which he was flattered by all the Haruspices: he had seen the same temper in Marius and Sylla, and observed the happy effects of it: but they assumed it only out of policy, he out of principle: they used it to animate their soldiers, when they had found a probable opportunity of fighting: but he, against all prudence and probability, was encouraged by it to fight to his own ruin. He saw his mistakes at last, when it was out of his power to correct them, and in his wretched flight from Pharsalia, was forced to confess, that he had trusted too much to his hopes; and that Cicero had judged better, and seen farther into things than he. The reso- 216 the french translator. lution of seeking refuge in Egypt finished the sad catastrophe of this great man ; the father of the reigning prince had been highly obliged to him for his protection at Rome, and restoration to his kingdom ; and the son had sent a considerable fleet to his assistance in the present war : but in this ruin of his fortunes, what gratitude was there to be expected from a court governed by eu- nuchs and mercenary Greeks ? all whose politics turned, not on the honour of the king, but the establishment of their own power, likely to be eclipsed by the admission of Pompey. How happy had it been for him to have died in that sickness when all Italy was putting up vows and prayers for his safety ! or, if he had fallen by the chance of war, on the plains of Pharsalia, in the defence of his country’s liberty, he had died still glorious, though unfortunate ; but as if he had been reserved for an example of the instability of human greatness, he, who a few days before commanded kings and consuls, and all the noblest of Rome, was sentenced to die by a council of slaves ; murdered by a base deserter; cast out naked and headless on the Egyptian strand ; and when the whole earth, as Velleius says, had scarce been sufficient for his victories, could not find a spot upon it at last for a grave. His body was burnt on the shore by one of his freedmen, with the planks of an old fishing-boat; and his ashes, being conveyed to Rome, were deposited privately, by his wife Cornelia, in a vault by his alban villa. The Egyptians however raised a monument to him on the place, and adorned it with figures of brass, which being defaced afterwards by time, and buried almost in rubbish, was sought out, and restored by the emperor Adrian. Middleton. II. JULIUS CjESAR. CjESar was endowed with every great and noble quality, that could exalt human nature, and give a man the ascendant in society ; formed to excel in peace, as well as w ar; provident in council; fearless in action ; and executing what he had resolved with an amazing celerity: generous beyond measure to his friends; placable to his enemies; and for parts, learning, eloquence, scarce inferior to any man. His orations were admirable for two qualities, which are seldom found together, strength and elegance : Cicero ranks him among the greatest orators that Rome eyer bred; and Quinctilian says that he spoke with the same force with which he fought; and if he had devoted himself to the )iar, would have been the only man capable of rivalling Cicero, POLITICAL CHARACTERS. 217 Nor was he a master only of the politer arts, but conversant also with the most abstruse and critical parts of learning ; and, among other works he published, addressed two books to Cicero, on the analogy of language, or the art of speaking and writing correctly. He was a most liberal patron of wit and learning, wheresoever they were found; and out of his love of those talents, would readily pardon those who had employed them against himself; rightly judging, that by making such men his friends, he should draw praises from the saifie fountain he had been aspersed from. His capital passions were ambition, and love of pleasure, which he indulged in their turns to the greatest excess; yet the first was always predominant; to which he could easily sacrifice all the charms of the second, and draw pleasure even from toils and dangers, when they ministered to his glory. For he thought Tyranny, as Cicero says, the greatest of goddesses; and had frequently in his mouth a verse of Euripides, which expressed the image of his soul, that if right and justice were ever to be violated, they were to be violated for the sake of reigning. This was the chief end and purpose of his life ; the scheme that he had formed from his early youth; so that, as Cato truly declared of him, he came with sobriety and meditation to the sub- version of the republic. He used to say, that there were two things necessary, to acquire and to support power—soldiers and money ; which yet depended mutually upon each other; with money therefore he provided soldiers, and with soldiers extorted money ; and was, of all men, the most rapacious in plundering both friends and foes ; sparing neither prince, state, temple, nor even private persons, who possessed any share of treasure. His great abilities would necessarily have made him one of the first citizens of Rome; but, disdaining the condition of a subject, he could never rest, till he made himself a monarch. In acting this last part, his usual prudence seemed to fail him : as if the height to which he mounted had turned his head, and made him giddy : for, by a vain ostentation of his power, he destroyed the stability of it; and as men shorten life by living too fast, so by an intemperance of reigning, he brought his reign to a violent end. Middleton. III.—CATO. If we consider the character of Cato without prejudice, he was certainly a great and worthy man; a friend to truth, virtue, liberty; yet, falsely measuring all duty by the absurd rigour of 218 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. the stoical rule, he was generally disappointed of the end which he sought by it, the happiness both of his private and public life. In his private conduct he was severe, morose, inexorable; banishing all the softer affections, as natural enemies to justice, and as suggesting false motives of acting, from favour, clemency, and compassion : in public affairs he was the same ; had but one rule of policy, to adhere to what was right, without regard to time or circumstances, or even to a force that could controul him ; for, instead of managing the power of the great, so as to mitigate the ill, or extract any good from it, he was urging it always to acts of violence by a perpetual defiance: so that, with the best intentions in the world, he often did great harm to the republic. This was his general behaviour; yet from particular facts, it appears that his strength of mind was not always impregnable, but had its weak places of pride, ambition, and party zeal: which, when managed and flattered to a certain point, would betray him sometimes into measures contrary to his ordinary rule of right and truth. The last act of his life was agreeable to his nature and philosophy : when he could no longer be what he had been; or when the ills of life overbalanced the good; which, by the principles of his sect, was a just cause for dying; he put an end to his life with a spirit and resolution which would make one imagine, that he was glad to have found an occasion of dying in his proper character. On the whole, his life was rather admirable than amiable; fit to be praised, rather than imitated. Middleton. IV.—HANNIBAL. Hannibal being sent to Spain, on his arrival there attracted the eyes of the whole army. The veterans believed Hamilcar was revived and restored to them: they saw the same vigorous countenance, the same piercing eye, the same complexion and features. But in a short time his behaviour occasioned this resemblance of his father to contribute the least towards his gaining their favour. And, in truth, never was there a genius more happily formed for two things, most manifestly contrary to each other—to obey and to command. This made it difficult to determine, whether the general or soldier loved him most. Where any enterprise required vigour and valour in the performance, Asdrubal always chose him to command at the executing it: nor were the troops ever more confident of success, or more intrepid, than when he was at their head. None ever shewed greater POLITICAL CHAUACTEUS. 219 bravery in undertaking hazardous attempts, or more presence of mind in the execution of them. No hardship could fatigue his body, or daunt bis courage: he could equally bear cold and heat. The necessary refection of nature, not the pleasure of his palate, he solely regarded in taking his meals. He made no distinction of -day and night in his watching, or taking rest; and appropriated no time to sleep, but what remained after he had completed his duty: he never sought for a soft or retired place of repose ; but was often seen lying on the bare ground, wrapt in a soldier’s cloak, amongst the centinels and guards. He did not distinguish himself from his companions by the magnificence of his dress, but by the quality of his horse and arms. At the same time, he was by far the best foot and horse soldier in the army ; ever the foremost in a charge, and the last who left the field after the battle was begun. These shining qualities were however balanced by great vices ; inhuman cruelty ; more than Carthaginian treachery ; no respect for truth or honour, no fear of the gods, no regard for the sanctity of oaths, no sense of religion. With a disposition thus chequered with virtues and vices, he served three years under Asdrubal, without neglecting to pry into, or perform any thing that could contribute to make him hereafter a complete general. Livy. V ALFRED. The merit of this prince, both in private and public life, may with advantage be set in opposition to that of any monarch or citizen which the annals of any age or any nation can present to us. He seems, indeed, to be the complete model of that perfect character, which, under the denomination of a sage or wise man, the philosophers have been fond of delineating, rather as a fiction of their imagination, than in hopes of ever seeing it reduced to practice : so happily were all his virtues tempered together, so justly were they blended, and so powerfully did each prevent the other from exceeding its proper bounds. He knew how to conciliate the most enterprising spirit with the coolest moderation ; the most obstinate perseverance with the easiest flexibility ; the most severe justice with the greatest lenity ; the greatest rigour in command with the greatest affability of deportment; the highest capacity for science, with the greatest talents for action. His civil and military virtues are almost equally the objects of our admiration; excepting only, that the former being more rare among princes, as well as more useful, seem chiefly to 220 LE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. challenge our applause. Nature also, as if desirous that so bright a production of her skill should be set in the fairest light, had bestowed on him all bodily accomplishments, vigour of limbs, dignity of shape and air, and a pleasant, engaging, and open countenance. Fortune alone, by throwing him into that barbarous age, deprived him of historians worthy to transmit his fame to posterity ; and we wish to see him delineated in more lively colours, and with more particular strokes, that we may at least perceive some of those small specks and blemishes, from which, as a man, it is impossible he could be entirely exempted. Hume. VI.—william the conqueror. Few princes have been more fortunate than this great monarch, or Avere better entitled to prosperity and grandeur, for the abilities and vigour of mind which he displayed in all his conduct. His spirit was bold and enterprising, yet guided by prudence. His ambition, which was exorbitant, and lay little under the restraints of justice, and still less under those of humanity, ever submitted to the dictates of reason and sound policy. Born in an age when the minds of men were intractable and unacquainted with submission, he was yet able to direct them to his purposes ; and, partly from the ascendant of his vehement disposition, partly from art and dissimulation, to establish an unlimited monarchy. Though not insensible to generosity, he was harden- ed against compassion, and seemed equally ostentatious and ambitious of eclat in his clemency and his severity. The maxims of his administration were severe; but might have been useful, had they been solely employed in preserving order in an established government; they were ill calculated for softening the rigours which, under the most gentle management, are inseparable from conquest. His attempt against England was the last enterprize of this kind, which during the course of seven hundred years had fully succeeded in Europe; and the greatness of his genius broke through those limits, which first the feudal institutions, then the refined policy of princes, have fixed on the several States of Christendom. Though he rendered himself infinitely odious to his English subjects, he transmitted his power to his posterity, and the throne is still filled by his descendants ; a proof that the foundation which he laid was firm find solid, and that amongst all his violences, while he seemed L1TICAL CHARACTERS. 221 only to gratify the present passion, he had still an eye towards futurity. Hume. VII.—HENRY VIII. It is difficult to give a just summary of this prince's qualities; he was so different from himself in different parts of his reign, that, as is well remarked by Lord Herbert, his history is his best character and description. The absolute and uncontrouled authority which he maintained at home, and the regard he obtained among foreign nations, are circumstances which entitle him to the appellation of a great prince ; while his tyranny and cruelty seem to exclude him from the character of a good one. He possessed, indeed, great vigour of mind, which qualified him for exercising dominion over men ; courage, intrepidity, vigilance, inflexibility : and though these qualities lay not always under the guidance of a regular and solid judgment, they were accompanied with good parts, end an extensive capacity; and every one dreaded a contest with a man who was never known to yield or to forgive ; and who, in every controversy, was determined to ruin himself or his antagonist. A catalogue of his vices would comprehend many of the worst qualities incident to human nature. Violence, cruelty, profusion, rapacity, injustice, obstinacy, arrogance, bigotry, presumption, caprice ; but neither was he subject to all these vices in the most extreme degree, nor was he at intervals altogether devoid of virtues. He was sincere, open, gallant, liberal, and capable at least of a temporary friendship and attachment. In this respect he was unfortunate, that the incidents of his times served to display his faults in their full light; the treatment he met with from the court of Rome provoked him to violence; the danger of a revolt from his superstitious subjects seemed to require the most extreme severity. But it must at the same time be acknowledged, that his situation tended to throw an additional lustre on what was great and magnanimous in his character. The emulation between the Emperor and the French King rendered his alliance, notwithstanding his impolitic conduct, of great importance to Europe. The extensive powers of his prerogative, and the submission, not to say slavish disposition of his parliament, made it more easy for him to assume and maintain that entire dominion, by which his reign is so much distinguished in English history. It may seem a little extraordinary, that notwithstanding his 222 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. cruelty, his extortion, his violence, his arbitrary administration, this prince not only acquired the regard of his subjects, but never was the object of their hatred ; he seems even, in some degree, to have possessed their love and affection. His exterior qualities were advantageous, and fit to captivate the multitude; his magnificence and personal bravery rendered him illustrious to vulgar eyes; and it may be said with truth, that the English in that age were so thoroughly subdued, that, like eastern slaves, they were inclined to admire even those acts of violence and tyranny, which were exercised over themselves, and at their own expence. Hume. VIII FRANCIS THE FIRST OF FRANCE, AND CHARLES THE FIFTH OF GERMANY. During twenty-eight years, an avowed rivalship subsisted between Francis and the Emperor, which involved not only their own dominions, but the greater part of Europe in wars, prosecuted with more violent animosity, and drawn out to a greater length, than had been known in any former period. Many circumstances contributed to both. Their animosity was founded in opposition of interest heightened by personal emulation, and exasperated not only by mutual injuries, but by reciprocal insults. Whatever advantage one seemed to possess towards gaining the ascendant, it was wonderfully balanced by some favourable circumstance peculiar to the other. The emperor's dominions were of great extent, the French king’s lay more compact: Francis governed his kingdom with absolute power; that of Charles was limited, but he supplied the want of authority by address : the troops of the former were more impetuous and enterprising; those of the latter better disciplined and more patient of fatigue. The talents and abilities of the two monarchs were as different as the advantages which they possessed, and contributed no less to prolong the contest between them. Francis took his resolutions suddenly, prosecuted them at first with warmth, and pushed them into execution with a most ad- venturous courage; but being destitute of the perseverance necessary to surmount difficulties, he often abandoned his designs, or relaxed the vigour of pursuit from impatience, and sometimes from levity. havingCharles once deliberated fixed his plan,long, heand adhered determined to it withwith inflexiblecoolness ;obsti- but, POLITICAL CHARACTERS. 223 nacy, and neither danger nor discouragement Could turn him aside from the execution of it. The success of their enterprises were as different as their characters, and was uniformly influenced by them. Francis, by his impetuous activity, often disconcerted the emperor’s best-laid schemes ; Charles, by a more calm, but steady prosecution of his designs, checked the rapidity of his rival’s career, and baffled or repulsed his most vigorous efforts. The former, at the opening of a war, or of a campaign, broke in upon his enemy with the violence of a torrent, and carried all before him; the latter waiting until he saw the force of his rival begin to abate, recovered in the end not only all that he had lost, but made new acquisitions. Few of the French monarch’s attempts towards conquest, whatever promising aspect they might wear at first, were conducted to an happy issue : many of the emperor’s enterprises, even after they appeared desperate and impracticable, terminated in the most prosperous manner. Francis was dazzled with the splendour of an undertaking :— Charles was allured by the prospect of its turning to his advantage. The degree of their comparative merit and reputation has not been fixed, either by a strict scrutiny into their abilities for government, or by an impartial consideration of the greatness and success of their undertakings ; and Francis is one of those monarchs who occupies a higher rank in the temple of fame, than either his talents or performances entitle him to hold. This pre- eminence he owed to many different circumstances. The superiority which Charles acquired by the victory of Pavia, and which from that period he preserved through the remainder of his reign, was so manifest, that Francis’s struggle against his exorbitant and growing dominion, was viewed by most of the other powers, not only with the partiality which naturally arises from those who gallantly maintain an unequal contest, but with the favour due to one who was resisting a common enemy, and endeavouring to set bounds to a monarch equally formidable to them all. The characters of princes too, especially among their contem- poraries, depend both upon their talents for government, and their qualities as men. Francis, notwithstanding the many errors wasconspicuous nevertheless in his humane, foreign beneficent,policy and generous.domestic administration,He possessed dignity without pride ; affability free from meanness, and cour- tesy exempt from deceit. All who had access to him (and no man of merit was ever denied that privilege) respected and loved him. Captivated with his personal qualities, his subjects forgot his defects as a monarch, and admiring him as the most accomplished and amiable gentleman in his dominions, they never mur-' 224 E FRENCH TRANSLATOR. mured at acts of tnal-administration, which in a prince of less en* gaging dispositions would have been deemed unpardonable. This admiration, however, must have been temporary only, and would have died away with the courtiers who bestowed it; the illusion arising from his private virtues must have ceased, and posterity would have judged of his public conduct with its usual impar- tiality ; but by another circumstance, his name hath been transmitted to posterity with increasing reputation. Science and the arts had, at that time, made little progress in France. They were just beginning to advance beyond the limits of Italy, where they had revived, and which had hitherto been their only seat. Francis took them immediately under his protection, and vied with Leo himself in the zeal and munificence with which he encouraged them. He invited learned men to his court; he conversed with them familiarly ; he employed them in business ; he raised them to offices of dignity, and honoured them with his confidence. That race of men, not more prone to complain when denied the respect to which they fancy themselves entitled, than apt to be pleased when treated with the distinction which they consider as their due,, though they could not exceed in gratitude to such a benefactor, strained their invention, and employed all their ingenuity in panegyric. Succeeding authors, warmed with their descriptions of Fran- cis’s bounty, adopted their encomiums, and refined upon them. The appellation of Father of Letters, bestowed upon Francis, hath rendered his memory sacred among historians, and they seem to have regarded it as a sort of impiety to uncover his infirmities, or to point out his defects. Thus Francis, notwithstanding his inferior abilities, and want of success, hath more than equalled the fame of Charles. The virtues which he possessed as a man have entitled him to greater admiration and praise, than have been bestowed upon the extensive genius and fortunate arts of a more capable, but less amiable rival. Robertson. IX. ELIZABETH. Elizabeth had a great deal of wit, and was naturally of a sound and solid judgment. This was visible by her whole management, from one end of her reign to the other. Nothing shews her capacity more, than her address in surmounting all the difficulties and troubles created by her enemies, especially when it is considered who these enemies were; persons the most powerful, the most artful, the most subtile, and the least scrupulous in POLITICAL CHARACTERS. 2$5 Europe. The following are the maxims which she laid down for the rule and measures of her whole conduct, and from which she never swerved: “To make herself beloved by her people: To be frugal of her treasure: To keep up dissension amongst her neighbours.” Her enemies pretend that her abilities consisted wholly in over- strained dissimulation, and a profound hypocrisy. In a word, they say she was a perfect comedian. For my part, I don’t deny that she made great use of dissimulation, as well with regard to the courts of France and Spain, as to the queen of Scotland and the Scots. I am also persuaded that, being as much concerned to gain the love and esteem of her subjects, she affected to speak frequently, and with exaggeration, of her tender affection for them. And that she had a mind to make it believed that she did some things from an excessive love to her people, which she was led to more by her own interest. It is not so easy to justify her concerning the death of the queen of Scots. Here it must be owned she sacrificed equity, justice, and it may be her own conscience, to her safety. The best thing that can be said in Elizabeth’s behalf is, that the queen of Scots and her friends had brought matters to such a pass, that one of the two queens must perish, and it was natural that the weakest should fall. I don’t believe any body ever questioned her being a true Protestant. But, as it was her interest to be so, some have taken occasion to doubt whether the zeal she expressed for her religion, was the effect of her persua- sion or policy. All that can be said is, that she happened sometimes to prefer her temporal concerns before those of religion. To sum up in two words-what may serve to form Elizabeth’s character, I shall add, she was a good and illustrious queen, with many virtues and noble qualities, and few faults. But what ought above all things to make her memory precious, is, that she caused the English to enjoy a state of felicity unknown to their ancestors, under most part of the kings, her predecessors. Rapin, X MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. To all the charms of beauty, and utmost elegance of external form, Mary added those accomplishments whicli render their impression irresistible. Polite, affable, insinuating, sprightly, and capable of speaking and of writing with equal ease and dignity. Sudden, however, and violent in all her attachments : because her heart was warm and unsuspicious. Impatient of contradiction, 226 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. because she had been accustomed from her infancy to be treated as a queen. The vivacity of her spirit, not sufficiently tempered with sound judgment, and the warmth of her heart, which was not at all times under the restraint of discretion, betrayed her both into errors and into crimes. To say that she was always unfortunate, will not account for that long and almost uninterrupted succession of calamities which befel her ; we must likewise add, that she was often imprudent. Her passion for Darnley was rash, youthful, and excessive. And though the sudden transition to the opposite extreme was the natural effect of her ill-requited love, and of his ingratitude, insolence, and brutality; yet neither these, nor Bothwell’s artful address and important services, can justify her attachments to that nobleman. Even the manners of the age, licentious as they were, are no apology for this unhappy passion ; nor can they induce us to look on that tragical and infamous scene, which followed upon it, with less abhorrence. With regard to the queen’s person, a circumstance not to be omitted in writing the history of a female reign, all contemporary authors agree in ascribing to Mary the utmost beauty of countenance and elegance of shape of which the human form is capable. Her hair was black, though, according to the fashion of that age, she frequently wore borrowed locks, and of different colours. Her eyes were a dark grey, her complexion was exqui- sitely fine, and her hands and arms remarkably delicate, both as to shape and colour. Her stature was of a height that rose to the majestic. She danced, she walked, and rode with equal grace. Her taste for music was just, and she both sung and played upon the lute with uncommon skill. Towards the end of her life she began to grow fat; and her long confinement, and the coldness of the houses in which she was imprisoned, brought on a rheumatism which deprived her of the use of her limbs. No man, says Brantome, ever beheld her person without admiration and love, or will read her history without sorrow. Robertson. XI. OLIVER CROMWELL. Oliver Cromwell was of a robust make and constitution, his aspect manly though clownish. His education extended no farther than a superficial knowledge of the Latin tongue, but he inherited great talents from nature ; though they were such as he could not have exerted to advantage at any juncture than that of POLITICAL CHAHACTERS. 227 a civil war, inflamed by religious contests. His character was formed from an amazing conjuncture of enthusiasm, hypocrisy, and ambition. He was possessed of courage and resolution, that overlooked all dangers, and saw no difficulties. He dived into the characters of mankind with wonderful sagacity, whilst he concealed his own purposes under the impenetrable shield of dissimulation. He reconciled the most atrocious crimes to the most rigid notions of religious obligations. From the severest exercise of devotion, he relaxed into the most ridiculous and idle buffoonery : yet he preserved the dignity and distance of his character, in the midst of the coarsest familiarity. He was cruel and tyrannic from policy; just and temperate from inclination; perplexed and despicable in his discourse ; clear and consummate in his designs ; ridiculous in his reveries ; respectable in his conduct; in a word, the strangest compound of villainy and virtue, baseness and magnanimity, absurdity and good sense, that we find on record in the annals of mankind. Noble. XII. THE GREAT LORD CHATHAM. The secretary stood alone. Modern degeneracy had not reached him. Original and unaccommodating, the features of his character had the hardihood of antiquity. His august mind over- awed majesty, and one of his sovereigns thought royalty so im- paired in his presence, that he conspired to remove him, in order to be relieved from his superiority. No state chicanery, no narrow system of vicious politics, no idle conquest for ministerial victories, sunk him to the vulgar level of the great; but overbearing, persuasive, and impracticable, his object was England, his ambition was fame. Without dividing, he destroyed party ; without corrupting, he made a venal age unanimous. France sunk beneath' him. With one hand he smote the house of Bour- bon, and wielded in the other the democracy of England. The sight of his mind was infinite; and his schemes were to affect, not England, not the present age only, but Europe and posterity. Wonderful were the means by which these schemes were accom- plishedan understanding ; always seasonable, animated byalways ardour, adequate, and enlightened the suggestions by proof phecy. The ordinary feelings which make life amiable and indolent were unknown to him. No domestic difficulties, no domestic weakness reached him ; but aloof from the sordid occurrences of life, and unsullied by its intercourse, he came occasionally into our system, to counsel and to decide. 223 THE 1ENCH TR.\TJSLATOK. astonishedA character a corrupt so exalted, age, soand strenuous, the treasury so various, trembled so authoritative^ at the name of Pitt through all her classes of venality. Corruption imagined^ indeed, that she had found defects in this statesman, and talked' much of the inconsistency of his glory, and much of the ruin of his victories ; but the history of his country and the calamities of the enemy answered and refuted her. Nor were his political abilities his only talents: his eloquence was an sera in the senate, peculiar and spontaneous, familiarly expressing gigantic sentiments and instinctive wisdom ; not like the torrent of Demosthenes, or the splendid conflagration of Tully; it resembled sometimes the thunder, and sometimes the music of the spheres. Upon the whole, there was in this man something that could create, subvert, or reform ; an understanding, a spirit, and an eloquence, to summon mankind to society, or to break the bonds of slavery asunder, and to rule the wilderness of free minds with unbounded authority; something that could establish or overwhelm empire, and strike a blow in the world that should resound through the universe. Anonymous. XIII NAPOLEON". Nature had no obstacles that he did not surmount—space not opposition that he did not spurn: and whether amid Alpine rocks, Arabian sands, or Polar snows, he seemed proof against peril, and empowered with ubiquity ! The whole continent of Europe trembled at beholding the audacity of his designs, and the miracle of their execution. Scepticism bowed to the prodigies of his performance; romance assumed the air of history ; nor was there aught too incredible for belief, or too fanciful for explanation, when the world saw a subaltern of Corsica waving his imperial flag over her most ancient capitals. All the visions of antiquity became common-places in his contemplation ; kings were his people—nations were his out-posts ; and he disposed of courts and crowns, and camps, and churches, and cabinets, as if they were the titular dignitaries of the chess-board ! Amid all these changes he stood immutable as adamant. It mattered little whether in the field or the drawing-room,—with the mob or the levee,—wearing the jacobin bonnet or the iron crown,—banishing a Braganza, or espousing a Hapsburg,—dictating peace on a raft to the Czar of Russia, or contemplating defeat at the gallows of Leipsic,—he was still the same military POLITICAL CHAHACTEBS. 229 despot! Cradled in the camp, he was to the last hour the dar- ling of the army: and whether in the camp or the cabinet, he never forsook a friend or forgot a favour. Of all his soldiers not one abandoned him till affection was useless, and their first stipu- lation was for the safety of their favourite. They knew well, that if he was lavish of them, he was prodigal of himself; and that if he exposed them to peril, he repaid them with plunder. For the soldier, he subsidized every body; to the people he made even pride pay tribute. The victorious veteran glittered with his gains ; and the capital, gorgeous with the spoils of art, became the miniature metropolis of the universe. In this wonderful combination, his affectation of literature must not be omitted. The gaoler of the press, he affected the patronage of letters,—the proscriber of books, he encouraged philosophy,—the persecutor of authors, though he yet pretended to the protection of learning !—he put Palm to death, silenced De Stael, and de- nounced Kotzebue, yet he was the friend of David, the benefactor of De Lille, and sent his academic prize to the philosopher of England. Such a medley of contradictions, and at the same time such an individual consistency, were never united in the same character. A Royalist,—a Republican, and an Emperor,—a Ma- hometan,—a Catholic, and a patron of the Synagogue,—a Subal- tern and a Sovereign,—a Brother and a Tyrant,—a Christian and an Infidel,—he was through all his vicissitudes the same stern, patient, restless, inflexible original,—the same mysterious incom- prehensible self,—the man without a model, and without a shadow. His fall, like his life, baffled all speculation; in short, his whole history was like a dream to the world, and no man can tell how or why he was awaked from the reverie. Such is a faint and feeble picture of Napoleon Bonaparte. That he has done much evil, there is little doubt; that he has been the origin of much good, there is just as little. Through his means, intentional or not, Spain, Portugal, and France, have risen to the blessings of a free constitution; superstition has found her grave in the ruins of the Inquisition ; and the feudal system, with its whole train of tyrannic satellites, has fled for ever. Kings may learn from him, that their safest study, as well as their noblest, is the interest of the people; the people are taught by him, that there is no despotism so stupendous against which they have not a resource; and to those who would rise upon the ruins of both, he is a living lesson, that if ambition can raise them from the lowest station, it can also prostrate them from the highest. C. Phillips. CHAPTER VIII.

LITERARY CHARACTERS.

I.—OF HOMER AND VIRGIL. N o man understood persons and things better, or had a deeper insight into the humours and passions of human nature, than Homer. He represents great things with such sublimity, and little ones with such propriety, that he always makes the one admirable, and the other pleasant. He is a perfect master of all the lofty graces of the figurative style, and all the purity and easiness of the plain. His poems may justly be compared with that shield of divine workmanship so inimitably represented in the eighteenth book of the Iliad. You have their exact images of all the actions of Avar, and employments of peace ; and are entertained with the delightful view of the universe. Homer has all the beauties of every dialect and style scattered through his writings; he is scarce inferior to any other poet, in the poet’s own Avay and excellency ; but excels all others in force and comprehension of genius, elevation of fancy, and immense copiousness of invention. Such a sovereignty of genius reigns all over his works, that the ancients esteemed and admired him as the great High Priest of nature, who was admitted into her inmost choir, and acquainted with her most solemn mysteries. Virgil possesses beauties which have justly drawn the admiration of ages, and which, to this day, hold the balance in equili- brium between his fame and that of Homer. The principal and distinguishing excellency of Virgil, and which, in my opinion, he possesses beyond all poets, is tenderness. Nature had endowed him with exquisite sensibility; he felt every affecting circumstance in the scenes he describes; and by a single stroke, he knows how to reach the heart. This, in an epic poem, is the merit next to sublimity ; and puts it in an author’s power to render his composition extremely interesting to all readers. Upon the whole, as to die comparative merit of those two great princes of epic poetry, Homer and Virgil; the former must LITERARY CHARACTERS. 231 undoubtedly be admitted to be the greater genius; the latter, to be the more correct writer. Homer was an original in his art, and discovers both the beauties and the defects, which are to be expected in an original author, compared with those who succeed him ; more boldness, more nature and ease, more sublimity and force ; but greater irregularities and negligence in composition. Virgil has, all along, kept his eye upon Homer; in many places he has not so much imitated, as he has literally translated him. The description of the storm, for instance, in the first iEneid, and iEneas’s speech upon that occasion, are translations from the fifth book of the Odyssey ; not to mention almost all the similes of Virgil, which are no other than copies of those of Homer. The pre-eminence in invention, therefore, must, beyond doubt, be ascribed to Homer. As to the pre-eminence in judgment, though many critics are disposed to give it to Virgil, yet, in my opinion, it hangs doubtful. In Homer, we discern all the Greek vivacity ; in Virgil, all the Roman stateliness. Homer’s imagination is by much the most rich and copious; Virgil’s the most chaste and correct. The strength of the former lies, in his power of warming the fancy; that of the latter, in his power of touching the heart. Homer’s style is more simple and animated; Virgil's more elegant and uniform. The first has, on many occasions, a sublimity to which the latter never attains ; but the latter, in return, never sinks below a certain degree of epic dignity, which cannot so clearly be pronounced of the former. Not, however, to detract from the admiration due to both these great poets, most of Homer’s defects may reasonably be imputed, not to his genius, but to the manners of the age in which he lived ; and for the feeble passages of the Aineid, this excuse ought to be admitted, that the iEneid was left an unfinished work. Blair. II. OF DEMOSTHENES AND CICERO. On the subject of comparing Cicero and Demosthenes, much has been said by critical writers. The different manners of these two princes of eloquence, and the distinguishing characters of each, are so strongly marked in their writings, that the comparison is, in many respects, obvious and easy. The character of andDemosthenes insinuation. is vigourIn the and one, austerity you find ; that more of Ciceromanliness is gentleness • in the other, more ornament. The one is more harsh, but more spirited and cogent; the other more agreeable, but withal, looser and weaker. 232 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. To account for this difference, without any prejudice to Cicero, j it has been said, that we must look to the nature of their diffe- ] rent auditories ; that the refined Athenians followed with ease the ' concise and convincing eloquence of Demosthenes; but that a manner more popular, more flowery, and declamatory, was requisite in speaking to the Romans, a people less acute, and less acquainted with the arts of speech. But this is not satisfactory. ; For we must observe, that the Greek orator spoke much oftener before a mixed multitude, than the Roman. Almost all the pub- i lie business of Athens was transacted in popular assemblies. The Common people were his hearers, and his judges. Whereas Ci- ! cero generally addressed himself to the “ Patres Conscripti,” or, 1 in criminal trials, to the Prmtor, and the Select Judges. It is a disadvantage to Demosthenes, that, besides his concise- ness, which sometimes produces obscurity, the language, in which he writes, is less familiar to most of us than the Latin, and that we are less acquainted with the Greek antiquities than we are with the Roman. We read Cicero with more ease, and of course with more pleasure. Independent of this circumstance too, he is 1 no doubt, in himself, a more agreeable writer than the other. ! But notwithstanding this advantage, I am of opinion, that were the state in danger, or some great public interest at stake, which i drew the serious attention of men, an oration in the spirit and strain of Demosthenes would have more weight, and produce greater effects, than one in the Ciceronian manner. Were De- < mosthenes’s Philippics spoken in a British assembly, in a similar- conjuncture of affairs, they would convince and persuade at this day. The rapid style, the vehement reasoning, the disdain, anger, boldness, freedom, which perpetually animate them, would render their success infallible over any modern assembly. I question whether the same can be said of Cicero’s orations; whose eloquence, however beautiful, and however well suited to the Roman taste, yet borders oftener on declamation, and is more remote from the manner in which we now expect to hear real business and causes of importance treated. Blair. III. OF HORACE. Horace was the fittest man in the world for a court where wit was so particularly encouraged. No man seems to have had more, and all of the genteelest sort; or to have been better acquainted with mankind. His gaiety, and even his debauchery, made him still the more agreeable to Maecenas : so that it is no LITERARY CHARACTERS. 23S wonder that his acquaintance with that Minister grew up to so high a degree of friendship, as is very uncommon between a first Minister and a poet; and which had possibly such an effect on the latter, as one shall scarce ever hear of between any two friends the most on a level: for there is some room to conjecture, that he hastened himself out of this world to accompany his great friend in the next. Horace has been most generally celebrated for his lyric poems; in which he far excelled the Roman poets, and perhaps was no unworthy rival of several of the Greek : which seems to have been the height of his ambition. His next point of merit, as it has been usually reckoned, was his refining satire, and bringing it from the coarseness and harshness of Lu- cilius, to that genteel, easy manner, which he, and perhaps nobody but he and one person more in all the ages since, has ever possessed. This latter part of his works, by whatever name they may be called (whether satires and epistles, or discourses in verse on moral and familiar subjects), is what, I must own, I love much better, even than the lyric part of his works. It is in these that he shews that talent for criticism, in which he so very much excelled ; especially in his long epistle to Augustus; and that other to the Piso’s, commonly called his Art of Poetry. They,abound in strokes which shew his great knowledge of mankind, and in that pleasing way he had of teaching philosophy, of laughing away vice, and insinuating virtue into the minds of his readers. He was, in general, an honest good man himself: at least he does not seem to have had any one ill-natured vice about him. Other poets we admire; but there is not any of the ancient poets that I could wish to have been acquainted with so much as Ho- race. Spence. IV. OF SHAKESPEARE. The character which Dryden has drawn of Shakespeare, is not only just, but uncommonly elegant and happy.—He was the man, who, of all modern and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of Nature were still present to him, and he drew them, not laboriously, but luckily. When he describes any thing, you more than see it; you feel it too. They who accuse him of wanting learning, give neededhim the notgreatest the spectacles commendation. of books He to wasread naturally Nature. learned. He looked He inward, "and found her there. I cannot say he is every-Avhere 234 THE FRENC H TRANSLATOR. alike. Were he so, 1 should do him injury to compare him to the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat and insipid; his comic wit degenerating into clenches; his serious, swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when some great occasion is presented to him.” Great he may be justly called, as the extent and force of his natural genius, both for Tragedy and Comedy, are altogether un- rivaled. But, $t the same time, it is a genius shooting wild, defi- cient in just taste, and unassisted by knowledge or art. Long has he been idolised by the British nation ; much has been said, and much has been written concerning him ; criticism has been drawn to the verv dregs in commentaries upon his words and witti- cisms ; and yet it. remains to this day in doubt, whether his beauties or his faults be greatest. Admirable scenes and passages without number, there are in his plays; passages beyond what are to be found in any other dramatic writer: but there is hardly any one of his plays which can be cklled altogether a good one, or which can be read with uninterrupted pleasure from beginning to end. Besides extreme irregularities in conduct, and grotesque mix- tures of serious and comic in one piece, we are often interrupted by unnatural thoughts, harsh expressions, a certain obscure bombast, and a play upon words, which he is fond of pursuing; and these interruptions to our pleasure too frequently occur on occasions when we should, least wish to meet with them. All these faults, however, Shakespeare redeems, by two of the greatest excellencies which any tragic poet can possess;—his lively and diversified paintings of character ; his strong natural expressions of passion. These are his two chief virtues; on these his merit rests. Blair. * V. JOHN KNOX, THE REFORMER OF THE SCOTCH CHURCH. That John Knox possessed strong natural talents is unquestionable. Inquisitive, ardent, active, vigorous, and bold in his conceptions; he entered into all the subtleties of the Scholastic Science then in vogue, yet, disgusted with its barren results, sought out a new course of study, which gradually led to a complete revolution in his sentiments. In his early years he had not access to that finished education which many of his contempora- ries obtained in foreign universities, and he was afterwards prevented, by his unsettled and active mode of life, from prosecut- ing his studies with leisure; but his abilities and application en- LITEI1AHY CHARACTIRS. 235 ablfc-d him in a great measure to surmount these disadvantages, and he remained a stranger to none of the branches of learning which, in that age, were cultivated by persons of his profession. He united in a high degree the love of study with a disposition to active employment. The truths which he discovered, he felt an irresistible impulse to impart to others, for which he was qualified by a bold, fervid, and impetuous eloquence, singularly adapted to arrest the attention, and govern tfye minds, of a fierce and unpolished people. From the time that he embraced the Reformed doctrine, the desire of propagating it, and of delivering his countrymen from the. delusions and corruptions of Popery, became his ruling passion, to which he was always ready to sacrifice his ease, his interest, his reputation, and his life. An ardent attachment to civil liberty held the next place in his breast to love of the Reformed religion. That the zeal with which he laboured'to advance these objects was of the most disinterested kind, no candid person who has paid attention to his life can doubt for a moment, whatever opinion may be entertained of some of the means which he employed for that purpose “ In fact, ‘he thought only of advancing the glory of God, and promoting the welfare of £jis country.” Intrepidity^ independence, and elevation of mind; indefatigable activity and constancy, which no disappointments could shake, eminently qualified him for the hazardous and difficult post which he occupied. His integrity was above the suspicion of corruption, his firmness proof equally against the solicitations of his friends and threats of his enemies. Though his impetuosity and courage led him frequently to expose himself to danger, we never find him neglecting to take prudent precautions for his safety. The confidence reposed in him by his countrymen, shews the high opinion which they entertained of his sagacity as well as of his honesty. The measures taken for advancing the Reforma- tion, were either adopted at his suggestion, or submitted to his advice; and we must pronounce them to have been as wisely planned, as they were boldly executed. His ministerial functions were discharged with the greatest assiduity, fidelity, and fervour. No avocation or infirmity prevented him from appearing in the pulpit. Preaching was an em- byployment an extensive in which acquaintance he delighted, with and the for Scriptures,which he was and qualified, by the happy art of applying them in the most striking manner, to the existing circumstances of the Church and of his hearers. His powers of alarming the conscience, and arousing the passions, have been frequently mentioned; but he also excelled in unfolding *236 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOn. the consolations of the gospel, and in calming the breasts of those who were either agitated by a sense of guilt, or suffering under the ordinary afflictions of life. When he discoursed of the griefs and joys, the conflicts and triumphs of genuine Christians, he declared what he had himself known and experienced. The letters which he wrote to his familiar acquaintances, breathe the most ardent piety. The religious meditations in which he spent his last sickness, were not confined to that period of his life; they had been his habitual employment from the time that he was brought to the knowledge of the truth, and his solace amidst all the hardships and perils through which he had passed. M‘Crie. VI OF MILTON. Milton, in his Paradise Lost, considered creation in its whole extent, and his descriptions are therefore learned. He had accustomed his imagination to unrestrained indulgence, and his conceptions, therefore, were extensive. The characteristic quality of his poem is sublimity. He sometimes descends to the elegant; but his element is the great. He can occasionally in- vest himself with grace; but his natural port is gigantic loftiness. He can please when pleasure is required; but it is his peculiar power to astonish. He seems to have been well acquainted with his own genius, and to know what it was that Nature had bestowed upon him more bountifully than upon others ; the power of displaying the vast, illuminating the splendid, enforcing the awful, darkening the gloomy, and aggravating the dreadful: he, therefore, chose a subject on which too much could not be said; on which he might tire his fancy without the censure of extravagance. The appearances of nature, and the occurrences of life, did not satiate his appetite of greatness. To paint things as they are, requires a minute attention, and employs the memory rather than the fancy. Milton’s delight was to sport in the wide regions of possibility; reality was a scene too narrow for his mind. He sent his faculties out upon discovery, into worlds where only imagination can travel; and delighted to form new modes of existence, and furnish sentiment and action to superior beings; to trace the councils of hell, or accompany the choirs of heaven. His similes are not confined within the limits of rigorous composition. His great excellence is amplitude; and he expands the adventitious image beyond the dimensions which the occasion required. Thus, comparing the shield of Satan to the orb of the L1TEHARY CHARACTERS. 237 moon, he crowds the imagination with the discovery of the telescope, and all the wonders which the telescope discovers. The highest praise of genius is invention. Milton cannot be said to have contrived the structure of an epic poem ; and, therefore, owes reverence to that vigour and amplitude of mind to which all generations must be indebted for the art of poetical narration, for the texture of the fable, the variation of incidents, the interposition of dialogue, and all the stratagems that surprise and enchain attention. He was born for whatever is arduous; and his work is not the greatest of heroic poems, only because it was not the first. - Johnson. VII OF POPE AND DRYDEN. In acquired knowledge, the superiority must be allowed to Dryden, whose education was more scholastic, and who, before he became an author, had been allowed more time for study, with better means of information. His mind has a larger range, and he collects his images and illustrations from a more extensive circumference of science. Dryden knew more of man in his gene= ral nature, and Pope in his local manners. The notions of Dry- den were formed by comprehensive speculation; those of Pope by minute attention. There is more dignity in the knowledge of Dryden; and more certainty in that of Pope. Poetry was not the sole praise of either ; for both excelled likewise in prose; but Pope did not borrow his prose from his pre- decessor. The style of Dryden is capricious and varied ; that of Pope is cautious and uniform. Dryden obeys the motions of his own mind; Pope constrains his mind to his own rules of composition. Dryden is sometimes vehement and rapid; Pope is always smooth, uniform, and gentle. Dryden’s page is a natural field, rising into inequalities, and diversified by the varied exu- berance of abundant vegetation ; Pope’s is a velvet lawn, shaven by the scythe, and leveled by the roller. Of genius—that power which constitutes a poet; that quality, energywithout whichwhich judgmentcollects, combines, is cold, andamplifies, knowledge and animates—theis inert; that superiorityIt is not to must,be inferred, with some that hesitation, of this poetical be allowed vigour to Pope Dryden. had only a little, because Dryden had more ; for every other writer since Milton must give place to Pope; and even of Dryden it must be said, that if he has brighter paragraphs, he has not better poems. Dryden’s performances were always hasty ; either £38 E FRENCH TRANSLATOR. excited by some external occasion, or extorted by domestic necessity : he composed without consideration, and published without correction. What his mind could supply at call, or gather in one excursion, was all that he sought, and all that he gave. The dilatory caution of Pope enabled him to condense his sentiments, to multiply his images, and to accumulate all that study might produce, or chance might supply. If the flights of Dry- den, therefore, be higher. Pope continues longer on the wing. If of Dryden’s fire the blaze be brighter, of Pope’s the heat is more regular and constant. Dryden often surpasses expectation, and Pope never falls below it. Dryden is read with frequent astonishment, and Pope with perpetual delight. Johnson. VIII. SIR ISAAC NEWTON. Was there ever a man, the aspiring of whose heart for the good of man knew no limitations—whose longings, and whose conceptions overleaped all the barriers of geography—who, looking on himself as a brother of the species, linked every spare energy which belonged to him, with the cause of its melioration—who could embrace, within the grasp of his ample desires, the whole family of mankind—and who, in obedience to a heaven-born movement of principle within him, separated himself to some big and busy enterprise, which is to tell on the physical form and the moral destinies of the world;—doubtless, of all philosophers, Sir Isaac Newton is the one, whose pious and comprehensive mind never fails to draw forth universal and unbounded veneration. There are perhaps no two sets of human beings, who comprehend less the movements, and enter less into the cares and concerns of each other, than the wide and busy public on the one hand; and, on the other, those men of close and studious retirement, whom the world never hears of, save when, from their thoughtful solitude, there issues forth some splendid discovery, to set the world on a gaze of admiration. Then will the brilli- ancy of a superior genius draw every eye towards it—and the homage paid to intellectual superiority, will place its idol on a loftier eminence than wealth or than all titles can bestow,-—and the name of the successful philosopher will circulate, in his own age, over the whole extent of civilized society, and be borne down to posterity in the characters of ever-during remembrance—and thus it is, that, when we look back on the days of Newton, we annex a kind of mysterious greatness to him, who, by the pure NATION A I. CHARACTERS. 239 force of his understanding, rose to such a gigantic elevation above the level of ordinary men—and the kings and warriors of other days sink into insignificance around him—and he, at this moment, stands forth to the public eye, in a prouder array of glory than circles the memory of all the men of former generations—and, while all the vulgar grandeur of other days is now mouldering in forgetfulness,-the achievements of one great astronomer are still fresh in the veneration of his countrymen; and they carry him forward on the stream of time, with a reputation ever gathering, and. triumphs of a distinction that mill never die ! Dr Chalmers. IX.—OP ADDISON. If any judgment be made from his books, nothing will be found in Mr Addison’s moral character but purity and excellence. Knowledge of mankind, indeed, less extensive than his, will show, that to write and to live are very different. Many who praise virtue, do no more than praise it. Yet it is reasonable to believe that Addison’s professions and practice were at no great variance; since, amidst that storm of faction in which most of his life was passed, though his station made him conspicuous, and his activity made him formidable, the character given him by his friends was never contradicted by his enemies. Of those with whom interest or opinion united him, he had not only the esteem, but the kindness-; and of others, whom the violence of opposition drove against him, though he might lose the love, he retained the reverence. It is justly observed by Tickell, that he employed wit on the side of virtue and religion. He not only made the proper use of wit himself, but taught it to others ; and from his time it has been generally subservient to the cause of reason and truth. He has dissipated the prejudice that had long connected gaiety with vice, and easiness of manners with laxity of principles. He has restored virtue to its dignity, and taught innocence not to be a- shamed. This is an elevation of literary character, above all Greek, above all Roman fame. No greater felicity can genius attain than that of having purified intellectual pleasure, separated mirth from indecency, and wit from licentiousness ; of having taught a succession of writers to bring elegance and gaiety to the aid of goodness ; and, if I may use expressions yet more awful, of having turned’ many to righteousness. As a describer of life and manners, Mr Addison must be allowed to stand perhaps the first in the first rank. His humour 240 THE FIlENCl iXSLATOH. is peculiar to himself; and is so happily diffused as to give the grace of novelty to domestic scenes and daily occurrences. He never oversteps the modesty of nature, or raises merriment or wonder by the violation of truth. His figures neither divert by dis- tortion, nor amaze by aggravation. He copies life with so much fidelity, that he can hardly be said to invent; yet his ex- hibitions have an air so much original, that it is difficult to suppose them not merely the product of imagination. As a teacher of wisdom, he may be confidently followed. His religion has nothing in it enthusiastic or superstitious ; he appears neither weakly credulous nor wantonly sceptical; his morality is neither dangerously lax, nor implacably rigid. All the enchant- ments of fancy, and all the cogency of argument, are employed to recommend to the reader his real interest, the care of pleasing the Author of his being. Truth is shown sometimes as the phantom of a vision, sometimes appears half-veiled in an alle- gory, sometimes attracts regard in the robes of fancy, and sometimes steps forth in the confidence of reason. She wears a thousand dresses, and in all is pleasing. His prose is the model of the middle style ; on grave subjects not formal, on light occasions not groveling; pure without scru- pulosity, and exact without apparent elaboration; always equa- ble, and always easy, without glowing words or pointed sentences. His page is always luminous, but never blazes in unexpected splendour. It seems to have been his principal endeavour to avoid all harshness and severity of diction; he is, therefore, sometimes verbose in his transitions and connections, and sometimes descends too much to the language of conversation; yet if his language had been less idiomatical, it might have lost somewhat of its genuine Anglicism. What he attempted he performed. He is never feeble, and he did not wish to be energetic; he is never rapid, and he never stagnates. His sentences have neither studied amplitude nor affected brevity ; his periods, though not diligently rounded, are voluble and easy.—Whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison. Johnson. X. OF THOMSON. As a writer, Thomson is entitled to one praise of the highest kind; his mode of making, and of expressing his thoughts, is original. His blank verse is no more the blank verse of Milton, LlTfeHARY CHARACTERS. 241 ■or of any other poet, than the rhymes of Prior are the rhymes of Cowley. His numbers, his pauses, his diction, are of his own growth; without transcription, without imitation. He thinks in a peculiar train; and he thinks always as a man of genius. He looks round on Nature, and on life, with the eye which Na- ture bestows only on a poet; the eye that distinguishes in every thing presented to its view, whatever there is on which imagination can delight to be detained, and with a mind that at once comprehends the vast, and attends to the minute. The reader of the Seasons wonders that he never saw before what Thomson shows him, and that he never yet has felt what Thomson impresses. It is one of the works in which blank verse seems properly used. Thomson’s wide expansion of general views, and his enu- meration of circumstantial varieties, would have been obstructed and embarrassed by the frequent intersection of-the sense, which is the necessary effect of rhyme. His descriptions of extended scenes and general effects bring before us the whole magnificence of nature, whether pleasing or dreadful. The gaiety of Spring, the splendour of Summer, the tranquillity of Autumn, and the horror of Winter, take, in their turns, possession of the mind. The poet leads us through the appearances of things as they are successively varied by the vicissitudes of the year ; and imparts to us so much of his own enthusiasm, that our thoughts expand with his imagery, and kindle with his sentiments. Nor is the naturalist without his part in the entertainment; for he is assisted to recollect and combine, to arrange his discoveries, and to amplify the sphere of his contemplation. Johnson. IX. OF JOHNSON. Dr Johnson may be said to have had the interests of morality and religion in view throughout all hia writings ; and few literary men have done so much to promote them. Dr Johnson seems to have been born to be an author;—from his earliest years, his powerful and commanding mind was never at rest,— he seems to have laid by untelling stores of literature from his very youth, and if he had not at the outset a remarkable memory, he must have much improved it, for he never seems to have forgotten any thing that he had ever read. Neither was he a mere book-wonn, but from the first exercised hia judgment on the authors he perused, and on all the affairs and philosophy of human life. The truths of religion could not escape a mind like Q 242 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. his; accordingly we find, that they had early attracted his attention, and made deep and practical impression on his future life and conduct. His first work was a translation ; it, however, displayed his future style, rich both in language and ideas. The Rambler is one of the most powerful and instructive of his works,—its papers abound with strong, moral, and religious instruction. The rapidity with which they were written, would alone testify the uncommon powers of his mind. His “ Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia,” is one of the most useful works of fiction that young persons can read, to convince them of the folly and vanity of human ambition,—and the value of that blessing which towers above so many others,—Contentment. His Remarks on Shakespeare are in general good, and well worth reading along with the plays of our inimitable dramatist. His " Journey to the Hebrides” displays a few of the finest passages in his writings, but his matters of fact are by far too drily told. As the principal author of The Idler as well as of the Rambler, he ranks among the foremost of the British Essayists. Johnson was fortunately superior to the sneer of ridicule, and delivered his religious sentiments, both in his writings and conversation, with full force and freedom ; and his society and example must have done much good among the literary men of his day, in checking irreligion and profanity whenever they threatened to appear. He was coarse in his manners, rude in his speech, and a great misfortune seems to have been, that he was never sufficiently sensible of this; and although he aimed very much at gaining a knowledge of his own character in every particular, he had never thoroughly hit on these, at least he never amended them. This is to be regretted, for never does religion shine more than in its practical effects on a temper which is naturally bad. As a poet. Dr Johnson ranks high in the school of Pope, and it is to be regretted that he wrote so little in this department. “ Lon- don,” and “the Vanity of Human Wishes,” are his two principal poems. The verses are harmonious and flowing, and more manly than those of Pope. The latter poem is as fine a picture of the vanity of human ambition as we can possibly possess on poe- tic canvass. His Tragedy of “ Irene," is rather monotonous, but contains some fine passages. Boswell, the friend and companion of Dr Johnson, after his death, became his biographer. The work has been deservedly popular, and is now almost universally read. In many respects, too, it is highly conducive to the interests of morality and religion. LITERARY CHARACTERS. 243 XII.—OF HUME, ROBERTSON, AND GIBBON. Among the prodigious improvements, which, during the last half century, have taken place in British literature, none is more conspicuous than the appearance of three historians; the least of whom may be entitled to rank with the first writers of antiquity. Of these, Hume, the most contracted in his subject, is the most finished in execution ;—the nameless, numberless graces of his style ; the apparent absence of elaboration, yet the real effect produced by efforts the most elaborate ; the simplicity of his sentences, the perspicuity of his ideas, the purity of his expression, entitle him to the name and to the praises of another Xenophon. Robertson never attained to the same graceful ease, or the same unbounded variety of expression. With a fine ear and exact judgment in the construction of his sentences, and with an absence of Scotticisms truly wonderful in one who had never ceased to converse with Scotsmen, there is in the sentences of this historian, something resembling the pace of an animal disciplined by assiduous practice to the curb, and never moving but in conformity to the rules of the manage. The taste of Hume was Greek, Attic Greek : he had, as far as the genius of the two languages would permit, connected the very juice and flavour of their style, and transfused it into his own. Robertson, we suspect, though a good, was never a profound scholar ; from the peculiar nature of his education, and his early engagement in the duties of his profession, he had little leisure to be learned. Both, in their several ways, were men of the world ; but Hume, polished by long intercourse with the best society in France, as well as his own country, transferred some portion of easy high-breeding from his manners to his writings ; while his friend, though no man was ever more completely eman- cipated from the bigotry of a Scots minister, or from the pedantry of the head of a college, in his intercourse (which he assidu- ously courted) with the great, did not catch that last grace and polish, which intercourse without equality will never produce, and which, for that reason, mere Sfavans rarely acquire from society more liberal or more dignified than what is found in their own rank. Mr Hume, i the best company, was treated alike as a man of birth and of letters.n In the meridian of the reputation of the two former, and without forming himself upon either of their models, arose Gibbon, a young Englishman, of irregular and neglected education, who, with the defect of a style less chaste and simple, surpassed both of them, and all preceding historians, in the extent 244 THE FItENCH TRANSLATOR. and variety of his researches, and produced a work, which, from the dignity of its subject, the amplitude of its range, and the lofty tone assumed and maintained by its author, has no rival in ancient or modern times. Great indeed would have been the pride of Britain in such a constellation, had its brightness beamed with a benignant aspect on the best interests of mankind! But to the unspeakable grief of the friends of revealed religion, the event has been far otherwise; and the posthumous publication of some free and confidential correspondence has disclosed a painful truth, long before suspected, that, while Hume and Gib- bon were avowed infidels, their friend and rival, a minister of a reformed church, could endure to spend his days in the public exercise of a religion, of the truth of which he doubted, at best; and, regarding the common tie of genius, elegance, and similar pursuits, as more than sufficient to unite those whom the great bar of the profession of faith and unbelief ought for ever to have disjoined, could receive into his bosom the bitterest enemies of that revelation which he was commissioned to teach and to maintain. History is a vehicle peculiarly adapted, in an age like the present, to the purpose to which it has been studiously applied by Gibbon. Infidelity does not there present itself in its old and repulsive garb of propositions, syllogisms, objections, and replies ; it makes no formal claim on the time and attention of the reader ; it steals upon hours devoted to amusement and relaxation; by inimitable and ever successful art, it engages taste and elegance on the side of irreligion; displays in all the pomp of gorgeous eloquence, the attractions of the heathen ritual, its alliance with statuary, architecture, and song; and celebrates, however falsely, its mild and tolerant spirit, which uniting, under its gentle and comprehensive protection, a thousand modes of faith and worship, scarcely withheld its toleration from one dark and fanatical superstition ; and that because it was itself intolerant. Gifford. CHAPTER IX.

