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defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise is gone! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honour, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil, by losing all its grossness.
VIII.-LIYING TO ONE'S SELF. What I mean by living to one's self is, living in the world, as in it, not of it; it is as if no one knew there was such a person,
wished no one to know it: it is to be a silent spectator of the mighty scene of things, not an object of attention or curiosity in it; to take a thoughtful, anxious interest in what is passing in the world, but not to feel the slightest inclination to make or meddle with it. It is such a life as a pure spirit might be supposed lead, and such an interest as it might take in the affairs of mencalm, contemplative, passive, distant, touched with pity for their sorrows, smiling at their follies without bitterness, sharing their affections, but not troubled by their passions, not seeking their notice, nor once dreamed of by them. He who lives wisely to himself and to his own heart, looks at the busy world through the loopholes of retreat, and does not want to mingle in the fray. “ He hears the tumult and is still.” He is not able to mend it, nor willing to mar it. He sees enough in the universe to interest him, without putting himself forward to try what he can do to fix the
eyes of the universe upon him. Vain the attempt! He reads the clouds, he looks at the stars, he watches the return of the seasons, the falling leaves of autumn, the perfumed breath of spring, starts with delight at the note of a thrush in a copse near him, sits by the fire, listens to the moaning of the wind, pores upon a book, or discourses the freezing hours away, or melts down hours to minutes in pleasing thought. All this while he is taken up with other things,
forgetting himself. He relishes an author's style, without thinking of turning author. He is fond of looking at a print from an old picture in the room, without teasing himself to copy it. He does not fret himself to death with trying to be what he is not, or to do what he cannot. He hardly knows what he is capable of, and is not in the least concerned, whether he shall ever make a figure in the world. He looks out of himself at the wide extended prospect of nature, and takes an interest beyond his narrow pretensions in general humanity. He is free as air, and independent as the wind. Woe be to him when he first begins to think what others say of him. While a man is contented with himself and his own resources, all is well. When he undertakes to play a part on the stage, and to persuade the world to think more about him than they do about themselves, he is got into a track where he will find nothing but briers and thorns, vexation and disappointment.
The quality of mercy is not strain'd;
re shows the force of temporal pow's,
X.DESCRIPTION OF QUEEN MAB.
Oh, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
XI. PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF CATO
To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd,
Britons ! attend! Be worth like this approv'd ;
XII.-CATO'S SOLILOQUY. It must be so -Plato, thou reason'st well! Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality? Or whence this sacred dread, and inward horror, Of falling into nought ? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us : 'Tis Heav'n itself that points out an hereafter, And intimates_Eternity to man. Eternity! thou pleasing-dreadful thought! Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ! The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a Pow'r above us, (And that there is, all Nature cries aloud Through all her works), He mast delight in virtue; And that which He delights in must be happyBut when? or where? This world_was made for Cæsar. I'm weary of conjectures—this must end them—
[Laying his hand on his sword.] Thus am I doubly arm’d. My death and life,