LITERARY CRITICISM.

I ON THE NECESSITY OF A CLASSICAL EDUCATION. The fairest diamonds are rough till they are polished, and the purest gold must be run and washed, and sifted in the ore. We are untaught by nature, and the finest qualities will grow wild and degenerate if the mind is not formed by discipline, and cultivated with an early care. In some persons, who have run up to men without a liberal education, we may observe many great qualities darkened and eclipsed; their minds are crusted over like diamonds in the rock, they flash out sometimes into an irregular greatness of thought, and betray in their actions an un- guided force, and unmanaged virtue ; something very great and noble may be discerned, but it looks cumbersome and awkward, and is alone of all things the worse for being natural. Nature is undoubtedly the best mistress and aptest scholar ; but nature herself must be civilized, or she will look savage, as she appears in the Indian princes, who are vested with a native majesty, a surprising greatness and generosity of soul, and discover what we always regret, fine parts, and excellent natural endowments, | without improvement. I In those countries, which we unjustly call barbarous, where art and politeness are not understood, nature hath the greater advantage in this, that simplicity of manner often secures the innocence of the mind; and as virtue is not, so neither is vice, civilized and refined: but in those politer parts of the world, where virtue excels by rules and discipline, vice also is more manyinstructed, hurtful and weeds with uswill good rise qualities with them, will notand spring choak up them alone in : their growth, unless removed by some skilful hand : nor will the mind be brought to a just perfection without cherishing every hopeful seed, and repressing every superfluous humour. The mind is like the body in this regard, which cannot fall into a decent and easy carriage, unless it be fashioned in time : an un- 2*6 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. taught behaviour is like the people that use it, truly rustic, forced and uncouth, and art must be applied to make it natural. Felton. II.— BENEFICIAL EFFECTS OF THE BELLES LETTHES. Belles Lettres and Criticism chiefly consider Man as a being endowed with those powers of taste and imagination, which were intended to embellish his mind, and to supply him with rational and useful entertainment. They open a field of investiga- tion peculiar to themselves. All that relates to beauty, harmony, grandeur, and elegance ; all that can soothe the mind, gratify the fancy, or move the affections, belongs to their province. They present human nature under a different aspect from that which it assumes when viewed by other sciences. They bring to light various springs of action, which, without their aid, might have passed unobserved ; and which, though of a delicate nature, frequently exert a powerful influence on several departments of human life. Such studies have also this peculiar advantage, that they exercise our reason without fatiguing it. They lead to inquiries acute, but not painful; profound, but not dry nor abstruse. They strew flowers in the path of science ; and while they keep the mind bent, in some degree, and active, they relieve it at the same time from that more toilsome labour to which it must submit in the acquisition of necessary erudition, or the investiga- tion of abst act truth. Blair. III.—ON STYLE. It is not easy to give a precise idea of what is meant by Style. The best definition I can give of it is, the peculiar manner in which a man expresses his conceptions, by means of Language. It is different from mere Language, or words. The words, which an author employs, may be proper and faultless ; and his Style may, nevertheless, have great faults; it may be dry, or stiff, or feeble, or affected. Style has always some reference to an author’s manner of thinking. It is a picture of the ideas which rise in his mind, and of the manner in which they rise there ; and hence, when we are examining an author’s composition, it is, in many cases, extremely difficult to separate the Style from the sentiment. No wonder these two should be so LITERARY CRITICISM. 247 intimately connected, as Style is nothing else, than that sort of expression which our thoughts most readily assume. Hence, different countries have been noted for peculiarities of Style, suited to their different temper and genius. The eastern nations animated their Style with the most strong and hyperbolical figures. The Athenians, a polished and acute people, formed a style, accurate, clear, and neat. The Asiatics, gay and loose in their manners, affected a Style florid and diffuse. The like sort of characteristical differences are commonly remarked in the Style of the French, the English, and the Spaniards. In giving the general characters of Style, it is usual to talk of a nervous, a feeble, or a spirited Style ; which are plainly the characters of a writer’s manner of thinking, as well as of expressing himself; so difficult it is to separate these two things from one another. All the qualities of a good Style may be ranged under two heads, Perspicuity and Ornament. For all that can possibly be required of Language is, to convey our ideas clearly to the minds of others, and at the same time in such a dress as, by pleasing and interesting them, shall most effectually strengthen the impressions which we seek to make. When both these ends are answered, we certainly accomplish every purpose for which we use Writing and Discourse. Blair. IV. ON THE PURITY AND IDIOM OF LANGUAGE. While the Romans studied and used the Greek tongue, only to improve and adorn their own, the Latin flourished, and grew every year more copious, more elegant, and expressive : but in a few years after, the ladies and beaux of Rome affected to speak Greek, and regarding nothing but the softness and effeminacy of that noble language, they weakened and corrupted their native tongue; and the monstrous affectation of French travelled ladies and gentlemen to speak in the Italian air, Italian tone, Italian terms, to dress, to cook, to write, to court in Italian, corrupted at once their language and their manners, and introduced an abominable gallimaufry of Italian and French mixed together, that made the innovators ridiculous to all men of sense. The Italian tongue hath undoubtedly its graces and beauties, and I am not against any real improvement of one language from that or any other: but people are always so foolish, or unfortunate, as never to make any advantage of their neighbours. They affect nothing of theirs, but what is silly and ridiculous ; and by ne- 248 THK FRENCH TRANSLATOR. glecting the substantial use of their language, they only enervate and spoil their own. Languages, like our bodies, are in a perpetual flux, and stand in need of recruits to supply the place of those words that are continually falling off through disuse: and since jt is so, I think 'tis better to raise them at home than abroad. We had better rely on our own troops than foreign forces, and I believe we have sufficient strength and numbers within ourselves : there is a vast treasure, an inexhaustible fund in the old English, from whence authors may draw constant supplies, as our officers make their surest recruits from the coal works, and the mines. The weight, the strength and significancy of many antiquated words, should recommend them to use again. ’Tis only wiping off the rust they have contracted, and separating them from the dross they lie mingled with, and both in value and beauty they will rise a- bove the standard, rather than fall below it. Perhaps our tongue is not so musical to the ear, nor so abundant in multiplicity of words; but its strength is real, and its words are therefore the more expressive: the peculiar character of our language is, that it is close, compact, and full: and our writings are all weight and substance, good measure pressed together and running over in a redundancy of sense, and not of words. And therefore the purity of our language consists in preserving this character, in writing with the English strength and spirit: let us not envy others, that they are more soft, and diffuse, and rarefied; be it our commendation to write as we pay, in true Sterling; if we want supplies, we had better revive old words, than create new ones- I look upon our language as good bullion, if we do not debase it with too much alloy ; and let me leave this censure with you,—That he who .corrupt- eth the purity of the English tongue with the most specious foreign words and phrases, is just as wise as those modish ladies that change their plate for china: for which I think the laudable traffic of old clothes is much the fairest barter. Felton. V. PECULIAR EXCELLENCE OF THE GREEKS AND ROMANS. Besides the other advantages of studying the classical historians, there is one, which gentlemen of birth and fortune, qualified to manage public business, and sit as members in the most august assemblies, have a more considerable share in, than people of meaner condition. The speeches of the great men among the Greeks and Homans deserve their peculiar study and imitation, as LITERARY CRITICISM. 249 being master-pieces of dear reasoning and genuine eloquence; the orators in the Classics fairly state their case, and strongly ar- gue it: their remarks are surprising and pertinent, their repar- tees quick, and their raillery clear and diverting. They are bold without rashness or insolence; and severe with good manners and decency. They do justice to their subjects, and speak agreeably to the nature of things, and characters of persons. Their sentences are sprightly, and their morals sound. In short, no part of the compositions of the ancients is more finished, more instructive and pleasing, than their orations. Here they seem to collect the utmost force of their genius. Their whole histories may be compared to a noble and delicious country, that lies under the favourable eye and perpetual smiles of the heavens, and is every where crowned with pleasure and plenty: but their choice descriptions and speeches seem like some peculiarly fertile and happy spots of ground in that country, on which Nature has poured out her riches with a more liberal hand, and Art has made the utmost improvements of her bounty. They have taken so much pains, and used such accuracy in the speeches, that the greatest pleasure they have given the reader, the more they have exposed themselves to the censure of the critic. The orations are too sublime and elaborate ; and those persons to whom they are ascribed, could not at those times compose or speak them. ’Tis allowed, that they might not deliver themselves in that exact number and collection of words, which the historians have so curiously laid together ; but it scarce can be denied, but the great men in history had frequent occasions of speaking in public; and 'tis probable, that many times they did actually speak to the same purpose. Scipio, Caesar, and Cato, were capable of making as good speeches as Livy or Sallust; and Pericles was an orator no ways inferior to Thucydides. When the reason of the thing will allow that there was time and room for premeditation, there is no question but many of those admirable men in history spoke as well as they are represented by those able and eloquent writers. But then the historians putting the speeches into their own style, and giving us those harangues in form, which we cannot tell how they could come at, trespass against probability, and the strict rules of writing history. It has always been allowed to great wits sometimes to step out of the beaten road, and to soar out of the view of a heavy scholiast. To grant all that is in the objec- tion : the greatest Classics were liable to human infirmities and errors; and whenever their forward censurers shall fall into such 250 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. irregularities, and commit such faults joined to such excellencies, the learned world will not only pardon, but admire them. We may say of that fine speech of Marius in Sallust, and others that are more attacked upon this foot, as the friends of Virgil do in excuse of his offending against chronology in the story of iE- neas and Dido ; that had there been no room for such little objections, the world had wanted some of the most charming and consummate productions of human wit. Whoever made these noble speeches and debates, they so naturally arise from the posture of affairs, and circumstances of the times which the authors then describe, and are so rational, so pathetic, and becoming, that the pleasure and instruction of the reader is the same. A complete dissertation upon the uses and beauties of the chief speeches in the classical historians, would be a work of curiosity, that would require an able genius and fine pen. Blackmail. VJ. ON METAPHORS. Knowing the stress laid by the ancient critics on the Meta- phor, and viewing its admirable effects in the decorating of Dic- tion, we think it may merit attention. There is not perhaps any figure of speech so pleasing as the Metaphor. It is at times the language of every individual, but above all, is peculiar to the man of genius. His sagacity dis- cerns not only common analogies, but those others more remote, which escape the vulgar, and which, though they seldom invent, they seldom fail to recognize, when they hear them from persons more ingenious than themselves. It has been ingeniously observed, that the Metaphor took its rise from the poverty of language. Men, not finding upon every occasion words ready made for their ideas, were compelled to have recourse to words analogous, and transfer them from their original meaning to the meaning then required. But though the Metaphor began in poverty, it did not end there. When the analogy was just (and this often happened) there was something peculiarly pleasing in what was both new, and yet familiar; so that the Metaphor was then cultivated, not out of necessity but for ornament. It is thus that clothes were first assumed to defend us against the cold, but came afterwards to be worn for distinction and decoration. There is a force in the united words, nem snA familiar. What is new, but not familiar, is often unintelligible ; what is familiar, but not new, is no better than common- place. It is in the union of the two, that the obscure and the LITERARY CRITICISM. 251 vulgar are happily removed ; and it is in this union, that we view the character of a just Metaphor. But after we have so praised the Metaphor, it is fit at length we should explain what it is ; and this we shall attempt, as well by a description, as by examples. “ A Metaphor is the transferring of a word from its usual meaning to an analogous meaning, and then the employing it agreeably to such transfer.” For example, the usual meaning of evening is the conclusion of the day. But age too is a conclusion ; the conclusion of human life. Now there being an analogy in all conclusions, we arrange in order the two we have alleged, and say, that as evening is to the day, so is age to human life. Hence by an easy permutation, (which furnishes at once two metaphors) we say alternately, that evening is the age of the day ; and that age is the evening of life. There are other metaphors equally pleasing, but which we only mention, as their analogy cannot be mistaken. It is thus that old men have been called stubble ; and the stage, or theatre, the mirror of human life. This affords a double satisfaction : it is strikingly clear ; and yet raised, though clear, above the low and vulgar idiom. It is a praise too of such metaphors, to be quickly comprehended. The similitude and the thing illustrated are commonly dispatched in a single word, and comprehended by an immediate and instantaneous intuition. Thus a person of wit, being dangerously ill, was told by his friends, two more physicians were called in ! So many ! says he — do they fire in platoons ? Harris. VII. HARD WORDS DEFENDED. Few faults of style, whether real or imaginary, excite the malignity of a more numerous class of readers, than the use of hard ^ wmrds. If an author be supposed to involve his thoughts in voluntary obscurity, and to obstruct, by unnecessary difficulties, a mind eager in pursuit of truth ; if he writes not to make others learned, but to boast the learning which he possesses himself, and wishes to be admired rather than understood, he counteracts the first end of writing, and justly suffers the utmost severity of censure, or the more afflictive severity of neglect. But words are only hard to those who do not understand them ; and the critic ought always to inquire, whether he is incommod- ed by the fault of the writer, or by his own. 252 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. Every author does not write for every reader; many questions are such as the illiterate part of mankind can have neither interest nor pleasure in discussing, and which therefore it would be an useless endeavour to level with common minds by tiresome circumlocutions or laborious explanations; and many subjects of general use may be treated in a different manner, as the book is intended for the learned or the ignorant. Diffusion and explica- tion are necessary to the instruction of those who, being neither able nor accustomed to think for themselves, can learn only what is expressly taught; but they who can form parallels, discover consequences, and multiply conclusions, are best pleased with in- volution of argument and compression of thought; they desire only to receive the seeds of knowledge which they may branch out by their own power, to have the way of truth pointed out, which they can then follow without a guide. Among the hard words which are no longer to be used, it has been long the custom to number terms of art. “ Every man (says Swift) is more able to explain the subject of an art than its professors : a farmer will tell you, in two words, that he has broken his leg; but a surgeon, after a long discourse, shall leave you as ignorant as before. This could only have been said but by such an exact observer of life, in gratification of malignity, or in ostentation of acuteness. Every hour produces instances of the necessity of terms of art. Mankind could never conspire in uniform affectation j it is not but by necessity that every science and every trade has its peculiar language. They that content themselves with general ideas may rest in general terms; but those whose studies or employments force them upon closer inspection, must have names for particular parts, and words by which they may express various modes of combination, such as none but themselves have occasion to consider. That the vulgar express their thoughts clearly is far from true; and what perspicuity can be found among them proceeds not from the easiness of their language, but the shallowness of their thoughts. He that sees a building as a common spectator, contents himself with relating that it is great or little, mean or splendid, lofty or low : all these words are intelligible and common, but they convey no distinct or limited ideas. If he attempts, without the terms of architecture, to delineate the parts, or enumerate the ornaments, his narration at once becomes unintelligible. The terms, indeed, generally displease, because they are understood by few ; but they are little understood, only because few that look upon an edifice, examine its parts or ana- lyze its columns into their members. Idler. LITERARY CRITICISM. 253 VIII. ON THE HISTORICAL STYLE. History will not admit those decorations other subjects are capable of; the passions and affections are not to be moved with any thing, but the truth of the narration. All the force and beauty must lie in the order and expression. To relate every event with clearness and perspicuity, in such words as best express the nature of the subject, is the chief commendation of an historian’s style. History gives us a draught of facts and tran- sactions in the world. The colours these are painted in; the strength and significancy of the several faces; the regular confusion of a battle ; the destructions of tumult sensibly depicted; every object and every occurrence so presented to your view, that while you rfcad, you seem indeed to see them ; this is the art and perfection of an historical style. And you will observe, that those who have excelled in history, have excelled in this especially ; and what has made them the standards of that style, is the clearness, the life and vigour of their expression, every where properly varied, according to the variety of the subjects they write on ; for history and narration are nothing but just and lively descriptions of remarkable events and aiccidents. Felton. IX. ON THE EPISTOLARY STYLE. Its first and fundamental requisite is, to be natural and simple ; for a stiff and laboured manner is as bad in a letter as it is in conversation. This does not banish sprightliness and wit. These are graceful in letters, just as they are in conversation, when they flow easily, and without being studied; when employed so as to season, not to cloy. One who, either in conversation or in letters, affects to shine and to sparkle always, will not please long. The style of letters should not be too highly polished. It ought to be neat and correct, but no more. All nicety about words, betrays study; and hence musical periods, and appearances of number and harmony in arrangement, should be carefully avoided in letters. The best letters are commonly such as the authors have written with most facility. What the heart or the imagination dictates, always flows readily; but where there is no subject to warm or interest these, constraint appears ; and hence those letters of mere compliment, congratulation, or affected condolence, which have cost the authors most labour in composing, and which, for that reason, they perhaps consider as 254 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. their master-pieces, never fail of being the most disagreeable and insipid to the readers. Blair. X. ON THE STUDY OF THE OLD CRITICS. That we may still qualify ourselves the better to read and relish the Classics, we must seriously study the old Greek and La- tin critics. Of the first are Aristotle, Dionysius Longinus, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus : of the latter are Tully, Horace, and Quinctilian. These are excellent authors, which lead their readers to the fountain-head of true sense and sublimity ; teach them the first and infallible principles of convincing and moving eloquence ; and reveal all the mystery and delicacy of good writing. While they judiciously discover the excellencies of other authors, they successfully shew their own; and are glorious examples of that sublime they praise. They take off the general distasteful- ness of precepts; and rules, by their dexterous management, have beauty as well as usefulness. They praise without flattery or partial favour; and censure without pride or envy. We shall still have a completer notion of the perfections of the ancients, if we read the choicest authors in our own tongue, and some of the best writers of our neighbour nations, who always have the Ancients in view, and write with their spirit and judgment. We have a glorious set of poets, of whom I shall only mention a few, which are the chief; Spenser, Shake- speare, Milton, Waller, Denham, Cowley, Dryden, Prior, Addi- son, Pope; who are inspired with the true spirit of their predecessors of Greece and Rome, and by whose immortal works the reputation of the English poetry is raised much above that of any language in Europe. Then we have prose writers of all professions and degrees, and upon a great variety of subjects, true admirers and great masters of the old Classics and Critics ; who observe their rules, and write after their models. We have Raleigh, Claren- don, Temple, Taylor, Tillotson, Sharp, Sprat, South—with a great many others, both dead and living, that I have not time to name, though I esteem them not inferior to the illustrious few I have mentioned; who are in high esteem with all readers of taste and distinction, and will be long quoted as bright examples of good sense and fine writing. Horace and Aristotle, two excellent old Critics, will be read with still greater delight and improvement, if we join LITERARY CRITICISM. 2.')5 with them, the Duke of Buckingham’s Essay on Poetry, Ros- common’s Translation of Horace’s Art of Poetry, and Essay on Translated Verse, Mr Pope’s Essay on Criticism and Discourses before Homer, Dryden’s Critical Prefaces and Discourses, all the Spectators that treat upon Classical Learning, particularly the justly admired and celebrated critique upon Milton’s Paradise Lost, Dacier upon Aristotle’s Poetics, Bossu on Epic Poetry, Boileau’s Art of Poetry, and Reflections on Longinus, Dr Felton’s Dissertation on the Classics, and Mr Trapp’s Poetical Prelections. These gentlemen make a true judgment and use of the Ancients : they esteem it a reputation to own theyadmire them, and to defend them against the attacks of some over-forward wits, who envy their fame, and infinitely fall short of their merit. Blackmail. XL—THE METHOD OF SCHOOLS VINDICATED. It has been long a complaint in this polite and excellent age of learning, that we lose our time in words; that the memory of youth is charged and overloaded without improvement; and all they learn is mere cant and jargon for three or four years together. Now, the complaint is in some measure true, but not easily remedied; and perhaps, after all the exclamation of so much time lost in mere words and terms, the hopeful youths, whose loss of time is so much lamented, were capable of learning nothing but words at those years. I do not mind what some quacks in the art of teaching say ; they pretend to work wonders, and to make young gentlemen masters of the languages before they can be masters of common sense ; but this to me is a demonstration, that we are capable of little else than words, till twelve or thirteen, if you will observe, that a boy shall be able to repeat his grammar over, two or three years before his understanding opens enough to let him into the reason and clear apprehension of the rules; and when this is done, sooner or later, it ceaseth to be cant and jargon : so that all this clamour is wrong founded, and the cause of complaint lies rather against the back- wardness of our judgment, than the method of our schools. And betherefore furnished I am there for thewith old a stockway inof wordsschools at still, least, and when children they come will to know how to use them. Fellon. CHAPTER X.

LETTERS. I. FROM COWPER. Jidy 27, 1783. Mr dear friend,—You cannot have more pleasure in receiving a letter from me, than I should find in writing it, were it not almost impossible in such a place to find a subject. I live in a world abounding with incidents, upon which many grave, and perhaps some profitable observations might be made; but those incidents never reaching my unfortunate ears, both the entertaining narrative, and the reflection it might suggest, are to me annihilated and lost. I look back to the past week, and say, .what did it produce? I ask the same question of the week preceding, and duly receive the same answer from both—nothing ! A situation like this, in which I am as unknown to the world, as I am ignorant of all that passes in it, in which l have nothing to do but to think, would exactly suit me, were my subjects of meditation as agreeable as my leisure is uninterrupted. My passion for retirement, after so many years spent in the most sequestered state, is rather increased. A circumstance I should esteem wonderful to a degree not to be accounted for, considering the condition of my mind, did I not know that we think as we are made to think, and of course approve and prefer as Providence, who appoints the bounds of our habitation, chooses for us. Thus I am both free and a prisoner at the same time. The world is before me; I am not shut up in the Bastile; there are no moats about my castle, no locks upon my gates of which I have not the key—but an invisible uncontroulable agency, a local attachment, an inclination more forcible than I ever felt even to the place of my birth, serves me for prison walls, and for bounds which I cannot pass. In former years I have known sorrow; and before I had ever tasted of spiritual trouble. The effect was an abhorrence of the scene in which I had suffered so much, and a weariness of those objects which I had so long looked at with an eye of despondency and dejection. But it is otherwise with me now. The same LETTERS. 257 cause subsisting, and in a much more powerful degree, fails to produce its natural effect. The very stones in the garden walls are my intimate acquaintance. I should miss almost the minut- est object, and be disagreeably affected by its removal; and am persuaded, that were it possible I could leave this incommodious nook for a twelvemonth, I should return to it again with rapture, and be transported with the sight of objects, which to all the world besides would be at least indifferent—some of them perhaps, such as the ragged thatch, and the tottering walls of the neighbouring cottages, disgusting. But so it is, and it is so, because here is to be my abode, and because such is the appoint- ment of Him that placed me in it. It is the place of all the world I love the most, not for any happiness it affords me, but because here I can be miserable with most convenience to myself, and with the least disturbance to others. You wonder, and, I dare say, unfeignedly, because you do not think yourself entitled to such praise, that I prefer your style as an historian to that of the two most renowned writers of history the present day has seen. That you may not suspect me of having said more than my real opinion will warrant, I will tell you why. In your style I see no affectation. In every line of theirs I see nothing else—they disgust me always. Robertson with his pomp and his strut, and Gibbon with his finical and his French manners. You are as correct as they, you express yourself with as much precision, your words are ranged with as much propriety, but you do not set your periods to a tune. They discover a perpetual desire to exhibit themselves to advantage, whereas your subject engrosses you. They sing, and you say ; which, as history is a thing to be said, and not sung, is, in my judgment, very andmuch is toyet your neither advantage. inelegant Anor writer inharmonious, that despises proves their himself tricks, by that single circumstance a man of superior judgment and ability to them both. You have my reasons. I honour a manly character, in which good sense, and a desire of doing good, are the predominant features—but affectation is an emetic. II. FROM MR BURNS TO MR CUNNINGHAM. Canst thou minister to a mind diseased ? Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tossed on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to a frame, tremblingly 258 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. alive as the tortures of suspense, the stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the blast ? If thou canst not do the least of these, why wouldst thou disturb me in my miseries with thy in* quiries after me ? For these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, ah origine, blasted with a deep and incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of late a number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin of these ***** times ; losses which, though trifling, were yet what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings at times could only be envied by a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence that dooms it to perdition. Are you deep in the language of consolation ? I have exhausted in reflection every topic of comfort. A heart at ease would have been charmed with my sentiments and reasonings ; but as to myself, I was like Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel: he might melt and mould the hearts of those around him, but his own kept .its native incorrigibility. Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery. The one is composed of the different modifications of a noble, stubbom something in man, known by the names of courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of those feelings and sentiments, which, however the sceptic may deny, or the en- thusiast disfigure, are yet, I am convinced, original and compo- nent parts of the human soul; those senses of the mind, if I may be allowed the expression, which connect us with, and link us to, those awful obscure realities—an all-powerful, and equally beneficent God; and a world to come, beyond death and the. grave. The first gives the nerve of combat,' while a ray of hope beams on the field :—the last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds which time can never cure. I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked on the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the trick of the crafty few, to lead the undiscerning many ; or at most as an uncertain obscurity, which mankind can never know any thing of, and with which they are fools if they give themselves much to do. Nor would I quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more than I would for his want of a musical ear. I would regret that he was shut out from what, to me and to others, were such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this point of view, and for this reason, that I will deeply im- bue the mind of every child of mine with religion. If my son should happen to be a man of feeling, sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that LETTER*. 259 this sweet little fellow, (who is just now running about my desk,) will be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart; that he will possess an imagination, delighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him wandering out in a sweet evening to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the growing luxuriance of the spring ; himself the while in the blooming youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to nature’s God. His soul, by swift, delighting degrees, is rapt above this sublunary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the glorious enthusiasm of Thomson, “ These, as they change, Almighty Father, these IsAre full but of the thee.” varied God.—The rolling year These are no ideal pleasures; they are real delights ; and I ask, what of the delights among the sons of men are superior, not to say equal, to them ? And they have this spacious, vast addition, that conscious virtue stamps them for her own; and lays hold on them to bring herself into the presence of a witnessing, judging, and approving God. HI. FROM MR POPE TO LADY MARY MfORTLEY MONTAGU. If you must go from us, I wish at least you might pass to your banishment by the most pleasant way ; might all your road be roses and myrtles, and a thousand objects rise round you, agreeable enough to make England less desirable to you. I am glad, madam, your native country uses you so well as to justify your regret for it; it is not for me to talk of it with tears in my eyes ; I can never think that place my country, where I cannot call a foot of paternal earth my own. Indeed, it may seem some alleviation, that when the wisest thing I can do is to leave my country, that which was most agreeable in it should be taken from thence beforehand. I could overtake you with pleasure in Italy, (if you took that way,) and make that tour in your company. Every reasonable entertainment and beautiful view would be doubly instructive when you talked of it. I should at least attend you to the sea-coast, and cast a last look after the sails that transported you, if I liked Italy enough to reside in it. But I believe I should be as uneasy in a country where I saw others persecuted by the rogues of my own religion, as where I was so myself by those of yours. And it is not impossible but I might run into Turkey in search of liberty ; for who would not rather live a free man among a nation of slaves, than a slave among a nation of free men ? 260 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. In good earnest, if I knew your motions toward Italy, (on the supposition you go that course,) and your exact time, I verily think I shall be once more happy in a sight of you next spring. I’ll conclude with a wish, God send you with us, or me with you. By what I have seen of Mons. Rousseau’s works, I should envy you his conversation. But I am sure I envy him yours.—Mr Ad- dison has not had one epithalamium that I can hear of, and must even be reduced, like a poorer and a better poet, Spencer, to make his own.—Mr Congreve is entirely yours, and has writ twice to you ; he is not in town, but well. I am in great health, and sit up all night; a just reward for a fever I just come out of, that kept me in bed seven days—How may I send a large bundle to you ?—I beg you will put dates to your letters; they are not long enough. IV FROM MR ADDISON TO MR EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. Being very well pleased with this day’s Spectator, I cannot forbear sending you one of them, and desiring your opinion of the story in it. When you have a soti, I shall be glad to be his Leontine, as my circumstances will probably be like his. I have within this twelvemonth lost a place of 2000/. per annum, an estate in the Indies of 14,000/.; and what is more than all the rest, my mistress. Hear this, and wonder at my philosophy. I find they are going to take away my Irish place from me too; to which I must add, that I have just resigned my fellowship, and the stocks sink every day. If you have any hints or subjects, pray send me a paper full. 1 long to talk an evening with you. I believe I shall not go for Ireland this summer, and perhaps would take a month with you, if I knew where. Lady Bellaise is very much your humble servant. Dick Steele and I often remember you. V. FROM MR EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU TO MR ADDISON. Notwithstanding your disappointments, I had much rather be in your circumstances than my own. The strength of your constitution would make you happier than all who are not equal to you in that, though it contributed nothing towards those other advantages that place you in the first rank of men. Since my fortune fell to me, I had reason to fancy I should be reduced to a LETTERS. 261 very small income: I immediately retrenched my expences, and lived for six months on fifty pounds, as pleasantly as ever I did in my life, and could have lived for less than half that sum ; and often entertained myself with the speech of Ofellus, in the second satire of the second book, and still think no man of understanding can be many days unhappy, if he does not want health ; at present I take all the care I can to improve mine. This air is as proper for that as any I know ; and we are so remote from all troublesome neighbours and great towns, that a man can think of nothing long but country amusements or his book; and if you would change the course of your thoughts, you will scarce fail of effecting it here. I am in some fear I shall be forced to town for four or five days, and then we may come down together: if I stay, I shall let you know it in a week or ten days, and hope to see you very soon. You were never in possession of any thing you love but your places, and those you could not call your own. After I had read what you say about them, I could not take pleasure in the Spectator you sent, but thought it a very good one. In two months, or a little more, I think I must go to the Newcastle journey. You told me you should like it; if you do not, perhdps we may contrive how you may pass your time here. I am not sure we shall easily have leave to lodge out of this house ; but we may eat in the woods every day, if you like it, and nobody here will expect any sort of ceremony. VI FROM LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU, TO THE COUNTESS OF BUTE. I wish you, my dear Child, many new years, accompanied with every blessing that can render them agreeable; and that it was in my power to send you a better new year’s gift than a dull letter : you must, however, accept it as well meant, though ill performed. I am glad you have found a house to please you. I know nothing of that part of the town you mention. I believe London would appear to me as strange as any place I have passed in my travels, and the streets as much altered as the inhabitants. I did not know Lady H. Wentworth was married, though you speak of her children : you see my total ignorance : it would be amusing to me to hear various things that are as indifferent to you as an old almanack. I am sorry my friend Smollet loses his time in translations: he has certainly a talent for invention, though I think it flags a little in his last work. Don Quixote is a difficult undertaking : I shall never desire to read any attempt to new- 262 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. dress him. Though I am a mere piddler in the Spanish language, I had rather take pains to understand him in the original than sleep over a stupid translation. I thank you for your partiality in my favour. It is not my interest to rectify mistakes that are so obliging to me. To say truth, I think myself an uncommon kind of creature, being an old woman without superstition, peevishness, or censoriousness. I am so far from thinking my youth was past in an age of more virtue and sense than the present, that I am of opinion the world improves every day. I confess I remember to have dressed for St James’s chapel with the same thoughts your daughters will have at the opera; but am not of the Rambler’s mind, that the church is the proper place to make love in; and the peepers behind a fan, who divided their glances between their lovers and their prayer-book, were not at all modester than those that now laugh aloud in public walks. I tattle on, and forget you’re in town, and consequently I ought to shorten my letters, knowing very well that the same letter that would be read thrice over in the country, will be crammed into the pocket before ’tis half gone through, when people are in a hurry to go to the court or play- house. My compliments to Lord Bute, and blessings to you and yours, to whom I am ever a most affectionate mother. VII FROM LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU, TO MR POPE. I did not verily intend to write you a long letter from Peter- waradin, where I expected to stay three or four days; but the pasha here was in such haste to see us, that he dispatched the courier back (which Mr Wortley had sent to know the time he would send the convoy to meet us) without suffering him to pull off his boqts. My letters were not thought important enough to stop our journey ; and we left Peterwaradin the next day, being waited on by the chief officers of the garrison, and a considerable convoy of Germans and Rascians- The emperor has several regiments of these people; but, to say the truth, they are rather plunderers than soldiers; having no pay, and being obliged to furnish their own arms and horses ; they rather look like vagabond gipsies, or stout begars, than regular Jroops. I cannot forbear speaking a word of this race of creatures, who are very numerous all over Hungary. They have a patriarch of their own at Grand Cairo, and are really of the Greek church; but their extreme ignorance gives their priests occasion to im- LETTERS. 263 pose several new notions upon them. These fellows, letting their hair and beard grow inviolate, make exactly the figure of the In- dian bramins. They are heirs-general to all the money of the laity; for which, in return, they give them formal passports signed and sealed for heaven ; and the wives and children only inherit the house and cattle. In most points they follow the Greek church. This little digression has interrupted my telling you we passed over the fields of Carlowitz, where the last great victory was obtained by Prince Eugene over the Turks. The marks of that glorious bloody day are yet recent, the field being yet strewed with the sculls and carcases of unburied men, horses, and camels. I could not look, without horror, on such numbers of mangled human bodies, nor without reflecting on the injustice of war, that makes murder not only necessary but mysterious. Nothing seems to be a plainer proof of the irrationality of mankind (whatever fine claims we pretend to reason) than the rage with which they contest for a small spot of ground, when such vast parts of fruitful earth lie quite uninhabited. It is true, custom has now made it unavoidable ; but can there be a greater demonstration of want of reason, than a custom being firmly established, so plainly contrary to the interest of man in general ? I am a good deal inclined to believe Mr Hobbes, that the state of nature is a stale of war ; but thence I conclude human nature not rational, if the word reason means common sense, as I suppose it does. I have a great many admirable arguments to support this reflection ; I won’t, however, trouble you with them, but return in a plain style, to the history of my travels. We were met at Betsko (a village in the midway between Bel- grade and Peterwaradin) by an aga of the Janisaries, with a body of Turks, exceeding the Germans by one hundred men, though the pasha had engaged to send exactly the same number. You may judge by this of their fears. I am really persuaded, that they hardly thought the odds of one hundred men set them even with the Germans : however, I was very uneasy till they were parted, fearing some quarrel might arise, notwithstanding the parole given. to Weit very came difficult. late to Belgrade,It seems athe strong deep city,snows fortified making on the the ascent east side by the river Save, and was formerly the barrier of Hungary. It was first taken by Solyman the Magnificent, and since by the emperor’s forces, led by the elector of Bavaria. The emperor held it only two years, it being retaken by the grand vizier. It is now fortified with the utmost care and skill the Turks are ca- 264 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. pable ofj and strengthened by a very numerous garrison of their bravest Janisaries, commanded by a pasha seraskier, (i. e. general,) though this last expression is not very just; for, to say truth, the seraskier is commanded by the Janisaries. These troops have an absolute authority here, and their conduct carries much more the aspect of rebellion than the appearance of subordination. You may judge of this by the following story, which, at the same time, will give you an idea of the admirable intelligence of the governor of Peterwaradin, though so few hours distant. We were told at Peterwaradin, that the garrison and inhabitants of Belgrade were so weary of the war, they had killed their pasha about two months ago, in a mutiny, because he had suffered himself to be prevailed upon, by a bribe of five purses (five hundred pounds sterling) to give permission to the Tartars to ra- vage the German frontiers. We were very well pleased to hear of such favourable dispositions in the people ; but when we came hither, we found that the governor had been ill-informed, and the real truth of the story to be this.—The late pasha fell under the displeasure of his soldiers, for no other reason but restraining their incursions on the Germans. They took it into their heads, from that mildness, that he had intelligence with the enemy, and sent such information to the grand signor at Adrianople; but, redress not coming quick enough from thence, they assembled themselves in a tumultuous manner, and by force dragged their pasha before the cadi and mufti, and they demanded justice in a mutinous way ; one crying out. Why he protected the infidels ? another. Why he squeezed them of their money ? The pasha, easily guessing their purpose, calmly replied to them, that they asked him too many questions, and that he had but one life which must answer for all. They then immediately fell upon him with their scimitars (without waiting the sentence of their heads of the law,) and in a few moments cut him in pieces. The present pasha has not dared to punish the murder; on the contrary, he affected to applaud the actors of it, as brave fellows, that knew how to do themselves justice. He takes all pretences of throwing money among the garrison, and suffers them to make little excursions in- to Hungary, where they burn some poor Rascian houses. You may imagine, I cannot be very easy in a town which is really under the government of an insolent soldiery. We expected to be immediately dismissed, after a night’s lodging here; but the pasha detains us till he receives orders from Adrianople, which may, possibly, be a month a-coming. In the mean time, we are lodged in one of the best houses, belonging to a very con- LETTERS. 265 siderable man amongst them, and having a whole chamber of Janisaries to guard us. My only diversion is the conversation of our host, Achmet Bey, a title something like that of count in Germany. His father was a great pasha, and he has been educated in the most polite Eastern learning, being perfectly skilled in the Arabic and Persian languages, and an extraordinary scribe, which they call effeudi. This accomplishment makes way to the greatest preferments: but he has had the good sense to prefer an easy, quiet, secure life, to all the dangerous honours of the Porte. He sups with us every night, and drinks wine very freely. You cannot imagine how much he is delighted with conversing with me. He has explained to me many pieces of Ara- bian poetry, which, I observe, are in numbers not unlike ours, generally of an alternate verse, and of a very musical sound. Their expressions of love are very passionate and lively. I am so much pleased with them, I really believe I should learn to read Arabic, if I was to stay here a few months. He has a very good library of their books of all kinds; and, as he tells me, spends the greatest part of his life there. I pass for a great scholar with him, by relating to him some of the Persian tales, which I find are genuine. He has wit, and is more polite than many Christian men of quality. I am very much entertained with him. But these amusements do not hinder my wishing heartily to be out of this place; though the weather is colder than I believe it ever was any-where but in Greenland. We have a very large stove constantly kept hot, and yet the windows of the room are frozen on the inside. God knows when I may have an opportunity of sending this letter: but I have written it for the discharge of my own conscience; and you cannot now reproach me, that one of yours makes ten of mine. Adieu. CHAPTER XI.

MORAL DUTIES *

I ON THE NECESSITY OF CHOOSING PROPER COMPANY. It is from good company, especially at our first setting out, that we receive good impressions. Good company is not what respective sets of company are pleased either to call or think themselves. It consists chiefly (though not wholly) of people of considerable birth, rank, and character; for people of neither birth nor rank are frequently and very justly admitted into it, if distinguished by any peculiar merit or eminency in any liberal art or science. So motley a thing is good company, that many people, without birth, rank, or merit, intrude into it by their own forwardness, and others get into it by the protection of some considerable person. In this fashionable good company, the best manners and the purest language are most unquestionably to be learned; for they establish and give the tone to both, which are called the language and manners of good company, neither of them being ascertained by any legal tribunal. Let us, above all things, endeavour to keep company with people above us; for there we rise, as much as we sink with people below us. By company above us, it is not meant with regard to their birth, but with regard to their merit, and the light in which the world considers them. There are two sorts of good company : one which is called the beau monde, and consists of those people who have the lead in courts and in the gay part of life; the other consists of those who are distinguished by some peculiar merit, or who excel in some particular or valuable art or science. We should equally be careful to avoid that low company which, in every sense of the word, is low indeed ; low in rank, low in Son,”* The has Author, been very in the careful following to modify extracts or from suppress “ Lord whatever Chesterfield’s had aAdvice tendency to his to consonancecontaminate with the themorals; strictest and morality. every thing introduced in this chapter, is in perfect MORAL DUTIES. 267 parts, low in manners, and low in merit. Vanity, that source of many of our follies and of some of our crimes, has sunk many a man into company in every light infinitely below him, for the sake of being the first man in it. There he dictates, is applauded and admired; but he soon disgraces himself, and disqualifies himself for any better company. - II. ON THE PROPRIETY OF PAYING ATTENTION TO THE COMPANY. A man is fit for neither business nor pleasure, who either cannot or does not command and direct his attention to the present object, and, in some degree, banish, for that time, all other subjects from his thoughts. If, at a ball, a supper, or a party of pleasure, a man were to be solving, in his own mind, a problem in Euclid, he would be a very bad companion, and make a poor figure in that company ;.or if, in studying a problem in his closet, he were to think of a minuet, it is very probable that he would make a very poor mathematician. There is time enough for every thing in the course of the day, if you do but one thing at once: but there is not time enough in the year, if you will do two things at a time. This steady and undissipated attention to one object is a sure mark of a superior genius ; as hurry, bustle, and agitation, are the never failing symptoms of a weak and frivolous mind. We should not only have attention to every thing, but a quickness of attention, so as to observe, at once, all the people in the room, their motions, their looks, and their words ; and yet without staring at them, and seeming to be an observer. In short, the most material knowledge of all, I mean the knowledge of the world, is never to be acquired without great attention ; and I know many old people, who, though they have lived long in the world, are but children still as to the knowledge of it, from their levity and inattention. There are little atten- tions which are infinitely engaging, and which sensibly affect that degree of pride and self-love which is inseparable from human nature, as they are unquestionable proofs of the regard and con- siderationAs, for example which :we suppose have for we the invited persons any to bodywhom to we dine pay or them. sup with us, we ought to recollect if we had any favourite dish, and take care to provide it for them: and, when it came, we should say, “ You seemed to me, at such and such a place, to give this dish a preference, and therefore I ordered it. This is the wine that I observed you liked, and therefore 1 procured some." The 268 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. more trifling these things are, the more they prove our attention for the person, and are consequently the more engaging. Let us consult our own breast, and recollect how these little atten- tions, when shown us by others, are both engaging and flattering. Ill CAUTIONS IN ADOPTING THE MANNERS OF A COMPANY. When new in the world, we first get into company, we determine to conform to and imitate it. But we too often mistake the object of imitation. We have frequently heard the absurd term of genteel and fashionable vices. We there observe some people who shine, and who in general are admired and esteemed, and perceive that these people are rakes, drunkards, or gamesters ; we therefore adopt their vices, mistaking their defects for their perfections, and imagining that they owe their fashion and their lustre to these genteel vices. But it is exactly the reverse; for these people have acquired their reputation by their parts, their learning, their good breeding, and other real accomplishments; and are only blemished and lowered in the opinions of all reasonable people by these general and fashionable vices. It is therefore plain that, in these mixed characters, the good part only makes people forgive, but not approve the bad. If a man should, unfortunately, have any vices, he ought, at least, to be content with his own, and not adopt other people’s. The adoption of vice has ruined ten times more young men than natural inclinations. Let us imitate the real perfections of the good company into which we may get; copy their politeness, their virtues, their address, and the easy and well bred turn of their conversation ; but we should remember that, let them shine ever so bright, their vices, if they have any, are so many blemishes, which we should no more endeavour to imitate than we would make artificial warts upon our faces, because some very handsome man had the misfortune to have a natural one upon his. We should, on the contrary, think how much handsomer he would have been without it. IV.—HOW TO CONVERSE IN COMPANY ; DEFECT OF TELLING LONG STORIES, AND PAYING NO ATTENTION TO PEOPLE WHILE SPEAKING. When we are in company, we may talk often, but never long ; in that case, if we do not please, at least we are sure not to tire MORAL DUTIES. 269 our hearers. It is proper to inform ourselves of the characters and situations of the company, before we give way to what our imagination may prompt us to say. Were we, therefore, to expatiate in the praise of some virtue, which some in company notoriously want; or declaim against any vice, which others are notoriously infected with; our reflections, however general and unapplied, will, by being applicable, be thought personal, and levelled at those people. Stories ought to be told very seldom, and absolutely never but where they are very apt and very short. Every circumstance that is not material ought to be omitted, and digressions never allowed. To have frequent recourse to narrative betrays great want of imagination. It betrays vulgarity to hold any body by the button, or the hand, to be heard out; for, if people are not willing to hear you, you had much better hold your tongue than them. There is nothing so shocking, nor so little forgiving, as a seeming inattention to the person who has been speaking to you; and many are reproved for a much slighter provocation than that inattention meant here. There are people who, while you are speaking to them, instead of looking at and attending to you, fix their eyes upon the ceiling or some other part of the room, look out of the window, play with a dog, twirl their snuff box, or pick their nose. Nothing discovers a little, futile, frivolous mind more than this, and nothing is so offensively ill bred; it is an explicit declaration on our part, that every the most trifling object deserves our attention more than all that can be said by the person who is speaking to us. Let us judge of the sentiments of hatred and resentment, which such treatment must excite in every breast where any degree of self-love dwells. That sort of vanity and self-love is inseparable from human nature, whatever may be its rank or condition ; even our footman will sooner forget and forgive a beating, than any manifest mark of slight and contempt. Let us be, therefore, not only really, but seemingly and manifestly attentive to whoever speaks to us. V.—ON THE IMPROPRIETY OF INTERRUPTING, DICTATING, CON- TRADICTINGPANY. BLUNTLY, AND SHOWING ONE’S LEARNING IN COM- It is considered as the height of ill manners to interrupt any person while speaking, by speaking ourself, or calling off the attention of the company to any new subject. This, however. 270 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. every child knows. It is better to take, rather than give the ' subject of the company we are in. If we have parts, we will i show them, more or less, upon every subject; and, if we have none, we had better talk sillily upon a subject of other people’s than of our own choosing. Our learning ought to be displayed only on particular occasions. Let us reserve it for learned men, and let even these rather extort it from us than appear forward to display it. Hence we will be deemed modest, and reputed to possess more knowledge than we really have. It is imprudent to seem wiser or more learned than our company. The man who affects to display his learning will be frequently questioned; and, if found superficial, will be ridiculed and despised; if otherwise, he will be deemed a pedant. Nothing can lessen real merit (which will always show itself) in the opinion of the world, but an ostentatious display of it by its possessor. When we oppose or contradict any person’s assertion or opinion, let onr manner, our airs, our terms, and our tone of voice be soft and gentle ; and that easy and naturally, not affected- ly. Good breeding requires the use of palliatives when we contradict ; such as, “ I may be deceived, I am not sure, but I believe, I should rather think," &c; And it may not be amiss to finish any argument or dispute with some little good humoured pleasantry, to show that we are neither hurt nor meant to hurt our antagonist; for an argument, kept up a good while, often occasions a temporary alienation on each side. VI ON THE DANGER OF ARGUING, DEBATING INTEMPERATELY, AND MISTAKING THE FEELINGS OF DIFFERENT COMPANIES. For the sake of order and harmony, let us avoid as much as we can, in mixed companies, argumentative, polemical conversations; which certainly indispose, for a time, the contending parties towards each other; and, if the controversy grows warm and noisy, we ought to endeavour to put an end to it by some genteel levity or joke. Arguments should never be maintained with heat and clamour, though we believe or know ourselves to be in the right; we should give our opinions modestly and coolly; and, if that will not do, we may change the conversation, by saying, “We shall not be able to convince one another; nor is it necessary that we should; so let us talk of something else.” There is a local propriety to be observed in all companies; and MORAL DUTIES. 271 what is extremely proper in one company may be, and often is highly improper in another. The jokes, bon mots, the little ad- ventures, which may do very well in one company, will seem flat and tedious when related in another. The particular characters, the habits, the cant, of one company may give merit to a word, or a gesture, which would have none at all if divested of those accidental circumstances. Here people very commonly err; and, fond of something that has entertained them in one company, and in certain circumstances, repeat it with emphasis n another, where it is either insipid, or, it may be, offensive, by being ill timed or misplaced. Nay, they often do it with this silly preamble: “ I will tell you an excellent thingor, “ I will tell you the best thing in the world.” This raises expectations, which, when absolutely disappointed, makes the relator of this excellent thing look, very deservedly, like a fool. VII. ON THE HABIT OF BEING MYSTERIOUS IN COMPANY, NOT LOOKING PEOPLE IN THE FACE, TALKING SCANDAL, AND CAST- ING REFLECTIONS ON OTHERS. teriousMany ; whichpersons is contractnot only thea very habit unamiable of appearing character, dark butand a mys-very suspicious one too: if we seem mysterious with others, they will be really so with us. The height of propriety is to have a frank, open, and ingenuous exterior, with a prudent and reserved interior. To look people in the face when we speak to them, is absolutely necessary; the not doing it is thought to imply conscious guilt: besides that, we lose the advantage of observ- uponingj bythem. their Privatecountenances, scandal what should impression never be our received discourse nor makesretail- ed willingly; for, though the defamation of others may, for the present, gratify the malignity or the pride of our hearts, yet cool reflection will draw very disadvantageous conclusions from such a disposition. In scandal, as in robbery, the receiver is always thought as bad as the thief. In conversation, it is highly improper to attack whole bodies of any kind; for we may thereby unnecessarily make ourselves a great number of enemies. Among women, as among men, there are good as well as bad ; and, it may be, full as many, or more good than among men. This rule holds as to lawyers, soldiers, par- sons, courtiers, citizens, &c. They are all men subject to the same passions and sentiments, differing only in the manner, according to their several educations ; and it would be as impru- 272 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. dent as unjust to attack any of them by the lump. Individuals forgive sometimes ; but bodies and societies never do. All general reflections upon nations and societies are the trite, threadbare jokes of those who set up for wit without having any, and so have recourse to common-place. The most prudent way is to judge of individuals from our own knowledge of them, and not from their sex, profession, or denomination. VIII CAUTIONS ABOUT MIMICRY, SWEARING, SPEAKING OF PEOPLE’S PRIVATE AFFAIRS, AND COMMITTING INDISCRETIONS. Mimicry, which is the common and favourite amusement of little, low minds, is in the utmost contempt with great ones. It is the lowest and most illiberal of all buffoonery. We should neither practise it, nor applaud it in others. Besides that, the person mimicked is insulted; and, as it has often been observed before, an insult is never forgiven.—We may frequently hear some people, in good company, interlard their conversation with oaths, by way of embellishment, as they suppose. They are generally people of low education ; for swearing, without having a single temptation to plead, is as silly and as illiberal as it is wicked. Whatever we say in company, if we say it with a supercilious, cynical face, or an embarrassed countenance, or a silly, disconcerted grin, it will be still worse received. To talk of our own or other people’s domestic affairs is very imprudent; ours are nothing to them but tedious; theirs are nothing to us. It is a tender subject; and it is a chance if we do not touch somebody or other’s sore place. And with the best intentions in the world, we very often make some very disagreeable blunders. Nothing makes a man look sillier, in company, than a joke or pleasantry not relished or not understood ; and, if he meets with a profound silence, when he expected a general applause, or, what is still worse, if he is desired to explain the joke or bon mot, his awkward and embarrassed situation is easier imagined than described. We ought to be careful how we repeat in one company what we hear in another. Things seemingly indifferent may, by cir- culation, have much graver consequences than may be imagined. There is a kind of general tacit trust in conversation, by which a man is engaged not to report any thing out of it, though he is not immediately enjoined secrecy. A retailer of this kind draws himself into a thousand scrapes and discussions, and is shily and indifferently received wherever he goes. MORAL DUTIES. 273 People of an ordinary, low education, when they happen to fall into good company, imagine themselves the only object of its attention. If the company whispers, it is, to be sure, concerning them ; if they laugh, it is at them; and, if any thing ambiguous, that by the most forced interpretation can be applied to them, happens to be said, they are convinced that it was meant for them ; upon which they grow out of countenance first, and then angry. A well bred man seldom thinks, but never seems to think himself slighted, undervalued, or laughed at in company, unless where it is so plainly marked out that his honour obliges him to resent it in a proper manner. On the contrary, a vulgar man is captious and jealous ; eager and impetuous about trifles. The conversation of a vulgar man also always savours strongly of the lowness of his education and company. It turns chiefly upon his domestic affairs, his servants, the excellent order he keeps in his own family, and the little anecdotes of the neighbourhood. A certain degree of exterior seriousness in looks and motions gives dignity, without excluding wit and decent cheerfulness. A constant smirk upon the face and a whiffling activity of the body are strong indications of futility. IX HINTS ON GOOD BREEDING, ADDRESS, EXPERTNESS AT TABLE, CLEANLINESS, AND DRESS. Good sense in many cases must determine good breeding ; for what will be civil at one time, and to one person, would be rude at another time, and to another person. There are, however, some general rules of good breeding; as, for example : to answer only. Yes, or No, to any person, without adding Sir, My Lord, or Madam (as it may happen), is always extremely rude; and it is equally so not to give proper attention and a civil answer when spoken to ; such behaviour convinces the person who is speaking to us that we despise him, and do not think him worthy of our attention or an answer. The carriage of a gentleman should be genteel, and his motions graceful. He should be particularly careful of his manner and address, when he presents himself in company. Let them be respectful without meanness, easy without too much familiarity, genteel without affectation, and insinuating without any seeming art or design. Men, as well as women, are much oftener led by their hearts than by their understandings. The way to the 274 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. heart is through the senses; please their eyes and their ears, and the work is half done. However trifling some things may seem, they are no longer so when about half the world thinks them otherwise. Carving, as it occurs at least once in every day, is not below our notice. We should use ourselves to carve adroitly and genteelly, without hacking half an hour across bone, without bespattering the company with the sauce, and without overturning the glasses into your neighbour’s pockets. To be awkward in this particular, is extremely disagreeable and ridiculous. It is easily avoided by a little attention and use; and a man who tells you gravely that he cannot carve, may as well tell you that he cannot blow his nose ; it is both as easy and as necessary. The person should be accurately clean ; the teeth, ears, hands, and nails, should be particularly so : a dirty mouth has real ill consequences to the owner; for it infallibly causes the decay, as well as the intolerable pain of the teeth; and is very offensive besides. Nothing looks more ordinary, vulgar, and illiberal than dirty hands, and ugly, uneven, and ragged nails; the ends of which should be kept smooth and clean (not tipped with black), and small segments of circles. Upon no account whatever put your fingers in your nose or ears. It is the most shocking, nasty, vulgar rudeness that can be offered to a company. These things may, perhaps, appear too insignificant to be mentioned; but we ought not to call them trifling. Besides, a clean shirt and a clean person are as necessary to health as not to offend other people. It is a maxim well known, that a man who is negligent at twenty will be a sloven at forty, and intolerable at fifty years of age. All affectation in dress implies a flaw in the understanding. Men of sense carefully avoid any particular character in their dress ; they are accurately clean for their own sake, but all the rest is for the sake of other people. A man should dress as well and in the same manner as the people of sense and fashion of the place where he is : if he dresses more than they, he is a fop ; if he dresses less, he is unpardonably negligent. X. ON THE CUSTOM OF DRINklNG HEALTHS, APPEARING AL- WAYS IN A HURRY, ANO LAUGHING WITHOUT REAL CAUSE. Drinking of healths is now grown out of fashion, and is deemed unpolite in good company. Custom once had rendered it universal, but the improved manners of the age now consider it as absurd and vulgar. What can be more rude or ridiculous than to MORAL DOTIES. 275 interrupt persons at their meals with an unnecessary compliment ? Abstain, then, from this silly custom, where you find it disused ; and it may not be improper to nse it only at those tables where it continues general. A man of sense may be in haste, but can never be in a hurry, because he knows whatever he does in a hurry he must necessarily do very ill. He may be in haste to dispatch an affair, but he will take care not to let that haste hinder his doing it well. Little minds are in a hurry when the object proves (as it commonly does) too big for them ; they run, they hare, they puzzle, confound, and perplex themselves ; they want to do every thing at once, and never do it at all. But a man of sense takes the timd necessary for doing the thing he is about well; and his haste to dispatch a business only appears by the continuity of his application to it: he pursues it with a cool steadiness, and finishes it before he begins any other. Frequent and loud laughter is the characteristic of folly and ill manners : it is the manner in which the mob express their silly joy at silly things ; and they call it being merry. There is nothing so illiberal and so ill bred as audible laughter. True wit or sense never yet made any body laugh; they are above it; they please the mind and give a cheerfulness to the countenance. But it is low buffoonery or silly accidents that always excite laughter ; and-that is what people of sense and breeding should show themselves above. Many people, at first from awkwardness, have got a very disagreeable and silly trick of laughing whenever they speak : and there are men of very good parts who cannot say the commonest thing without laughing, which makes those who do not know them take them at first for natural fools. XI. ON THE RUDENESS OF SHOWING CONTEMPT FOR ANY ONE ; ON THE PROPRIETY OF SELF-COMMAND, AND OF REMEMBERING OLD ACQUAINTANCES. There are no persons so insignificant and inconsiderable but may, some time or other, or in something or other, have it in their power to be of use to us, which they certainly will not, if we have once shown them contempt. Wrongs are often forgiven, but contempt never is. Our pride remembers it for ever. Nothing is more insulting than to take pains to make a man feel a mortifying inferiority in knowledge, rank, fortune, &o. In the first it is both ill bred and ill natured; and in the two latter articles it is unjust, they not being in his power. Good breeding 276 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. and good nature incline us rather to raise people up to ourselves than to mortify and depress them. Besides, it is making ourselves so many friends, instead of so many enemies. We should never yield to the temptation, which to most young men is very strong, of exposing other people’s weaknesses and infirmities, for the sake either of diverting the company or of showing our own superiority. We may, by that means, get the laugh on our side for the present; but we shall make enemies by it for Above all, let us master our temper : a man who does not possess himself enough to hear disagreeable things, without visible marks of anger and change of countenance, or agreeable ones without sudden bursts of joy and expansion of countenance, is at the mercy of every artful knave or pert coxcomb; the 'former will provoke or please us by design, to catch unguarded words or looks, by which he will easily decipher the secrets of our heart, of which we should keep the key ourselves. The latter will, by his absurdity, and without intending it,‘ produce the same discoveries, of which other people will avail themselves. If we find ourselves subject to sudden starts of passion, or mad- ness (for there is no difference between them but in their duration), let us resolve within ourselves, at least, never to act or to speak one word while we feel that emotion within us. We ought never to neglect or despise old, for the sake of new or shining acquaintance; which would be ungrateful on our part, and never forgiven on theirs. Let us make as many personal friends, and as few personal enemies, as possible. It is not meant here, by personal friends, intimate and confidential friends, of which no man can hope to have half a dozen in the whole course of his life; but friends, in the common acceptation of the word; that is, people who speak well of you, and who would rather do you good than harm, consistently with their own interest, and no farther. XII. ON DICTION, LETTER WRITING, NICKNAME, PRONUNCIATION, SPELLING, STYLE, AND HAND-WRITING. There is a certain language of conversation, a fashionable diction, of which every gentleman ought to be perfectly master, in whatever language he speaks. The French attend to it carefully and with great reason. That delicacy of diction is characteristical of a well bred man and good company. MORAL DUTIES. 277 It is of the utmost importance to write letters well; as this is a talent which daily occurs, as well in business as in pleasure ; and inaccuracies in orthography or in style are never pardoned but in ladies ; and it is hardly pardonable in them. The best models of letter-writing are Cicero, Cardinal d’Ossat, Madame Se- vigne, and Comte Bussy Rabutin. Neatness in folding up, sealing, and directing letters, is by no means to be neglected. There is something in the exterior, even of a letter, that may please or displease, and consequently deserves some attention. Many a man has been undone by acquiring a ridiculous nickname. The cause of nicknames among well bred men are generally the little defects in manner, elocution, air, or address. To have the appellation of muttering, awkward, ill bred, absent, left- legged, annexed always to our name, would injure us more than we imagine ; let us avoid, then, these little defects, and wre may set ridicule at defiaqce. To acquire a graceful utterance, we ought to read aloud to some friend every day, and beg of him to interrupt and correct us whenever we read too fast, neglect the proper stops, lay a wrong emphasis, or utter our words unintelligibly. It is highly necessary to open our teeth when we read or speak, and arti- culate every word distinctly. But, above all, let us study to vary our voice according to the subject, and avoid monotony. Daily attention to these articles will, in a little time, render them easy and habitual to us. The voice and manner of speaking, too, are not to be neglected : some people almost shut their mouth when they speak, and mutter so that they are not to be understood ; others speak so fast, and sputter, that they are not to be understood neither : some always speak as loud as if they were talking to deaf people ; and others so low that one cannot hear them. All these habits are awkward and disagreeable, and are to be avoided by attention,; they are the distinguishing marks of the ordinary people, who have had no care taken of their education. Orthography, or spelling well, is so absolutely necessary for a man of letters, or a gentleman, that one false spelling may fix a ridicule on him for the remainder of his life. Style is the dress of thoughts ; and, let them be ever so just, if our style is homely, coarse, and vulgar, they will appear to as much disadvantage, and be as ill received as our person, though ever so well proportioned, would, if dressed in rags, dirt, and tatters. Every man who has the use of his eyes and his right hand can write whatever hand he pleases. Nothing is so ungentlemanlik 278 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. as a schoolboy’s scrawl. We ought not to write a stiff, formal hand, like that of a schoolmaster, but a genteel, legible, and liberal character, and to be able to write quick. XIII. ON THE LOW CUSTOMS OF USING VULGAR EXPRESSIONS, AND ASSUMING ODD AND RIDICULOUS HABITS. Vulgarism in language is a certain characteristic of bad company and a bad education. If any body attempts being smart, as he calls it, upon him, he gives them tit for tat, ay, that he does. He has always some favourite word for the time being, which, for the sake of using often, he commonly uses ; such as vastly angry, vastly kind, vastly handsome, and vastly ugly. A well bred man uses neither favourite words nor hard words ; but takes great care to speak very correctly and grammatically, and to pronounce properly ; that is, according to the usage of the best companies. Humming a tune within ourselves, drumming with our fingers, making a noise with our feet, and such awkward habits, being all breaches of good manners, are therefore indications of our contempt for the persons present, and consequently should not be practised. Eating very quick or very slow is characteristic of vulgarity : the former infers poverty ; the latter, if abroad, that we are disgusted with the entertainment; and, if at home, that we are rude enough to give our friends what we cannot eat ourselves. Smelling at the meat while on the fork, before we put it in our mouth, is rude. I£ we dislike what is sent upon our plate, it may be left, without calling the attention of the company. Spit- ting on the floor or carpet is a filthy practice, and which, w ere it to become general, would render it as necessary to change the carpets as the tablecloths. Not to add, it will induce our acquaintance to suppose that we have not been used to genteel fur- niture ; for which reason alone, if for no other, a man of liberal education would avoid it. Walking fast in the streets is a mark of vulgarity, ill befitting the character of a gentleman or a man of fashion, though it may be tolerable in a tradesman. To stare any person full in the face, whom we may chance to meet, is an act also of ill breeding ; it would seem to bespeak as if wC saw something wonderful in his appearance, and is, therefore, a tacit reprehension. Let us be free, likewise, from all odd tricks or habits; such as scratching ourselves, putting our MORAL DUTIES. 279 fingers to our mouth, nose, and ears, thrusting out our tongue, snapping our fingers, biting our nails, rubbing our hands, sigh- ing aloud, gaping, and many other things, which are imitations of the manners of the mob, and degrading to a gentleman. XIV ON THE EMPLOYMENT OF TIME, IDLENESS, READING, TRANSACTING BUSINESS, METHOD, AND FRIVOLOUSNESS. How little do we reflect on the use and value of time ! It is in every body’s mouth, but in few people’s practice. Time is precious, life short, and consequently not a single moment should be lost. Sensible men know how to make the most of time, and put out their whole sum either to interest or pleasure ; they are never idle, but continually employed either in a- musements or study. It is a universal maxim, that idleness is the mother of vice. “ Take care of the pence, for the pounds will take care of themselves,’’ was a very just and sensible reflection of old Mr Lowndes, the famous secretary of the treasury under William III. Anne, and George. Let us then take care of minutes, for hours will take care of themselves. There are many short intervals in the day between studies and pleasure ; instead of sitting idle and yawning in those intervals, we ought to snatch up some valuable book, and continue the reading of that book till we have got through it; and, in reading this book, it must not be run over superficially, but read twice over at least. The books to be particularly recommended, are, the Marchioness Lam- bert’s Advice to her Son and Daughter, Cardinal Relz’s Maxims, La Rochefoucault's Moral Rejections, La Bruyere’s Characters, FonleneUe’s Plurality of Worlds, Sir Josiah Child on Trade, Boling- broke's Works: for style, his Remarks on the History of Eng- land, under the name of Sir John Oldcastle; Puffendorf’s Jus Gentium, and Grotius de Jure Belli et Pads : the last two are well translated by Barbeyrac. For occasional half hours or less, works of invention, wit, and humour, ought to be read. Whatever business we have, it should be done the first moment we can ; never by halves, but to finish it without interruption, if possible. Business must not be sauntered and trifled with. Dispatch is the soul of business ; and nothing contributes more to dispatch than method. It is well to lay down a method for every thing, and stick to it inviolably, as far as unexpected incidents may allow. We should fix one certain hour and day in the week for our accounts, and keep them together in their 280 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR, proper order; by which means they will require very little time, J and we can never be much cheated. Whatever letters and pa- i pers we keep, they ought to be docketed and. tied up in their respective classes, so that we may instantly have recourse to any one. It may not be amiss to keep a short common-place book i of what we read, to help our memory only, and not for pedantic quotations. We ought never to read history without having maps j and a chronological book of tables lying by us, and constantly re- i curred to ; without which history is a confused heap of facts. Let us be upon our guard against idle profusion of time; and let every place we go to be either the scene of quick and lively pleasures, or the school of our improvements ; let every company we go into either gratify our senses, extend our knowledge, or refine our manners. Above all things, we ought to guard against frivolousness. The frivolous mind is always busied, but to little purpose: it takes little objects for great ones, and throws away upon trifles that time and attention which only important things deserve. Nicknacks, butterflies, shells, insects, &c. are the objects of their most serious researches. They contemplate the dress, not the character of the company they keep. They attend more to the decorations of a play than to the sense of it; and to the ceremonies of a court more than to its politics. Such an employment of time is an absolute loss of it. XV ON A WELL UNDERSTOOD ECONOMY. Without care and method, the largest fortune will not, and with them almost the smallest will supply all necessary expenses. As far as we can, we ought to pay ready money for every thing we buy, and avoid bills. It is proper to pay that money, too, ourself, and not through the hands of any servant; who always either stipulates poundage or requires a present for his good word, as they call it. Where we must have bills (as for meat and drink, clothes, &c.), they should be paid regularly every month, and with our own hand. From a mistaken economy it is wrong to buy a thing we do not want, because it is cheap ; or, from a silly pride, because it is dear. We ought to keep an account in a book of all that we receive, and all that we pay ; for no man who knows what he receives and what he pays ever runs out. It is not meant that we should keep an account of the pence that one may spend ; they are unworthy of the time and the ink that they would consume; we ought to leave such minuiice to MORAL DUTIES. 281 dull penny-wise fellows ; but let us remember, in economy, as in every other part of life, to have the proper attention to proper objects, and the proper contempt for little ones. XVI. ON EARLY FRIENDSHIP. Young persons have commonly an unguarded frankness about them, which makes them the easy prey and bubbles of the artful and experienced ; they look upon every knave or fool who tells them that he is their friend, to be really so; and pay the profession of simulated friendship with an indiscreet and unbounded confidence, always to their loss, often to their ruin. We should be aware of these proffered friendships. Let us receive them with great civility. But let us not suppose that people become friends at first sight, or even upon a short acquaintance. Beal friendship is a slow grower, and never thrives unless engrafted upon a stock of known and reciprocal merit. There is another kind of nominal friendship among young people, which is warm for the time, but luckily of short duration. This friendship is hastily produced, by their being accidentally thrown together, and pursuing the same course of riot and debauchery. They lend one another money for bad purposes ; they engage in quarrels, offensive and defensive, for their accomplices ; they tell one another all they know, and often more too ; when, on a sudden, some accident disperses them, and they think no more of each other, unless it be to betray and laugh at their imprudent confidence. » When a man uses strong protestations or oaths to make us believe a thing, we may depend upon it he deceives us, and is highly interested in making us believe it, or else he would not take so much pains. We ought to remember to make a great difference between companions and friends; for a very complaisant and agreeable companion may, and often does prove a very improper and a very dangerous friend. People will, in a great degree, form their o- pinion of us upon that which they have of our friends ; and there is a Spanish proverb which says, very justly, “ Tell me whom you live with, and I will tell you who you are.” XVII ON RELIGION. Errors and mistakes, however gross, in matters of opinion, if 282 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. they are sincere, are to be pitied ; but not punished, nor laughed ^ at. The blindness of the understanding is as much to be pitied' as the blindness of the eyes : and it is neither laughable nor criminal for a man to lose his way in either case. Charity bids us endeavour to set him right by arguments and persuasions; but ■ charity, at the same time, forbids us either to punish or ridicule j his misfortune. Every man seeks for truth, but God only knows 1 who has found it. It is unjust to persecute and absurd to ridicule people for their several opinions, which they cannot help entertaining upon the conviction of their reason. It is he who tells < or acts a lie that is guilty, and not he who honestly and sincerely believes the lie. The object of all public worships in the world is the same; it is that great eternal Being who created every thing. The different manners of worship are by no means subjects of ridicule. Each sect thinks his own the best; there are no infallible judges in this world to decide which is the best. But yet the Christian religion ought to be looked upon by all Christians, as the truest, the most pure, and the one which, by its divine mysteries and sublime principles, approaches nearest the majesty and the glory of the Creator, Religion does not consist, merely, in attending to the rites and customs of the church, there are other religious duties incumbent upon us, such as to honour our parents, love our friends, to respect our superiors, to be humane, charitable, honest, and indus- trioys, which ought to be strictly observed. In the combination of thes£ duties, along with those attached to the church, lie the foundation of that character, for which Christians are so pre-eminent Apiong all human beings on the surface of the globe, and it is fbpm that excellent combination, that the title of a religious man can alone be acquired. CHAPTER XII.

MORAL CHARACTERS*. I. THE MORAL MAN. The moral character of a man should be not only pure, but, like Caesar’s wife, unsuspected. The least speck or blemish upon it is fatal. Nothing degrades and vilifies more; for it excites and unites detestation and contempt. There are, however, some in the world profligate enough to explode all notions of moral good and evil; to maintain that they are merely local, and depend entirely upon the customs and fashions of different countries : nay, there are some still, if possible, more unaccountable; I mean, those who affect to preach and propagate such absurd and infamous notions, without believing them themselves. It is then proper to avoid, as much as possible, the company of such people, who reflect a degree of discredit and infamy upon all who converse with them. There is nothing so delicate as a man’s moral character, and nothing which it is his interest so much to preserve pure. Should he be suspected of injustice, malignity, perfidy, lying, &c. all the parts and knowledge in the world will never procure him esteem, friendship, or respect. Man should, therefore, have a most scrupulous tenderness for his moral character, and the utmost care not to say or do the least thing that may, ever so slightly, taint it. He should show himself, upon all occasions, the friend, but not the bully, of virtue. Even Colonel Chartres (who was the most notorious being in the world, and who had, by all sorts of crimes, amassed immense wealth), sensible of the disadvantage of a bad character, was once heard to say, that give“ although ten thousand he would pounds not givefor a onecharacter farthing ; becausefor virtue, he shouldhe would get a hundred thousand pounds by it.” Is it possible, then, that an T c it is* presumed,^ following fit tocharacters, meet the eyeby properof the suppressionsreader, even andthough interpolations, of a tender age.are now, 284 THE FRENCH TRANSLATC honest man can neglect what a vilified character would purchase so dear ? One ought to be scrupulously jealous of the purity of one’s moral character ; let it be kept immaculate, unblemished, unsullied, and it will be unsuspected. Defamation and calumny never attack where there is no weak place ; they magnify, but they do not create. Chesterfield. II. THE FLATTERER. What is a flatterer ?—A flatterer is a flexible and commodious being, who, with the greatest servility, makes a duty of smiling at our most insignificant glance, exclaiming at our words whether proper or not, and applauding our actions good or bad. He is also an expert and insinuating individual, who studies our inclinations to follow them, our connexions so as to manage them, and our defects that he may take advantage of them. The flatterer, in general, has a knavish and dissembling spirit, possessing the double capacity of praising and deceiving at the same moment, of approving in public and condemning in secret, and of extenuating our weakness, in order that his own may be overlooked. Sometimes it is an envious and jealous character, who, while appearing to be pleased with its elevation, is, on the contrary, vexed and tormented at the idea of our prosperity ; at other times he is a secret enemy meditating our ruin, and concealing his hatred under the most flattering eulogiums, because he is afraid of our authority ; and, at all times, he is a vile crouching personage, who, to give a colour to his shameful servitude, calls talent and skill, the unhappy habit of doing base actions. Lqfiteau. III. THE ABSENT. An absent man is generally either a very weak or a very affected man; he is, however, a very disagreeable man in company. He is defective in all the common offices of civility ; he does not enter into the general conversation, but breaks into it from time to time, with some start of his own, as if he waked from a dream. He seems wrapped up in thought, and possibly does not think at allhe does not know his most intimate acquaintance by sight, or answers them as if he were at cross purposes. He leaves his hat in one room, his cane in another, and would probably leave his shoes in a third, if his buckles, though awry, did not save them. This is a sure indi- MORAL CHARACTERS. 285 cation, either of a mind so weak that it cannot bear above one object at a time, or so affected that it would be supposed to be wholly engrossed by some very great and important object. Sir Isaac Newton, Mr Locke, and, perhaps, five or six more since the creation, may have had a right to absence, from the intense thought their investigations required; but such liberties cannot be claimed by, nor will be tolerated in any other persons. No man is, in any degree, fit for either business or conversation, who does not command his attention to the present object, be it what it will. Besides, an absent man can never make any observations upon the characters, customs, and manners of the company. He may be in the best companies all his life-time (if they will admit him), and never become the wiser : we may as well converse with a deaf man as an absent one. It is, indeed, a practical blunder to address ourselves to a man who, we plainly perceive, neither hears, minds, nor understands us. Chesterfield. IV. THE HONEST MAN. He who possesses an upright mind, and an open heart, may be called an honest man, provided both qualities do act in concert in all circumstances of life. An honest man is never affected but by real merit. What is generally called grandeur, authority, riches, fortune, have no weight with him ; and his readiness in distinguishing thepleasures and vexations to be derived from them, prevents him from taking the path leading to fortune. Al- though agreeable and fond of decent company, the honest man lives, in some measure, retired, does not like to be exposed, and is rarely seen making efforts to appear in a public point of view. But whenever forced, by either birth, wealth, or power, to assume a public function, his honesty, supported by a vast, intelligent, and penetrating mind, raises him far above any other. An honest man holds wit in estimation, but reason has always a far greater claim on him. He loves truth as a paramount virtue, and thinks it his duty to be acquainted with every thing, without arrogating to himself the power of deciding. In short, an honestof things, man never who knowsconsiders the them, strong but and according weak side, to theirand theintrinsic value merits. St Evremond. V THE AWKWARD MAN. Many very worthy and sensible people have certain odd tricks. 286 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. ill habits, and awkwardness in their behaviour, which excite a disgust to and dislike of their persons, that cannot be removed or overcome by any other valuable endowment or merit which they may possess. When an awkward fellow first comes into a room, it is highly probable that his sword gets between his legs and throws him down, or makes him stumble at least; when he has recovered this accident, he goes and places himself in the very place of the whole room where he should not; there he soon lets his hat fall down, and, in taking it up again, throws down his cane ; in recovering his cane, his hat falls the second time; so that he is a quarter of an hour before he is in order again. If he drinks tea or coffee, he certainly scalds his mouth, and lets either the cup or the saucer fall, and spills the tea or coffee on him. At dinner his awkwardness distinguishes itself particularly, as he has more to do : there he holds his knife, fork, and spoon differently from other people; eats with his knife to the great danger of his mouth, picks his teeth with his fork, and puts his spoon, which has been in his throat twenty times, into the dishes again. If he is to carve, he can never hit the joint; but, in his vain efforts to cut through the bone, scatters the sauce in every body’s face. He generally daubs himself with soup and grease, though his nap- kin is commonly stuck through a button hole, and tickles his chin. When he drinks, he infallibly coughs in his glass, and besprinkles the company. Besides all this, he has strange tricks and gestures; such as snuffing up his nose, making faces, putting his fingers in his nose, or blowing it improperly. His hands are troublesome to him when he has not something in them, and he does not know where to put them; but they are in perpetual motion between his bosom and his knees: he does not wear his clothes, and, in short, does nothing like other people. All this is not in any degree criminal; but it is highly disagreeable and ridiculous in company, and ought most carefully to be avoided by whoever desires to please. The awkward uses expressions and words, most carefully to be avoided; such as false English, bad pronunciation, old say- ings, and uncommon proverbs; which are so many proofs of having kept bad and low company. For example: instead of saying that “ tastes are different,” and that “ every man has his own peculiar one,” he lets off a proverb, and says that “ what is one man’s meat is another man’s poison ;” or else, “ every one as they like, as the good man said when he kissed his cow;” and MORAL CHARACTERS. 287 shows that he never kept company with any body above footmen and housemaids. There are some who have an awkwardness of the mind, that ought to be, and, with care, may be avoided; as, for instance, to mistake or forget names. They say, Mr What-d’ye-call-him, or Mrs Thingum, or How-d’ye-call-her, which is excessively awkward and ordinary. They call people by improper titles and appellations ; as, my Lord, for Sir ; and Sir, for my Lord. They begin a story or narration when they are not perfect in it, and cannot go through with it, but are forced, possibly, to say in the middle of it, “ 1 have forgot the rest,” and then it appears very awkward and bungling. Chesterfield. VI. THE BASHFUL MAN. Bashfulness is the distinguishing character of an individual, who appears frightened out of his wits if people of fashion speak to him, and blushes and stammers without being able to give a proper answer; by which means he becomes truly ridiculous, from the groundless fear of being laughed at. There is a very material difference between modesty and an awkward bashfulness, which is as ridiculous as true modesty is commendable ; it is as absurd to be a simpleton as to be an impudent fellow ; and we make ourselves contemptible if we cannot come into a room and speak to people without being out of countenance, or without embarrassment. The bashful, be his merit what it will, never can push himself in the world ; his despondency throws him into inaction, and the forward, the bustling, and the petulant will always precede him. The manner makes the whole difference. A man of sense, and of knowledge of the world, will assert his own rights, and pursue his own objects as steadily and intrepidly as the most impudent man living, and commonly more so; but then he has art enough to give an outward air of modesty to all that he does. This engages and prevails, whilst the very same things shock and fail, from the overbearing or impudent manner only of doing them. The bashful, in general, is ashamed, of going into company. When he avoids singularity, what should he be ashamed of? And why should not he go into a mixed company with as much ease and as little concern as he would go into his own room ? Vice and ignorance are the only things we ought to be ashamed of; while we keep clear of them we may venture any where without fear or concern. Nothing sinks a young man into low company so surely as bashfulness. 288 yHE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. Some, indeed, from feeling the pain and inconveniences of bashfulness, have rushed into the other extreme, and turned impudent; as cowards sometimes grow desperate from excess of danger : but this is equally to be avoided, there being nothing more generally shocking than impudence. The medium between those two extremes points out the well bred man, who always feels himself firm and easy in all companies, who is modest without being bashful, and steady without being impudent. Chesterfield. VII THE CHEERFUL MAN. If we consider the cheerful man in three lights, first, with regard to ourselves, secondly, to those he converses with, and thirdly, to the great Author of our being, it will not a little recommend him on each of these accounts. The man who is possessed of this excellent frame of mind, called cheerfulness, is not only easy in his thoughts, but a perfect master of all the powers and faculties of his soul; his imagination is always clear and his judgment undisturbed; his temper is even and unruffled, whether in action or in solitude. He comes with a relish to all those goods which nature has provided for him, tastes all the pleasures of the creation which are poured upon him, and does not feel the full weight of accidental evils which may befal him. If we consider the cheerful man in relation to the persons whom he converses with, it naturally produces love and good will towards him. He is not only disposed to be affable and obliging, but raises the same good humour in those who come within his influence. We find ourselves pleased, we do not know why, with a cheerful man: it is like a sudden sunshine that awakens a secret delight in the mind without expecting it. The heart rejoices of its own accord, and naturally flows out into friendship and benevolence towards the person who has so kindly an effect upon it. When the cheerful man, in his third relation, is considered, he cannot but be looked upon as a constant model of gratitude to the Author of nature. He gives implicit praises and thanks to Providence under its dispensations. He confesses it is a kind of acquiescence in the state wherein he is placed, and a secret approbation of the divine will in his conduct towards men. A cheerful man who uses his endeavours to live according to the dictates of virtue and right reason, has two perpetual sources MORAL CHARACTERS. 289 of cheerfulness, in the consideration of his own nature, and on that being on whom he has a dependance. If he looks into himself, he cannot but rejoice in that existence, which is so lately bestowed upon him, and which, after millions of ages, will be still new, and still in its beginning. Addison- VII. THE LIAR. No being is more criminal, mean, or ridiculous than a liar ;— his character is a compound either of malice, cowardice, or vanity ; but he generally misses of its aim in every one of these views; for lies are always detected sooner or later. He who advances a malicious lie, in order to affect any man’s fortune or character, may, indeed, injure him for some time, but he shall certainly be the greatest sufferer in the end ; for, as soon as he is detected, he is blasted for the infamous attempt; and, whatever is said afterwards to the disadvantage of that person, however true, passes for calumny. The liar who tells untruths, to avoid the danger or the shame he apprehends from it, discovers his fear, and shows himself to be the lowest and meanest of mankind, and is sure to be always treated as such. If we have the misfortune to be in the wrong, there is something noble in frank- ly owning it; it is the only way of atoning for it, and the only way to be forgiven. There are people who indulge themselves in another sort of lying, which they reckon innocent, and which, in one sense, is so; for it hurts nobody but themselves. This sort of lying is the spurious offspring of vanity begotten upon folly. A liar deals in the marvellous. He has seen some things that never existed ; he has seen other things which he never really saw, though they did exist, only because they were thought worth seeing. Has any thing remarkable been said or done in any place, or in any company? he immediately represents and declares himself eye or ear witness of it. He has done feats himself, unattempted, or at least unperformed by others. He is always the hero of his own fables; and thinks that he gains consideration, or at least present atttention, by it. Whereas, in truth, all that he gets is ridicule and contempt, not without a good degree of distrust ; for, one must naturally conclude, that he, who will tell any lie from idle vanity, will not scruple telling a greater for interest. Nothing but truth can carry us through the world with either our conscience or our honour unwounded. It is not only our T 290 THE TRENCH TRANSLATOR. duty, but our interest: as a proof of which it may be observed, that the greatest fools are the greatest liars. We may safely judge by a man’s truth, of his degree of understanding. VIII.—THE PEDANT. A Pedant, proud of his knowledge, only speaks to decide, and gives judgment without appeal; the consequence of which is, that mankind, provoked by the insult, and injured by the oppression, revolt; and, in order to shake off the tyranny, even call the lawful authority in question. The more we know, the modester we should be ; and that modesty is the surest way of gratifying our vanity. Some pedants, to show their learning, or often from the prejudices of a school education, where they hear of nothing else, are always talking of the ancients as something more than men, and of the moderns as something less. They are never without a clas- sic or two in their pockets; they stick to the good old sense ; they read none of the modern trash; and will show you plainly, that no improvement has been made, in any one art or science, these seventeen hundred-years. Others, most absurdly, draw all their maxims, both for public and private life, from what they call parallel cases in the ancient authors; without considering that, in the first place, there never were, since the creation of the world, two cases exactly parallel ; and, in the next place, that there never was a case stated, or even known, by any historian, with every one of its circumstances; which, however, ought to be known, in order to be reasoned from. Th6re is another species of pedants, who, though less dogmati- cal and supercilious, are not less impertinent. This is the com- municative and shining pedant, who adorns his conversation, even with women, by happy quotations of Greek and Latin, and who has contracted such a familiarity with the Greek and Roman authors, that he calls them by certain names or epithets, denoting intimacy ; as old Homer; that ,v/y rogue Horace; Maro, instead of Virgil; Naso, instead of O vid. He is imitated by coxcombs who have no learning at all; but who have got some names, and some scraps of ancient authors by heart, which they improperly and impertinently retail in all companies, in hopes of passing for scholars. The way to avoid the accusation of pedantry on one hand, or the suspicion of ignorance on the other, is to abstain from learned ostentatiori. MORAL CHARACTERS. 291 IX. — THE WELL BRED. Good sense in many cases must determine good breeding; for what will be civil at one time, and to one person, would be rude at another time, and to another person. There are, however, some general rules of good breeding; as, for example : to answer only. Yes, or No, to any person, without adding Sir, My Lord, or Madam (as it may happen), is always extremely rude ; and it is equally so not to give proper attention and a civil answer when spoken to; such behaviour convinces the person who is speaking to us that we despise him, and do not think him worthy of our attention or an answer. The carriage of a gentleman is genteel, and his motions graceful. He is particularly careful of his manners and address, when he presents himself in company. He is also respectful without meanness, easy without too much familiarity, genteel without affectation, insinuating without any seeming art or design. The well bred man is a man of good sense, and good nature, who contracts good habits, denies himself for the sake of others, and whose conduct in company is not affected by low and formal ceremony, but by an easy, civil, and respectful behaviour. A well bred person will take care to answer with complaisance when he is spoken to; will place himself at the lower end of the table, unless bid to go higher; will first drink to the lady of the house, and then to the master ; he will not eat awkwardly or dirtily, nor sit when others stand ; and he will do this with an air of complaisance, and not with a grave ill-natured look, as if he did it all unwillingly. There is nothing more difficult to attain, or so necessary to possess, as perfect good breeding, which is equally inconsistent with a stiff formality, an impertinent forwardness, and awkward bashfulness. A little ceremony is sometimes necessary ; a certain degree of firmness is absolutely so; and an outward modesty is extreme* ly becoming. Virtue and learning, like gold, have their intrinsic value ; but, if they are not polished, they certainly lose a great deal of their lustre. The man of good breeding is acquainted with the forms and particular customs of courts. At Vienna men always make courtesies instead of bows, to the emperor; in France, nobody bows to the king, or kisses hand; but, in Spain and England, bows are made, and hands are kissed. Thus every court has some peculiarity, which those who visit them ought previously to 292 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. inform themselves of, to avoid blunders and awkwardness, and very few, scarcely any, are wanting in the respect which they should show to those whom they acknowledge to be infinitely their superiors. The well bred man expresses it in its full extent, but naturally, easily, and without concern : whereas a man who is not used to keep good company expresses it awkwardly ; one sees that he is not used to it, and that it costs him a great deal. A man guilty of lolling, whistling, scratching his head, and such like indecencies, in company which he ought to respect, is really ill bred; and the chief point to be attended to in society, is to show that respect which every body means to show, in an easy, unembarrassed, and graceful manner. Chesterfield. X. THE IDLER OR BUSY BODY. The idler is an individual who is seen every where; it is not always easy to fix the spot, but his face is so familiar to the public, that a sermon, a meeting, a concert, a play, a ball, &c. can hardly take place but he is found at his post. On the day of a public execution, he is sure to be seen at a window;—on the public entry of a monarch, or public processions, or shows, he takes his place on a scaffold;—at a reception of foreign ambassadors at Court, you see him in the palace witnessing their entrance, audience, and exit. As soon as a news-paper mentions a hunting or a race, off he sets immediately;—and if, at his return, a review of troops is spoken of, lie will not fail to be on the spot on the day appointed, to satisfy his imaginary martial ardour. Being often a spectator of such military shows, he identifies himself in such a manner with the words of command, the evolutions, exercises, marches, counter marches, discipline, the materiel of a column, and the different ranks of an army, as to look upon himself as a military man, and a veteran loaded with trophies. An idler, a busybody, and a journal, are pretty synonimous terms. Who takes notice of the smallest change in a town, and retails the news every where, but an idler ? Let a public garden be shut up, a museum closed or altered, a new play going on, a fire be more or less extensive, the tide being higher or lower, a fair to be held on such a day,—all these things are soon published by the idle loquacity of the busy body. He knows, also, the births, mar- riages, deaths, arrivals, and departures of all distinguished persons, and can describe their concomitant circumstances. No actor or MORAL CHARACTERS. 293 singer can have a cold without his knowledge,—no minister of the realm can say a word without his discovering political secrets to him; no coach can pass before him, without leaving its emblazoned armorials so fixed in his mind, as to discover the exact origin of the family. In short, the idler, like the buzzing drone, is perpetually humming tunes, and although unconscious of the merits or demerits of poetical productions, he is very fond of repeating epic verses, reciting dramatic scenes, singing songs, mimicking or imitating the manners of others—all these, with no other view than that of killing time. Labruyere. XI. THE GAMESTERS. The whole tribe of gamesters may be ranked under two divisions : Every man who makes carding, dicing, and betting his daily practice, is either a dupe or a sharper ; two characters equally the object of thorough contempt. The dupe is generally a person of great fortune and weak intellects. He plays, not that he has any delight in cards and dice, but because it is the fashion ; and if whist or hazard are proposed, he will no more refuse to make one at the tables, than among a set of hard drinkers, he Would object drinking his glass in turn, because he is not dry. There are some few instances of men of sense, as well as family and fortune, who have been dupes and bubbles. Such an unaccountable itch of play has seized them, that they have sacrificed every thing to it, and have seemed wedded to a pack of cards for life. There is not a more melancholy object than a gentleman of sense thus infatuated. He makes himself and family a prey to a gang of villains more infamous than highwaymen ; and perhaps, when his ruin is completed, he is glad to join with those who destroyed him, and live upon the spoil of others, whom he can draw into the same follies that proved so fatal to himself. It may be of use to mention the excellencies of a sharper; he is but a gamester, who makes a decent figure in the world, must be endued with many amiable qualities, which would undoubtedly appear with great lustre were they not eclipsed by the odious character affixed to his trade. In order to carry on the common business of his profession, he must be a man of quick and lively parts, attended with a stoical calmness of temper, and a constant presence of mind. He must smile at the loss of thousands ; and is not to be discomposed, though ruin stare him in the 294 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. face. As he is to live among the great, he must not want politeness and affability ; he must be submissive, and not servile ; he must be master of an ingenuous and liberal air, and have a seeming openness of behaviour. These must be the chief accomplishments of our hero; but lest we should be accused of giving too favourable a likeness of him, now we have seen his outside, let us take a view of his heart. There we shall find avarice the main spring that moves the whole machine. Every gamester is eaten up with avarice ; and when this passion is in full force, it is more strongly predominant than any other. His insatiable avarice can only be gratified by hypocrisy; so that all these specious virtues already mentioned, and which, if real, might be turned to the benefit of mankind, must be directed in a gamester towards the destruction of his fellow creatures. His quick and lively parts serve only to instruct and assist him in the most dextrous method of packing the cards, and cogging the dice; his fortitude, which enables him to lose thousands without emotion, must often be practised against the stings and reproaches of his conscience; and his liberal deportment and affected openness, is a specious veil to recommend and conceal the blackest villainy. It is now necessary to take a second survey of his heart; and as we have seen its vices, let us consider its miseries. The covetous man, who has sufficient courage or inclination to increase his fortune by bets, cards, or dice, but is contented to hoard up thousands by thefts less public, or by cheats less liable to uncertainty, lives in a state of perpetual suspicion and terror: but the avaricious fears of the gamester are infinitely greater. What sensations must the gamester suppress, when he is obliged to smile, although he is provoked; when he must look serene in the height of despair; and when he must act the stoic, without the consolation of one virtuous sentiment, or one moral principle! Our hero is now going off the stage and his catastrophe is very tragical. The next news we hear of him is his death, atchieved by his own hand, and with his own pistol. CHAPTER XIII.

MORAL DEFINITIONS.

I. ON VIRTUE. Virtue is a subject which deserves your and every man's attention. It consists in doing good and in speaking truth; the effects of it, therefore, are advantageous to all mankind, and to one’s self in particular. Virtue makes us pity and relieve the misfortunes of mankind; it makes us promote justice and good order in society ; and, in general, contributes to whatever tends to the real good of mankind. To ourselves it gives inward comfort and satisfaction, which nothing else can do, and which nothing else can rob us of. All other advantages depend upon others as much as upon ourselves. Riches, power, and greatness, may be taken away from us by the violence and injustice of others, or by inevitable accidents; but virtue depends only upon ourselves, and nobody can take it away from us. Sickness may deprive us of all the pleasures of the body ; but it cannot deprive us of our virtue, nor of the satisfaction which we feel from it. A virtuous man, under all the misfortunes of life, still finds an inward comfort and satisfaction, which makes him happier than any wicked man can be with all the other advantages of life. He who acquires power and riches by falsehood, injustice, and oppression, cannot enjoy them, because his conscience will torment him, and constantly reproach him with the means by which he got them. The stings of his conscience will not even let him sleep quietly, but he will dream of his crimes; and, in the day-time, when alone, and when he has time to think, he will be uneasy and melancholy. He is afraid of every thing; for, as he knows mankind must hate him, he has reason to think they will hurt him if they can. Whereas, if a virtuous man be ever so poor and unfortunate in the world, still his virtue is its own reward, and will comfort him under all afflictions. The quiet and satisfaction of his conscience make him cheerful by day, and sleep sound at night: he can be alone with pleasure, and is 296 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. not afraid of his own thoughts. Virtue forces her way, and shines through the obscurity of a retired life; and, sooner or later, it always is rewarded. To conclude:—Lord Shaftesbury says, that he would be virtuous for his own sake, though nobody were to know it; as he would be clean for his own sake, though nobody were to see him. Chesterfield. II. ON REMORSE. As the greater and more irreparable the evil that is done, the resentment of the sufferer runs naturally the higher, so does likewise the sympathetic indignation of the spectator, as well as the sense of guilt in the agent. Death is the greatest evil which one man can inflict upon another, and excites the highest degree of resentment in those who are immediately connected with the slain. Murder, therefore, is the most atrocious of all crimes which affect individuals only, in the sight both of mankind, and of the person who has committed it. To be deprived of that which we are possessed of, is a greater evil than to be disappointed of what we have only the expectation of. Breach of property, therefore, theft and robbery, which take from us what we are possessed of, are greater crimes than breach of contract, which only disappoints us of what we expected. The most sacred laws of justice, therefore, those whose violation seems to call the loudest for vengeance and punishment, are the laws which guard the life and person of our neighbour ; the next are those which guard his property and possessions; and last of all come those which guard what are called his personal rights, or what is due to him from the promises of others. The violator of the more sacred laws of justice, can never reflect on the sentiments which mankind must entertain with regard to him, without feeling all the agonies of shame, and horror, and consternation. When his passion is gratified, and he begins coolly to reflect on his past conduct, he can enter into none of the motives which influenced it. They appear now as detestable to him as they did always to other people. By sym- pathizing with the hatred and abhorrence which other men must entertain for Jura, he becomes in some measure the object of his own hatred and abhorrence. The situation of the person, who edsuffered at the by thought his injustice, of it; regretsnow calls the upon unhappy his pity. effects He of ishis griev- own conduct, and feels at the same time that they have rendered him the proper object of the resentment and indignation of mankind. MORAL DEFINITIONS. 297 and of what is the natural consequence of resentment, vengeance and punishment. The thought of this perpetually haunts him, and fills him with terror and amazement. He dares no longer look society in the face, but imagines himself as it were rejected, and thrown out from the affections of all mankind. He cannot hope for the consolation of sympathy in his greatest and most dreadful distress. The remembrance of his crimes has shut out all fellow-feeling with him from the hearts of his fellow creatures. The sentiments which they entertain with regard to him, are the very thing which he is most afraid of. Every thing seems hostile, and he would be glad to fly to some inhospitable desert, where he might never see a human creature, nor read in the countenance of mankind the condemnation of his crimes. But solitude is still more dreadful than society. His own thoughts can present him with nothing but what is black, unfortunate, and disastrous, the melancholy forebodings of incom- prehensible misery and ruin. The horror of solitude drives him back to society, and he comes again into the presence of mankind, astonished to appear before them loaded with shame and distracted with fear, in order to supplicate some little protection from the countenance of those very-judges, who he knows have already all unanimously condemned him. Such is the nature of that sentiment, which is properly called remorse ; of all the sentiments which can enter the human breast the most dreadful. It is made up of shame from the sense of the impropriety of past conduct; of grief for the effects of it; of pity for those who suffer by it; and of the dread and terror of punishment, from the consciousness of the justly-provoked resentment of all rational creatures. Adam Smith. Ill ON CHARITY. True liberal charity is wisely divided amongst many, and proportioned to the objects upon which it rests. It is not, it cannot be confined to near relations, intimate friends, or particular favourites. These it will never neglect; nay, to these its first at- tentions are naturally directed. But whatever may be its par- tialities to those immediately connected with us, or who love and resemble us, it cannot remain under these restrictions. The principle to which it gave birth, extends its influence in every possible direction. The objects which solicit the friendly aid of charity, are many and various. Hert we find the afflicted body,— there the grieved mind. Here a mourning desolate widow,—there 298 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. destitute orphans, perhaps both together sitting in silent dejection, or agitated with all the violence of grief. At one time we hear the plaintive voice of the solitary mourner—at another, the united cries of a numerous starving family. Turn to the one hand, and feeble tottering age requests support—turn to the other hand, and the deserted infant, or neglected youth, requires a kind interposition. These, and many similar cases of urgent necessity, claim the attention of the compassionate and generous. On such occasions, how does the man of liberal charity feel and act ? Is theatrical representation necessary to rouse his sensibilities ? Must he learn from the fictitious tale of misery to compassionate real distress ? Must his heart be taught by the tongue of the pathetic orator to move with sentiments of generous sympathy ? No! well-attested facts are sufficient to call them forth to the most seasonable and effectual exertions; or he repairs to the house of the mourners, and seeing with his own eyes, and hearing with his own ears, he mingles his tears with theirs—his heart overflows with the tenderest emotions, and his hand readily administers according to his abilities. Amidst such various scenes of sorrow, that which overwhelms him most is, that he cannot extend his help to all. This, however, checks not the ardour of his charity, but prompts his wisdom and prudence to contrive how he may most usefully divide his labours of love. He cannot think of devoting them entirely to one, or a very few, because they might receive too much, and others too little. But while he cannot be confined within a very small circle, both prudence and charity forbid his taking too wide a range, lest he should defeat his own benevolent purposes; by extending thus too far, his means would prove unequal to the end. Much may be given away, and yet lose its Effect, by being divided into so many small parts, that almost none receive material benefit. He therefore considers who are the most needy, the most worthy, and what are their different resources, and he adapts his charity to their state and character. He clothes the naked, or feeds the hungry, or comforts the disconsolate, or educates the friendless youth, or administers counsel to the ignorant, the perplexed,* and the inexperienced. Full of desire to answer all demands, when his own funds are insufficient, he thinks it not mean nor troublesome to ask assistance, and plead the cause of the destitute. He does not stop to inquire, who is my neighbour ? By the ties of humanity he feels his heart knit to the whole human race. While he looks up with devotion and gratitude to the common Parent, he looks around him with kind and tender attachment, and says, “ Are we not all his offspring ? MORAL DEFINITIONS. 299 —These amiable and humane dispositions rise to a still more exalted benevolence, under the experienced influence of the divine Saviour’s grace and benignity. In one affectionate embrace the Christian clasps the whole world. Even to enemies and strangers he wishes to stretch his relieving beneficent hand. Though no returns in kind should be made, nay, though acts of generosity or friendship should meet with insensibility and ingratitude; the ardour of his liberal charity cannot be damped, or diverted from the honourable pursuits of goodness and mercy. Balfour. IV. ON GRATITUDE. There is not a more pleasing exercise of the mind, than grati- It is accompanied with such inward satisfaction, that the duty is sufficiently rewarded by the performance. It is not like the practice of many other virtues, difficult and painful, but attended with so much pleasure, that were there no positive command which enjoined it, nor any recompense laid up for it hereafter a generous mind would indulge in it, for the natural gratification that accompanies it. 1 . e If gratitude is due from man to man—how much more Irom man to his Maker ?—The Supreme Being does not only confer upon us those bounties which proceed more immediately Irom his hand, but even those benefits which are conveyed to us by others. Every blessing we enjoy, , by what means soever it may be bestowed upon us, is the gift of Him who is the great Author of good, and Father of mercies. If gratitude, when exerted towards one another, naturally produces a very pleasing sensation in the mind of a grateful man ; it exalts the soul into rapture, when it is employed on this great object of gratitude, on this beneficent Being, who has .given us every thing we already possess, and from whom we expect every thing we yet hope for. , Most of the works of the Pagan poets were either direct hymns to their deities, or tended indirectly to the celebration of their respective attributes and perfections. Those who are acquainted with the works of the Greek and Latin poets which are still extant, will, upon reflection, find this observation so true, tnat I will not enlarge upon it. One would wonder that more ot our Christian poets have not turned their thoughts this way, especially if we consider, that our idea of the Supreme Being, is pot only infinitely more great and noble that could possibly enter into the 300 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. heart of a heathen, but filled with every thing that can raise the imagination, and give an opportunity of the sublimest thoughts and conceptions. Plutarch tells us of a heathen who was singing an hymn to Diana, in which he celebrated her for her delight in human sacrifices, and other instances of cruelty and revenge; upon which a poet who was present at this piece of devotion, and seems to have had a truer idea of the divine nature, told the votary by way of reproof, that in recompense for his hymn, he heartily wished he might have a daughter of the same temper with the goddess he celebrated. It was indeed impossible to write the praises of one of those false deities, according to the Pagan creed, without a mixture of impertinence and absurdity. The Jews, who before the time of Christianity were the only people who had the knowledge of the true God, have set the Christian world an example how they ought to employ this divine talent, of which I am speaking. As that nation produced men of great genius, without considering them as inspired writers, they have transmitted to us many hymns and divine odes, which excel those that are delivered down to us by the ancient Greeks and Romans, in the poetry as much as in the subject to which it is consecrated. This, I think, might be easily shewn, if there were occasion for it. Spectator. V.—ON HONOUR. Every principle that is a motive to good actions ought to be encouraged, since men are of so different a make, that the same principle does not work equally upon all minds. What some men are prompted to by conscience, duty, or religion, which are only different names for the same thing, others are prompted to by honour. The sense of honour is of so fine and delicate a nature, that it is only to be met with in minds which are naturally noble, or in such as have been cultivated by great examples or a refined education. This essay therefore is chiefly designed for those who by means of any of these advantages are, or ought to be, actuated by this glorious principle. But as nothing is more pernicious than a principle of action, when it is misunderstood, I shall consider honour with respect to three sorts of men. First of all, with regard to those who have a right notion of it. Secondly, with regard to those who have a MORAL DEFINITIONS. 30t mistaken notion of it. And thirdly, with regard to those who treat it as chimerical, and turn it into ridicule. In the first place, true honour, though it be a different principle from religion, is that which produces the same effects. The lines of action, though drawn from different parts, terminate in the same point. Religion embraces virtue as it is enjoined by the laws of God ; honour, as it is graceful and ornamental to human nature. The religious man fears, the man of honour scorns to do an ill action. The latter considers vice as something that is beneath him ; the other, as something that is offensive to the Divine Being : the one, as what is unbecoming ; the other, as what is forbidden. Thus Seneca speaks in the natural and genuine language of a man of honour, when he declares, “ that were there no God to see or punish vice, he would not commit it, because it is of so mean, so base, and so vile a nature.” In the second place, we are to consider those who have mistaken notions of honour. And these are such as establish any thing to themselves for a point of honour, which is contrary either to the laws of God, or of their country ; who think it more honourable to revenge, than to forgive an injury ; who make no scruple of telling a lie, but would put any man to death that ac- cuses them of it; who are more careful to guard their reputation by their courage than by their virtue. True fortitude is indeed so becoming in human nature, that he who wants it scarce deserves the name of a man ; but we find several who so much a- buse this notion, that they place the whole idea of honour in a kind of brutal courage : by which means we have had many a- raong us, who have called themselves men of honour, that would have been a disgrace to a gibbet. In a word, the man who sacrifices any duty of a reasonable creature to a prevailing mode or fashion; who looks upon any thing as honourable that is dis- pleasing to his Maker, or destructive to society ; who thinks himself obliged by this principle to the practice of some virtues, and not of others, is by no means to be reckoned among true men of honour. Timogenes was a lively instance of one actuated by false honour. Timogenes would smile at a man’s jest who ridiculed his Maker, and at the same time run a man through the body that spoke ill of his friend. Timogenes would have scorned to have betrayed a secret that was entrusted with him, though the fate of his country depended upon the discovery of it. Timogenes took away the life of a young fellow in a duel, for having spoken ill of Belinda, a lady whom he himself had seduced in her youth, and betrayed into want and ignominy. To close his character. 302 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. Timogenes, after having ruined several poor tradesmen’s families •who had trusted him, sold his estate to satisfy his creditors; but, like a man of honour, disposed of all the money he could make of it, in paying off his play debts, or, to speak in his own language, his debts of honour. In the third place, we are to consider those persons, who treat this principle as chimerical, and turn it into ridicule. Men who are professedly of no honour, are of a more profligate and abandoned nature than even those who are actuated by false notions of it; as there is more hope of an heretic than of an atheist. These sons of infamy consider honour, with old Syphax in the play before mentioned, as a fine imaginary notion that leads a- stray young unexperienced men, and draws them into real mischiefs, while they are engaged in the pursuit of a shadow. These are generally persons who, in Shakespeare’s phrase, "are worn and hackneyed in the ways of menwhose imaginations are grown callous, and have lost all those delicate sentiments which are natural to minds that are innocent and undepraved. Such old battered miscreants ridicule every thing as romantic that comes in competition with their present interest; and treat those persons as visionaries, who dare to stand up, in a corrupt age, for what has not its immediate reward joined to it. The talents, interest, or experience of such men, make them very often useful in all parties, and at all times. But whatever wealth and dignities they may arrive at, they ought to consider that every one stands as a blot in the annals of his country, who arrives at the temple of honour by any other way than through that of virtue. Guardian. VI. ON MODESTY. I know no two words that have been more abused, by the different and wrong interpretations which are put upon them, than these two, Modesty and Assurance. To say such a one is a modest man, sometimes indeed passes for a good character; but at present is very often used to signify a sheepish, awkward fellow, who has neither good-breeding, politeness, nor any knowledge of the world. Again : A man of assurance, though at first it only denoted a person of a free and open carriage, is now very usually applied to a profligate wretch, who can break through all the rules of decency and morality without a blush. I shall endeavour, therefore, in this essay, to restore these word* to their true meaning, to prevent the idea of Modesty from MORAL DEFINITIONS. 303 being confounded with that of Sheepishness, and to hinder Impu- dence from passing for Assurance. If I was but to define Modesty, I would call it—the reflection of an ingenuous mind, either when a man has committed an action for which he censures himself, or fancies that he is exposed to the censure of others. For this reason a man, truly modest, is as much so when he is alone as in company ; and as subject to a blush in his closet as when the eyes of multitudes are upon him. I do not remember to have met with any instance of modesty with which I am so well pleased, as that celebrated one of the young Prince, whose father, being a tributary king to the Ro- mans, had several complaints laid against him before the senate, as a tyrant and oppressor of his subjects. The Prince went to Rome to defend his father; but coming into the senate, and hearing a multitude of crimes proved upon him, was so oppressed when it came to his turn to speak, that he was unable to utter a word. The story tells us, that the fathers were more moved at this instance of modesty and ingenuity, than they could have been by the most pathetic oration; and in short, pardoned the guilty father for this early promise of virtue in his son. I take Assurance to be, The faculty of possessing a man’s self, or of saying and doing indifferent things without any uneasiness or emotion in the mind. That which generally gives a man assurance, is a moderate knowledge of the world; but above all, a mind fixed and determined in itself to do nothing against the rules of honour and decency. An open and assured behaviour is the natural consequence of such a resolution. A man thus armed, if his words or actions are at any time misinterpreted, retires within himself, and from a consciousness of his own integrity, assumes force enough to despise the little censures of ignorance or malice. Every one ought to cherish and encourage in himself the modesty and assurance I have here mentioned. A man without assurance is liable to be made uneasy by the folly or ill-nature of every one he converses with. A man without modesty is lost to all sense of honour and virtue. It is more than probable, that the Prince above mentioned, possessed both those qualifications in a very eminent degree. With- out assurance, he would never have undertaken to speak before the most august assembly in the world; without modesty, he would have pleaded the cause he had taken upon him, though it had appeared ever so scandalous. From what ha* been said, it i* plain that modesty and assur- 304 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. ance are both amiable, and may very well meet in the same person. When they are thus mixed and blended together, they compose what we endeavour to express, when we say, a modest assurance; by which we understand, the just mean between bashfulness and impudence. I shall conclude with observing, that as the same man may be both modest and assured, so it is also possible for the same person to be both impudent and bashful. We have frequent instances of this odd kind of mixture in people of depraved minds and mean education; who, though they are not able to meet a man’s eyes, or pronounce a sentence without confusion, can voluntarily commit the greatest villanies or most indecent actions. Such a person seems to have made a resolution to do ill, even in spite of himself, and in defiance of all those checks and restraints his temper and complexion seem to have laid in his way. Upon the whole, I would endeavour to establish this maxim. That the practice of virtue is the most proper method to give a man a becoming assurance in his words and actions. Guilt always seeks to shelter itself in one of the extremes; and is sometimes attended with both. Spectator. VII. ON TRUTH AND SINCERITY. Truth and reality have all the advantages of appearance, and many more. If the shew of any thing be good for any thing, I am sure sincerity is better; for why does any man dissemble, or seem to be that which he is not, but because he thinks it good to have such a quality as he pretends to ? for to counterfeit and dissemble, is to put on the appearance of some real excellency. Now the best way in the world for a man to seem to be any thing, is really to be what he would seem to be. Besides, that it is many times as troublesome to make good the pretence of a good quality, as to have it; and if a man have it not, it is ten to one but he is discovered to want it, and then all his pains and labour to seem to have it are lost. There is something unnatural in painting which a skilful eye will easily discern from native beauty and complexion. It is hard to personate and act a part long; for where truth is not at the bottom, nature will be endeavouring to return, and will peep out and betray herself one time or other. Therefore, if any man think it convenient to seem good, let him be so indeed, and then his goodness will appear to every body’s satisfaction ; so that, upon all accounts, sincerity is true wisdom. Par- MORAL DEFINITIONS. 305 ticularly as to the affairs of this world, integrity hath many advantages over all the fine and artificial ways of dissimulation and deceit; it is much the plainer and easier, much the safer and secure way of dealing in the world; it has less of trouble and difficulty, of entanglement andperplexity, of danger and hazard in it; it is the shortest and nearest way to our end, carrying us thither in a straight line, and will hold out and last longest. The arts of deceit and cunning do continually grow weaker, and less effectual and serviceable to them that use them; whereas integrity gains strength by use ; and the more and longer any man prac- tiseth it, the service it does him, by confirming his reputation, and encouraging those with whom he hath to do to repose the greatest trust and confidence in him, which is an unspeakable advantage in the business and affairs of life. Truth is always consistent with itself, and needs nothing to help it out: it is always near at hand, and sits upon our lips, and is ready to drop out before we are aware; whereas a lie is troublesome, and sets a man’s invention upon the rack, and one trick needs a great many more to make it good. It is like a building upon a false foundation, which continually stands in need of props to shore it up, and proves at last more chargeable than to have raised a substantial building at first upon a true and solid foundation; for sincerity is firm and substantial, and there is nothing hollow or unsound in it, and because it is plain and open fears no discovery ; of which the crafty man is always in danger, and when he thinks he walks in the dark, all his pretences are so transparent, that he that runs may read them ; he is the last man that finds himself to be found out, and whilst he takes it for granted that he makes fools of others, he renders himself ridiculous. Add to all this, that sincerity is the most compendious wisdom, and an excellent instrument for the speedy dispatch of business ; it creates confidence in those we have to deal with, saves the labour of many inquiries, and brings things to an issue in few words; it is like travelling in a plain beaten road, which commonly brings a man sooner to his journey’s end than by bye-ways, in which men often lose themselves. In a word, whatsoever convenience may be thought to be in falsehood and dissimulation, it is soon over; but the inconvenience of it is perpetual, because it brings a man under an everlasting jealousy and suspicion, so that he is not believed when he speaks truth, nor trusted perhaps when he means honestly. When a man has once forfeited the reputation of his integrity, he is set fast, and nothing will then serve his turn, neither truth nor falsehood. U 306 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. VIII. ON BENEVOLENCE AND HUMANITY. Youth is the proper season for cultivating the benevolent and humane affections. As a great part of your happiness is to depend on the connexions which you form with others, it is of high importance that you acquire betimes the temper and the manners which will render such connexions comfortable. Let a sense of justice be the foundation of all your social qualities. In your most early intercourse with the world, and even in your youthful amusements, let no unfairness be found. En- grave on your mind that sacred rule of “ doing in all things to others, according as you wish that they should do unto you.” For this end, impress yourselves with a deep sense of the original and natural equality of men. Whatever advantages of birth or fortune you possess, never display them with an ostentatious superiority. Leave the subordinations of rank to regulate the intercourse of more advanced years. At present it becomes you to act among your companions, as man with man. Remember how unknown to you are the vicissitudes of the world; and how often they, on whom ignorant and contemptuous young men once looked down with scorn, have risen to be their superiors in future years. Compassion is an emotion of which you never ought to be ashamed. Graceful in youth is the tear of sympathy, and the heart that melts at the tale of woe. Let not ease and indulgence contract your affections, and wrap you up in selfish enjoyment. Accustom yourselves to think of the distresses of human life ; of the solitary cottage, the dying parent, and the weeping orphan. Never sport with pain and distress, in any of your a- musements ; nor treat even the meanest insect with wanton cruelty. Blair. IX. ON TEMPERANCE. From a thorough insight into human nature, with a watchful eye, and kind attention to the vanity and intemperate heat of youth, with well-weighed measures for the advancement of all useful literature, and the continual support and increase of virtue and piety, have the wise and religious institutors of the rules of conduct and government, in places of education, done all that human prudence could do, to promote the most excellent and beneficial design, by the most rational and well-concerted means. They first laid the foundation well, in the discipline and regula- tion of the appetites. They put them under the restraint of MORAL DEFINITIONS. 307 wholesome and frugal rules, to place them out of the reach of intemperance, and to preclude an excess that would serve only to corrupt, inflame, and torment them. They are fed with food convenient for them ; with simplicity yet sufficiency ; with a kind though cautious hand. By this means, the seeds of vice are stifled in their birth ; young persons are here removed from temptations, to which others, from a less happy situation, are too frequently exposed ; and by an early habit of temperance and self-command, they may learn either to prevent all irregular solicitations, or with ease to controul them. Happy are they, who, by a thankful enjoyment of these advantages, and a willing compliance with these rules, lay up in store for the rest of their life, virtue, health, and peace ! Vain, indeed, would be the expectation of any real progress in intellectual and moral improvements, were not the foundation thus laid in strict regularity and temperance ; were the sensuaj appetites to be pampered in youth, or even vitiated with that degree of indulgence which an extrava- gant world may allow and call elegance, but in a place of education would be downright luxury. The taste of sensual pleasures must be checked and abated in them, that they may acquire a relish of the more sublime pleasures that result from reason and religion ; that they may pursue them with effect, and enjoy them without avocation. And have they not in this place every motive, assistance, and encouragement, to engage them in a virtuous and moral life, and to animate them in the attainment of useful learning ? What rank or condition of youth is there, that has not daily and hourly opportunities of laying in supplies of knowledge and virtue, that will in every station of life be equally serviceable and ornamental to themselves, and beneficial to mankind ? And shall any one dare to convert a house of discipline and learning into a house of dissoluteness, extravagance, and riot ? With what an aggravation of guilt do they load themselves, who at the same time that they are pursuing their own unhappiness, sacrilegiously break through all the fences of good order and government, and by their practice, seducement, and example, do what in them lies, to introduce into these schools of frugality, sobriety, and temperance, all the mad vices and vain gaieties of a licentious and voluptuous age ! What have they to answer for, who, while they profligately squander away that most precious part of time, which is the only season of application and improvement, to their own irretrievable loss, encourage one another in an idle and sensual course of life, and by spreading wide the contagion, reflect a scandal upon, and strive to bring into public disesteem, the place of their education, where industry, literature, virtue, de. 308 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. cency, and whatever else is praise-worthy, did for ages flourish and abound ? Is this the genuine fruit of the pious care of our ancestors, for the security and propagation of religion and good manners, to the latest posterity ? is this at last the reward of their munificence ? Or does this conduct correspond with their views, or with the just expectations and demands of your friends and your country ? Tot tie. X.—ON POVERTY. Poverty ! thou half-sister of death, thou cousin-german of hell, where shall I find force of execration equal to the aptitude of thy demerits ? Oppressed by thee, the venerable ancient, grown hoary in the practice of every virtue, laden with years and wretchedness, implores a little—a little aid to support his existence, from a stony-hearted son of Mammon, whose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud, and is by him denied and insulted. Oppressed by thee, the man of sentiment, whose heart glows with independence, and melts with sensibility, inly pines under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul, under the contume- ly of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of the fashionable and polite, must see in suffering silence his remark neglected, and his person despised ; while shallow greatness, in his idiot attempt at wit, shall meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it only the family of worth that have reason to complain of thee: The children of folly and vice, though in common with thee the offspring of evil, smart equally under thy rod. Owing to thee, the man of unfortunate disposition and neglected education is condemned as a fool for his dissipation; despised and shunned as a needy wretch, when his follies as usual bring him to want; and when his unprincipled necessities drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the justice of his country. Burns. XI. ON LfFE. Some men have no other business in the world but to be born that they may be able to die; others float up and down two or three turns, and suddenly disappear, and give their place to o- thers ; and they that live longest upon the face of the waters, are in perpetual motion, restless and uneasy, and being crushed with MORAL DEFINITIONS. 309 the great drop of a cloud, sink into flatness and a froth; the change not being great, it being hardly possible it should be more a nothing than it was before. So is every man : he is born in vanity and sin ; he comes into the world like morning mushrooms, soon thrusting up their heads into the air, and conversing with their kindred of the same production, and as soon they turn into dust and forgetfulness ! some of them without any other interest in the affairs of the world, but that they made their parents a little glad, and very sorrowful: others ride longer in the storm, it may be until seven years of vanity be expired, and then, per- adventure, the sun shines hot upon their heads, and they fall in- to the shades below, into the cover of death and darkness of the grave to hide them. But if the bubble stands the shock of a bigger drop, and outlives the chances of a child, of a careless nurse, of drowning in a pail of water, or of being overlaid by a sleepy servant, or such little accidents, then the young man dances like a bubble empty and gay, and shines like a. dove’s neck, or the image of a rainbow, which hath no substance, and whose very imagery and colours are fantastical; and so he dances out the gaiety of his youth, and is all the while in a storm, and endures, only because he is not knocked on the head by a drop of bigger rain, or crushed by the pressure of a load of indigested meat, or quenched by the disorder of an ill-placed humour ; and to preserve a man alive in the midst of so many chances and hostilities is as great a miracle as to create him ; to preserve him from rushing into nothing, and at first to draw hiih up from nothing, were equally the issues of an Almighty power. And therefore the wise men of the world have contended who shall best fit man’s condition with words signifying his vanity and short abode. Homer calls a man a leaf, the smallest, the weakest piece of a short-lived, unsteady plant. Pindar calls him the dream of a shadow. Ano- ther, the dream of the shadow of smoke. But St James spoke by a more excellent spirit, saying. Our life is but a vapour, viz. drawn from the earth by a celestial influence ; made of smoke, or the lighter parts of water, tossed with every wind, moved by the motion of a superior body, without virtue in itself, lifted up on high, or left below, according as it pleases the sun its foster-father. But it is lighter yet, it is but appearing ; a fantastic vapour, an ap- parition, nothing real: it is not so much as a mist, not the matter of a shower, nor substantial enough to make a cloud ; but it is like Cassiopeia’s chair, or Pelop’s shoulder, or the circles of heaven, ipseoa^sv*, for which you cannot have a word that can signify a verier nothing. And yet the expression is one degree more made diminutive: A vapour, and fantastical, or a mere ap- 310 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. pearance, and this but for a little while neither; the very dream, the phantasm disappears in a small time, /tie the shadow that de- jiartelh, or like a tale that is told, or as a dream when one anak- eth. A man is so vain, so unfixed, so perishing a creature, that he cannot long last in the scene of fancy ; man goes off, and is forgotten like the dream of a distracted person; the sum of all is this, thou art a man, than whom there is not in the world any greater instance of heights and declensions, of lights and shadows, of misery and folly, of laughter and tears, of groans and death. Taylor. XII.—ON DEATH. If mankind were so vain and foolish as to flatter themselves that the duration of their present state would be eternal. Nature and Providence have taken such care to undeceive them as the importance of the point required. Scarce one day can pass without exhibiting sad spectacles of mortality to the public eye. As mists and vapours, when exhaled, descend in rains; as fountains and rivers pour their full urns into the ocean, where they are undistinguishably lost; as every morning sun rises but to decline : by the same necessity, the inviolable order of nature, man is born to die. When the sacred writings treat of human life, they consider our existence here as an unsubstantial vapour, which, floating through the boundless fields of air, is at last ab- sorbed in its maternal element, nor leaves the least discernible vestige behind. They consider it as a flower in the field, which, opening on the ravished eye, displays the fairest colours of Na- ture’s inimitable pencil; but soon the nipping frosts or chilling winds blast all the grace and beauty of its blooming verdure, and leave only its melancholy ruins behind ; that from these the con- templative gazer may, with deep-felt regret, lament the beau- teous wreck, while he presages his own. But nature Jias not left us to learn our fate from remote and ambiguous calls. How loud, how universal, how emphatic, how intelligible, how inces- sant, how alarming is her voice ! It assumes every form that may engage our attention, it darts upon the soul in every thought, it speaks in every period, it addresses every sense. It is felt in the ties of consanguinity when broken, it is seen in the widow’s tears, and heard in the shrieks of orphans. The tomb, the insatiable tomb, is ever open to devour its prey; while multitudes of every sex and age, from every clime, are constantly replenishing the dark and silent domains of death. Blacklock. MORAL DEFINITIONS. 311 XIII ON ETERNITY. O Eternity ! Eternity ! how are our boldest, our strongest thoughts, lost and overwhelmed in thee! Who can set landmarks to limit thy dimensions; or find plummets to fathom thy depths? —Arithmeticians have figures, to compute all the progressions of time: Astronomers have instruments, to calculate the distances of the planets: But what numbers can state, what lines can gauge, the lengths and breadths of eternity ? It is higher than heaven ; what canst thou do ? deeper than hell; what canst thou know ? The measure thereof is longer than the earth, and broader than the sea. Mysterious, mighty existence ! A sum, not to be lessened by the largest deductions : an extent, not to be contracted by all possible diminutions. None can truly say, after the most prodigious waste of ages, that so much of eternity is gone. For, when millions of centuries are elapsed, it is but just commencing; and when millions more have run their ample round, it will be no nearer ending. Yea, when ages, numerous as the blooms of spring, increased by the herbage of summer, both augmented by the leaves of autumn, and all multiplied by the drops of rain which drown the winter—when these, and ten thousand more—more than can be represented by any similitude, or imagined by any conception, are all revolved—Eternity, vast, boundless, amazing eternity, will only be beginning, or rather (if I may be allowed the expression,) only beginning to begin. Hervey. CHAPTER XIV.

ELOQUENCE. THE PULPIT. I. RELIGIOUS KNOWLEDGE. Without the belief and hope afforded by divine revelation, the circumstances of man are extremely forlorn. He finds himself placed here as a stranger in a vast universe, where the powers and operations of nature are very imperfectly known; where both the beginnings and issues of things are involved in mysterious darkness; where he is unable to discover, with any certainty, whence he sprung, or for what purpose he was brought into this state of existence; whether he be subjected to the government of a mild, or of a wrathful ruler; what construction he is to put on many of the dispensations of Providence ; and what his fate is to be when he departs hence. What a disconsolate situation to a serious, inquiring mind ! The greater degree of virtue it possesses, its sensibility is likely to be the more oppressed by this burden of labouring thought. Even though it were in one’s power to banish all uneasy thoughts, and to fill up the hours of life with perpetual amusement; life so filled up, would, upon reflection, appear poor and trivial. But these are far from being the terms upon which man is brought into this world. He is conscious that his being is frail and feeble; he sees himself beset with various dangers ,• and is exposed to many a melancholy apprehension, from the evils which he may have to encounter, before he arrives at the close of life. In this distressed condition, to reveal to him such discoveries of the Supreme Being as the Christian religion affords, is to reveal to him a father and a friend; is to let in a ray of the most cheering light upon the darkness of vthe human estate. He who was before a destitute orphan, wandering in the inhospitable desert, has now gained a shelter from the inclement blast. He now knows to whom to pray, and in whom to trust; where to unbosom his sorrows; and from what hand to look for relief. Upon the approach of death especially, when, if a man thinks ELOQUENCE THE PULPIT. 313 at all, his anxiety about his future interests must naturally increase, the power of religious consolation is sensibly felt. Then appears, in the most striking light, the high value of the discoveries made by the Gospel; not only life and immortality revealed, but a Mediator with God discovered; mercy proclaimed, through him, to the frailties of the penitent and the humble; and his presence promised to be with them when they are passing through the valley of the shadow of death, in order to bring them safe into unseen habitations of rest and joy. Here is groudd for their leaving the world with comfort and peace. But in this severe and trying period, this labouring hour of nature, how shall the unhappy man support himself, who knows, or believes not, the hope of religion ? Secretly conscious to himself, that he has not acted his part as he ought to have done, the sins of his past life arise before him in sad remembrance. He wishes to exist after death, and yet dreads that existence. The Governor of the world is unknown. He cannot tell whether every endeavour to obtain his mercy may not be in vain. All is awful obscurity around him ; and in the midst of endless doubts and perplexities, the trembling, reluctant soul, is forced away from the body. As the misfortunes of life must, to such a man, have been most oppressive; so its end is bitter: his sun sets in a dark cloud; and the night of death closes over his head, full of misery. Blair. II. ON THE WOItKS AND ATTRIBUTES OF GOD. Contemplate the great scenes of nature, and accustom yourselves to connect them with the perfections of God. All vast and unmeasurable objects are fitted to impress the soul with awe. The mountain which rises above the neighbouring hills, and hides its head in the sky—the sounding, unfathomed, boundless deep —the expanse of heaven, where above and around no limit checks the wondering eye—these objects fill and elevate the mind—they produce a solemn frame of spirit, which accords with the sentiment of religion. From the contemplation of what is great and magnificent in nature, the soul rises to the Author of all. We think of the time which preceded the birth of the universe, when no being existed but God alone. While unnumbered systems arise in order before us, created by his power, arranged by his wisdom, and filled with his presence—the earth and the sea, with all that they contain, are hardly beheld amidst the immensity of his works. In the boundless subject the soul is lost. It 314 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. is he who sitteth on the circle of the earth, and the inhabitants thereof are as grasshoppers. He weigheth the mountains in scales. He taketh up the isles as a very little thing. Lord, what is man, that thou art mindful of him ? The face of nature is sometimes clothed with terror. The tempest overturns the cedars of Lebanon, or discloses the secrets of the deep. The pestilence wastes—the lightning consumes— the voice of the thunder is heard on high. Let these appearances be connected with the power of God. These are the awful ministers of his kingdom. The Lord reigneth, let the people tremble. Who would not fear thee, O King of nations ! By the greatness of thy power thine enemies are constrained to bow. Moodie. III.—THE HOPE OF IMMORTALITY. The hope of immortality has been common to all the nations of the earth. It is encouraged by the instincts of nature, and supported by the deductions of reason. At the same time we must observe, that the hope which rests on these foundations is feeble and unsteady. Futurity is covered with a thick veil, through which the eye of mortals can scarcely penetrate. So dim indeed is our natural prospect into the country beyond the grave, that we are unable to distinguish the condition and employment of its inhabitants. We are even perplexed, at times, with the discour- aging thought, that the scene which we paint to ourselves may be nothing but a vision, which exists only in the delusions of the fancy, and which the hand of death will dissipate for ever. The gospel, however, has lifted up the veil which covered futurity from mortal eyes, and given us a clearer view of the land of spirits. It has given us complete assurance that this land has a real existence ; that the condition of its inhabitants will be determined by the nature of their conduct in the present probation- ary state; that, if they have been good, they shall be raised to a pure, and glorious, and delightful society; that their employments shall be the most honourable and improving; and that their happiness shall be without interruption, and without end. This information the gospel conveys to us both by explicit de- clarations and by symbolical representation. And besides these methods of instruction, the three apostles on the Mount of Trans- glory.figuration They received were aintroduced transient, tobut the direct spirits view of departedof the celestial saints ,- witnessed the perfection to which these spirits were now exalted ; ELOQUENCE THE SENATE. 315 and felt, in the influence of the scene around them, a passing foretaste of the happiness of heaven. Their feeble frame was overpowered by the rapturous emotions which it produced ; and in an ecstacy of joy they exclaimed, “ It is good for us to be here.” Finlayson. IV. AGAINST THE INDULGENCE OF THE PASSIONS. It will be our wisdom to be always on our guard against such principles as obviously favour and encourage the indulgence of our passions. Every passion is prone to justify itself, and to lay hold on every thing that can serve this purpose. Whenever we call in our passions and inclinations as counsellers, we shall see and reason no farther than they allow us. The passions are naturally eloquent, and plead vehemently in their own cause; but their oratory will almost certainly be false and sophistical in those points which relate to their own gratification. Let us, therefore, have a jealous eye on all those principles which help to justify us in the unrestrained indulgence of them. Mankind are so formed, that they cannot be easy in their own minds, without some kind of reasoning by which they may defend their own conduct. When, therefore, they find that they cannot, or rather do not bring up their own conduct to the known, established, and autho- rised standard of virtuous behaviour, they immediately set about bringing down their principles to their practice. Thus, some encourage themselves in the almost unbounded indulgence of their inclinations, on this principle, that God has planted all our passions in us, and that he would not have given them to us, unless he had intended that we should gratify them. —But they never reflect, that God has likewise planted reason and conscience within us, for this purpose, that we should regulate all our gratifications by the rules of true moderation, of pure virtue, and of genuine religion. Others again justify themselves in all their irregularities and excesses, by pleading, that the temptations to indulge in all kinds of pleasures are so strong, that it is far beyond their power to surmount and resist them. But this is only a pretence : it is the want of will and determined resolution, not the want of power, that makes us yield to the impulse of every inclination or passion that happens to be uppermost. God has implanted in the mind of man a power of will and resolution, which, when exerted in a determined manner, is capable of overcoming every difficulty, and of braving every danger. And the strength of this resolu- 316 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. tion is ever countenanced and supported by Heaven, when it is exerted on the side, or in the cause, of virtue and righteousness. Nay, let those persons who pretend that the temptations to vice are altogether irresistible, be told, that the point of honour in the fashionable world demands something to be done by them much more difficult than any thing that virtue and the law of God demand of us; and they will see how, in support of honour, the innate strength of the human mind displays itself in all its vigour. Strange ! that men should exert the firmest fortitude in obedience to the laws of manners, and manners too which reason can scarcely approve; and yet shall plead that we are quite weak and incapable of any manly efforts in obedience to the laws of virtue and of God, on which the chief happiness and glory of rational beings depend. Others make themselves easy in courses which they are conscious are not right, on the principle, that their follies, irregularities, and even great vices, are only the mere infirmities of nature, and that God is good and merciful, and will not call them to a severe account for them. But such persons ought to consider, that God has, in the constitution of nature, and the course of providence, annexed punishments to vice even in this world; and such punishments as, sooner or later, will unavoidably follow upon a continued indulgence in vicious conduct. And, if the face of God is set against wickedness of all kinds, so that it is actually punished under his government in this world, what ground can there be to hope, that under the same government in another world, it shall escape unpunished ? It is true that God is good : He is goodness itself. “ God is love, and dwells irr love.” But it is the goodness of a universal Governor, which requires, that the authority of his laws be preserved, and that every transgres- sion unrepented of, and unamended, should meet with a proper treatment. And as vice is the reproach of our nature, the natural source of misery to ourselves, and of hurt to others ; so the very principle of goodness will lead the all-gracious Governor of the world to inflict deserved punishments on all the incorrigible workers of iniquity. Leechman.

THE SENATE. I. SPEECH OF DEMOSTHENES. Had we been convened, Athenians ! on some new subject of debate, I had waited until most of the usual persons had declar- ELOQUENCE THE SENATE. 317 ed their opinions. If I had approved of any thing proposed by them, I should have continued silent: If not, I had then attempted to speak my sentiments. But since those very points on which these speakers have oftentimes been heard already, are at this time to be considered ; though I have arisen first, I presume I may expect your pardon ; for if they on former occasions had advised the necessary measures, ye would not have found it need- ful to consult at present. First then, Athenians ! these our affairs must not be thought desperate ; no, though their situation seems entirely deplorable. For the most shocking circumstance of all our past conduct is really the most favourable to our future expectations. And what is this? That our own total indolence hath been the cause of all our present difficulties. For were we thus distressed, in spite of every vigorous effort which the honour of our state demanded, there were then no hope of a recovery. In the next place reflect, (you who have been informed by others, and you who can yourselves remember) how great a power the Lacedemonians not long since possessed; and with what resolution, with what dignity you disdained to act unworthy of the state, but maintained the war against them for the rights of Greece. Why do I mention these things ? That ye may know, that ye may see, Athenians! that if duly vigilant, ye cannot have any thing to fear ; that if once remiss, not any thing can happen agreeable to your desires : witness the then powerful arms ofLacedemon, which a just attention to your interests enabled you to vanquish: and this man’s late insolent attempt, which our insensibility to all our great concerns hath made the cause of this confusion. If there be a man in this assembly who thinks that we must find a formidable enemy in Philip, while he views, on one hand, the numerous armies which attend him; and on the other, the weakness of the state thus despoiled of its dominions; he thinks justly. Yet let him reflect on this : there was a time, Athenians ! when we possessed Pydna, and Potidaea, and Methone, and all that country round : when many of those states now subjected to him were free and independent; and mote inclined to our alliance than to his. Had then Philip reasoned in the manner, “ How shall I dare to attack the Athenians, whose garrisons command my territory, while I am destitute of all assistance!” he would not have engaged in those enterprizes which are now crowned with success ; nor could he have raised himself to this pitch of greatness. No, Athenians ! he knew this well, that all these places are but prizes, laid between the combatants, and ready for 318 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. the conqueror : that the dominions of the absent devolve naturally to those who are in the field; the possessions of the supine to the active and intrepid. Animated by these sentiments, he overturns whole countries ; he holds all people in subjection : some, as by the right of conquest; others, under the title of allies and confederates: for all are willing to confederate with those whom they see prepared and resolved to exert themselves as they ought. And if you (my countrymen !) will now at length be persuaded to entertain the like sentiments: if each of you, renouncing all evasions, will be ready to approve himself an useful citizen, to the utmost that his station and abilities demand ; if the rich be ready to contribute, and the young to take the field ; in one word, if you will be yourselves, and banish those vain hopes which every single person entertains, that while so many others are engaged in public business, his service will not be required; you then (if heaven so pleases) shall regain your dominions, recal those opportunities your supineness hath neglected, and chastise the insolence of this man. For you are not to imagine, that, like a god, he is to enjoy his present greatness for ever fixed and un- changeable. ISo, Athenians ! there are who hate him, who fear him, who envyN him, even among those seemingly the most attached to his cause. These are passions common to mankind: nor must we think that his friends only are exempted from them. It is true they lie concealed at present, as our indolence deprives them of all resource. But let us shake off this indolence ! for you see how we are situated; you see the outrageous arrogance of this man, who does not leave it to your choice whether you shall act, or remain quiet; but braves you with his menaces ; and talks (as we are informed) in a strain of the highest extravagance : and is not able to rest satisfied with his present acquisitions, but is ever in pursuit of further conquests; and while we sit down, inactive and irresolute, incloses us on all sides with his toils. When, therefore, O my countrymen! when will you exert your vigour ? When roused by some event ? When forced by some necessity ? What then are we to think of our present condition ? To freemen, the disgrace attending on misconduct is, in my opinion, the most urgent necessity. Or say, is it your sole ambition to wander through the public places, each enquiring of the other, “ What new advices ?” Can any thing be more new, than that a man of Macedon should conquer the Athenians, and give law to Greece ? “Is Philip dead? No, but in great danger.” How are you concerned in those rumours ? Suppose he should ELOQUENCE THE SENATE. meet some fatal stroke: you would soon raise up another Philip, if your interests are thus regarded. For it is not to his own strength that he so much owes his elevation, as to our supineness. And should some accident affect him ; should fortune, who hath ever been more careful of the state than we ourselves, now repeat her favours, (and may she thus crown them !) be assured of this, that by being on the spot, ready to take advantage of the confusion, you will every where be absolute masters; but in your present disposition, even if a favourable juncture should present you with Amphipolis, you could not take possession of it, while this suspence prevails in your designs and in your councils. And now, as to the necessity of a general vigour and alacrity; of this you must be fully persuaded ; this point therefore I shall urge no further. But the nature of the armament, which, I think, will extricate you from the present difficulties, the numbers to be raised, the subsidies required for their support, and all the other necessaries; how they may (in my opinion) be best and most expeditiously provided; these things I shall endeavour to explain. But here I make this request, Athenians! that you would not be precipitate, but suspend your judgment till you have heard me fully. And if, at first, I seem to propose a new kind of armament, let it not be thought I am delaying your affairs. For it is not they who cry out, “ Instantly !” “ This moment !” whose counsels suit the present juncture, (as it is not possible to repel violences already committed by any occasional detachment), but he who will shew you of what kind that armament must be, how great, and how supported, which may sub- sist until we yield to peace, or till our enemies sink beneath our arms ; for thus only can we be secured from future dangers. Demosthenes. II. SPEECH OF CICERO. How far, O Catiline, wilt thou abuse our patience ? How long shall thy frantic rage baffle the efforts of justice? To what height meanest thou to carry thy daring insolence ? Art thou nothing daunted by the nocturnal watch posted to secure the Palatium ? nothing by the City guards ? nothing by the consternation of the people ? nothing by the union of all the wise and worthy citizens ? nothing by the senate’s assembling in this place of strength ? nothing by the looks and countenances of all here present ?. Seest thou not that all thy designs are brought to light ? that the se- nators are thoroughly apprised of thy conspiracy ? that they are 320 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. acquainted with thy last night’s practices ? with the practices of the night before ; with the place of meeting, the company sum- moned together, and the measures concerted ? Alas for our degeneracy ! alas for the depravity of the times ! The senate is ap- prized of all this, the consul beholds it; yet the traitor lives.— Lives ! did I say ? he even comes into the senate; he shares in the public deliberations; he marks us out with his eye for destruction : While we, bold in our country’s cause, think we have sufficiently discharged our duty to the state, if we can but escape his rage and deadly darts. Long since, O Catiline, ought the consul to have ordered thee for execution, and pointed upon thy own head that ruin thou hast been long meditating against us all. Could that illustrious citizen, Publius Scipib, sovereign pontiff, but invested with no public magistracy, kill Tiberius Gracchus for raising some slight commotions in the commonwealth ? and shall we consuls suffer Catiline to live, who aims at laying waste the world with fire and sword ? I omit, as too remote, the example of Q. Servilius Ahala, who with his own hand slew Spu- rius Melius, for plotting a revolution in the state. Such, such was the virtue of this republic in former times, that her brave sons punished more severely a factious citizen, than the most inveterate enemy. We have a weighty and vigorous decree of the senate against you; Catiline: the senate wants not wisdom, nor this house authority: but we the consuls, I speak it openly, are wanting in our duty. A decree once passed in the senate, enjoining the consul L. Opimius to take care that the commonwealth received no detri- ment. That very day Caius Gracchus was killed for some slight suspicions of treason, though descended of a father, grandfather, and ancestors, all eminent for their services to the state. Marcus F ulvius too, a man of consular dignity, with his children, under- went the same fate. By a like decree of the senate, the care of the commonwealth was committed to the consuls C. Marius and L. Valerius. Was a single day permitted to pass, before L. Sa- turninus, tribune of the people, and C. Servilius the praetor, satisfied by their death the justice of their country ? But we, for these twenty days, have suffered the authority of the senate to languish in our hands. For we too have a like decree, but it rests among our records like a sword in the scabbard; a decree, O Cati- line, by which you ought to have suffered immediate death. Yet still you live ; nay more, you live, not to lay aside, but to harden yourself in your audacious guilt. I could wish, conscript fathers, to be merciful ; I could wish too not to appear remiss when my country is threatened with danger ; but I now begin to reproach ELOQUENCE THE SENATE. 321 myself with negligence and want of courage. A camp is formed in Italy, upon the very borders of Etruria, against the commonwealth. The enemy increase daily in number. At the same time we behold their general and leader within our walls; nay, in the senate-house itself, plotting daily some intestine mischief against the senate. Should I order you, Catiline, to be instantly seized and put to death, I have reason to believe, good men would rather reproach me with slowness than cruelty. But at present certain reasons restrain me from this step, which indeed ought to have been taken long ago. Thou shall then suffer death, when not a man is to be found, so wicked, so desperate, so like thyself, as not to own it was done justly. As long as there is one who dares to defend thee, thou shall live; and live as thou now dost, surrounded by the numerous and powerful guards which I have placed about thee, so as not to suffer thee to stir a foot against the republic; whilst the eyes and ears of many shall watch thee, as they have hitherto done, when thou little thoughtest of it. But what is it, Catiline, thou canst now have in view, if neither the obscurity of night can conceal thy traitorous assemblies, nor the walls of a private house prevent the voice of thy treason from reaching our ear ? if all thy projects are discovered, and burst into public view ? Quit, then, your detestable purposes, and think no more of massacres and conflagrations. You are beset on all hands ; your most secret councils are clear as noon-day; as you may easily gather, from the detail I am now to give you. You may remember, that on the nineteenth of Oc- tober last, I said publicly in the senate, that before the twenty- fifth of the same month, C. Manlius, the confederate and creature of your guilt, would appear in arms. Was I deceived, Cati- line, I say not as to this enormous, this detestable, this improba- ble attempt, but which is still more surprising, as to the very day on which it happened ? I said likewise, in the senate, that you had fixed the twenty-sixth of the same month for the massa- cre of our nobles, which induced many citizens of the first rank to retire from Rome, not so much on account of their own preservation, as with a view to baffle your designs. Can you deny, that on that very same day you was so beset by my vigilance, and the guards I placed about you, that you found it impossible to attempt any thing against the state; though you had given out, after the departure of the rest, that you would nevertheless content yourself with the blood of those who remained ? . Nay, when on the first of November you confidently hoped to surprise Praeneste by night, did you not find that colony secured by my 322 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. order, and the guards, officers, and garrison I had appointed ? There is nothing you either think, contrive, or attempt, but what I both hear, see, and plainly understand. Whitworth’s Cictro. VIII. SPEECH OF MR HORACE WALPOLE. Sir,—I was unwilling to interrupt the course of this debate, while it was carried on, with calmness and decency, by men who do not suffer the ardour of opposition to cloud their reason, or transport them to such expressions as the dignity of this assembly does not admit. I have hitherto deferred answering the gentleman who declaimed against the bill with such fluency and rhetoric, and such vehemence of gesture; who charged the advo- cates for the expedients now proposed, with having no regard to any interest but their own, and with making laws only to consume paper ; and threatened them with the defection of their adherents, and the loss of their influence, upon this new discovery of their folly and their ignorance.—Nor, Sir, do I now answer him for any other purpose, than to remind him, how little the clamour of rage and petulancy of invective contribute to the end for which this assembly is called together; how little the discovery of truth is promoted, and the security of the nation established, by pompous diction and theatrical emotion. Formidable sounds and furious declamation, confident asser- tions and lofty periods, may affect the young and inexperienced ; and perhaps the gentleman may have contracted his habits of oratory, by conversing more with those of his own age than with such as have more opportunities of acquiring knowledge, and more successful methods of communicating their sentiments. If the heat of his temper. Sir, would suffer him to attend to those whose age and long acquaintance with business give them an indisputable right to deference and superiority, he would learn in time to reason rather than declaim; and to prefer justness of argument and an accurate knowledge of facts, to sounding epithets and splendid superlatives • which may disturb the imagination for a moment, but leave no lasting impression on the mind. He would learn. Sir, that to accuse and prove are very different; and that reproaches unsupported by evidence affect only the character of him that utters them. Excursions of fancy and flights of oratory are indeed pardonable in young men, but in no other ; and it would surely contribute more, even to the purpose for which some gentlemen appear to speak (that of depreciating the ELOQUENCE—THE SENATE. 323 conduct of administration,) to prove the inconveniences and injustice of this bill, than barely to assert them, with whatever magnificence of language, or appearance of zeal, honesty, or compassion. IX—mu pitt’s reply. Sir,—The atrocious crime of being a young man, which the honourable gentleman has, with such spirit and decency, charged upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate nor deny; but content myself with wishing that I may be one of those whose follies may cease with their youth, and not of those who continue ignorant in spite of age and experience. Whether youth can be attributed to any man as a reproach, I will not. Sir, assume the province of determining; but surely age may justly become contemptible, if the opportunities which it brings have passed away without improvement, and vice appear to prevail when the passions have subsided. The wretch, who, after having seen the consequences of a thousand errors, continues still to blunder, and in whom age has only added obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the object either of abhorrence or contempt, and deserves not that his gray head should secure him from insults. Much more. Sir, is he to be abhorred, who, as he has advanced in age, has receded from virtue, and become more wicked with less temptation ; who prostitutes himself for money which he cannot enjoy, and spends the remains of his life in the ruin of his country. But youth. Sir, is not my only crime: I have been accused of acting a theatrical part—A theatrical part may either imply some peculiarities of gesture, or a dissimulation of my real sentiments, and the adoption of the opinions and language of another man. In the first sense. Sir, the charge is too trifling to be confut- ed, and deserves to be mentioned only, that it may be despised, I am at liberty, like every other man, to use my own language j and though I may perhaps have some ambition to please this gentleman, 1 shall not lay myself under any restraint, nor very solicitously copy his diction or his mien, however matured by age, or modeled by experience. But, if any man shall, by charging me with theatrical behaviour, imply that I utter any sentiments but my own, I shall treat him as a calumniator and villain ; nor shall any protection shelter him from the treatment which he deserves. I shall, on such an occasion, without scruple, trample upon all those forms 324 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. ■with which wealth and dignity entrench themselves, nor shall any thing but age restrain my resentment; age, which always brings with it one privilege, that of being insolent and supercilious without punishment. But with regard, Sir, to those whom I have offended, I am of opinion, that if 1 had acted a borrowed part, I should have avoided their censure; the heat which offended them is the ardour of conviction, and that zeal for the service of my country, which neither hope nor fear shall influence me to suppress. I will not sit unconcerned, while my liberty is invaded, nor look in silence upon public robbery. I will exert my endeavours, at whatever hazard, to repel the aggressor, and drag the thief to justice, whoever may protect him in his villany, and whoever may partake of his plunder. X.—SPEECH OF LORD CHATHAM. I cannot, my Lords, I will not, join in congratulation on misfortune and disgrace. This, my Lords, is a perilous and tremendous moment. It is not a time for adulation : the smooth- ness of flattery cannot save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the throne in the language of truth. We must, if possible, dispel the delusion and darkness which envelope it; and display, in its full danger and genuine colours, the ruin which is brought to our doors. Can ministers still presume to expect support in their infatuation ? Can parliament be so dead to its dignity and duty, as to give their support to measures thus obtruded and forced upon them ? Measures, my Lords, which have reduced this late flourishing empire to scorn and contempt! “ But yesterday, and Britain might have stood against the world : now, none so poor as to do her reverence:”—The people, whom we first despised as rebels, but whom we now acknowledge as enemies, are abetted against us, supplied with every military store, have their interest consulted, and their ambassadors entertained by our inveterate enemy—and ministers do not, and dare not, interpose with dignity or effect. The desperate state of our army abroad is in part known. No man more highly esteems and honours the British troops than I do; I know their virtues and their valour; I know they can achieve any thing but impossibilities; and I know that the conquest of British America is an impossibility. You cannot, my Lords, you cannot conquer America. What is your present situation there ? We do not know the worst: but we know that ELOQUENCE THE SENATE. 325 in three campaigns we have done nothing, and suffered much. You may swell every expence, accumulate every assistance, and extend your traffic to the shambles of every German despot: your attempts will be for ever vain and impotent—doubly so, indeed, from this mercenary aid on which you rely; for it irritates, to an incurable resentment, the minds of your adversaries, to over-run them with the mercenary sons of rapine and plunder, devoting them and their possessions to the rapacity of hireling cruelty. If I were an American, as I am an Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down my arms Never, never, never !— But, my Lords, who is the man, that, in addition to the disgraces and mischiefs of the war, has dared to authorise and asso- ciate to our arms the tomahawk and scalping-knife of the savage ? —to call into civilized alliance, the wild and inhuman inhabitant of the woods ?—to delegate to the merciless Indian, the defence of disputed rights, and to wage the horrors of his barbarous war against our brethren ? My Lords, these enormities cry aloud for redress and punishment. But, my Lords, this barbarous measure has been defended, not only on the principles of policy and necessity, but also on those of morality ; “ for it is perfectly allowable,” says Lord Suffolk, “to use all the means, which God and nature have put into our hands." I am astonished, I am shocked, to hear such principles confessed; to hear them avowed in this House, or in this country. My Lords, I did not intend to encroach so much on your attention, but I cannot re- press my indignation—I feel myself impelled to speak. My Lords, we are called upon as members of this House, as men, as Christians, to protest against such horrible barbarity !—“ That God and nature have put into our hands !” What ideas of God and nature, that noble Lord may entertain, I know not; but I know, that such detestable principles are equally abhorrent to religion and humanity. What! to attribute the sacred sanction of God and nature, to the massacres of the Indian scalping-knife! to the cannibal savage, torturing, murdering, devouring, drinking the blood of his mangled victims! Such notions shock every precept of morality, every feeling of humanity, every sentiment of honour. These abominable principles, and this more abominable avowal of them, demand the most decisive indignation. I call upon that Right Reverend, and this most Learned Bench, to vindicate the religion of their God, to support the justice of their country. I call upon the bishops, to interpose the unsullied sanctity of their lawn;—upon the judges, to interpose the purity of their ermine, to save us from this pollution. I call upon 326 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. the honour of your Lordships, to reverence the dignity of your ancestors, and to maintain your own. I call upon the spirit and humanity of my country, to vindicate the national character. I invoke the genius of the constitution. From the tapestry that adorns these walls, the immortal ancestor of this noble Lord frowns with indignation at the disgrace of his country. In vain did he defend the liberty, and establish the religion of Britain, against the tyranny of Rome, if these worse than Popish cruelties, and Inquisitorial practices, are endured among us. To send forth the merciless cannibal, thirsting for blood ! against whom ? —your Protestant brethren !—to lay waste their country, to desolate their dwellings, and extirpate their race and name, by the aid and instrumentality of these horrible hounds of war ! Spain can no longer boast pre-eminence in barbarity. She armed herself with bloodhounds, to extirpate the wretched natives of Mexico; we, more ruthless, loose these dogs of war against .pur countrymen in America, endeared to us by every tie that can sanctify humanity. I solemnly call upon your Lordships, and upon every order of men in the state, to stamp upon this infamous procedure, the indelible stigma of the Public Abhorrence. More particularly, I call upon the holy prelates of our religion, to do away this iniquity; let them perform a lustration, to purify the country from this deep and deadly sin. My Lords, I am old and weak, and at present unable to say more ; but my feelings and indignation were too strong, to have said less. I could not have slept this night in my bed, nor even reposed my head upon my pillow, without giving vent to my eternal abhorrence of such enormous and preposterous principles.

MILITARY. I. HANNIBAL TO HIS SOLDIERS. I know not, soldiers, whether you or your prisoners be encompassed by fortune with the stricter bonds and necessities. Two seas enclose you on the right and left ,•—not a ship to flee to for escaping. Before you is the Po, a river broader and more rapid than the Rhone; behind you are the Alps, over which, even when your numbers were undiminished, you were hardly able to force a passage.—Here then, soldiers, you must either conquer or die, the very first hour you meet the enemy. But the same fortune which has laid you under the necessity of fighting, has set ELOQUENCE MILITARY. 327 before your eyes those rewards of victory, than which no men are ever wont to wish for greater from the immortal gods. Should we by our valour recover only Sicily and Sardinia, which were ravished from our fathers, those would be no inconsiderable prizes. Yet, what are these ? The wealth of Rome, whatever riches she has heaped together in the spoils of nations, all these, with the masters of them, will be yours. You have been long enough employed in driving the cattle upon the vast mountains of Lusitania and Celtiberia; you have hitherto met with no reward worthy of the labours and dangers you have undergone. The time is now come to reap the full recompence of your toilsome marches over so many mountains and rivers, and through so many nations, all of them in arms. This is the place which fortune has appointed to be the limits of your labours; it is here that you will finish your glorious warfare, and receive an ample recompence of your completed service. For I would not have you imagine, that victory will be as difficult as the name of a Ro- man war is great and sounding. It has often happened, that a despised enemy has given a bloody battle, and the most renowned kings and nations have by a small force been overthrown. And if you but take away the glitter of the Roman name, what is there, wherein they may stand in competition with you ? For (to say nothing of your service in war for twenty years together with so much valour and success) from the very pillars of Her- cules, from the ocean, from the utmost bounds of the earth, through so many warlike nations of Spain and Gaul, are you not come hither victorious ? And with whom are you now to fight ? With raw soldiers, an undisciplined army, beaten, vanquished, besieged by the Gauls the very last summer; an army unknown to their leader, and unacquainted with him. Or shall I, who was born I might also say, but certainly brought up, in the tent of my father, that most excellent general, shall 1, the conqueror of Spain and Gaul, and not only of the Alpine nations, but, which is greater yet, of the Alps themselves, shall I compare myself with this half-year captain ? A captain before whom should one place the two armies without their en- issigns, consul I am ? persuadedI esteem it he no would small notadvantage, know tosoldiers, which ofthat them there he is not one among you, who has not often been an eye-witness of my exploits in war ; not one of whose valour I myself have not been a spectator, so as to be able to name the times and places of his noble achievements; that with soldiers, whom I have a thousand times praised and rewarded, and whose pupil I was. 3£$ THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. before I became their general, I shall march against an army of J men, strangers to one another. On what side soever I turn my eyes, I behold all full of courage and strength; a veteran infantry, a most gallant cavalry; you, my allies, most faithful and valiant; you, Carthaginians, whom not only youi country’s cause, but the justest anger, im- pels to battle. The hope, the courage of assailants, is always greater than of those who act upon the defensive. With hostile banners displayed, you are come down upon Italy; you bring the war. Grief, injuries, indignities fire your minds, and spur you forward to revenge.—First, they demand me—that I, your general, should be delivered up to them ; next, all of you, who had fought at the siege of Saguntum ; and we were to be put to death by the extremest tortures. Proud and cruel nation ! Every thing must be yours, and at your disposal! You are to prescribe to us with whom we shall make war, with whom we shall make peace ! You are to set us bounds ; to shut us up within hills and rivers ; but you—you are not to observe the limits which yourselves have fixed ! Pass not the Iberus. What next ? Touch not the Saguntines; is Saguntum upon the Iberus ? move not a step towards that city. Is it a small matter then, that you have deprived us of our ancient possessions, Sicily and Sardinia; you would have Spain too ? Well, we shall yield Spain ; and then— you will pass into Africa ! Will pass, did I say? This very year they ordered one of their consuls into Africa, the other into Spain. No, soldiers, there is nothing left for us but what we can vindicate with our swords. Come on then. Be men. The Romans may with more safety be cowards : they have their own country behind them, have places of refuge to flee to, and are secure from danger in the roads thither ; but for you there is no middle fortune between death and victory. Let this be but well fixed in your minds, and once again, I say, you are conquerors. Livy. II. SCTPIO TO THE ROMAN ARMY- Were you, soldiers, the same army which I had with me in Gaul, I might well forbear saying any thing to you at this time. For what occasion could there be, to use exhortation to a cavalry, that had so signally vanquished the squadrons of the enemy, upon the Rhone ! or to legions, by whom that same enemy, flying before them, to avoid a battle, did in effect confess themselves conquered ? But as these troops, having been enrolled for Spain, are there with my brother Cneius, making war under my auspi- ELOQUENCE M1LITAKY. 329 ces, (as was the will of the senate and people of Rome,) I, that you might have a consul for your captain against Hannibal and the Carthaginians, have freely offered myself for this war. You, then, have a new general; and I a new army. On this account, a few words from me to you, will be neither improper nor un- seasonable. That you may not be unapprized of what sort of enemies you are going to encounter, or what is to be feared from them, they are the very same, whom, in a former war, you vanquished both by land and sea: the same, from whom you took Sicily and Sar- dinia : and who have been, these twenty years, your tributaries. You will not, I presume, march against these men, with only that courage, with which you are wont to face other enemies ; but with a certain anger and indignation, such as you would feel, if you saw your slaves, on a sudden, rise up in arms against you. Conquered and enslaved, it is not boldness, but necessity, that urges them to battle : unless you can believe, that those, who a- voided fighting, when their army was entire, have acquired better hope, by the loss of two-thirds of their horse and foot, in the passage of the Alps. But you have heard, perhaps, that, though they are few in number, they are men of stout hearts, and robust bodies; heroes, of such strength and vigour, as nothing is able to resist.—Mere effigies ! nay, shadows of men ! wretches, emaciated with hunger, and benumbed with cold! bruised, and battered to pieces among the rocks and craggy cliffs ; their weapons broken; and their horses weak, and foundered! Such are the cavalry, and such the infantry, with which you are going to contend: not enemies, but the fragments of enemies. There is nothing which I more apprehend, than that it will be thought Hannibal was vanquished by the Alps, before we had any conflict with him. But, perhaps, it was fitting it should be so: and that, with a people, and a leader, who had violated leagues and covenants, the gods themselves, without man’s help, should begin the war, and bring it to a near conclusion; and that we, who, next to the gods, have been injured and offended, should happily finish what they have begun. I need not be in any fear, that you should suspect me of saying these things, merely to encourage you, while inwardly I have different sentiments. What hindered me from going into Spain ? That was my province ; where I should have had the less dreaded As- drubal, not Hannibal, to deal with. But hearing, as I passed along the coast of Gaul, of this enemy’s march, I landed my troops, sent the horse forward, and pitched my camp upon the Rhone. 330 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. A part of my cavalry encountered, and defeated that of the enemy. My infantry not being able to overtake theirs, which fled before us, I returned to my fleet; and, with all the expedition I could use, in so long a voyage by sea and land, am come to meet them at the foot of the Alps. Was it, then, my inclination, to avoid a contest with this tremendous Hannibal ? and have I met with him only by accident and unawares ? or am I come on purpose to challenge him to the combat ? I would gladly try, whether the earth, within these twenty years, has brought forth a new kind of Carthaginians ; or, whether they be the same sort of men who fought at the iEgates; and whom, at Eryx, you suffered to redeem themselves at eighteen denarii per head : whether this Hannibal, for labours and journies, be, as he would be thought, the rival of Hercules. Under the conduct of a hair-brain- ed young man, they come hither to overturn our state, and lay waste our country.—I could wish, indeed, that it were so; and that the war we are now engaged in, concerned only our glory, and not our preservation. But the contest at present is, not for the possession of Sicily and Sardinia, but of Italy itself. Nor is there, behind us, another army, which, if we should not prove the conquerors, may make head against our victorious enemies. There are no more Alps for them to pass, which might give us leisure to raise new forces. No, soldiers ; here you must make your stand, as if you were just now before the walls of Rome. Let every one reflect, that he has now to defend, not his own person only, but his wife, his children, his helpless infants. Yet, let not private considerations alone possess our minds; let us remember, that the eyes of the senate and people of Rome, are upon us; and that, as our force and courage shall now prove, such will be the fortune of that city, and of the Roman empire. Hooke. III. — GENERAL WOLFE TO HIS ARMY. I congratulate you, my brave countrymen, and fellow-soldiers, on the spirit and success with which you have executed this important part of our enterprise. The formidable heights of A- braham are now surmounted, and the city of Quebec, the object of all our toils, now stands in view before us. A perfidious enemy, who have dared to exasperate you by their cruelties, but not to oppose you on equal ground, are now constrained to face you on the open plain, without ramparts or entrenchments to shelter them. ELOQUENCE MILITAUY. 331 You know too well the forces which compose their army to* dread their superior numbers. A few regular troops from Old France, w-eakened by hunger and sickness, who when fresh were unable to withstand British soldiers, are their general’s chief dependence. Those numerous companies of Canadians, insolent, mutinous, unsteady, and ill-disciplined, have exercised his utmost skill to keep them together to this time ; and as soon as their irregular ardour is damped by our firm fire, they will instantly turn their backs, and give you no farther trouble but in the pursuit. As for those savage tribes of Indians, whose- horrid yells in the forest have struck many a bold heart with af- fright, terrible as they are with the tomahawk and scalping knife to a flying and prostrate foe, you have experienced how little their ferocity is to be dreaded by resolute men upon fair and open ground ; you will now only consider them as the just objects of a severe revenge for the unhappy fate of many slaughter- ed countrymen. This day puts it into your power to terminate the fatigues of a siege, which has so long employed your courage and patience. Possessed with a full confidence of the certain success which Bri- tish valour must gain over such enemies, I have led you up to these steep and dangerous rocks; only solicitous to shew you. the foe within your reach. The impossibility of a retreat makes no difference in the situation of men resolved to conquer or die - and believe me, my friends, if your conquest could be bought with the blood of your general, he would most cheerfully resign a life which he has long devoted to his country. Aikin. IV NAPOLEON TO THE FRENCH ARMY. Soldiers !—You have precipitated yourselves like a torrent from the summit of the Appenines; you have driven back and dispersed all who opposed your march;—Piedmont liberated from Austrian tyranny, has yielded to her natural sentiments of peace and unity towards France: Milan is yours ; and the Republic flag floats throughout Lombardy; while the Dukes of Parma and Modena, owe their political existence solely to your generosity. The army, which lately so haughtily menaced you, finds no barrier to secure it now from your undaunted courage. The Po, the Tesino, and the Adda, have been unable to arrest your progress for a single day;—those boasted ramparts of Italy have proved insufficient against your valour ; and though they pre- scribed strong natural obstacles, you have surmounted them as 332 THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR. easily as you cleared the Appenines. So much success has diffused joy through the bosom of your native country:—your faithful representatives have decreed a festival in honour of your victories, to be celebrated in all the towns of the Republic. There, your fathers, your mothers, wives, brothers, and sisters, will rejoice in your success, and boast of being related to you. It is true. Soldiers, you have performed much ; but is there nothing more remaining to effect ? Shall it be said of us, that we know how to conquer, but we know not how to profit by victory ? Shall posterity reproach us with having found Capua and Lombardy ?—But I see you already running to arms ; an unman- ly repose fatigues you, and the days lost to glory are lost to your happiness. Now is the time to set out; we still have forced marches to perform, enemies to conquer, laurels to gather, and injuries to avenge. Let those tremble who whetted the poinards of civil war in France, and who have cowardly assassinated our ministers, and burned our ships at Toulon—the hour of vengeance has arrived. But let the people around us be tranquil; we are the friends of all nations, and more particularly of the descendants of the Bru- tuses, the Scipios, and the illustrious personages whom we have chosen as models. To restore the capital of Rome,—to replace with honour the statues of the heroes who rendered it renowned; and to rouse the Roman people, now become torpid by so many ages of slavery ;—such will be the fruit of your victories : it will form an epoch to posterity, and you will have the immortal glory of renovating, and restoring to liberty, the fairest portion of Europe. The French nation, then, free and respected by all the world, by giving to Europe a glorious peace, will be indemnified for the numerous sacrifices made these six years past. After your return to your homes, your fellow citizens, when pointing to you, will say, He was of the army of Italy. PART III.

A GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY; IN WHICH THE GENIUS OF THE FRENCH AND ENGLISH LANGUAGES IS COMPARED, BY SHEWING THE PLACE, FUNCTION, GOVERNMENT, AND DIFFERENT MEANINGS OF THE PARTS OF SPEECH ; THE WHOLE SO FAMILIARLY EXPLAINED, AS TO PAVE THE WAY TO THE TRANSLATION OF THE ENGLISH INTO FRENCH.

The Reader is to notice, that the figures at the head of all the articles laid down in the following Dictionary, are intended to correspond with those that are placed under the English words in the first, or introductory part of this volume. Every paragraph being divided or subdivided, on account of the different meanings or properties a word or a part of speech may be possessed of, the Learner is earnestly warned, not to relinquish the whole of its contents, until his search may prove available ; because the translation can only be successful, in proportion as the perusal is complete. The words between the brackets, thus [ ], are to be understood as expressing the real meaning of the preceding part of speech.

andbefore d. un,The as prepositiond'un for de un.—Masculine,de suffers elision languageA or an, has [one], no indefinite an, une—The article. Frencl Bu A palace, an palais ; of a palace, (Tun the English indeterminate articles, a o palais;A house, to unea palace, maison d un; ofpalais: a house, feminine, d'une amongon, are the rendered cardinal in numbers,French bynamely, the firs u> maison ; to a house, d me maison. thisor une, case, used an, inune, an standindefinite for an sense. indefinit. Ii 2. article ; an for the masculine, une for th EnglishA or an,indefinite [the], articlesle, la, aV, or les.—The on, used feminine.three positions Un, belonging une, are employedto the article in tb before words signifying number, mea- and are preceded by the prepositions d sure,rendered weight, in French and limbs by fe, of la, the les—These body, are 334 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. Cesoranges oranges are worthvalent oneun chelitishilling la adouzaiue. dozen, prouveest imparfait. combien notre systemc d'astronomid4 Ces—These rubans ribbonscost coutent troisthree chelinsshillings la averge. yard, 4. —Lead is worth sixpence a pound, Le dessusABOVE,prep, de—The one [higher, sat above, beyond,] and Au- the i jplomblong chin vaut and six a sousshort la nose, livre.—He II a le menton has a other below me, L'un s'assit au-dessus de long et le nez court. moi,my strength, et Vautre my au-dessous.—Above parts, my capacity, Au-me, ; litresA, par[by].—Twentypounds an.—Twice a-day, a-year, Deux vingt fois dessus de moi, au deld de mes forces, hors par jour.So much a.week, Tant par amde maportee, above these au-dessus things, Jedemes suis talens.—Iau-dessus , semaine.—SoA, [on], a—To much goa-head, afoot, Tant Aller par dpied. tete. de cela. A, [in the], au, dans le.—To be a- —IAbove, was not [more in Paris than], above Plus three de,plus weeks, que. bed,A, tireused au before lit. the present participle Je ne restai pas plus de trois semaines d of a verb of motion, stands for at, some- plusParis—lvalue Thonncur que honour la vie. above life, J’ainte promenetimes for ;to he ; isas, gone I am a-hunting, a-walking, il estje meal- Above, [besides] Over and above, ii d la chasse. thatPardessus, which isoutre, over and de surplus—Giveabove, Donnez-moi me 3. le surplus,Above, ce[before].—As qu'il y a par-dcssus. above, Comme indefiniteA or an, articles [redundant].—The a or an, are used English before ci-dessus, comme il a He dit plus haut. qualifying words, titles, professions, trades, ci-dessus.Above cited, or mentioned, Sus-dit, cite wordsnations, cities,thousand, titles ofwhat, works, and and many the ; Above, adv. [over-head], en-haut, but they are omitted in French. ■ . Id-haut.—FromAbove, adv. above,[openly], D'en-haut. Ouvertcment, Advocate,My father Monis a Baron, pere est and Baron, my uncleet mon an sans artifice, d decouvert.—He is above- oncle est Avocat It is said that he rienboard, ; Ilil agitest au-dessus ouvertement, de tout, sans il artifice. necraint qu'ilis a bookseller est libraire and et a Franfais.Frenchman, On1 amdit Above-ground, adv. [alive], Eh vie. coming from Bristol, a town in Eng- ToAbove be above all, one, adv. Surpasses [especially, quelqu'un. chiefly], gleterre.land, Je viensA dehistory Bristol, of villeFrance; d'An- a Sur-tout, principalement, uniquement. nouveaunew dictionary, dictionaire Histoire Macbeth, de France; a tra- 5. gedy of Shakespeare, Macbeth,tragidie de tour,ABOUT, environ, prep, dl'entour [around, de, aux near], environs, Au- no,Shakespeare is situated nearThe Naples, Vesuvius, Le aVisuve, volca- him,vers, approchant.—ThesoldiersLes soldats elaient autour wereabout de lui.— fewvolcan, guns est dispersed situi pres more de than Naples. a thousand A It About,was about [concerning, night, C'etait for], vers Touchant, le soir. men,de mille Quelques hommes canons Whatdispersirent a crowd plus ! himconeemant,pour about that business,I shallspeak Je lui to parlerai or with foulemany ! aplusieurs man will beihdividus hurt presently, vont etre Quelle bles- opinionstouchant aboutcette affaire—There it, Les sentimens are sontpor- diverse ses.And ■ before a conclusive sentence also; tagesAbout, Id-dessus. [on, upon], Sur.—l have no fullyas, The ascertained, nature ofa circumstancecomets is not which yet money about me, Je n'ai point d'argent provesnomy is,how La imperfect nature our des system cometes of astro-n'est About, [in, by], Dans, par—He is pas entierement connue, circonstanee qui partsomewhat dans leabout maison—To the house, take Il estquelqueone about GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. 335 lieuthe middle,da corpt.—To Prendre take quelqu'un a turn parabout le muthe Adj.Masculine. ending in l.Feminine, garden,All Faireabout, un tour[every dejardin. where]. Par- foolish,genteel, fol,gentil, folle.genlille. ettout d'autre, About d'un and cote about, et d'un fa autre.—From et Id, de cote like,none, pared,nul, .nulle.pareiUe. about.about, D'environ,Tout autour.—All d'autour placesde—Round round old,red, vieil,vermeil, vermeiUe.vkille. about,sited all Tom the country les lieux round d'alentour.—I about, Je vi-fit natural,and all othernaiurel, adjectives endingnaturelle. in el. toutAbout, le tour du[among].—About pays. us, Farmi Adj. ending in n. nous, chez nous, dans notre pays, or else, courtier,country people,yia^san, courtisun, paysanne.courtisanne. sod causeabout de us, nous, II n'est d notre pas ainsi sujet.—It parmi is nous. not partisan, partisan, partisanne. About, [on account of]—All the good,baron, baron,bon, bonne.baronne. faitstir wasd cause about de nous:us, Tout nous ce tommetvacarme cause s'est coward, poltron, poltronne. de lout ce Iruit. Christian,European, European,Chretien, europtenne.Chretienne. TenAbout, leagues adv.about, A Dixla ronde, lieues pad laet ronde. Id— Adj. ending in s. eourci,—A short lien wayloin.—A about, long Un way chemin about, rac- Un thick,big. gros,tpais, grosse.epaisse. grandEire disperse detour, faHen et Id.loin.—To lie about, low,fat, gras,las, grasse.baste. uneTo chose, be about etre apresany thing, une chose. Etre occupe d tired, las, lasse. To be about to do any thing, Etre foolish, Adj.sot, ending in t.sotte. prlsla faire—\ de faire amune aboutchose, orto surgo leaway, point Jede mute,subject, muet,sujet, sujette.muette. m'envais m'en aUer. oiler, je suit sur le point de thin, fiuet, fluelte. Look about you, Prenesgarden vous. Butand theall otherfollowing adjectives adjectives ending ending in et— in 6. cret,ct, as inquiet, complet, rcpletj vncomplet, and secret,discret, doindis- not jectives.ADJECTIVES. General GenderRule All of adjec- Ad- double their final t in the feminine, and tives ending with any letter "but e silent followSecond the general > Exceptions—The Rule. fol- feminine,in the masculine, save those take mentioned an e mute in the lowing adjectives change their final sylla- following exceptions, and must agree in bleing inmanner the feminine : gender in the follow- genderwhich theyand numberwithrelate ; masc. the a littlesubstantive boy, un to Adj. ending in i. Jille.petit garfonBut all ;adjectives fem. a little ending girl, in une e mute petite ; quiet, Masculine.edi, Feminine.ante, as,suffer amiable, no alteration aimable whatever, ; honest, when honnete used ; favourite, favori, favorite. in the feminine gender. They are called fine, Adj.beau, ending in cau.belle, adjectivesFirst ofExceptions both genders. Adjectives nouveau, nouvelle. ending with l, n, t, and t in the mascu- young, jouvenceau,jumeau, jnmcllt.jouvencelle. theline, addition double oftheir e mute final in consonant the feminine. with Adj. ending in ok. They are as follows :— soft,foolish, fou,mou, folle.mode. S36 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. Adj. ending in c. Exceptions All adjectives ending white, Masculine.blanc, blanche,Feminine. ingin au in takeal have x in aux the in plural, the plural and also;those as,end- I dry,frank, sec,franc, franche.scche. —Ihave have a handsome two handsome book, J’ai books, un beauJ’ai livre.deux decayed,Greek, Grcc, Greque.caduque. cierbeaux general—General livres.—A general officers, officer, DesUn qffi- public,Turk, Turc, publique.Turque. jectivesciers generaux. take s in Butthe theplural following instead ad-of Adj.ammoniac, ending in /.ammoniaque. changing al into aux. lively, vif, vive. Amicable, clerical.amical. and all others ending in/. Clerical,Conjugal, conjugal. long, Adj.foreg-, ending in g.longue. Diametrical, diametral. Adj. ending in n. Fatal, filial.fatal. benign, benin, benigne. Final,Filial, final. malignant, Adj.malitt, ending in maligne.r. Frugal, frugal. fresh, frais, fraiche. Lustral, lustral. third, Adj.tiers, ending in x.tierce. Early, matinal. sweet, doux, douce, Native,Nasal, spouse,red, roux,epoux, epouse.rousse. Naval. false, faux, fausse. Pectoral,Pastoral, pectoral.pastoral. happy,vj 7 heureux, heureuse. Theatrical, theairal. and allAdj. others ending ending in tre. in eux. Venal, master or mistress, mcdtre, mailresse. 8. traitorous, Adj. endingtraitre, in eur.traitresse. ADJECTIVES Agreement of singer, chanteur, chanteuse. agreesAdjectives. in gender Theand Adjectivenumber with always the actor,and actress, all others acteur, derived fromactrice. verbs, Substantive to which it relates; and when and all others not derived from verbs, adjectivethere are twois in or the more plural substantives, The white the sinner,avenger, pecheur,vengeur, p&cheresse.vengcresse. rose is the emblem of purity, La rose hunter, chasseur, chasseresse. flowersblanche estapd Veniblemede the fruits of lapurete. this garden Theare inBut the beau, masculine, nouveau, fou,bel, mou,nouvcl, vicux, fol, makemol, admirable, Les ficurs et les fruits de ce and vieil, when placed before nouns be- jardincases where sont admirablesthe agreement doesBut therenot fol-are belginning enfant, with a afine vowel child; or Tiun mute bel ; hommt,as, un low, and of course the adjective is inde- a fine man. mi,clinable. semi, and1*1. nu, When are thebefore adjectives substan- de. ADJECTIVES—Number7. of Ad- fyc.tives, half as, ahalf note, an &c. hour, semi-ion, &c. demiJieure, fyc. head jectives All adjectives take s in the uncovered,the adjective &e.nu-tete, feu is used Qc. as an2d. adverb, When feminineplural, whether gender, used except in thethose masculine ending inor as, the late queen, feu la reine ; but it theau andsubstantive al, and mustto which agree they in genderrelate; with as, fore,must asbe lafeue declined reine.—--3d. when immediately All Adjec- be- ribbons,a black dcsribbon, rubans un noirs. ruban noir; black tivesdiately used after as adverbs,the verb and ;—these placed flowersimme- GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. 337 have a good smell, ces fteurs sentent bon ; pretty, joli ladiesshe sings speak loud, low, elle ces chante dames haul; parlent these has. principal,rich, principalriche sage grand'musc,—4rt. In the e'est following grand'pitie; expressions, fai grand'- la sad, triste ugly,young, jeunevilain faim,The grand'soif; Agreement ofune Adjectives grand'mere, respect- Qc. Adjectives after Substantives. ing the Gender, stands in French as fol- English,French, Franfais.Anglais.' ’ ' thelows plural.-—When are twoof a substantivesdifferent gender, used thein Ecossais. adjective or participle which comes after Italian.Irlandais. genderActorsthe verb, is always and put actresses in the masculineare look, German, Allemand, <|r. ed upon according to their talents. Lei White, acleursleurs talens. et las actrices sont estimis scions Red,Black, foreObservation Adjectives—The on the Preposition preposition dede be-is employed before adjectives, when they Yellow,Blue, ’ jaune,bleu. ANY, adj. or pron. [some, somebody,] feraittion, Ilsla moindre avaient resistance.ordre de tuer quiconque yQuelque, a-t-il quelquequelgu'un.—\s esperance there t—Have any hope? you1 Any Body, [some one, somebody,] any thing to say to me ? Avez-votu quel- knowsQuelqu'un.—If you, be polite. you meetSi vous any rencontre* body that oneque chosewho understands a me dire ?—Do it? Connaissez-vous you know any quelqu'un qui vous connaisse, soyez poll. quelqu'un qui Ventende ? world,Any whoever,] Body, Tout[every le monde,one, all qui quethe EnAny, tout lieu[every,] Any-where, Tout In Patany tout.— place, ce soil.—Any body will explain to you Any-where else, En tout autre lieu—■ pliquerahow it happened, comment celaTout est le mondearrive.—It vous ex- is soilAny-how, Above De any quelque thing, maniere Sur-tout, que surce' not difficult, any body may do it, Ce toutes chosee Any thing that you shall faire.—Everyn'est pus difficile, body tout says le mondeso, it peutis well le propos.—Inthink fit, Tout any thingce que rather vous jugerezthan this, a known, Tout le monde le dit, c'esi bien En toute autre chose que cela.—I would connu.—Tellthat I am gone any into body the whocountry, asks forDites me, a pasnot pourdo it toutes for any chases thing, au Jemonde—Any ne leferois qui que ce soil qui me demands, que je body but you. Tout autre que vous.— suisAny alle Body,a la campagne. [one person,] On.—Can estHis ouverte purse isa toutopen le to monde. any one, Sa bourse —Didany body any believe body hearit ? Peut-onthe thunder le croire ? A. 9 qutiAny, que ce[whosoever,] soil—Come Quiat any que time, ce soil,and t-on entendu le tonnerre 9 you shall be welcome, En quelque temps 24. venu—Heque vous veniez, is as vouslearned serez as toujoursany one, bien II ANY ONE, [every one, all the world,] estthing aussi will savant go down que quiwith que him, ce soil—Any C'esi un willTout tell le mondeyou where If Mryou P. inquire, lives. anySi vous one hommeAny, a tout[with faire, a negation,] or tout luiAucun convient. If diravoulez-vous ou Mr informer,P. demeure. tout le monde vous shortliberality of any,will S'ildo it,ne Itient shall qu'd not dormer, come Quiconque,Any One, qui que[whoever, ce soit—His whosoever,] house jenot ne any le cideraiword, Jea aucun.—I n'cntends pasunderstand un mot. andis always honest, open Sa tomaison any oneest whotoujours is poor ou- against—Nor didus, anyII windne soujjla blow aucun but what vent wasqui verte d quiconque est pauvre el honnete. ne nous fut contraire. 25. 23. I doANY not THING,believe any [nothing,] thing of theseRien— re- —HeANY speaks BODY, no [noharm body,] of any Personne. body, II ports,Did any Je body ne crois ever rien see deany ces thing rumeurs.— like it ? neever dit see mal a spiritde personne.—Did ? Personne a-t-il any jamais body blePersonne ?—Could a-t-il they jamais charge rien himvu de with sembla- any assistancevu un esprit of ?—Weany body, did Nousit without le fimes the Vaccuserthing that de deserved rien qui death meri/dt ? Pouvaient-ils la mart ?— moresans Passistancefit for that deplace personne.—He than any body is thing,Consider Considerez well before bien you avant undertake que de rienany placethat Ique know, personne II est que plus je connaisse. propre & cette sayingentreprendre—He any thing, II went t'en awayalia sans without rien Quiconque.—.TheyAny Body, [whoever, had orders whosoever,] to kill any idire. Any Thing, [whatever, everything,] GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. 347 anyTout thing ce que.—We that you shallplease, have Nous for supperaurons diela, deot P d forla—The de le or mind, de la, fameand dfor P forla loutShe laughsce que vansat any vondrez thing pourshe hears, touper Elle ame.4th, The Contraction of the Article is Tit Anyde tout Thing, ce qu'elle [something,] entend. Quelque duthe forreducing de le, auof twofor dwords le, des into for one, de les,as, chose.—Havequence to tell youher ?any Avez-vous thing of quelqueconse- forand de aux le pain.for d les.—Some bread, du pain eatenchose deany consequence thing this a luimorning dire ?—Has ? A-t-il he ArticleThere as are well no as cases the inSubstantive French, but is lia-the mange quelque chose ce matin t blePositions, to be usednamely, chiefly the, in ofthree the, differentto the, 26. le, Seedu, aau, or S[c.an, and the article the, where —WillANY youFURTHER, go any further, Un peu Voulez-vous plus loin. itEnglish is shown, make 1st, use when of it,the 2d, French when andthe oilerhe had un peuany plus farther loin ?—Heorders, IIdenied dit qu'ilthat lishFrench only only uses usesit, andit, 3d,41A, when when the it isEng- not n'availAny point Longer, refu (Tordres Un peu ulterieurs. plus long- usedwords, in possessive, either language.—See partitive, and alsospecial. the Jetemps.—I ne veux will pas notvous put remeltre you off plusany longer, long- pages—See 3.Surenne’s and 4. ofFrench the Grammatical Grammatology, In- Any More, Un peu plus, davontage. structor, for ampler definitions. —Havequelque choseyou any de moreplus tod say,dire i—IfAvez-vous you 28. provoke me any more, Si vous m'irritez AS, conj. [in the same manner with davantageSans^ tant de foqon,Without satis any autre more forme trouble, de something else,] Comme.—I think as I jedid, pensais, I love jeyou vous as I aimedid, Jecomme pense je comme vous 27. aimois—Hedo, II ne pense does ni notif aime think comme or love moi as I placedARTICLE.—The before a noun, Article to determine is a word the As you oughtplease, toComme do, Comme il vous vousplaira.— devez extentThe ofFrench its signification. Language has only one faire.As, [in the manner that,] Comme.— twelveArticle, variations, which is namely,le, the. le,But la, it hasles, Mad as 1 was, Fou comme j'etais, ou du, de la, de V, des, au, d la, d f, and FouAs, que [that, j'etais. in a consequential sense,] fouraux. peculiaritiesAll these belongingvariations to arisethe French from vity,Que. asHe his had teachers such werea dexterous fain to restrainprocli- Article:Elision ; 1st,4th, Gender; Contraction. 2d, Number; 3d, ethis de forwardness, disposition, queII avail ses maitrestant d'adresse etaient derstood1st, By either Gender the ofmasculine the Article or theis un-fe- obligesmours arede modererso uncertain, son ardeur.—The as they require ru- minine.and the feminineThe masculine la, de la, isd la.le, du, au, sonta great si incertains, deal of examination, qu'ils demandent Les rapports d lire be 2d,singular The ornumber plural. of theThe Article singular may is examines avec beaucoup d'atlention. le, du, au; la, de to, d la: and the plu- I asAs, you, [in Ithe would state takeof another]—Were her counsel, Si ral3d, les, Thedes, aux.Elision of the Article is the fetais d votre place, ou dans voire posi- suppressing of one letter, as, P for le er tion,As, je [under prendrais a particular son avis. consideration, 346 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. inThe as objections much as,] thatComme, are raised en tant against que.~ it ceI bidque you,je vous Faites ordonne. ce que je vous dis, or queas a1'on tragedy, fait a cetteare, piece &c. commeLes objectionsiragedie. qualiteAs, de.—He[in the capacity lives with of,] me Comme, as a valet cn As, [of the same kind with, in the de valetchambre, de chambre,—He Il cst chez moiis as en a qualitefather goodsame olddegree man, with,] benevolent Austi... as wise,que.—You Vous lieuto her, de pere. Il lui sert de pere, il lui tient Ion—As vieillard, clear as atissicrystal, bienveillant Aussi clair que que sage. du quelqueAs, fassorte.—They it were, inwere some but sort,] as of theEn quecristal.—As de la laine warm As as strongwool, Aussias mustard, chaud sorteking’s du party, parti duEUcs Roi. etaienl en quelque asAussi silk, fort Aussi que doux de la que moutarde.—As de la sole. soft Comme,As, [while, tandis atque, die pendant same timegw.—The that,] FroidAs, comine[like,] laComme glace—As As cold sweet as ice,as pupilL'eleve trembled tremblait aspendant the masterque le mailrespoke, ashoney, snow, Doux Blanc comme comme du miel.—As la neige—As white jeparlait—As marchois, ou1 wenten merchant, along, Tandisou chemin que alleblack asAs theblack devil, as a Noircrow, commeJVoir commele di- faisant—lvous verrai willen passant. see you as I go by, Je commeun corheau dans unAs four.—He dark as pitch,is ;as Noirgood quandAs, [how,As they in what please, manner,] Comme Comme, il leur as As,she, [if,]Monsieur Si—As vaut youlien loveMadame. me. Si plait,As, ■ quand[because,] il leur Farce plait. que, puisque, at. bevous gone, m'aimez—As Si voire vie you vous tender est chere, your life,re- couldtendu que.—Asnot have withoutbeen done, them Farcethe thing que As, [as if, according to the manner sansAs, eux [equally,] la chcse n'aurait egalcment, pu se faire.aidant shookthat would as it be would if,] Commefall, Le si murThe trembla wail Sybil’sAs many words voices as issue, many and times the soundresound, of soughtcomme s'ilonly avail me, vouluComme tomber.—As si le sort n'enfate laII Sybillcen sort seautant repetent de voix, autant el deles fins. mots de hadvonlait been qu'a my moi brother, I used J'en him ai agias ifavec he Comme,As, [with, que.—Whither answering toaway like orso some,]fast ? merelylui comme je I'ai s'il traite cut en ete frere. mon frere, or allez-vousUpon the likesi vile errand V Faire as yourselves.ma commission Oil selonAs, or [accordingsuivant ce toque, what,] or d ceComme, que.— commeAs, vous.[answered by as, however, what- qu'ilAs hea donuegave a.to chacun.—As every one, just Scion before, ce —Asever,] richQuclque as heor tout,is, Quclque answered riche by qu'ilque. Comme onil suit—Thevient de dire.—As occasion isfollows, as fol- hesoil, is, or ToutQuelque riche grand qu'il est.—Asqu'il soil.—As big as lows,Foici quelleOn va en futdire, Voccasion. or On va voir, or oumany quoiqu'ils as they are,soient Tons plusieurs—As tant qu'ils sont,well informed^As, [according Comme. to,]on meSelon—As Pa dit; Id amce asthat, I loveQuelque you, amitiedo not que think j'cAe pourI shall vous, do que,things or go selon now, ce asque the j'ai world out goes, dire—As Selon tie As,croyez [in pas a reciprocal que jefasse sense, cela. answering Vetatchases, ou comme sont les va chases, le utonde.—As comme vont occa- les orto si—Asas,] Que much answering as you to please, autant, Autant aussi, preseniera,sion shall serve,selon Commequ'il sera Voccasion nlcessairc.— s'en qu'ilSi peu vousplaira.—As qu'il vous plaira—As little as you few please, as, Ventend,Every one chacun as he likes,d sa fiwtaisieChacun commeDo asil AtissiAussi peustir que—Asque je vous sure vois as AsI seesure you, as grammatical dictionary. 349 can be, Assurtment, sans doute As est du reste, de ceux qui Ont ecrit contre que,good autantas, as wellque, as, autani Aussi bien que,que.—As aims moindremot, ils neattention.—I meritent pas was qu'on mistaken y fosse as tolu badAs, as, [havingAutant mat,as toor answeraussi mat it, que.in a —Asthe day, for Je me, m'etois Quant trompe d moi, quant pour au jour. mlri. comparativeunderstood,] sense;Aussi orbut autant, being sometimesanswered exemple.As for example, Comme par exemple, par asby you,que; 11comme.—He est aussi brave is as braveque vous— a man quelqueAs it sorte. were, [in some manner,] En BrightBrillant as commethe sun, le soteil.—IAussi bHUant am que,not oras que,As aussiwell bien AS, que,[equally autant, with,] aussi, Ainsi si, , learnedvant que as vous.—I you, Je amne suisas wellpas aussihere sa-as face,comme Vesprit Each deman’s cheque mind homme, as well asaussi his lovethere, him Je assuis well aussi as bienyou, iciJe queVaime Id—I au- admirablebien que son pieces visage—it of sculpture, is adorned as withwell writetant que it, vous—A.sAussi aise easyd I'apprendre to learn it asqu'a to ceauxmodem admirables, as ancient, orII de est chefs-d'auvre orne de mor- de As, [answering to suck,] Qui, que. sculptureAs what tant ?anciens Qu'y a-t-ilqve modemes. done ? there—It shouldis not beevery such man’s a governor interest, of thatthe too,]As Encore.—Thoughyet, [to this time, this a redundancywar has as ceworld, pas asI'interet designs de our chacun, happiness, que le N'est-mende yet lasted but six years, yet, &c. Quoi- soit gouverni par un tel etre, qui ait en sixque ane,cette cependant, guerre-ci &c.n'ait encoreHe is notdure come que chosen,vue noire Tons bonheur.—All ccux qui furent such choisis.— as were as yet, II n'est pas encore venu. I took such as I pleased, Je pris ceux honestAs, man,[upon,] Sur Comme.—As mon honneur. I am an is,que jeTel voulus.—Such qu'il est. as he is, such as it ditionalAs, [having sense; soso tobeing answer sometimes it, in a con-un- 29. —Asderstood,] far as Comme, they carry de meme, conviction en tant to que.any DemeurerAT, [to,] d prepLondres.—At To live leisure,at London, A labourother man’smay beunderstanding, of use to him, so N'ayantfar my Atloisir six o’clock,At this Amoment, six heures. A present.— respriten vue deque tout de autreporter komme, la conviction en ccla dansmon At, [to the, at the.]—At home, Au travail pourra lui etre utile.—As I have logis.—At—At ease, hand,A Poise.—At A la main, unawares, d la portee. A amendeavoured still desirous to ofextinguish doing some prejudice, good inI Pimprovisle.—At—At first, at the verythis day,first, Aujonra'hui.D'abord, au d'elouffcrthis particular, h prejuge, Comme de j'ai meme pris je d desiretdche commencementCtesar, A Parrives At de the Cesar. first coming of encoreAs, etre[in dea sensequelque of utilite comparison, d cet egard. an- stand,At, at[in.]—At a loss, En sea, peine, En mer—Aten defiant— a unprofitable,swered by so.]—As so they these are thingsvery base, are veryCes war,At odds, En guerre.—At En querelle, peace, en dispute—At En paix— ischases the beginning,sont aussi sobasses is thequ'inutiles end, Tel Asest Attime that or other,time, DansEn ce untemps-ld—At temps ou dans one le commencement,As fob, as to,telle [withest la fin.respect to,] length,un autre, Enfin. quelque jour.—At last, at ofQuant those d who. ..., have Pour—As written foragainst the me,rest ParAt, mes [by,] ordres.—All Par.—At things my arecommand, ordered anthey reste, deserve or pour not thele rests, least ornotice, pour Quantce qui rigleesat the parwill laof volonte God, deToutes Dieu. chases sont 350 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. premierAt, [all,]coup.—At Tout yourAt firsthouse, dash, Chess- Du perdre.—Thed'un cheval. back of a horse, L'ichint vousbrush. AtTout no atime, coup.—At Jamais.—At one blow, first D >s,Back, m. derricre, [the hinder m. la part partie of anyposterieure thing,] once.Tout d'unTout coup,d'un coup,d'un UnU'iTune seal coup.—At venue. dosd'un d'un chose.—The couteau—The back back of a of knife, a coach, Le aLe chair, derriere Le d'un dossier carrosse.—The d'une chaise.—Back back of 30. giltof a foldedon the sheet back, of paper,Un livre Dos—A dore sur book le arriere.—AwayAWAY, interj. ! you Hors flatterer d'ici, ! allezAllez, en dos The back of a chimney, Plaque Jlatteur que vous ties /—Away, for d'uneLe reoers cheminee.—The de la main. back of the hand, Fi,shame U vilain! Allez, ! n'avez-vous pas honte! Back, adv. [behind,] En arriere.— Away, [to disappear.]—Away with turnTo goback, back, Retourner Aller en arriere—Toen arriere.—To re- complimentsthis ! Emportez ! Treve ceci!—Away de compliments with these !— pull back, Tirer en arriere—A pull Away with these fopperies! Defaites- back,Back, Un orobstacle, back unagain, empechement. De retour.— vousAway, de cette adv. fatuite [absent,] ! Absent.—They You must give me something back, or are away, Ils sont absens To go away, queback choseagain, de Vousretour.—I devez meshall donner be quel-back S'enfuirS'en aller, Tos'absenter.—To drive away, runChasser.— away, again by one o’clock, Je serai de retour To take away, Emporter.—To scold one d uneBack, heure, [again,] ou sur Derechef, les une heure. une seconde grander.away, Chasser quelqu'un d force de le fois To come back, Revenir To send nir.back, Renvoyer To keep back, Rete- 31. port,Back, second,] [to maintain,Appuyer, strengthen, seconder, favo- sup- body,]BACK, Le doss. [theBack hinder to back,part Dos-d-of the riser, epauler, accompagner. saddle-back,dos—A pig-back, Un dos Un enfonce dos voute.—ATo fall 32. Toon one’sturn back,one’s Tomberback, Tourneed la renverse.— le dos, TO BE, [to be good or bad,] Eire s'enfuir,to one, Tourvers'en aller.—To le dos d turnquelqu'un, one’s backl'a- bonfalse, ou Celamauvais—That est vrai, cela is est true, faux.—He that is Mettrebandonner.—To tout stir lelay dos all quelqu'un, upon one’s luijm- back, homme.—Suchis an honest man,is our C'estpresent un situation, honnele putervoir bontout.—To dos, supporter have a strong tout—To back, carry A- TelleTo est be, notre [to situationexist,] Eire, presente. exister—He qu'una person sur upon ses epaules, one’s leback, souffrir Porter impatiem- quel- —Theis no more, times Jl have n'est been plus, that..., il n'existe Le temps plus. Medirement Tode quelqu'unrail at one en behind son absence.—He his back, d etcTo queBE ...,at, IlEire y a d,eu pretendreun temps d,que.... oiler pashas notune achemise shirt to kput mettre on his sur back, son dos,II n'a il cetted, assister.—I piece.—What was would at play, you beJ'etais at ? Ad est Back,tres-pauvre. [the reins or loins,] Les reins, assembly,quoi pretendez-vous Je serai d 9—I fassemblee—To shall be at the be intn. pi.my lesback, lombes, J'ai m.mal pi auxI havereins a painTo at Toit, Eirebe for, en train. Eire pour Whom are quelqu'un,break one’s I’ereinter, back, Romper lui casser les lereins cou, led absolutelyyou for ? forPour it, Jequi le veuxetes-vous absolumcnt— 9—I am GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARV. S51 jeThat vue.—I is the- amthing for I amany for, thing, Cett Je &m'ac- quoi affairesa-t-il 9 9—What’sDe quoi s'agit the ilmatter 9—So ? isQu’y it, commodeTo Be dein, tout. Etre dam I will be in Men,Aussi soil.—Soest-ce.—Well, be it,let Ainsiit be suit-il.—so, He- for Tohalf, Be J'y to—What serai de moitie. is it to me ? Que neWere fut-eeque. it not that, Si ce n'etait que, or Jetn’importe vous servirai ?—I shallde fire.—Thanks be a father to beyou, to tivesTo Be,It iswith your pronouns friend, C’est and votre substan- ami, God,To GraceBe there, a Dicu. thereabouts, En etre —ItC’est isgrand I, C'est dommage.—To moi It Is a begreat sure, pity, Il voits-laId, y itre.—Are ?—You areyou stillthere thereabouts, ? En eles- To Be, [to do,] It is good being nowVous ? enOu etes en sommes-nousencore Id. Whered present are 9— we here,there, IlfaitJl faisait Ion ici—Itmeilleur-ld—It was better is being fine, neHe suit does ou not il enknow est. whereabouts he is, Jt IlfaitIt isIcau—It with verses is dirty, as with Ilfait melons, crotte. if ill,To Se Beporter well, mat.—He Se lien porteris better, ToII estbe nothing,they are notIl enexcellent, cst des theyvers are comme good desfor lien,mieux.—To ou enfaveur Be well aupres with d'una prince, prince. Eire melons,valent rien. s'ils ne sent pas excellens, Us ne avecTo quelqu'un Be out withTo Beone, out Etre [to beIrouille mis- thereThere are, tothere be, was,Y avoir11 y a, ilThere y avait. is, istaken,] out inSe histromper, reckoning, n'y etreII sepas.—He trompe —Therequerelle.—There was a quarrel,*is a profitable Il y avaitjob to une be dansTo son Be calcul. as an auxiliary verb, is used fairc.undertaken, Il y a un marche lucratif d into formFrance, the passive.—GoodOn loit or il se wine loit isde drank Ion LaHere voild.—There he is, Lc isvoid one, EnThere voi/d she un- is. vinTo en Be,France. [to owe,] Devoir.—Tell me reasonHere we why are, I Nousdid it.void.—This Void la israison the jehow dais I amfaire to cela.—Amdo that, Dites-moi I to go commentthither ? pourquoision of theirje Taifait.—This debate, Voild isle thesujet occa- de Dois-jeII doit eirey alterpendu 9—He We is areto beto hanged,receive leur dispute. money, Nous devons recevoir de Vargent. S3. pas—That concevalle.—You is not to be imagined, are to speak, Cela C'estn'est BEFORE, prep, [relating to time,] dII vousest d depr&sumer. parler.—It is to be presumed, noon,Avant, Avantavant midi.—Theque, plutot dayque before Before his areTo you Be ? [toQuel have,] age avez-vous Avoir.—How 9—To oldbe wedding,fore this treatiseLe jour can avant become ses ofnoces.—Be- use to my cold,chaud.—To Avoir froid—Tobe hungry, be Avoir warm, /aim— Avoir country, two points are necessary, Deux To be thirsty, Avoir soif. pdntspuisse sontetre nectssaires,utile d rna avantpatrie.—I’ll que ce traite die ciple.—ITo Be, am used reading, with aJe present Us Iparti- was quebefore d’agir I behave ainsi. so, Je mmrrai plutot coming,To Be, Je usedvenais. impersonally—It is, II Before, [relating to the place,] De- est.—It was, II etait It is day, II est au-dessus,vant, en presence plus que de, dBefore la face and de ;behind, avant, jour.—Itaver, C'en was est night, fait.—It II etait is sonuit with Itme, is Devant et derriere.—Before the eyes of J'en suis de mime.—How is it with deuxboth ourarmies armies, Before En thepresence- face ofde thenot vousyou ? portex-vousComment vous 9 Commenten-va 9 Commentvont vos Thewhole eldest town, son A isla facebefore de thetoute younger la ville in 352 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. —Hesuccession, is before L'atni his, tucctde competitors avaut leboth cadet. in 35. rivattxright and par power,le droit IIet parest aula puissance.—dessm de tes see,TO look BEHOLD, upon,] Pegarder, Beheld, v. contempler,a. [to view,' plus] love qne you moi-meme. before myself, Je vous aime holdobserver, with considerer.—Son thine eyes, and of hearman, with be- paravant,Before, autrefois, adv. [formerly, cudetsus. above,]^1h- I .on g avecthine tesears, yeux Fils et ecoutede Vhomtne, avec tes creilles.regarde hourbefore, before, Long-temps Une heure auparavant. auparavant. An voildBehold, ; tenez, interj.voyez—But [see, lo,]behold Foici, an- trefois—II loved her shall before, resume Jc somewhat Vaimais which autour.—Beholdother trick, Mais a miserable voild bien man un ifautre hathunc partiebeen debefore ce quisaid, a eteJe ditvais ci-dcssus, resumer Me voild un hommeperdu si .... ou Before-hand,ci-devant. adv. D'avance, en 36. avance, par avancc, par anticipation.— sideBESIDE of another, and near;Besides, over ywp.and above;[at the giveTo takemoney up beforehand, DonnerAniicipcr. de Car-To beyond, out of,] A cote, pres, aupres ; gent d'avance, avanccr de Vargent I yez-vousau-dessus d coteSit de down lui, pres,beside ou him, aupres Asse- de quc.—Toknow beforehand be beforehand that, Je with sais parone, avance Pre. lui.—Some things are beside nature, and vemr qudqu'un, le devancer.—This au- au-dessussome are contraryde la nature, to it, IIet yd'autres a des chases qui auteurthor has m'a been prcvenu—To beforehand bewith beforehand me, Cet lui sont contraires Besides the senses, in the world, Eire en belle passe ; avoir riesAu-dessus of war, des Outresens.—Besides les malheurs the mise-de la minune debelle la fortuneperspective; ; jouir ctre d'une dans certainc le che- guerre. aisance. horsBesides, de.—There [except, was nobody out of,] besides Excepte, those trefois,Before-time, jadis. adv. [formerly,] Au- two, II n'y avail personne excepte eux sidedeux, himself, or il n'y Hors avail de qu'eux lui-meme deux.—Be- You 34. patience,have done Vousenough en toavez put fait him assez beside pour his Derriere.—HeBEHIND, prep, left his [on sister the behind back part,] him, lui faire perdre patience.—They are be- II laissa sa sceur derriere lui To rail sideBeside their way, and IlsBesides, se sont egares. adv. [more- qu'unat one enbehind son absence.—He his back, Medire comes denot quel- be. over, furthermore,] D'aillcurs, de plus, hind any in point of learning, II ne le enknow, outre, De d'un plus, autre vous cote.—Besides, savez—Besides you cedeTo d ridepersonae behind enfait one, d'erudition.Monter en croupe that, Outre que. ou en trousse derriere quelqu'tm To sit 37. rierebehind un a cavalier.horseman, Eire en croupe, der- BEST, adj. [the superlative of good,] riere,Behind, en arriere.—She adv. [backward,] came Par behind, der- manTres-bon, alive, le C'est meiUeur—He le meilleur is homme the best du beElle behind, vint par S'arrierer derriere.—To Before stay and or be- to bestmonde actions, An evilUne intention mauvaise perverts intention the hind,there anyPar thingdevant yet et behindpar derriere ? Reste-t-il Is corromptEnglish are les best meilleures at sea fights, actions—The and the behindencore quelquein arrears, chose Eireen arriere arrieri, %—To devoir be French at land battles, Les Anglais des arrerages echus. Franfaisexcellent dansdans lesles combatsbatailles sur sur mer, terre. et les GRAMMATICAL DiCTlONARV. 353 le meilleurBest, [taken parti.—-It substantively,] is the best Lemieux, for you, —Towell or be good,] better, Mieux, Etre mieux,plus, davatOage.se porter leurC'eit parti le mieux gue vouspour ayez vow, a C'ettprendre—l U nieil- cemmoder—Bettermieux—To be better and in better, the world, De mieux S'ac- mieux.—Whatwill do the best hadI can, I bestJe fcraito do ?de Qu’a- mon en—The mieux—It better to is understand, better, II vautPour mieux. mieux forvais-je the debest, mieux II adfairef—He fait pour le mieux, has done ou conceooit—Betterbroken than great abeauty mechanic were rule omitted, were ceis thequ’il part jugeait he playsle plus best, expedient.—That C'ett le role crifierII vaut une mieux beauie—Ten violer une regiefoot and que better, de sa- qu’ilBest, fait leTo mieux. make the best of it, En DixBetter, pieds et davantage.So much the better, Tant tirerthe best tout ofle one’sparti way. possible.—To Alter aussi make vite admiremieux—The her, Plus more je laI seevois, her, plus the je better Vaitne. I quesible.—To Von pent, make Fcdre the toutc best laof diligence a bad pos-bar- —DoEsl-ce youId Vidie know que me vous no avezbetter de than moi so9— ? (Vunegain, mauvaiseSe tirer duaffaire.—To mieux que the Von best pent of mieuxI had failbetter de notn'en have rien diretold it,I J'auraisthought m’enmy remembrance, souvenir—Speak Autdnt to theque jebest puis of betterBetter, of it, Je [used me sms substantively,] revise. Su- enyour savez knowledge, ; paries sansDites reserve; tout ce nequt caches vous periorite, avantage.—They have had the rien. vantagebetter of sur the lesSpaniards, Espagnols Ils Heont haseu Va-got Mieux,Best, le adv. mieux, [the plussuperlative a propes—To of well,] surthe moi—Tobetter of me,give 11one a euthe la bettersuperioriti of it. loveTant best.mieux Aimer !—He mieux—Best thought it best of not all! to CedesBetter, la superiorile [superior a quelqu’un.in goodness,] Su- —Everyspeak, II one jugea likes plus "his A proposown things de se taire.best, perieurters, Superieurs, en bonte, Ceuxqui vaut qui sontmieux—Bet- au-dessus whoChacun shall aime do best,mieux Conibattre le sicn &To qui strive fera bedes found,autres—Their II serait difficilebetters decould trouver hardly des le mieux. bonle.hommes qui leur fussent superieurs en S8. 89- Meilleur.—HeBETTER,od;'. has [Comparative a better horse of good,] than the Neapolitan’s, II a un meilleur cheval [betweenBETWEEN allows andsome BETWIXT, distance, betwixt prep. noque better celui shift,du Napdlitain.—\ Je n'ai point decan meilleure make impliesfinger between contiguity,] the Entre.—Tobark and theput one’stree, ressource.—Ine demande pas desire un phisnot beaubetter jeu. play, Je —TheMettre spaceson doigt between. entre VentreVarbre deux,et Vecorce. Ves. leur.—HeTo be better, is better Valoir than mieux, you, etre II meiUvaut pace intermediairc There was a talk of mieux que vous. quelquesmarriage betwixtpropositions me deand mariage her, 11 yentre eut mender,To make corriger, better, Ilendrereformer.—To meilleur, grow a- elle et moi—Children quickly distinguish better, Devenir meilleur, se corriger, se betweenwhat not, what Les is enfans required savent of bientotthem, dis-and porterreformer—To mieux, se grow retablir, better entrer in health, en con- Se linguer ce qu'on leur demande de ce valescence.—The better day the better qu'onthis and ne thatleur manydemande things pas.—Between may hap- deed,Better, Bon jour, adv. bonne [the tenure.comparative of pen, Entre eeci et cela peut arriver Ybitn des choses—It is yet a long while 354 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. between this and then, Entre ci el —But a while since, II n'y a que fort la Betweenil y a encore wind loin. and water, st fleur d'eau. peuSeulement de temps, pour Depnis vous, Sipeu.—But ce n'etait for d votreyou, temps-en-temps.—Between whiles, Par intervaUes, de consideration. reserveBut, de—We [except,] were Hormis, all there excepte, but you,d la 40. lastNous but y one,eiions L'avant Urns, exceptedernier.—You vous—The can- outBEYOND, of die reach,] prep, Au-dessus, [above, over, au-deld past, ; notBut, but know,[now,] Vous Or, fie mais—Godsauriez ignorer. will dessusdeld; deoutre—Beyond ma portee, au-deld my reach,de ma Au-ca- onebetween time theor goodanother and makethe bada difference; but as pacite—BeyondAu-deld des Alpes.—Beyond the Alps, Deld sea, les Alpes,Deld thisthere world, is little therefore or no differencethere must made be an- in laOutre mer, mesure.—Beyond outre mer—Beyond all wonder, measure, Au- beother made, world Dicu wherein doit, thisdans differenceun temps shall ou income,dessus de Au-deld tout merveille.—de son revenu.—Beyond Beyond his entredans leun lien autre, et lemettre mal; deor lacomme difference cette theTo half, go Outrebeyond, moilie. Passer outre, alter mondcdifference ; il n'a doit presque done ypas avoir lieu undans autre ce plusone’s loin,depth plus in avant.—Tothe water, Perdrego beyond pied mondcNot oubut elle that, sera exactementNon que.—But observee. yet, thing,dans Veau.—To Surpssserquclqu'unen go beyond quehptcone in chose. any Neanmoins, cependant. —ToTo gostay beyond beyond one, one’s Trompcr time, Resterquelqu'un. au- 42. deld du temps present, rosier trap long- ParBY, nn hotnmtprep. Par.—By fait.—By gooda grown luck, man, Par retreat,temps.—They II s'engagerenl engaged themselves trap avant beyond pour bonheur By chance, Par hasard.— pouvoir reader. —HeSeize himdied byby force, the sword, Prcnez-le Il mourut par force. par 41. Vepee.—By degrees, by little and little, BUT, conj. dials, ainsi, aussi.—Our ParBv, degree, [of,] peu De d pen.By day, by night, kind.wants Nosare many,besoins butsoni enquite grand of nombre,another one,De jour, Il estde unit.—Heaime de tout is lovedle monde.—By by every matsBut, d'un [that,] tout autre Que genre.She doth nothing Dcthe naissanceadvice of, DeBy Vavistrade adc.—By hatter, birth,Cha- blitquestion cry, butElle he ne will fait do queit, IIcrier—No n'est pas pelierit, Je dem'en son trouvai metier.—I fort foundlien. much by sibledouteux but qu'il I will le fera.—It come, II isn'est not pasimpos- im- TurnedBy, by[at the the, lathe, to Travail/ethe,] An, au dtour.— la— possibleBut, que[only,] je vienne. Seulemcnt—Be but favourBy candle-light, of night, AA la lafaveur chandelle.—By dc la nuit. the seil.—Didruled by me, but Suivez men consider seulement the mon true con-no- —ByBy, break [to, ofat,] day, d.—I Au pointshall dube jour. hack oftion goodness, of God, heSi wouldles hommes appear meditaient to be full dagain uneheurc—It by one o’clock, is three Jc seraiby my de watch,retour itssculement le regardcraient .sur la vraiecomme notion un etrede Dieu,plein Ilby estothers trois as heures we would d ma be montre,—To done by, Fairc do quede bonte peu—But To eat a buClittle,little, Seulement, Ne manger un nousaux autresfit—One ce que by nousone, voudrionsUn a un—By qu'on fpargne.—Butpen, tant sort peu.—But just now, sparingly,Tout-d.rhearc. Avec course,By, pn,]by turns, En.—By Tour the d tour.way, En pas. GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. S55 *ih/ I shall speak of it only by the gular, though it may be followed by a way,By the Je bulk, «’/'/» byparlerai the great, qu'en En passant.— bloc, cn —Theplural complementallied fleet will or setqualification; sail to-morrow. as, gros—ByEn morceaux retail, ByEn April, detail.—By En Avril.— pieces, La Jtotte des Allies mettra d la voile de- —ByBy this that time, time, En Encc temps^i,ce temps-la, a present. alors. stantivesThe following called collective are some general. of those sub- an—By d'ici, this (Tici time en twelvemonth,un an—By thatDans time un Fleet, Jotte. —Someyou come grow again, richer Quajid by giving vans thanreviendiez. others plusby receiving, en donnant II quey en dCautres a qui s'enrichissent en recevant. council,parliament, parlement.conseil. S'asscoirBy, [near,] pres dc Pres.-—To quelqu'un.—Hard sit by one,by, congregation,assembly, congregation.asscmblee. ville.—WeTout pres.—By passed the by town, that Pratport, Nousde la committee,regiment, commite.regiment. passdmtsBy, [on,] pres, Sur.—Youou a la vue must de ce port.regulate batailion,squadron, escadron.batailion. regleryourself sur by son his exemple.—Takeexample, Vous devez example vous &c. ¥■ by By,him, [accordingPrenez exemple to,] Selon sur 'lui. By your Substantives CollectiveGovernment. Partitive, their description of the town, Suivant la de- Collective substantives when partitive, whatscription I have que heardvous faitesand read, de la Selon ville ce queBy in the following list, govern the fol- j'ai entendu et lu. thelowing plural, verb, according either in tothe the singular number or inof ment.—YearDay by day, by Tonsyear, lesTous jours, les journelle- arts, an- the noun which is immediately after. nuellement.By all means, A "quelque prix que ce nosoil, means, quoi qu'U En aucuneen coutc, nutniere, absolument—By nullement, point du tout. troop,number, By,By that [absence,] name, Sous He ceis nom.by himself, II plurality, plurality. est seul.—She is by herself, Elle est seulc. minority,majority, minormajorite. ite. —Theyou dies aresont by seulesthemselves, Set Iit Is sontby itself,seals, infinity, infinite. Meltez-le d part. multitude,most part, plupart.multitude. tenirTo quelqu'un,stand by one,prendre to assist son parti. him, Sou- crowd, Joule. By, adv. To be by, Eire present By hundred,part, partie.centaine. andBy, by, sub.Tout By h the Vheure, by, Entantot. passant. vingtaine. ten, dixaine. 43. half, moitie. COLLECTIVE WORDS. third, tiers. Substantives Collective General, their quantity,quarter, quantile,quart. A substantiveGovernment. collective general, go- The following&c. examples ue nor prodigal,Ye shall down, ydLe soldila.—To est havecouche—Up the uvula and of notVous eat m'en of it, mangcrez neither shallpas, yeni voustouch n'yit, —Upsidethe mouth down,down, SensAvoir dessus la luette dessous.— abattue. grievances,totteAerea.—Neither Ce ne sont are pas theseencorerlk all tousour payTo turnthe moneyupside down, down, or Renverserthe money uponTo nos griefs. the nail, Rubis sur I'onglc. To play NorNeither, I neither, [notNi motat all,] non Nonplus.—plus.—The 360 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. music was not bad neither, La mnsique Pronoun possessive.—My father, — n'estNeither, pas mauvaise pron. non [nor plus, one or nor du other,]tout. pire,mother, ma and mire, — twoet met sisters, deux are sours, ill, Montout litNi neVun viendront ni Vautre,—Neither ni Vun ni Vautre.—To shall come, malades.Pronoun possessive.—Your uncles and beHester on neither neuter. side, to take neither part, — friends,aunts, aswere well present as their at that children ceremony, and hurtVos ancles enfant vosleurs tantes, amis, aussietaient lien presens que 49. a cettePersonal ceremonie. pronoun subjective He al- Autre.—HeELSK, pron. or adj.any [other,else, Lui one besides,]ou quel- ways promises, but — never keeps his •ya’aalre.—Nobody else, Nvl autre, Au- tientword, jamais 11 promet sa parole. toujours, mail il ne —Hecun autre.—Nothing did it when he hadelse, nothing llien elseautre. to Personal pronoun objective—He es- do, 11 le fit lorsqu'il n'avail rien autrt d timeteems Q — vous and honore. honours you, 11 vous es- faire.—NoElse, conj. where [otherwise, else, Nulle besides, autre part. ex- Pronoun relative.—I cannot bear lazy cept,] Autrcmcnt, ou.—Go your ways, daypeople long, who and sleep, — will— drink,not work, — eatJe allne chemin,or else I autrementshall fall upon je me you, jeterai Patsez sur vous.voire puis somenir des paresseux qui dorment, —By an internal impression, or else by To dehors.wish one well, Souhaiter de bien p Toplace. plead ignorance, Pretendre cause d quelqu'un. p To d'ignorance.press sailors or soldiers, Enroler See Surenne’s French Grammatology, par force des matelots ou des soldats. Vol.226. I.down the Pronouncingto page 288. Instructor, page 374 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. question is, what is he ? qu'est-il? ce is 61. followno longer the English,used, and with the theFrench exception must TO HAVE, ». a. [to possess, hold,] of the article; as,—She is a governess, Avoir, posseder, tenir, prendre He TheyElle est are gouvernante—What seamen, Que sont-ils ?are Ils they sont ? bicns,has or ilpossedehath a great de estate,grandes II richessesa de grands matelots ; because in the first case, ge- 1 have him now, Je le Hens a presens andneral in andthe second,merchants governess are substantives, and seamen grandI have soin.a great care of it, J'en preiids nn are adjectives. voir,To dtiirer—To have, [to know,have a thingto wish,] by heart, Sa- Example showing both ways. fromSavoir him, une C'cstchose depar lui cceur.—Ique je le liens,have ouit TheyWho are are admirals.—What these officers in are the they boxes be- ? me,que jeIlfautquejeleprermeavecmoi.— le sais.— I must have him with sidesQui sont? They ces areofferers lords darts of the les Admiralty,loges ? Ce question,I have notJe neI.aw sais enough pas assess to statele Droit the Ilssont sont des amiravx.—Quelords ddVAmiraute. sont-ils en outre ? pourfell out etahlir as I wouldcette question.—Thehave it. La chose thing a reussiTo havecomme rather. je le desirais.Aimer mieux—To 63. havevoir quelqueto deal withchose one, ct demeler Avoir affaire,avec quel~ a- HERE, adv. [in this place, in the qu'un.—Have at you, Sir, A vous, vie,present dans state,] ce mondc.—He Id; ici-bas, is here,dans Ilcette est YouMonsieur, may havec'est amy vous word, que j'enthat... vevx Je ici You shall be happy here, and more vous dome ma parole que... I would cehappy monde, hereafter, et plus Vousheureux serez dans heureux 1'autre.— dans ornot je have nc seraisyou write, par d'avis Je ne que voudrais vous tc.ri.pas, Here he comes, Le void qui vient.— vissicz.—I would have you know that I Heref* et Idshe ; is,par-d, La void—Herepar-id Here’s and to there, you, unam honnetean honest homme. man, Sachez que je suis A vans, d votre sante, je vous la porte. To have Let him have his desert, Hereabouts,Here-above, adv.adv. Ci-dessus. [about this HaveQu'on himle traiie away, comme Emmenez-le il le merite— You place,] Id autour,par id. have it too dear, Vous Vavez achete trap Desormais,Hereafter, dorenavant, adv. [in d timeVavenir, to come,] dans chervoir beauTo orhave belle. a fair opportunity, /.’a. I'autre vie ; dans Vautre monde. future,Hereafter, ctatfuiur, s.m. [a vie future d venir. state,] Vie 62. HE, SHE, THEY, rendered in French 64. by ce, il, elle. Us, dies. HOW, adv. [in what manner,] Com- The English subjective pronouns he, ment, de quelle maniere How d’ye do, she, they, preceding the verb to be, are teor z-vous how do ?—How you do goes? Comment the world vous ? Com-por- pronounrendered ce,in Frenchas an answer by the todemonstrative such ques- ment va le monde ?—He gave us an ac- general,tions as, whoc'est is unhe ?general.—Who qui esl-il ? he isare a quellecount manierehow it was,la chose Il nouss'etait raconta passes.— de theyCe sont ? They des arenegocianls.—But merchants, Qui when sont-ilsf the fortsHow sont-ilsare the mightytombes ?fallen ? Comment les GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. 37& How, [to whatdegree,] Combien, que. wholly on that case, however I do not combien-—You see je howvout I loveaime.—You you, Vous see voyexhow d-faitexclude mes it, raisonsQuoique sur je se ne cos, fonde cependant pas tout, je voyezmuch combienhandsomer eUe paraitshe looks a presentnow, Vousplus howeverne t'exclus I pas.—Imust, Je do n'aime not like pas tod voyag-travel, vertubelle.—How est belle amiable !—How is many virtue fools ! Que there la er, pourtant il lefaut. leare monde in the !—How world ! oldQu'il is y hea de? fousQuel dansage 66. a-t-ilHow, « [what time, what distance,] I, JE; THOU, TU; HE,/Z,,&c. Combien, que, jusques.—How far, Com- PERSONAL PRONOUNS. farbien, is cumbienit thither de ?chemin, Combien jusqu’ou.—How y a-t-il d'ici. Personal Pronouns, like nouns, are Id i—Who knows how far he will speak ? usedverb; as and the whensubject they or arethe objective,object of theythe QuiHow sail i.oxG,Combien,combien jusqu'ou il elendra son discours de temps. ? may either be direct or indirect. —How long haveyoubeenhere? Combien Agreement of Subjective Personal ywill a-t-il you que stay vous there ties ? venuCombien ?—How de temps long Pronouns. yveut demeurerez-vous dire ceci ?—How *—How is nowit ? ? D’ouQue je, TheI ; tu,Subjective thou ; il, Personalhe; elle, shePronouns, ; nous, vientHow, cela ?[by what means,] Comment, mustwe ; vous,ageee you with ; ils,the they;verb thatelks, follows they :; parTell quel me moyenhow I : maycomme please ; comme her, quoi.—Dites- seeas, ;je je vois,vends, I Isee; sell; nousnous voyons,vendons, we moi— God comment knows je how parviendrai to deliver a luius, plaire. Dieu andsell; must elks besont placed vues, before they ; areas,— seen, &c. tauraTell me bien how le moyenI may speakde nous to him,dUivrer.— Dites- youI likeknow we there shall is set a festivalout, Je atsais Paris, qu'il ify moiHow le moyen GREAT de lui parler.SOEVER, Quelque partirons.a unefete d Paris, si vous voukz nous grand qu'il toil, qu'il puisse elre ou qu'il Repetition of Subjective Personal fitbre qu'ilHow y en many ait, qu'ilsoever, y enQuelque cut, ou nom-qu'il Pronouns. puisse y en avoir. French,Subjective in thePronouns following are repeatedcases : 1st,in 65. When2d, When verbs verbs are usedhave inan different objective tenses. case HOWEVER, adv. [in whatsoever attachedtense. 3d,to each, When although verbs inare thepassing same manner,]quelque etat De que, quelque d quelque maniere degre que, que, en infrom the affirmationsame tense to; asnegation, follows :—although quelque,However youquoique, mean toqu'ainsi do it, Dene quelquesoil.— waysDifferent say, that tenses the lionI say, is andthe strongestshall al- maniireHowever que the vous matter pretendiez stands, Enle faire.—quelque leanimal, lion est Je I'animal dis, et jele plusdirai fort.\ toujours, que etatbe, queQuelque soil I'affaire—Howeversage qu'il soil—However wise he it stag,Different and have objects.—We sent word to have you takenabout it,a be,Quelque Quoi ce qu'il soit. en soil However he be, NousCavons avons envoye pris dire. un cerf, et nous vous Neanmoins,However, cependant, [notwithstanding, toutefois, pour-yet,] Affirmation to negation—Your friend tant.—I do not build my reasoning iskill whimsical, the bird, heVotre would ami andest wouldchangeant. not 376 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. j,as.il voulait tuer I'oiseau, et tine le voulait dres.—HeJ'allais tout sung let jours well whenau Museum he was ayoung, Lon- tense,But thewhen pronoun verbs isare omitted; in the as, same He II Thechantait preterite bien quandof the il indicative etait jeune. is used ithovers, off, IIfalls plane, upon tombehis prey, sur saand proie, carries et thingto express remains, past actionsas, yesterday, of which lastno- I'emporte;pronoun is alsoand omittedwhen ni, ; nor,as, isHe used, spares the battlemonth, on &c.; the as,—Theeighth of generalMay, Legained general the nenobody, personae, nor nifears ne anycraint body, personae.—See II n'eparg- gagnaFrench la Revolution lataille le huitbegan dc in Mai.—The 1788, La Snrenne’sIII. pages French236, 237. Grammatology, Vol. Revolution Franqaise commenqa en 1788. of Whenwhich somethingthere are tworemains actions, as tothe time, one, 67. theis put preterite in the ; imperfect,as,—He was and writing the other a let- in pourvuIF, conj.que, suppose[provided, que, supposing,] quand meme.— Si, terlettre when quand the bombla bombe fell, iomba.—MoliereIl icrivait une ainsi—IfIf I can, Si you je butpuis take If my it ispart, so, PourvuS'il est was performing when he expired, Mo- que vous preniez monparti.—I will do it liereSee Surenne’s jouait au Grammatology,moment qu'il mourut—VoL III. ifmeme I should U devrait die form'en it, couterJe leferai la vie. quand page 330. shouldIp, [assay, if,]Comme Comme si Von si.—As disait, ifCom- one 69. me qui dirait.-~-He acted as if he were IN, INTO. mad,fou—They llfaisait look semblant as if they comme had deserted,s'il etait lit ont la mine comme si ils avaient de- ing-room,In, prep. Elle Dans est dansShe le is sallon.—Youin the draw- serte.Ip, [if not,] Sinon, si ce n'est.—I will will find him in his room, Vous le trou- bear it, if not contentedly, yet courage, verezIn, dans [motion,] sa chambre. En—My friend is in sir,ously, du Je moins le supporterai, avec courage.—He sinon avec plai-is a France, Mon ami est en France—These great orator, if not the greatest, Cest un cesthings chases are enfound Amerique. in America, On trouve grand.—Ifgrand orateur, it hadsi cenot n'estbeen pasfor you,le plus Si In, [to the,] Au, d Id, it V, aux— ce n'eut it& ct votre consideration See aNever la hate—It write in ishaste, wonderful N'ecrivez in people’sjamais Grammatology,Inversion—See alsoVol. Surenne’sIII. pages French 306, eyes, C'est etonnant aux yeux des gens. 307, 308. —It—In isthe not name in the of powerGod, Au of man,nom deCe Dku. n'est pasIn, au pouvoir[by,] Par de Vhomme.He gave his orders IMPERFECT OF INDICATIVE. —Arrangein writing, yourIl donna papers set inordres order par of ecrit.date, Imperfect Or Preterite of the Indicative. Arrangez vos papiers par ordre de date. —How to use them. PopeIn, is [of the the,] best poetDu, dein la,England, del', des.— Pope expressThe imperfectan action past,is used but ineither French habi- to Russiaest le meilleur is the largest polite empirede VAngleterre— in Europe, knowntual, or in ofEnglish some continuation,by the expression which us- is VEurope.La Rustic est Vempire le plus grand de edevery to do,day orto /the was Museum doing; as,—Iat London, went theIn, very [upon.]—The deed, Le voleurfut thief was saisi taken sur inle GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. 377 fiat—HeII ne manqua failed qtie in gur one un particularseul point. only, Into is oftenObservationi. used in English, but I shallIn, [during.]—Be speak, Taisez-vout silent in pendant all the timetout notphrase in French,To reason except one into by the abelief para- of te ternsIn, [of.]—Aque je parlerai. man was murdered yes- d'unone God,Dieu parAmener la voie quelqu'un du raisonuemenl. d la fit sassineterday inhier cold de blood,sang-froid—These Un hommefut things as- —Tothing, reasonPersuader one quelqueinto the chose belief d quel-of a arevoit noplus longer ces chases seen inde nosour jours. days, On ne qu'unwhip a d boyforce into de good raisonnement behaviour, Re-To MonIn,[under.]—My oiuirage est sous work presse.—I is in the will press, call former—See unSurenue’s enfant, dFrench force deGrammatolo- le foucller. chezupon vousyou sousin apen. short time, Je passerai gy,structor. page 354. of the Grammatical In- In, [according to.]—In my opinion it 70. will succeed, Selon mon opinion cela rt- INVERSION,—where to find the Subject inussira.—The all likelihood, peace willLa paixlast a eontinueralong time and the Object of the Verb. longIn terns contempt, selon toutes Par lesmepris apparences. In good whichAn eitherInversion the subject is a orconstruction the object inof Vapristime,M diner.—In propos.—In his the sleep, afternoon, En dormant. Dam thesome verb difficulty is out ofoccurs its place, in finding and hereby them fois.—In—In former the times, mean Anciennement, time, Cependant.— autre- readily.whom, forThe instance, relative is apronoun word whoseque, NineHe inis ten,a little Neuf in drink, de dix. 11 a unpeu hu. functionas, The isbooks seldom — understood I bought, byLes pupils livres ; sain—To de be corps well et incFesprit-—To body and mind, be in Eire ex- queBut fai if achetes. the Learner will consider that pectationchose My of ahand thing, is in,S'attendre Je suis den quelque train. thethat abovethe right phrase construction is an inversion, stands thus and ; —Theyan hour, areSouvent often inUs and sent out amis in less et enne-than heI bought will very books, soon J'aifind, achele that livresdcs livres being ; miscomes en inmains upon d'un the heureneck of another,One mischief Un quethe relatingobject ofto itthe must phrase, therefore the bepronoun an ob- malheur ne vient jamais seul; or en a- jectiveThe relativeinversion pronoun. being liable to throw WaterInto, introduces prep, [in,] into Dans, vegetables en, entre.— the jectobscurity being onplaced the construction, after the verb, by thewe sub-will passermatter dansit bears les alongvegetaux with la it, maticre L'eaufait qu'- give several examples. cUethe town,entrains J'irai avec enelle.—I ville.—The shall gomoney into tel,Inversions such,—oinsi, allowable thus,—peut-etre, in French withper. danshas got ou intoentre theirlews mains.hands, L'argent est haps,—dsentence peine,Such scarcely; are the beginninglaws of Eng- the looksInto, into mySur, garden, par dessus So maisonHis housea vue Thusland, endedTelles sontthe bullles loisfight, d'Angleterre.— Ainsi se ter. surdessus monjardin—Into le marche. the bargain, Par minawould le take combat it for du me,taureau Peut-etre Perhaps la pren- you —CompoundInto, [a new bodies state, may change,] be resolved En, in- d. leftdriez-vous them atpour church, mi i A.peineScarcely les had quit- we posesto different peuxent substances, se dissoudre Les en corps substances com- tdmes-noqsWhich means d Veglise. without Inversion, Les differentes. loislaws d'Angleterre are such, &c. sont &c. telles, The English 378 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. que,Inversions whom, which.allowable inThe French person with nous,&c. Plus—The nous king’ssommes crown integres, is made plus of personaewhom my que friend vit monsaw amiin thedans street, la rue La diamants.—Ourdiamond, La couronne church de hasHoi marbleestfaite co-de Italy,The work L'mvorage which the que author completa completed Pauteur in marbre.—Thelumns, Notre corneglise market a des is colonnes shut, Lede enCharles, Italic La plumeThe pen que jewhich preled I Charles.lend to commonmarche au in ble France, estferme Les moulinsWind-mills d vent are jor,—The L'ordre order que the legeneral general gave donna to theau ma- soutThe commune above musten France. be written in French ■ jor.—Thesented to us.petition La requelewhich theque man Phomme pre- asfollows:—Themore we, &c—The more crown we are of upright, the king, the putnous topresenta.—The him, La question question que which nous luiwe &c.—Hasmarket to thecolumns corn, &c.—Theof marble.—The mills to fimes.Which means without Inversion, Mon lastwind, phrases&c The may construction appear ofsingular, the two friendami vit saw la thepersonae person dansin the la street,rue. My&c. itand ought it is to preciselybe well studied.on that account that &c. Inversions not allowable in French. dont,Inversions of whom, ofallowable which, dein qui,French du quel,with —Were&c., S'ils they eta tentthe lessame mimes persons, individus, we, ofwhom, whom, to which,of which, ou, dwhere qui, auquel,The per- to not,nous, &c., §c.—Were Si c'eta itit mime even degold, Par, 1 jewould tie, sonils se whom moquent.—The they laugh ladyat, L'individu whom you dont re- Q~c.—Had&c., S'il avail he begged demande pardon, pardon, I je,would,

I a youthee je lale , I a her—ithim—if je luiles t, I Aa tothem him vous me porter, you carry me S, / I a tothere them GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. 895 vous les a you a her—itthem *' s’yse-les a -aa himselfthem to therehimself vous luileur aA you aa toto himthem ’ s’en a a some to himself vous en a you a tomethere ' sese-le la porte,a carriesa her,him, it it to to herself herself '1 se-les a a them to herself ils teme portent,a theythey carrya thee me ' s’ys’en a a herselfsome to there herself ils vousnous aA they you ' nous-le porte, carries him, it to us ils le 1 theythey .. him—itihemtelvet ' nous-lesnous-la a aA her,them itto to us us ilsils lales a theythey . her—itthem ' nous-ennous-y a a someus there to us ils leurlui a theythru to themhim 1 vous-le porte, carries him, it to you ils yen a they a. to '’ vous-lavous-les a aA her,them itto to you you elles me portent, they carry n, ' \oxi0.j a a you there elles tenous a they a utth se-le portent,carry him, it to themselves elles sevous a theythey ,a ycthemselves se-lase-les a a her,them itto to themselves themselves elles lela a theythey . her—it s’ens’y a a themselvessome to themselves there elles les a they 1 elles leur a they to himthem 1l le-luia-lui porte,a carriesA her, him, it toit tohim him elles yen a they there ' les-lui a a himthem to to her him ' les-lui a a herthem to to her her ' la-leurle-leur aa aa him,her, itit toto themthem * me lela porte,a carriesa her him or or it itto to me m ' les-leur a a them to them * me les a a them to me ' l’y porte, carries him, it there * m’enm’y aA xa mesome there to me 'i’y1 a a her, it there 'lui-y les-y a a tothem him there there * te-late-le porte,a carriesa her him or orit toit tothee thee ' leur-y a a to them there * te-les a a theethem there to thee ' Ten assure, assures him, it of it a some to thee a her,them itof of it it ;e-le porte, carries him, it to himself carries some to him ie-la a a her, it to herself a some tothere them • Cet homme, that man ; cetle femme, that woman ; ces hommes, these objective.&c. or any other subjective expressions, are understood to precede these 396 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. portez l’y, carry him, it there Imperativeand AmbiguousMood.—Objective, Pronouns. Elliptical, A a her, it there a P’ylui-y, a themhim there there portez le.tnoi, carry him, it to me A them there a la-moi,les-moi, A her, it to me carry me there a y-moi, aA themme there to me fy. a thyself there a en-moi, a some to me vous-y,nous-y, a yourselfus there there porte le-toi. carry him, it lo thyself porte, carry A her, it to thyself qu’ellequ’il s’y a’y a let himher aa herselfhimself there there y-toi.les-toi, aA thyselfthem to there thyself portent, carry a some to thyself qu’ellesqu’ils s’y s’y a let them a themselves there portez le-lui, carry him, it to him a les-lui,la-lui, A her,them it to to him him a y-lui,en.lui, Aa somehim thereto him vous-en, a some to you s’en porte,a let himcarry a some to himself porteza la-lui,le-lui, carry him, it to her qu’elle s’en a let her a some to herself a les-lui, them, it to her qu’ils s’enportent a let themcarry a some to themselves a en-lui,y-lui, him there qu’elles s’en a let them a some to themselves By putting before the 90 phrases of portez le-ila-nous, carrya her, itit toto utu the first division devoted to subjective les-nous, a them to us pronounsand objective moi, pronouns,toi, lui, elle,the nous,ambiguous vous, en-nous,y-nous, a ussome there to us eux, dies ; as, moi, je la porte, I carry theher ; aboveit will table,add 90 and phrases the wholeto the of210 the in portezA le-vous,la-vous, carrya him,her, itit toto yourself yourself changes will be found nearly 300. a les-vous, a yourselvesthem to yourselves there Observations. some to yourselves When two objective pronouns used portez le-leur, carry him, it to {hem together, as, me le, they are net part- A la-Ieur, a her, it to them othered; but objective, when one as, isje subjective le, they are and liable the a les-leur,y-leur, a them to them to be divided into negative and interro- a en-leur, a someto them to therethem followinggative sentences, example as :— will be seen in the assurez-l’en, assure him of it friend,Affirmatively.—I Jele porte a mondo carry ami. it t my a les-en,Ten, a herthem of of it it portez lui-en, carry some to him friend,Negatively.—I Je ne le porte do pasnot &carry mon it ami. to m y-en, friendInterrogatively ? Le porti-je Dod mon I carry ami .*.it t GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. 397 Interrogat. and Negat.—Do I not carry jelesy a I a them there itman to amimy 9friend ? Ne le porte-je pat a je Juileur y y a I aA toto themhim therethere je Pen assure, I assure him of it 115. je lesPen en a I a themher of of it it PERSONAL COMBINED je lui en porte, I carry tome to him PRONOUNS (French.) j’yje leur en en a I a tomesome thereto them A 400List differentof three Pronouns,manners, and combined in which in tu me lale portes,a thouthoucarriesthim, a her, itit totome me phrasetheir order are shown.and arrangement in the tu mem’y les a thou a methem there to me Examples—I shall carry it to you, Je tu m'en a thou a some to me vans le porterai.—We carried it to him, portes, carriest usNous there, le luiPortezJe-nous-y. portames—Carry them to tu te le a thou a her, it to thyself tu te lesla a thou a her,them itto to thyself thyself tu t’ent’y a thou a thyselfsome to there thyself je me le porte, I carry him, it to myself je me la a I a her, it to myself tu nous le portes,a thoucarriest a him, it to us je m’yme les a I a myselfthem to there myself tu nous la a thou a her, it to ns je m’en a I a some to myself tu nous lesy a thou a usthem there to us je te le porte, I carry him, it to thee tu nous en a thou a some to us je te la a I A her, it to thee portes, carriest je t’yte les a I1a a theethem there to thee tu le lui a thou a him, it to him je t’en a I a some to thee tu lesla luilui aa thouthou a her,them it to to him him je vous le porte, I carry him, it to you tu le lui a thou a him, it to her je vous la a I a her, it to you tu lesla luilui a thou a them to her je vous lesy a I a youthem there to you tu le leur A thou a him, it to them je vous en a I a some to you tu lales leurleur a thouthou a her,them itto to them them je lale lui porte,a I carrya him,her, itit to to him him portes, earnest je les lui a Ik them to him tu Py a thou a him,her, itit therethere je lale luilui aa I A her,him, itit toto herher tu les y a thou a them there je les lui a I a them to her tu leuxlui y y a thou a to himthem there there je lela leur aa I a her,him, itit toto themthem je les leur a I a them to them tu Pen assures,a thou assuresta himher ofof it it jel’y porte, I carry him, it there tu les en a thou a them cfit je Py A I a her, it there tu lui en portes,a thoucarriest a some to him GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. il luilui en porte,a he carriesa somesome toto herhim H me le porte, he carries him, it to me il yleur en en a he a some thereto them il me lales a he Aa themher, itto tome me elle me le porte, she carries him, it to me il m’ym’en a he aA someme there to me il te lela porte,a he carriesa her, him, it toit theeto thee a she a some to me il tet’y les a he aa theethem there to thee e, she carriesa her,him, itit to to thee thee il t’en a he a some to thee she aa themthem toto theethee il se lela porte,a he carriesa her,him, it to himself she a some to thee il s’yse les a he a himselfthem to therehimself il s’en a he a some to himself she a her,him, itit toto herselfherself il nous le porte, he carries him, it to u. she A them to herself il nous la a he a her, it to u elle s’y she a herselfsome to thereherself il nous yles a he a usthem there to us il nous cn a he a some to us elle nous le a she il vous lale porte,a hehe carriesa her,him, itit toto you them to us il vous lesy aa he a youthem there to yon elle nous et il vous en a he a him, it to her porte, carries il le lui porte, he carries him, it to him elle vous;ous lale a she a her,him, itit toto youyou he a them to him rous les a she a them to you he A him, it to her vous eny a she a yousome there to you lllsûi 1 he a themhim, toit themto her il lale leur a he a him,her, itit toto themthem elle le lui t a him, it to him il les leur a he a them to them elle lesla luilui ji t; a themher, itto to him him he carries him there elle le lui t ; a him, it to her il l’y porte,a he a her there elle la lui j ; a Iter, il to her he a them there elle leles leur lui ij : aa him,them itto to her them elle lesla leurleur / aa her,them itto tothem them il Ten assure, he assures him, it of it elle l’y porte, she carries him there he a her,them it of of it it elle les1’y y a sheshe aa themher there there GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. elle lui y a elle leur y a the , is me lale a you a him,her, itit toto meme elle Ten assure,a the atsuret\ her him of itof it is mem’y les a you a themme there to me elle leslui en aporte, thethe carriet a tomethem toof him it is m’en a you a tome there elle leurlui en en a the \a tome toto h-rthem elle y en a the a tome of it him,her, itit toto u.i portons, ourtelvet is nous les a them to ut nous nous le a u>e carry him it to tome to ut ' nous nous lales a ■wewe a her,them itto to portez, nous nousnous eny a we a theretome to vous lale luilui a y l him, it to him vous les lui a y l. her,them itto to him her leportons, a wecarry a him it to you vous lale lui a ?/'y l him, it (o her we a her, it to yon vous les lui a y> , her,them itto toher her isy a we a youthem there to you vous lela leur aa ytjh l him, it to them vous les leur a y> Ai her,them itto to them them portons, nous le lui a we him, it to him vous,s 1’y portez, you carryher him there there nous les lui a we her, it to him is les y a them there nous le lui a we him, it to her you toto themhim there there nous lales lui lui a we her,them itto to her her is Ten assurez, you assure him of it nous la leur a we him,her, itit toto themthem \ is lesTen en a you a themher of of it it nous les leur a we them to them is luileur en en portez, a you carrya some some to to them him nous l’y portons,a we is yen a you a some of it nous l’y a we A him,her, itit therethere portent, carry nous leslui y a we a tothem him there there ils me lela a they a him,her, itit toto me me nous leur y a we a to them there A they a them to me nous Ten assurons, we assure him of it ils m’en a they a someme there to me we a herthem of of it it portent, carry e carrya some to him lela a they a him,her, itit toto theethee nous leurlui en en a les a they a them to thee nous y en a m■ a they a theesome there to thee 400 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. portent, carry ils lui en a they a some to her ils nous lale a they a herhim, it it to to u. ut ils yleur en en aa theythey a some thereto them ils nous lesy a they a methem there to us portent, carry ils nous en a they a some there elles tete lale a theythey a her,him, itit toto thee ils vous le portent,a theycarry a him, it to you elles t’yte les a theythey a theethem there to thee ils vous lales a they a themher, itto toyou you elles t’en a they a some to thee ils vous yen a they a tomeyou there to you elles se portent,le a they carry a him, it to themselves portent, carry elles se lesla a they a themher, itto to themselves themselves e lale a they a him,her, it it toto themselvesthemselves dies s’ys’en aa theythey a\ themselvessome to themselves there 'ye les a they a themthemselves to themselves there portent, carry ils: ’en a they a some to themselves elles nous lale a theythey a her,him, itit toto uiti. ils le lui portent,a they carrya him, it to him elles nous lesy a they a\ usthem there to us ils lales luilui a they a themher, itto tohim hh elles nous en a they A some to us ils lale lui a they aa him,her, itit toto her dies vous leportent, a theycarry a him, it to you ils leles leur lui aa theythey aa him,them it to to her them elles vous lales a they a her,them it to t» you you ils lales leurleur aa theythey a\ themher, itto to them them elles vous eny a they a yousome there to you portent, carry portent, carry ils l’y a they a himher therethere elles sese lale a theythey a her,him, itit toto themselves ils luiles y a they a tothem him there there dieselles ses’y les a they a themthemselves to themselves there ilsils leury en y a they a someto them there there elles s’en a they a some to themselves portent, carry ellcs le lui portent,a they carrya him, it to him elles me lale a theythey a him,her, itit toto mim elles lales lui lui a theythey a themher, itto tohim him elles m’yme les a they a themme there to me ellesdies lela luilui a they aa her,him, itit toto herher elles m’en a they a some to me elles leles leur lui a they a themhim, toit toher them ils Ten assurent,a they carrya him of it elles la leur a they a her, it to them ilsils lesla enen aa they a herthem of of it it elles l’y portent,a they carrya him, it there ils lui cn portent,a they carrya some to him elles l’y' :s a they aa themher, itthere there IRAMMATICAL DICTIONARV. 401 them to you there tile*elles leurlui y en pnTte, a theythey carrya to io them him there * vous-l#s.yvous-y-en a some to you there dies Tenassurent, a theyastute a him of it 'se-l’y A x him, it to themselves a elles 1’en a tin y x her of it ! se.les.yse-l’y a a her,them itto tothemselves themselves x elles les enportent, A they carryx them of it x some to themselves x elles lui en a theythey xa tome toto him elles leury en en a they xa some totit ■ ax him,her, itit toto himhim therethere ax themsome to themhim thcr$there 1 la-leur-y / ax her,him, itit to to them them there mere • me-l’y a a him, it io me there ' les-leurleur-y-en y i/ x themsome to themthem there • me-les-y a x her,them it to to me me there there • in’yen a x tome to me there Imperativeand AmbiguousMood.—Objective, Pronouns. Elliptical, *te-l’y porte,a x him, it to me there portez carry • te-les-yte-l’y a xa her,them it to to me me there there Ax 1’y-moi,l’y-tnoi, a her,him, itit to to me me there there xa les-y-tnoi,y-en-moi, a somethem to me therethere * se-l’y a , him, it to himtelf there porte, carry *• se.l’yse-les-y aa i her,them it to to himtelf himself there there x l’y-toi, a her,him, it to thee therethere • s’y-en a . some to himself there ax les-y-toi,y-en-toi, a somethem toto theethee therethere •se-1'y a him, it to hertelf there portez carry • se-les-y a . themher, itto io herself herself there there x l’y1’y lui, a her,him, itit toto himhim there • y-en a tome to herself there a y-en-lui,les-y-lui, a somethem toto himhim therethere l’yporte, a carriesa him, it to us there portez carry * nous-les-y a themher, itto to us us there there x 1’y-lui, a her,him, itit to to her her there there * nous-y-en a some to us there ax les-y-lui,y-en-lui, a somethem toto herher therethere * vous-l’y * vous-l’y aa her,him, itit toto you there • Get homme, that man ; cette femme, that woman ; ces hommes, these men, objective.Ac. or any other subjective expressions, are understood to precede these pronouns 402 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. icus-y, a her, it to us there is-y-en,nous-y, aa somethem toto us there portez carry porte, carry a le-vous-y, a him, it to you there is 1’y a /a her,him, itit toto youyou therethere a la-vous-y,les-vous-y, a her,them it to to you you there there is yles en y a /a themsome to you theethere a nous-y-en, a some to you there porte, carry portez,a I’y-leur, carrya him, it to them there je lale luilui y a /a him,her, it toto him there a 1’y-leur,les-y-leur, a her,them it to to them them there there je leslui luiy en y a /a somethem to him there a y-en-leur, a some to them there porte, carry theBy first putting division before devoted the 320to subjective,phrases of je lela lui y a /a her,him, it to her there ambiguousobjective, andpersonal elliptical pronouns pronouns, moi, toi,the je leslui luien yy a I a somethem toto herher therethere aboveelle, nous, phrase, vous, as eux,moi, jeelks, vous before le porterai, every carry there phrasesI will carry to the it 400to you in ;the it willtable, add and 320the je lale leur y a I a her,him, itit toto themthem a whole of the changes will be about 700. je lesleur leur y en y a I a themsome to themthem a 116. e 1’y portes,a thouearnest a him*, it to thereme a PERSONAI, COMBINED tu me 1’y a thou a her, it to me a PRONOUNS (French.) tu m’yme les en y a thou a somethem toto me a A list of four Pronouns, combined in 200 portes, carriest there differentorder and manners, arrangement and inin whichthe phrase their te 1’y a thou a him, it to thyself a are shown. te 1’yles aa thouthou aa themher, itto tothyself thyself a Examples I shall carry some to you .’y en a thou a some to thyself a there, Je ions y en porterai—Re portes, carriest there lesried y themporta tohier. us there yesterday, 11 i nous 1’y a thou a him, it to us a i nous 1’yles y a thouthou a her,them it to to us us a Subjective, Objective,Pronouns. and Elliptical t nous y en a thou a some to us a porte, carry portes, carriest there je me 1’y a /a1 \ her,him, itit toto meme therether tu lale lui y a thou a her,him, itit toto himhim a je m’yme les en y a /a/a somesome toto me therethere tu luiles luiy en y a thouthou aa somethem toto himhim a porte, carry portes, carriest there je te 1’y /I a her,him, itit to to thee thee there there |I tu late lui y a thouthou aa her,him, it it to to her her a GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. 403 il la leur y a he a Aer, it to tAem a tu luiles ylui en y a\ thouthou aa tomethem toto herthere a il les leur y a Ae a them to them a portes, carried there il leur y en a Ae a some to them a tu le leur y a thou a him, it to them a elle me l’y porte,a *Aecarries a him, it to tAereme a tutn lesla leur leur yy a thou a her, itto to them them a elle me l’y a she a her, it to me a tu leur y en a thou a some to them a elle m’yme les en y a sAeshe aa sometAem toto meme a carries there carries there il me l’y a he a Aim,her, itit toto me me a elle te l’y a she a Aim, it to tAee a 7 7i« a them to me a elle te l’y a sAe a her, it to thee a ilm^n 1 he a some to me a elle te les y a »AesAe a somethem toto theethee a carries there elle t’y en a il te 1’y a he a /<»m, it to tAee a elle se l’y porte,a ‘hecarries a Aim, it to herselfthere a il te lesl’y y a he a tAemAer, itto to fAee tAee a elle se l’y a she a her, it to herself a he a some to thee a elle s’yse lesen aa sAesAe a themsome to herself a P carries there porte, carries [tAere il se l’y a he a Aer,him, itit toto himself a elle nous 1’y s. she s him, it to us \ il s’yse lesen y a heAe a tAemsome toto himself a elle nous lesl’y y a sheshe a themher, itto to us us a porte, carries there elle nous y en a she a some to us a il nous I’y a Ae a him, it to us a elle vous l’y porte,a she carriesa him, it to [tAereyou a il nous lesy en y a Ae a somethem to asus a elle vous les1’y y a she a her,them it to to you you a porte, carries there elle vous y en a she a some to you a il vous I’y1’y a Ae a him,Aer, itit toto youyou a elle le lui y porte,a sAe carries a Aim, it to Aim[there a il vous lesy en y a Aehe as somethem to you a elle lales lui lui y y a she a her,them itto to him him a porte, carries there elle leur y en a sAe a some to Aim a il lela lui y a Aehe a Aim,Aer, itit toto Aimhim a elle le lui yporte, a shecarries a Aim, it to Aer[there a il leslui luiy en y a Aehe a sometAem toto AtmAim a elle lesla luilui yy a she a her,them it to to her her a carries there elle lui y en a she a some to her a il le lui y a he a him, it to her a elle le leur yporte, a she carriesa him, it to them[tAere * il les lui y a Ae a Aer,them itto to her Iter a elle la leur y a she a her, it to them a il lui y en a Ae a some to Iter a elle lesleur leur y en y a sheshe a somethem toto themthem s,a il le leur y porte,a Aecarries a Aim, it to tAemtAere a 404. GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. portons, carry portez, carry [there nous te l’y a wwe tt.a him,her, itit toto theethee therethere vous lale lui y a you a her,him, itit to him a nous tct’y Its en y a wetee a somethem to thee there vous leslui luiy en y a you a somethem to him a portons, carry [selves there portez, carry [there nous nous I’yl’y a we a him,her, itit toto our- a& vous lale lui y a you a Jter,him, ifit foto her her a nous nous lesy en y a we a somethem toto our-our- a vous leslui luiy en y a yoayou a iomefAem to]there ^ but in a trifle, Chacun a ,a fantaisie, from ? ? . “ i ? g - ' ?«"«<* ne serait que dans le, chose, de naissentfrom grow deviennent white, blanches.Les feuilles ™ qui ... la moindre importance ’Tis dangerous Therein, adv. [in that,] En cela,y, estthough cependant to treat dangereux him in this de lemanner, traiter deIl celala-dedans—Therein yous ties coupdbU.—After you are guilty, having s En la sorte. examined them, you will therein find didAs not though, see it, CommeComme si.—As s'il ne though t'.eut pas he manyvous y charms, trouverez Apris mille le, beautes. avoir examines, etla,Thereinto, y, la-dedans. adv. [into that,] Em 42* grammatical dictionary. lege,evfans A de tier ses au enfans—To college—He go has to wisdom,the col- 143. prudence,and to his et wisdom il joint courage,le courage 11 d ala depru- la THROUGH, THROUGHOUT. dence.—Therener, II n'y a pas is node foufool comparablelike to the sin-au endThrough, to end of, byprep, means [thorough, of,] A Itavert, from pecheur. au trovers, par, dans, par le moyen de. to To,that, [for,] Je Pour.—In'ai pas âversionhave no dislike pour trovers—To look une jalousie.—’Tothrough a grate, go throughRcgarder the d cela.—That is lost to me, Cela est perdu town, Passer au trovers de ville, la tra- pourUne ardentemoi.—A charite fervent pour charity tous to lesall hom-men, andverser.—To go away come through in through another, one Entrer gate, mes.—To rise early to one’s work, Se par une porte et sortir par Tautrc.—His leverall eternity, de bonne Pour heurepour toute Veternite, travailler.—To d ja. Sagenerous geuerosite mind shineseclate throughdans tout all cehe does,qu'il fail.—Through him, Par son moyen, ou one,To, Vi [against,] not contre Contre.—Twentyun Four to four, to d saThrough, solicitation. adv. [from one end or Quatre contre quatre. deuzside to cotes—I the other,] am wetDe partthrough, en part, Je suisdes AlterTo, en [in,] France—To En, dans—To commend go to France,one to peats.mouille de part en part, ou jusqu’d la —Fromhis face, topLouer to quelqu'nntoe, De pied en sa en presence. cap.— Throughout, prep, [quite through, From doorhand toto door,hand, De De porte main en enports.— main. lein longevery de, part par of,] toutes Tout les au partiestrovers, de.—tout —To expose to sale, Mettre en vents.— Tannee,Throughout tout the Tannee—Throughout year, Tout le long thede neHe en gave garde, it to IImy Va custody, confie d II mes me soins.— Fa don- universe,out my body, Par Danstout Tunivers.—Through- toutes les parties de J'iraiI’ll go todans the leswoods forets among avec the les brutes,bttes. rnonThroughout, corps. adv. [everywhere,] —Thosematia, Ces troops troupes were avaientordered ordreto Dal- de withPar-tout—He respect, II letreats trait par-touthim throughout avec re- passer en Dalmatie. spect. stretchedTo, [towards,] her arms toVers, heaven, cnvers.—She Elle eten- fuldait to les one, bras Eire vers ingratle del.—To envers be quelqu’un. ungrate- 144. To, [in comparison,] Aupres, en com- TO, prep, d It is fit to our pur- parison—theto a wise man, pleasuresweigh down of theall nextthe evilslife, pose,—To C'estour bestpropre advantage, d noire Adessein. notre of this, Les plaisirs de la vie future ont plus grand profit, d notre avantage.—I plusque tousde poids, les maux aupres de d'uncelk-ci.—You homme sage, are repugnancehave no enmity d cela.—As to that, Jeto n’aithat, point Quant de but an ass to him, Vous n'etes qu'un d cela. lui.line en comparaison de lui, ou aupres de spokeTo, to[to the the,] woman, au, d J'aila, aparte Taux—I d la To, [as far as.]—I see to the bottom, femme.—Iing, Je parle speak d todes men gens of judicieux.— understand- JeDepuis vois jusqu'aules pies jusqu'dfond Fromla tete—there top to toe, hisHis children,kindness extendsSa bonte to s'eteni the children jusqu'aux of horse,were toII they avail number jusqu'd of trotsthree centhundred che- GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY^ 425 vaux.—Tlie offender was whipt to death, kind. Pour former un jugement juste sur LeTo, coupoble [of,] fut De battu He jutqu'a has laa mart.covetous des chases de cette nature. manou un to avarehis father, de pire.—She II a un perehas avare,got a 146. pourclown mail, to her ou husband, un rustre Elle de man.a un ruslrc UNDER, UPPER. wisdomTo, [before,] is but folly Oh, devant,to God, sur.—Men’s La tagessc Under, prep, [beneath,] Sous, des- det homines est folk devant Dieu.—I sous;the table. au.desrous, Sous la par-dessoustable.—From Underunder haveou d cela.a title to that, J'ai droit sur cela, ground, Ue dessous terre.—Under fifteen To it again, nobody comes, Recom. goyears, under, Au-dessous Aller par-dessous. de quinze ans To menôns,story again. personne Mats nerevenons vient.—But au conle.— to the Under, [by the show of,] Sous To the end that, A fin que.—To-day, —UnderUnder-colour, name Sous of a pretexte, perfect love, sous Sousombre. le Aujourd'hui—To-night,morrow, Demain.—After Ce to-morrow,soir.—To- nom d'un amour parfait. A pres demain. Sous,Under, soumis [in a.—Give a state of good subjection rules to,]and 145. care,patterns Donnez to those de bans that principes live under et de yourboms TOWARD, and TOWARDS, prep. exemplesrection.—The d ceuz world qui viventis under sous God,votre di-Le vers[in a directionTowards to,] the Rhine,Vers, du Vers cote le de, Rhin. de- mondeunder, Soumettre,est soumis assujettird Dieu—To To bringkeep —To—Towards come thetowards sea, Duone, coleS'approcher de la mer. dc straint,under, TenirN'itre court—To pas libre. be under re- quelqu'un—Towardsdroiie, du cote droit.—Towards the right hand,his last, A Sous,Under, dans, par,[in a austate milieu of oppression de—To treadby.] tiraitComme vers il approchaitsafin. dc sa fin, comme il underaux pkds.—He foot, Fouler is undersous lesgreat pieds, affliction, fouler Pres,Toward, environ, and sur, Towards, vers Towards [nearly,] the underIl est dansan oath, une grandeEire oblige affliction.—To par serment. be endsemaine.—I of the week, am towardsVers ou nine sur years la fin older de —Tooblige—To be under lay under an aobligation, distemper, Eire thanque vous—They you, J'ai environ are somewhat neuf ans towardsde plus atteintthe extremity ou aitaque of torture, d'une maladie.—UnderAu milieu des raison.—Tothe right, I Isgrow avaient towards quelque man, sorte Ap- de plus violens tourmens, an foit de la tor- procher de V&ge mur ou de I'age de rai- disadvantages,ture—To do a Fairepiece ofun work ouvrage under sans great les son.Toward, and Towards, [with re- secours necessaires. spect to, for, touching,] Envers, a re- d moins,Under, moins [less, defor ; lessau-dessous—Over than,] Moins, gardpoor, de,Charitable pour—Charitable envers les towardspauvres— the or under, Plus ou moins—I cannot sell His heart relented towards her, Son cceur it—Many under, Jeare neunder saurois ten le poundsvendre aa moins.year, s'attendrissailToward, and pour Towards, elle. adv. [near, lingPlusieurs de revenu—Medicines ont moins de dix livrestake effectster. surat hand, le point in de,order pour to,] Prh,There wasa la a main,quar- sometimes under the natural powers of rel towards, Ik elaient pres, ou sur le foistheir un virtues, effet fort Les au-dessous remides ont de ieurquelque- ver- pointing a detrue se judgment quereller.—Towards upon tilings die of erect, this tu naturelle. 424 GRAMMATICAL, DICTIONARY. Under, [below in place,] Sous, des- dans mes veines—The people are up in cousTout leAll pays the est country sous Teau, lays estunder inonde. water. —Thesearms, Le plants peuple will souleve be quicklyprend les up, armes. Ces n'aUnder, pas encore [not havingatteint, arrived an dessous to,] Qui plantesUp, [atleveront game.]—How bientot. many games dessousChildren de under dix tenans years,To Lesbe underenfans age,au- —Fiveup? A gamesoombien up, de Ajeux cinq vajeux.—I la partie want ? EireUnder, mincur. [in state of protection,] Sous, un.—Ibut one amof up,up, IIJ'ai ne gagne. m'en manque qu'- lavec, otre bonpar, plaisir, sauf.—Under avec voire favour, permission. Sous pletion.]Up, [the The end, quarter the last is up, part, Le thequartier com- UnderUnder, correction, [with, Sauf in, correction.of, to,] Sous, Buvezest fini, tout—The echu, ou riverexpire—Drink is frozen up, it up,La ladans, cle.—Give de, d.—Under me a lock note and under key, Sousyour riviereter, Flier est touteune lettre.—Fromgelee. To do my up youtha let- main.—Underhand, Donnez-moi hand andun billetseal, Signede voire et up,Up Des on majeunesse. end, Debout, tout droit,—It tilings,scelle.—Under Dans I'etat the present present dispositiondes chases. of memakes fait mydresser hair standles cheveux. up on end, Cela uneTo chose do a sous thing les under yeux one’sde quelqu'un, nose, Faire d derriere,Up and de down,tons cotes, fd partout,et Id, devant de cote et ourson nezconsideration, et d sa barbe.—The f,e sujet subject que undernous andet d'autre, down, deCourir pd et pdde etId.—To Id.—To run follow up ourtraitons—A consideration, thing Une that chose comes qui se underpre- tout.one up and down, Suivre quelqu'un par- senteI received d noire under consideration—Your the date of the lettersixth qu'd,Up dto, To[as befar in as, water according up to to,]the chin,Jus- sixinstant, de ce J'aimois. repu votre let Ire datee du comeEire updans to town,Veau S'envenirjusqu'au dmenton.—To Londres.— er Upper,in power,] adj. Haul, [superior superieur, in place, de dessus. high- theThe religion wisest men of their in all country, ages have Les lived hommes up to —The—An upper upper room,Rhine, Une Le chambrehaul Rhin— haute. cules plusconformement sages dans d tous la lesreligion temps deont leur ve- deThe dessus—The upper lip, La upper levre teeth, superieure, Lcs dents ou pays.Up with Up with your fist, Leves d'enLe haul haul.—The ou le dessus upper d'une part chose. of a thing, le ptnng.Up, prep. Au-haut, au, sur—Up one premier.—Topair of stairs, Aufall premierup stairs, Huge, Tomber ou Ah en 147. Montrermontant Vescalier.—Toune colline.—To go get up up a into hill, a UP, adv. [aloft, on high,] En haut uptree, hill, Monter Ecrire sur de trovers.un drbre.—To write tantotNow up,en has.—Tonow down, look Tantotup, Regardcr en haut, en haut Up there, Ld-haut. 148. bout,Up, sur [in pied, a state sur ofses being pieds, risen,] leve.—To De- pieds—Up,stand up, Seup, tenir Levez-vous debout ou debout— sur ses &c.]UPON, Sur, dessus,prep, [of joignant, situation, toutproche, of time, estThe sur sun Phorison is up, Le soldiThe parliament est leve, le is soleil up, environ,Upon thevers, table, d. Sur la table—Upon flnics.—MyLe parlement blood est leve,is up, ses Mon seances sang boutsont myed upon head, the Sur Thames, ma tetc—London Londres est is situeseat- GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. 425 sur la Tamitc.—She is upon, her depar- uponture, Kileyour est heads! sur son Quc depart—My man sang bloodsoit, 169. word,ou retombe Sur masur parole vos t'Ucs.—UponA bill upon my a VERBS. merchant,A tax upon Un paper, billet surUne un taxe ruarchasid.— sur le pa- Government of Verbs. pier.—Upon a mere suspicion, Sur un mentFrench before active substantives, verbs have that no is,govern- they simpleUpon, soupfon. {to, to the,] d, au Upon the are not followed by any preposition what- first opportunity, A la premiere occasion. causeever. neitherAimer, d, for de, instance, par, nor ispour, active, can be- be —UponTo bestow his any coming, favour Aupon son one, arrives Accor- used after it in an active sense; the arti- der une grace d quelqu’un.—I pass my verbs,cle, therefore, before theircommonly object; follows as, to active love a,time ecrire.—He upon writing, lost theJe sightpasse ofmon what temps he wisdom, aimer la sagesse. was upon, /I perdit de vue ce d quoi il alwaysBut neutera government verbs on theor contrarya preposition have etaitFaire occupL—To la guerre d, makeou centre war quelqu'un.upon one, after them ; as,—to please the company, —Upon the very hearing of it, A Ten- plaired'un fait. d la societe; to doubt a fact, douter oftendre your raconter.—Upon papers, Au premier the examenfirst perusal que je fa de vos papiers. twoThere objects, are namely,verbs in French,direct and which indirect, have Eire,Upon, en faction—I [in,] Rn.—To was upon be upon a journey, duty, that is, they are followed by two substan- J'etais en voyage, Je voyageois.—He has In this case the first is preceded by IIbeen a heupon en anambassade embassy aupres to the de Emperor, VEmpe- the article, and the second by a preposi- reur.—Upon looking narrowly into it, accusertion ; as,—to quelqu'un accuse de some vot; oneto grantof robbery, a fa- EnUpon, Vexaminant [of,] deDe.—He pres. lives upon vour to somebody, accorder unefaveur d bread and milk, II vit de pain et de lait. quelqu'un.Some reflected verbs have also two ob- —Toquelqu'un. depend upon one, Dependre de jects, the last of which must have a pre- Upon, [by,] Par The vows that are seposition plaindre ; as,—to de quelqu'un complain ; toof trustsomebody, some- sommesupon us, lies, Les les veeux veeux par que lesquels nous avonsnous body, se fier d quelqu'un. fails—It was upon a general apprehen- theThe above learner reflected will verbs easily govern perceive two thatob- tion,sion ofC’hait the ambitious par la crainte designs generateof that na-ou jects ; the first is se, the second quelqu'- Con etait des desseins ambitieux de cette andun, toas, trust fo complain oneself tooneself somebody. of somebody, nation.Upon, [under, for,] Sous, pour mesWe chacunare all uponpour thenotre club, ecoU—Upon Nous y som-pain 170. of death, Sous peine de mart. VERBS—-/oi/oaied by de. Sunday,Upon, Venez[redundant.]—Come un dimanche.—Upon upon a The French Active Verbs governing two thatUpon very theday, whole Ce jour matter, Id-meme. Apres tout, objects, Direct and Indirect, requiring au restc, tout bien considlri.—Upon the de,—orIndirect du,object; de la, as,—Hede T, des, loaded before thehis matter,Upon my Presque, finishing dof peu it, Despres, que environ. je Pens, friend with reproaches unreasonably, II ou Vauraifini. ason,—are accable son as followami de : reproches tans rai- H h 426 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. N.B.—The caret is English.sent the direct object ; to jestbring upon, nearer, rplaisanter approcher de To absolve a from, dbsoudre to blush, rougirrirede de to buyload aa from,with, accabler a de to live upon, subsister de to accept a from, accepter a de to live upon, vivre de to accusewarn a aof, of, ' accuseravertir a de to banish a from, DE,—orThe French du, dela, Refected de T, des,Verbs before requiring their to expelblame a a out, for, chasscrbldmer a de Object; as,—I perceive his improvement to correct a from, corriger a de dein theses progresFrench danslanguage, la languc Je m'apperpois Franqaise, to disgustdrive a out,a with, debusquerdecanter a de —are as follow : to freedivert a from,a from, detourdelivrer ner a de Toto put abstain up with, from, * !'accommoders'abstcnir dcde toto blotdissuade a out, a from, dissuadereffscer a de to perceive,be grieved at, s'appercevoirs'aitrister dede to excludefill A with, a from, exclureempli a de■ to bebethink consoled, of, se consolers'aviser de eccpulserJicchir a de retractbe contented of, with, se* secontenter dedire de to informimplore a a about, to, informerimplorer a de giveperform, over, s'acquitterse desister dede to threatenpraise a for,a with, mcnacerlouer a de rungrieve away, for, s'affligers'enfuir de to depriveobtain a a from, of, obtenirpriver a de getspeak angry, with, s'entretenirsef&cher de to receivepunish a for,from, recevoirpunir a de to findintermeddle fault, with, se formalisers'ingerer de to reprovesuspect aa of,for, soupfonnerreprendre a dcde bepretend proud to, of, s'enorgueillirse piquer de to summon a to, sommer a de distrust,meddle with, „ se meter de to drawcall a aa, from, ' ■ traiter-L de ' se dimettrese defier de The French Neuter Verbs requiring the to take possession of, s'emparer de de,—sr du, de la, de 1% des, before their to betake tired heed, of, s'ennuyerse gardcr de everyObject; body, as,—This Ce jeune young homme man meditslanders de inquire after, s'informer de tout le rnonde,- follow complain of, sese plaindre moquer de To abuse, cibuser de remember, se rappeler de to pity, avoir pi tie dc to recant, sese ret rijouir I actcr de to agreecome near,to, approcherconvenir de to rejoicerepent of,at, se repentir de to deny, disconvenir de to recollect, se ressouvenirse saisir de to enjoydoubt, in, douterjouir de make use of, se servir de toto inherit,glory in, faireheritcr gloire de | be scandalised, se scandaliserse soucier de to slander,fail, manquermidire de remember. re vanter dc GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. 427 or Theau, aFrench la, a 1’,Neuter aux, beforeVerbs theirrequiring object A, ; 171. peras,—So to obey as notthe tolaws, hurt Pour oneself, ne pasit is nuire pro- VERB S—Folio wed hy a. asa soi-mtme,follow : il faut obeir aux lots are The French Active Verls governing t-xo Objects, Direct and Indirect, and requir- toTo sympathize applaud for, with, applaudir d Indirect;ing A,—Or as,—Iau, a announcedla, a 1’, aux, tlie before news thc\ to j to condescend to, condcscendre d the family immediately, J'ai annonci la to infringeinsult, on, contrevenirinsulter d nouvelleas follow d : la famille sur la champ,—are to fail in, munquer d N. B.—The caret is intended to show to hurt,obey, nuire d theglish. direct object in French and in Ei to obviate, obvicr d To grant a to, accorder a to forgive,attain to, pardonner d to direct a to, adresser a to think of, parvenirpenscr d to announce a to, annonccrapporter a a to persuadeplease, to, persuader d confer A a to provide for, pourvoirplaire d to advise a about, communiqucrconseiller AA a“ to renounce, to communicateconfess, a to. confessor « to displease,contribute to, deplaire d to ownattribute a to, a to^ attribueravouer a “ to disobey, desobeir d to tell a to, dire to remedy,resemble, ressemblirremedicr de d to giveask a a from,to, demanderdonner to dreamresist, of, resister d to write a to, to satisfy,think of, satisfaire d to teach a to, enseigner to relieve, souvenirsonger d toto explainsend a to, a to, expliquerenvoyer toto suffice,succeed in, succeder d to take away a from, outlive, survivresuffice d to foretellforgive a to, pardonnerpredire o be at, travaillertendre da to declareprefer a ato, to, prefererdeclarer The French Reflected Verbs requiring the to dedicate a to, dedier as,—WePreposition ought a,—or not toau, expose a la, ourselvesa P, aux to ; to lendpresent a to, a to, presenter be killed uselessly, II ne faut pas s'expo- to procure a for, procurerpreter . “ inutilement d etre tue,—areas follow: to relate.Apromise to,a to, promettre. represents irtcssclf in English. to bring back a to, . rapporterracouter .a » j Toaccustom abandon aa to, s'abandonner d to refuse a to, refuser a d be addicted to, s'accoutumers'adonner d to send back a to, renvoyerrendre a d | applyamuse aa, to, s'amuser d repeter a d : to expect to, s'uppliquers'attendee d to revealreproach a to,a with, reprocher A d ! to get ready to, s'appreler a to sell a to, revelervendre aA d |' s'attachers'arreter d 428 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. to apply a to, s'adrcsscr a to gubnrit to, se soumettre a :o enjoin, to complyresolve upon,with, zese determinerconfirmer ad o undertake, entreprendre to prepare a to, se disposer a :o hope, cssayer s'cndurdr d to:o try,excuse, excuses toto engageexpose ato, to, s'engagers'exposer d :o exempt, exempter to trust to, sefier d to require, exigerjurer to accustombe obstinate, a to, s'hdbituers'obstiner da feindre to be obdurate, s' opinidtrer d to° threaten, to employoppose aa to,at, s'occupers'opposer d to fail, manquer to grow rich by, s'enrichir d to praise,acquaint, mander to deserve, meditermeriter 172. to neglect,meditate, negliger VERBS—De, before Infinitives. to offer, omettreoffrir verbs,The Frenchrequiring active, the neuter,preposition and reflectedde after to forget, permettreoublier them, before the infinitive of the follow- toto permit,persuade, persuader immediately,ing verb; as,—I Je luiadvised ai conseille him tode setpartir off o pity, prescrireplaindre sur le champ,—are as follow : o urge,prescribe, Active Verbs. to presume, presumespries To accuse, accuser to profess, promettseprofesses to affect,finish, affecter :o promise,propose, proposer to fear,advise, apprehendcr to recommand, rccommander remercierreprocher to blame, assurerblamer o reproach, resoudre to command, commander o summon, sommersouffrir * to charge, conjurer to suspect, soupfonner toto chuse,advise, conseiller o blush, to conduct,fear, convaincrecraindre to deter,forbid, delournerdefendre toa cease,despair, desesperer toto discharge,differ, dechargerdifferer toto endeavour,speak, tacher toto disgust,tell, degouterdire Reflected Verbs. to excuse, dispenser s'abstenirs'aviser * to dissuade,say, dissuaderdire o resolve,be content, e contenter * GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY 429 te desitter * to meddle, se meler * i induce, preparer to be weary,aware of, s'ennuycrse gar der •* i prepare, to be vexed,officious, sefs'xngerer ocher * condescendrc to pretend, se piquer * dcmeurcrconsister Observations. to be, itre Commencer, to begin ; contraindre, to to come, parvenir constrain; continuer, to continue; dis- to think,persist, persislerpenser endeavourcontinutr, ;to essayer, discontinue to ;try s'efforcer, ; manquer, to proceed, to fail; take either de or a before the think, travaillersonger infinitive of the following verb.—All to renounce.work, renoncer verbs in the above table are understood Reflected Verbs. asteriskto be followed are also by used de, beforeand those substantives with to amuse, s'amuser with de. to apply,accustom, 'accoutumers’attacher 173. to submit, te soumettrC to resolve, ' determinerse disposer VERBS.—a before Infinitives. to excuse one’s self, s'exposer requiringThe active, the preposition neuter, and d reflectedafter thetn,be- verbs, to expect, s'attendre fore the infinitive of the following verb ;! to accustombe obstinate. one’s self. s'habituers'obtiner withs,—I me, wish Je you vous to invite come dto venir the atheatre la co- be busy,obdurate, s'opjfiiatrer medie avec moi,—are as follow : to growoppose, rich. s'enrichirs'opposer to admit, Active Verbs. admettre All verbs in the above list to help, apprendre stood to be followed by d. to authorize,like,’ autoriser 174. condamnerchercher contribuer No PrepositionsInfinitive. before Verbs in the eonvier The French active and neuter verbs, demanderdestiner which have no prepositions when followed to dispose, disposer bywish another to speak verb to inthe the magistrate, infinitive ; as,—Ion ur- to give,erect, donner gent business, Je souhaite parler au ma- to employ, employer gistral,is follow pour : une affaire pressante,— toto exhort,engage, exhorterengager Active Verbs. to excite. > perceive. apperccvoira firmer 430 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. compter He misused and lowered his talents, 11 to confess, confcssercroirc alusaabusa ctde nuisitses takns, a set et ialens y nuisit. ; but say, il to depone,declare, declarerdeposer jectives,id, The when same they law have stands different good govern-for ad- dcsiterdevoir mentsfault to ; say,—Heas, capable is de,fit exactfor, and d. exactIt is ina entendreecouter fairedoing son his devoirduty, II; but est say,capable il estct exactcapable a to spy, envoyerepier de faire son devoir, et y est exact, to do, ' Observationsthe Preposition on Passive de Verbs or par. governing toto let,deny, When a passive verb expresses the in- to observe, observer ward sentiments of the mind, or when to protest, protester de,the orbody du, is de not la, concerned, de V, des, the of, preposition are used to report,acknowledge, rappoHer after it; as,—Washington was esteemed reconnoitreregarder by everybody, Washington fut estime de toutBut le monde.when the verb represents an action to maintain,feel, soutenir of the body alone, or with the mind com- soukaiter as,—Onebined,' then of parhis isgenerals used instead was Liken of deby ; to be willing, vouloir the enemy, Un de ses generaux fut pris When there are two objects after a aimer1 mieux passive verb, de and par may be used, alter formedbut de mustof his precede death parby the; as,—I newspapers, was in- ;o be necessary, daignerfalloir Jenaux. fus informeSee Surenne’sde sa mort French par les Gram- jour- to appear, paraitre structor,matology, page Vol. 311. III. down Grammatical to 320. In- to be able,like, penser to pretend, prttendrepouvoir 175. sembler VERBS—with tire, to be. valoir mieux The French verbs requiring, in general, Observations. theverb tire, to be, in the compound tenses; try,as,—He 11 est has reparti set off pour again la forcampagne,— the coun- verbs,1st, itRespecting is an invariable the rulegovernment in French, of e as follow : twothat indirecta verb cannot objects govern ; one oftwo the direct, two must nor land, aborder rect.be absolutely Do not direct, say therefore, and the otherbl&mer indi- de quelqu'unquelqtt'un de quclquequelque chose.chose, but, Hamer 2d, When two verbs have two diffe- to happen, itrent is agovernments, fault to use asthem abuser together; de, nuire as,— d, change, t changer GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. 431 to act contrary, con/revenir sons have the custom of complaining to agree, convenir I'habitudewithout cause, de *e plaindreBien des sans personnes cause. There out to overflow,die, diborderdecider ; greaterfrequently number, occur. but the following toto degenerate,fall from, diginirerdicJioir to compound, to goremain, down, demeurer to agree,abstain, to become, descendredevenir to lean upon, s'accouder to disappear, disconvenirdispanAtre to sitperceive, down, s'apercevoir to ichappcr to adhere, s'attacher o blow or open, to be hatched, icheoiriclore sese Idlgncrbaisser toa embellish,lull asleep, to figh^ se battre to enter, to come, or gi to goamend, to bed, to lie down, sese corrigercoucher to expire,grow tall, expirer to getstruggle, rid of, re debarrasser to interpose, intervenirgrandir sese debordredibattre to go up, montcr to) distrust,detract, se didire to be born, mourirnaitre ) resign, se dimettresc defier to attain to, parvenit ive se dipeeher ta pass, to cross, passer > S over, ’ se disisters'icrier to proceed, provenirpiri to goleap away, upon, s'ilancer to grow young again, rajeunir ‘ seize upon, s'emparcr to comebecome in again,again, redevenir to fallbe eager, asleep, ■ 'empresser to set off again, repartirrentier s'endormir to go out again, ressortir grow bold, s'enhardirs'enfuir to resultstay, or follow, rester to get drunk, s'enivrer retomberrisulter to catchtake root,cold, s'enraciner retourner to grow rich, s'enrhumers'enrichir too comego out, back again, revenir *' discoursefly away, with, s'entretenir to befall, happen unexpectedly, survenirsortir to blow, s'ipanouir to come,fall down, tombervenir to steal away, s'esquiver to grow old, vieillir to wonder,faint away, s'itonner to evaporate, s'evanouirs'ivaporer 176. " awake,strive, VERBS—nof reflected in English, to paint, s'ivertuerseforder The following are verbs which, in ge. sefigurersefier thyself,neral, do himself, not take ourselves, the pronouns yourselves, myself, to fade away, sefiitrir themselves, Qc. in English, and which find fault, sefondre are reflected in'French; as,—Many per. creep in, se formaliserse glisser 432 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. to make haste, sc hater to admonish, cn averti r to intermeddle,fancy, s'imagincrt'ingerer to advert to, parler de to steal in, s'insinuer consulter to liquefy,rise, to get up, se liquifierse lever to allowagree about,of, (tre d'accordpermettre sur to marry,distrust, se. markr ipon, Critiquer to mistake, se meprendrese mefier to askapprove for—after, of, approuverdemander to mutiny, se moquer to aspire after, aspirer a to pretend to, sese mutiner piquer to atoneassociate for, with, frequenterexpier to complain,procure, se plaindre to aweattend into, on, fiire iaire to propose,walk, se promener to babble out, to quarrel, sese querellerproposer to balebargain up, for, merchandrremballer to rejoice,surrender, se rejouir to bark at, aboier apres to repent, se serepentir renire to baskbarrel in, up, mettrese chauffer en baril au to remember,rest, to bathe with, arroscr de to retire, sc ressouvenir to bawl to—at,out, crier haul to rebel,seize upon, to be in for, etre attrape se soucier to bearout, away, remportertromper to remember,submit, sese soumettre souvenir to—earto bear Mbdown, se tenir debout s'eloigneremporter towards, se defendre 177. up, , ses'approcher roidir contre de VERBS—English. to beatwith, back, supporterrepousscr posedThe of following English alphabeticalverbs, followed list byis compre- rabaisser. positions, rendered in French by a single UPt attaquer word; as,—Can you account for your assommeralter a conductconduits ?9 Pouvez-vousAnd others, expliquerwhose English votre to bedew with, arroser de prepositions differ from the French; as, to behavebeg for, to, se conduiredemander envers soucie—He pasdoes de notmoi. care for me, 11 ne se to bellow out, crier haut to abide by, soutenir to bend back, se reculer to abound with, dbondcr en to bereaveforward, of, s'accroupirenlever d to acceptabscond of, from, cacher d to besmear with, couvrir de to account to, accepter to bespanglebestow upon, with, couvrirdonner de to acquiescefor, in, y expliquerconsentir to beware of, s'en garder to act up to, agir suivant to bind up, prendre gardebander a to admitadmire of, at, surprendrepermettre to blabbite at,out, cstayer dedivulguer mordre GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. 43S to bless with, bercet- to block up, bloqtiereJJ’acer tereduire consumer en to blotblow out,out, bruler consumer up, faircfaire tonibertauter se mettrebruler & ,— off, teemporter ditnpcr eclater to blush for, rougir de button up, bo u tanner en rougir to buy off, degagerachtter toto boardboggle in—.with, at, itre hesiteren pension sur corrompre to border on—upon, etre pret de fairerevoquer entrer toto bottlebouge up,out, mettres'enfler en retracter to bow down, fairc une reverence rassemblerdetourncr passer chex demandcreveiUer fairese soucier rappel de continueremporter faireremporter passer faireporter le compte sur chasterjetter abandonnerdarder cimenlcrprendre par escroqueraccuser encouragervetir de eclairdrenlever fendre t'accordergrimper avee sur se rendre s'en tirer lever boire faire vider mettre avaler refairc trainer ecouler rediger separer gagner chasser mourir chasser alonger avancer tromper recevoir echapper traverser posseder repousser demeurer boire sans enchanter ewtourner decharger tyranniser s'appr ocher faire entrer i'appesantir manger tout detourner de faire reculer par incommoder up, with, to disturb to divert with, to do again, over, to domineer to drain off, to draw away, asunder, up, to drive away, to dress up, off, down, back, out of, out, through, to drop in, to dwell in, with, to ease of, to eat up, to drink up, off, out, off. to dry up, to eke out, to elope from, to emerge from, through, on, upon, to emigrate to or f to enchant with, to enclose with, to endow with, to entertain with. cacher dotiner choisir couper placer decider depecer bourrer couvrir boucher se far d defier de rendre d resoudre parer de repondre invoquer manquer arranger gourmer traverser deroger d deroger d heriter de couvrir de mourir de y eonsentir se plaire d renoncer d decourager se meler de disputer de calculer sur dependre de se soumettre desaprouver consulter sur

prendre part disputer avec faire le cdkul

DICTIONARY. GRAMMATICAL faire le commerce n'etre pas d'accord supporter bassemetit

curl up, cut up, open,

decide upon,

delight in, derogate from, deal out. debate with,

curb up, cull out,

desist from, detract from, devolve on, depend on, upon,

daub with, deck with, through, away,

determine on, die with, dabble in

dispute against, disagree about, disapprove of, discourage from, dispose of,

at, to compute to conceal from, unto,

to cork up, to cord up, to conhde in, to concur in, to condole with, short, to coice to comply with, to cry up, down, to cram with, to crouch under, to cover up, to count up, to cook up, to consult about,

out, to cry out to,

434. 2 3 £ 3 I | I | | 1232 22 1 1222222222223222 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. 435 to enrage at, frown at, on, regarder de - to envelope in, furl up, fournirplier to exultface about, at, te TCtoumer furnishgad about, with, courir fa et Id. to fall down, to gather up, rassembUrramasser commence' gaze at,together, on, upon, regarder rtncontt to get- rid,better, V emportcr — back, abandonner s'ensortir oiler arriverr gagner a — ■ out with, te brouille 'b^k descmdrerevenir manquersaisir _ away from, ithapper it to faulterfasten on,in, upon, bredouiller - in, to fawn upon, on, se nourirflatter de - to fetchfend off,away, emportcr - -off, e'en tirer to fetch up, rabaisser - _ aboard, s'embarquert’avancer to filchfile off, from, - well,through, te pot ter bien to fill out, surpatterse retirer ——to find out,fault with, ”r to girdgive on,back, ceindrerendre toi fitfire 01 at. equipcr - - “P, cider up, arranger - to flauntflee from, about, to flingflinch out, from, prodiguer ) glance at, ecouter refinervoter Ja glareglory at,in, _ away, s'envolerfair ao glutgo about, with, se mettre aprix tclater conlre along, s'ens'egarer aller s'emporUrt'emoler s'envoyager alter off,in, se dedire back, retourner to foam with, s'emporterfumer de by,_ prendresuhre to fold up, plier for, allert'en chercher aller to forcefollow in, up, obligerredoubler de se passer de to frightenfret at, to, semmtrir tracasser de ' sortiralter 436 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. partir to keep back, to gorge with, regorger de ne pashumiUrr avancer to grasp at, s'emparert'enrichir Hoff, continuer to grow rich, venir « to kindle up, allumer i, towards, toucher a to knit up, croitre to knock down, renverserenfoncer to grumble at, jaillirgrogner de se debarasser to hampergush out with, of, embarasser assommer to hang about, s'attacker d under, secharger soumettre de arborer to lade with, rire de accrocher to laughlay up, at, by, amasser ——up!’to happen to, out, employer to harass down, abbatrc accuserravager de to harp at, grander . holdagainst, of, to, to heapheal up,up, amasscr exposer to hear out, ecouter to leave off, lorgnerfinir to hearken to, to let down, descendre to hemhelp in,to, cerner loose, go, I&cher to hesitate at, hisiter sur se voucherloucr to hit at, trouvcry viter to lie down,out, decmtcker to hoard up, entasser to lift up, . lever to hold forth, promettre to light up, allumericouterr continuer depensercharger tout de etendrelever to load with, enfermer to honourup, with, honorer de up, to hope for, esperer to long for, avoirregarder envie to hunt after, cherchcrlancer to lookafter. at, chcrcher toto hurryhurl at, away, entrainer examiner to importune, importuner par regarderchercher par to impose on, upon, acqueririmposcr de prendre garde to increaseindulge in,in, s'alandonner au chercher to infer from, conclure to make over,of, eonclureremettre to indict on, denmcerinfliger depenser to inquireinform against,about, s'injbrnier de comprendre to instruct in, enteigner up,^ arrangerfaire toto intrude,intersect with, entrccoupermterrompre de riparer to jest at, se rnoquer de up, compensers'avancer to jumpjudge over,of, prononcersauter up,up to, plier to keep out, in, empechergardcr fairetracer place GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. 473 to marvel at, t'etonner: to labourer to measure out, se nitlcrmemrcr de to— arracher to meddlemeet with, with, rencohtrcr|— up, deraciuer to mix up, i pocket up, distingucrempocher to murmurmuffle up, at, se plaindrecouvrir de toi point out, placarder to muse on, rumincr i pour out, pricker to mustermutter out,up, marmotterrassemller i preachpreserve up, from, empicher to nail up, condamnernommer > presspresume down, on, upon, , prisumerfouler to nibble at, grignoler i pretend to, persuaderpretendre de to notenod at,down, to, faire signe de > prevailwith, on, upon,on, to nourish up, emporter sur to obtrudenurse up, on, ) prey■ — upon, against, se nourir de to oppress with, ) prick up, agir avec to overspreadoriginate with, with, > proceedprop up, on, upon, toto overwhelmpack off, with, >) providepuff up, for, against, se precautioner up, ) pull away, to palpitatepant for. with, oter deraciners tirer dicouvrirpamper raccommoder repousseravanccr payerrembouser comptant remcllre renvoyer1payer renvoyer acquitterlancer a humilicrponsser peuetrerecrire pretendrey viettre embrouiUerpersuader \ oter faire ramasserchoix de servertrousser trap j imposer pnblierchasser (teindreplacer (treeffacer gent otcr louer sortir clever jette-r ranter etablir choisir tomber achever pousser envoyer cacheter attaquer chercher chercher chercher renvoyer regarder enfermer s'en aller ichapper distribuer s'cmparer soustraire prolonger renfermer petiller de s'expliquer larbouiller trembler de enscmencer faire fremir se moquer de avoir peur de passer la nuit mettre de cote from, to screen to seal up, to shudder at, to shut up, after, to search out, to send away, to serve out, to sneak away, off, to sneer at, to sparkle with, to shrink at, forth, forth, forward. to shoot at, for, after, to seek out for, after, to snarl at, to speak out, to spin out, to spit out, up, to slip away, to smell of, down, to shake off, to shift off. to shiver for, with, up, up, — off’ effiler relire rffacer ouvrir monter etendre eveiller raturer lire sur expoter

echouer dissiper ravir de lire tout grander trembler deborder arracher depenser lire haut equipper mepriser retourner deraciner ryouir de medire de rafraichir contracter y compter parcourir gouverner faire casscr

dire du mol toi turer par chicaner sur revenir dans de cote mettrc retrancher sur en ressouvenir aller en carosse faire une sortie m outer a cheval DICTIONARY. GRAMMATICAL

out of,

■ in, into,

rig out, remind, relieve from,

rob of, rouseup, request of,

UP rise up, root up, out,

ride in, ride on, rip up, open, return from, to,

retrench from,

438 to scrape up, to scoff at, to score off, out, to sally out,

to quake at, ou, to quibble at, to scratch out.

up, ’ 'th out, over, —— through,

to run aground, to rear up, again, to reach out, after, to rack with, at, to rail against,

— away with, to read about, to ravel out, to ravish with, 3SS2S32S2S3S3S232 oter effacer jetter 43f) jetler monter quitter chasser quitter changer rejetter occuper remettre corriger adopter insulter emporter descendrc fatiguer prendre renoncer sollkiter retourner toucher d congedier repousser s'affliger ramasser parcourir porter de prodiguer passer chez raccourdr retrancher entreprendre s'attacher d • jetter dre une copie venture at, on, upon, wash away, out, wait on, upon, by, aside, to tell of, to think off, on, upon, to throw about, voter sortir entrer quitter afficher avancer bripuer avancer attendre toutenir regarder tacher de rcpandrc exprimer supporter decouvrir dedaigner s'appuyer turprendre tenir fermc

avoir beta

gagner le large DICTIONARY. GRAMMATICAL

take away, sweep away,

swarm with. support with, supply with,

stud with, suck out, up, in, suffocate with,

down. down,

to strike off, out, to strew with,

to stretch out,

to stop up, out,

— oilt,

to stock with,

up,

SSSSS2S8SSS

to stimulate to, on,

to stick up, to step in,

out,

away from,

— — on, upon,

to steal away,

to stare at,

off,

to stand against,

for,

by, to stain with, out, to squeeze to spy out,

to spurn at,

with,

to spread abroad,

at, to sport

upon, to spur on, 440 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. toto writework down,up, exciterecrire mayQaclque be, choseQuoique qui cearrive.—Whatever soil—Whatever heit *o yield up,out, se rendrecopier says,Quel qu'ilQuoiqu'il soil.—Whatever disc—Whatever he did, he Quoibe, qu'ilfit.Whatever, Tout ce qui, tout ce 178. que, quelcouque—Whatever he does, is generalementin general correct, correct.—Whatever Tout ce qu'il faitis read est *n WHAT,French by interrog. quel, quelle, pron. quels, is renderedquelles ; copydiffers doesfrom from what an is original,delivered, Tout as cea nation.as,—What ? Quel is estthe lesubject sujet ofde lathe conversa- conver- eommequ'on litla dijftrecopie dedijjere ce qu'onde I'original. deelame, sortetion f—What d'hommc sortcst-il of ? man is he ? Quelle thisHoly nature, writ as abounds much asin any accounts other his-of What, is also rendered by Quoi, in- entory recits whatever, de cette L'ecriture nature, autantsainte abondequ'une declinable;of to the Colonel as,—What ? De quoiwere parlicz-vous we talking autre histoire quelconque. rogatedau Colonel ? Sur ?—On quoi what sera-t-il will intcrrogehe be inter- « What, Que, ce que.—I know not 180. what it is, Je ne sais ce que c'est—What timeWHEN, what,] adv.Quand, [at danswhat timequel ?temps? at the thoudo you ? doQu'es-tu ? Que faites-vous $—What ?you■ say—What is Lorsquc art When are you come ? Quand true, Ce que- vous diles est vrai.—What ites-vousvous voudrez.—When venu ?—When we you read will, his Quandstory, didQu'est-ce I say que? Quai-je c'est?—What dit ?—What is it ? isQuest- this ? Lorsque nous lisons son histoire The ce S^What partial judges are love and queother j'etais day whenmalade—When I was sick, youL'autre are here, jour jugeshatred intercsses ! Que Vamour ! et la hatne sont des Tandis que vous lies ici. What, [how much,] Combien.— que.When as, conj. Tandis que, au lieu demandez-vousWhat do you ?—Whatask for it time ? Comlicn ? Quund? en WHENCE, adv. [from what place, What, [though,] Eh lien, qu'im- Whenceperson, comecause, yousource, ? D'ou &c.] venez-vous D'ou.— ? porte,all this quand-mime—Well, ? He bien, que signifie and tout what ccla of ? I have shewn whence the understand- A quoi aboutit tout cela ? Qu'entendez- faiting mayvoir getd'ou all Ventendement the ideas it penthas, iirerJ'ai himvous ?par-id Quand-meme ?—What je iflui I auraisdid speak parle to ? iowtes les idees qu'il a. —What of that ? Qu'imporle ? adv.Whenever [at whatsoever and time, Whensoever, always when,] EnWhat, partie, tant.—Whatadverbially used, by force,[in part,]what Dans quelque temps que, quand, toutes by policy, En partie par force et en par- tolesfois call uponque.—Whenever me, I shall yoube gladare inclined to see partie parpolitique. politique,—Tant part force que you, Toutes les fois que vous serez dis. posede vous d passer voir. chez moi, jc serai bien aise 179. 181. que,WHATEVER, quoi que—Whatever pron. thingQuelque, happens, quel place,]WHERE, Ou adv.She [atvisited which that or placewhat GRAMMATICAl DICTIONARY, 441 where she was first so happy, Elle visita prudentConstances que oil detre il est innocent. aussi essentiel d'etre reuse—Whereces lieux iru elle is etailEloisa autrefois ? Oiiest siEltiUcI heu- Whereinto, adv. [into which,] —Every where. Par-tout, en tous lieux. Icsqucls,Oh, dans lesquelles—Where’s quoi; dans leqnel, the laquelle, palace dans—Any an where,quelque lieu quelconque—I’U lieu que go ce soil,any whereinto vices intrude not ? Quel est le iraiwhere dans rather lout autrethan lieu,stay ouhere, dans Je quelque m'en palaisWhereof, oii les vices ado. n'entreat [of which,] pas ? Dont, lieu que ce soil, jtlulot que ds tester ici. dedesquelles.—A quoi; duquel, project de whereoflaquelle, I desquels,have not whichWhereabout, place,] Aux environsadv. [near ou whataupris or the least hint, Un projei dont je n’ai de, ou, en quel endroit.—I know not pasWherein, la moindre connaissance.adv. [on which,] Sur suiswhereabout ; Je ne saisI am, ce queJe jenc veux.—Before sais ou fen quoi; sur lequel, laquelle, lesquels, les. they know whereabout they are, Avant quellesLe pave, surThe lequel ground je mar whereon die. I tread, qu'ils sachentpuissent ou seUs reconnoitre;en sont. Avant Whereupon, adv. [upon which,] Whereabout, [concerning which,] Sur quoi, sur ces entrefaites—Where- Pont, de quoi The object whereabout twixtupon therethem, hadSur risen quoi ail s’etaitgeneral eleve war unebe- entrewe are nous. conversant, L'objet dont il s'ogit guerre generale entre eux.—Whereupon Whereas, [when on the contrary,] he Wherewithcame, Il vint sur and ces Wherewithal, entrefaites. alwaysAu lieu beginque.—Whereas with true trueknowledge, zeal should Au ado.dont [withThey which,] would Avecbuild quoi, a newde quoi,city, jourslieu que avec le vraile vrai zele savoir. doit commenccr tou- nouvellehad they wile,wherewithal, s'ils avaient Ils bdtiraientavec quoi une la quoi,Whereby, par ou; paradv. lequel, [by which,]laquelle, ParIcs- trusted,b&tir TheLe puuvoir power dontwherewith il itait revetu.be was qucls,pleasure lesqui they lles.—Whereby take in doing ofI meanmischief. the Par oiij'entends le plaisir qu'ils prennent 182. dLcs malfaire—The moyens par lesquclsje means whereby vis, ouI live,qui meWherever, font vivre. adv. [at whatsoever WHICH, Relative Pronoun, qui, que. place,]—1 cannot En quelquebut love lieu him que, wherever par-tout he ou. is, The English pronoun which, relating Je ne saurois m'empecher de I'aimer en toFrench the subject by qui, of for a verb,persons is andexpressed things in ; quelque lieu qu'H soil, ou par-tout ou il as,C'est Itune is lataillea battle qui which est douteuse is doubtful, ; and son,Wherefore, or for what reason,] adv. Pourquoi,[for which pourrea- itwhen is rendered it relates by to que the also object for ofpersons the verb, and isque, no au just moyen cause de, partant,wherefore adv we shouldThere things;placed immediately and both qui after and the que noun must ; as,be nouscome, venions—Wherefore Il n'y a pas de raison is hepour come que ? —It is the battle I have gained, Cest Pourquoi est-il venu ? la Ofbataille which, que j'ai is gagrendered nee. in French, ou 'Wherein,; dans lequel, adv. laquelle, [in which,] lesquels, En quoi, les- 1st, by dont, for all objects;—as, 1 saw quelles—That’s it wherein you failed, Vhommethe man dontof whom il park. he speaks,2d, By J’aiduqutl, vu areC'est times en whereinquoi vous a man avez ought failli to beThere cau- de laquelle, desquels, and desquclles, for tious as well as innocent, Il y a des cir- animalsbook of whichand thingsI spoke, ; as,—HereVo\la le livre is du-the K 442 GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. quela taquelle, fat parte. auxquels, 3d, Toand which, ausrquelles, by auqucl, for mewhile. fiatte, Pour tantot un temps,il me pendantmenace quelqueFor a animals and things ; as,—Is it the pen temps.—Meanwhile,Cependant, sur ces entrefaites.—A in this meanwhile, little plumeto which a laquelle you did vous something filet quelque ? Est-ce c/tote? la while ago, Naguires—But a while Observations. since, Depuis peu, dernierement—’Tis l*f, Which, preceded by any prepo- celanot worthne vaut while, pas laIl peine. est superflu, inutile ; lesquels,sition, is lesquelles;rendered byas, lequel,against laquelle, which, While, and Whilst, conj. [during &c. centre lequel, <%c. 2d, When there que,the timetant that,]que, tandisPendant que—While que, durant he noun,are two dont nouns must before not thebe used,relative but pro- de was protector, Pendant qu'il etait pro. qui, or duquel, See. so as to point out noustecteur.—While en jouissons we enjoyWhile it, you Tandis take careque Theeither tutor the withpersons the orhelp the of things; whom we as,— im- not tooverload your memory, Tant que vous prove, Le precepteur avec Vassistance de aurezmemoire soin Stayde ne while vous pasI come surcharger out, At- la duquelqui nous or fesons de la quelle,des progres. instead of3d, de Write qui, tendee que je forte—Whilst he permits for persons, when the phrase is ambigu- aulres.it to others, Tandis qu'il le permet aux .WHICH, Interrogative Pronoun, 184. Is expressed by quel, quelle, quels, quelles,wish to §c.have? as,—What Quel olseau bird souhaitez- do you WHO, WHOM,Pronouns. WHOSE, Relative followedvous avoir by ?—Lequel,either a verb, &c. as, islequel always est, When the English pronoun who, re- which is; or a preposition, as, lequel de, latesFrench to bythe qui,subject for of persons a verb, expressedand things in ; roadswhich isof; the as,—Whichshortest ? La ofquelle these de twoces as,—It is a lady who speaks to you, deuxOf routes which, est lais plusrendered courts in ? French by whenC'est whom,une dame relates qui to vous the objectpat le. ofAnd the —Ofde quel, which de quelle, house de are quels, you detalking quelles; now as, ? sonsverb, andit is things;rendered as,—Itby que alsois thefor ladyper- andDe quelle to which, maisonparlez-vous by d quel, d quelle, maintenant a. quels, ? Andwhom both I saw, qui C'estand quela dame must que be fai placed vue. meand quelles to apply ; as,—To ? A quellewhich pefsonneperson do pen. you immediately■Whose—The after relative the noun. pronounsnsAorr, sez-vous vous addresser ? dont,of whom, for all areobjects rendered ; as,—I in sawFrench the man by 183. ofdont whom il parle. he speaks,Of whom, J'ai isvu rendered Thomme in WHILE, s. [time, space of time,] French by de qui; as,—Here is the per- Temps, m. espace de temps, m. fois, f.— sonvidu of de whom qui il he le suit.knows Toit, whom,Voild I'indi-is ex- panyWill ?you Resterez-vous remain some quelque while in temps this com-dans pressed by d qui ; as,—It is the lady to celte compagnie 9—You made me stay a I'aiwhom d». I told it, C'est la dams d qui Je long.temps.—Alllong while, Vous thism'avez while, fait Pendantotlendre tout ce temps A while after, Quelque WHO, WHOM,gative Pronouns. WHOSE, Interro- othertemps while apres he Onethreatens while heme, flatters, Tanlot an- il Who, whom, jut, or qui cst-ceyui; GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. 443 of whom, de qui; and to whom, or m'en priat—I desired him, but he would whose, & qui, are always put at the be- notvoulu do le it, faire.—\ Je Pen aiwould prie, not mats do il it n'a for pas all jectginning of the of phrase,a sentence, whether and usedare thein ques- sub- the world, Je ne voudrais pas le faire tions ; as,—Whom did you see at the pourgreat touswhile les before Mens hedu wouldmonde—It resolve was upon a diestheatre ?Or Qui exclamationsavez-vout m; aas,—Who la come- it, II se passa bien du temps avanl qu'il jamahwould havecru evercda! believed These it! pronouns Qui aurait are voulutWould, s'y resoudre. [the sign of the conditional used for persons only. weretense.]—You rich, Vous would seriez be satisfiedcontent siif vousyou ObscrvatiOM. etiezWould, riche. used in the present tense.— differentlit. Whose, manners: may first, be renderedWhose grammar in two What would you with us? Que nous is this ? d qui est cette grammatre S by withveux-tu you, i—I Je n’aiwould qu’un little mot dor vousnothing dire. puttingWhose grammarthe noun is thethis? last; a. quisecondly. cette —I would my father looked but with my grammaire est-elle S by putting the noun viteyes, que Je par souhaiterais mes yeux.—Would que mon topare God ne ! inthe afirst determinate 2d. When sense, the questionqui est-ce is putqui Plut d Dieu l—See Surenne’s Gram- may be used for qui, as,—Who will come 349,matology, for VoLmore III. information pages 339, respecting down to withmoiS me ? qui est-ce qui vent venir avec these verbs. 185. 186. WII.1,, WOUJ.D. justWITH, now, J’etais prep. Avec.—Iavec lui il was n'y with a qu’un him sitiveness,]Will, [determination,rendered by vouloir.—l resolution, willpo- moment.—Comevous-en avec moi.—To along with cut me, withVenez- a doParis it, withJe veux me ?lefaire.—Will yes I will, Voulcz-vous you go to knife, Couper avec un couteau To venir d Paris avec tnoi ? oui, je le veux WriteWith, with a[of, pen, by,Ecrire to,] avec De, vne par, plume. d. No,bien.—Will I will not. you Wenot voulez-vous serve in the pas navy ser- ? —With his own hand, De sa propre vir dans la marine S Hon, je ne veux pas. main.—Withcceur—Surrounded all my with heart, the De sea, tout Esivi- mon Je Willle veux Ibien.—What will it, Je le veux—Iyou will, will, Ce ronnb de la mer—To cure a disease que vous voudrez. Religion wills us alstinence.—Whatwith fasting, Guerir shall une I maludicdo with par him P- ? todonne love d'aimer our enemies, nos ennemis. La retigian nous or- thingQueferai-je with another, de lui 4—ToComparer compare une chose one tureWill, tense.]—I [for shall,will come, the sign Je ofviendrai, the fu- d une autre—With a loud voice, A fai dessein de venir Will you come ? hautelarme voix—Withd Pceil, les yeux tears en in pleurs his eyes. With La Viendrez-vousWould, [will « of the mind,] render- that,What A ceswould mots. you have with me ? Que voulais,ed by the je voulus,j'aiverb vouloir. voulu, I jewould, voudrais, Je me voulez-vous $ Que me souhaitez-vous ? je voulusse—I could do it if I would, —Iconfie trust tous you mes with secrets—He all my secrets, finds Je faultvous Jewould pourrais not do le it,faire, before si heje desiredvoulais.—I me, with it, Il y trouve d redire—It is with Je ne vvttlus pas le Jfljire, dvapt qu'il uscomm as with des.Pr/Micais—It the French, Il isen justest deso nouswith GRAMMATICAL DICTIONARY. me,They C'ett are alljuttement one with ce us,qui Im'arrive-— Is sont du i du—He logis.—A is without, fine house II est without, dehors, Une ou horsbelle mtyneother. sentimentEnsemble, que Vun nous avec OneI'autre, with I'un an. maisonWithout, par dehors. conj. [unless,] A mains portant Vautre. outque, yousi ce speak n'est que.—He’llto him, II ne not le do fera it with- pas 187. d moins que vous ne lui parliez. WITHIN, WITHOUT. Within, prep. Dans—To keep with- 188. in the trench, Se tenir dans la tranchee. YOUR, YOURS, possessive pronoun. WithinThis crime a few isdays, within Dans that pen statute,de jours Ce t crime est compris dans cette lot Within stantives,The possessive are as follow:pronouns joined to sub- ourselves,lier.—Enjoy Entre it within nous, yourselves,en noire particu- Jouis- Mon, ma, mes, my. Notre, nos, our. sez-en voire parliculier. Son,Ton, sa,ta, ses,tes, his.thy. Votre,Leur, leurs,vos, of their your in Within,three miles, [to, A totrois the,] mtiles—Within d, With- As, My friend has forgot the customs of an inch of ground, A un doigt de terre. dehiscountry, son pays. Mon ami a oublie lescoutumes —Within,That’s not orwithin within my doors, reach, Au Cela logis n'est When a word begins with a vowel or /» pasA lad metportee portee.—Within du canon.—Within cannon-shot, a while mute,placed theby thefeminine masculine. pronouns Therefore must be re-do smallafter, Quelquematter, tempsA peu aptes.—Within pres.—Within a mininenot write ; butma write,dme, althoughmon dme. dme is fe- reach, A mtme Within and without, The Possessive Pronouns never joined within,Par dedansDe dedans et parWithin dehors.—From these three to Substantives, are as follow : yearsWithout, past, Depuis prep, trois [not ans. with,] Sans, miennes,Le mien, mine. la mienne, les miens, les attendresans que.—Without plus long-temps—l longer staying, remember Sans it thine,Le tien, la tienne, les tiens, les tiennes, sanswithout que yourvous telling,me le Jedisiez m'en Withoutsouviens his,Le her, sien, its. la sienne, les siens, les siennes, book,fail, Sans Sans manque livre, parWithout cceur noise,Without Sour- Le vdtre,notre, lala votre,notre, lesles votres,notres, yours.ours. lies,dement.—They I Is ne sont arepas notexempts without defolies. their fol- as,—TakeLe leur, yourla leur, book, les andleurs, givetheirs me ; hors,Without, en dehors, adv.par [externally,]dehors, de dehors. De. lemine, mien. Prenez See votre my, livre,mine, el its. donnez-moi

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