lately but of that when we meet-though, upon second thoughts, not even then; lest, whilst I condemn and expose his conduct, I shall act counter to that maxim I particularly recommend. Whoever, therefore, and whatever he is, shall remain in silence: for though there may be some use, perhaps, in setting a mark upon the man, for the sake of example, there will be more, however, in sparing him, for the sake of humanity. Farewell. MELMOTH'S PLINY.

SECTION III.

Letter from PLINY to MARCELLINUS on the death of an amiable young woman.

I WRITE this under the utmost oppression of sorrow: the youngest daughter of my friend Fundanus, is dead! Never surely was there a more agreeable, and more amiable young person, or one who better deserved to have enjoyed a long, I had almost said, an immortal life! She had all the wisdom of age and discretion of a matron, joined with youthful sweetness and virgin modesty.

2 With what an engaging fondness did she behave to her father! How kindly and respectfully receive his friends! How affectionately treat all those who, in their respective offices, had the care and education of her! She employed much of her time in reading, in which she discovered great strength of judgment; she indulged herself in few diversions and those with much caution. With what forbearance, with what patience, with what courage, did she endure her last illness!

3 She complied with all the directions of her physicians; she encouraged her sister, and her father; and, when all her strength of body was exhausted, supported herself by the single vigour of her mind. That, indeed, continued, even to her last moments, unbroken by the pain of a long illness, or the terrours of approaching death; and it is a reflection which makes the loss of her so much the more to be lamented. A loss infinitely severe ! and more severe by the particular conjuncture in which it happened!

4 She was contracted to a most worthy youth; the wedding day was fixed, and we were all invited.-How sad a change from the highest joy, to the deepest sorrow! How shall I express the wound that pierced my heart, when I heard Fundanus himself, (as grief is ever finding out circumstances to aggravate its affliction,) ordering the money he had designed to lay out upon clothes and jewels, for her marriage, to be employed in myrrh and spices for her funeral!

5 He is a man of great learning and good sense, who has ' applied himself, from his earliest youth, to the noblest and

most elevated studies: but all the maxims of fortitude which he has received from books, or advanced himself, he now absolutely rejects; and every other virtue of his heart gives place to all a parent's tenderness. We shall excuse, we shall even approve his sorrow, when we consider what he has lost. He has lost a daughter who resembled him in his manners, as well as his person; and exactly copied out all her father.

6 If his friend Marcellinus should think proper to write to him, upon the subject of so reasonable a grief, let me remind him not to use the rougher arguments of consolation, and such as seem to carry a sort of reproof with them; but those of kind and sympathising humanity.

7 Time will render him more open to the dictates of reason for as a fresh wound shrinks back from the hand of the surgeon, but by degrees submits to, and even requires the means of its cure; so a mind, under the first impressions of a misfortune, shuns and rejects all arguments of consolation, but at length, if applied with tenderness, calmly and willingly acquiesces in them. Farewell. MELMOTH'S PLINY.

SECTION IV.

On Discretion.

1 HAVE often thought, if the minds of men were laid open, we should see but little difference between that of a wise man, and that of a fool. 'There are infinite reveries, numberless extravagances, and a succession of vanities, which pass through both. The great difference is, that the first knows how to pick and cull his thought for conversation, by suppressing some, and communicating others; whereas the other lets them all indifferently fly out in words. This sort of discretion, however, has no place in private conversation between intimate friends. On such occasions, the wisest men very often talk like the weakest; for, indeed, talking with a friend, is nothing else than thinking aloud.

2 Tully has therefore very justly exposed a precept, delivered by some ancient writers, That a man should live with his enemy in such a manner, as might leave him room to become his friend; and with his friend, in such a manner, that, if he became his enemy, it should not be in his power to hurt him. The first part of this rule, which regards our behaviour towards an enemy, is indeed very reasonable, as well as very prudential; but the latter part of it, which regards our behaviour towards a friend, savours more of cunning than of discretion and would cut a man off from the greatest pleasures of life, which are the freedoms of conversation with a bosom friend. Besides that, when a friend is turned into an

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enemy, the world is just enough to accuse the perfidiousness of the friend, rather than the indiscretion of the person who confided in him.

3 Discretion does not only show itself in words, but in all Be the circumstances of action; and is like an under-agent of Providence, to guide and direct us in the ordinary concerns of life. There are many more shining qualities in the mind of man, but there is none so useful as discretion. It is this, indeed, which gives a value to all the rest; which sets them at work in their proper times and places; and turns them to the advantage of the person who is possessed of them. Without it, learning is pedantry, and wit impertinence; virtue itself looks like weakness; the best parts only qualify a man to be more sprightly in errours, and active to his own prejudice. 4 Discretion does not only make a man the master of his own parts, but of other men's. The discreet man finds out the talents of those he converses with, and knows how to apply them to proper uses. Accordingly, if we look into particular communities and divisions of men, we may ob serve, that it is the discreet man, not the witty, nor the learned, nor the brave, who guides the conversation, and gives measures to society. A man with great talents, but void of discretion, is like Polyphemus in the fable, strong and blind, endued with an irresistible force, which, for want of sight, is of no use to him.

5 Though a man has all other perfections, yet if he wants discretion, he will be of no great consequence in the world; on the contrary, if he has this single talent in perfection, and but a common share of others, he may do what he pleases in his particular station of life.

6 At the same time that I think discretion the most useful talent a man can be master of, I look upon cunning to be the accomplishment of little, mean, ungenerous minds. Discretion points cut the noblest ends to us, and pursues the most proper and laudable methods of attaining them: cunning has only private selfish aims, and sticks at nothing which may make them succeed.

7 Discretion has large and extended views; and, like a well-formed eye, commands a whole horizon: cunning is a kind of short-sightedness, that discovers the minutest objects which are near at hand, but is not able to discern things at a distance. Discretion, the more it is discovered, gives a greater authority to the person who possesses it cunning, when it is once detected, loses its force, and makes a man incapable of bringing about even those events which he might have done, had he passed only for a plain man.

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8 Discretion is the perfection of reason, and a guide to s in all the duties of life: cunning is a kind of instinct, that o looks out after our immediate interest and welfare. Disc tion is only found in men of strong sense and good und standings: cunning is often to to be met with in brutes the selves; and in persons who are but the fewest removes from» them. In short, cunning is only the mimic of discretio and it may pass upon weak men, in the same manner as vacity is often mistaken for wit, and gravity for wisdom.

9 The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet ma". makes him look forward into futurity, and consider what wa be his condition millions of ages hence, as well as what it i at present. He knows that the misery or happiness which is reserved for him in another world, loses nothing of its rea!ity by being placed at so great a distance from him. The objects do not appear little to him because they are remote. He considers, that those pleasures and pains which lie hid in eternity, approach nearer to him every moment; and w be present with him in their full weight and measure, as much as those pains and pleasures which he feels at this ver instant. For this reason, he is careful to secure to himsel that which is the proper happiness of his nature, and the nltimate design of his being.

10 He carries his thoughts to the end of every action, and considers the most distant, as well as the most immediate ef fects of it. He supersedes every little prospect of gain an advantage which offers itself here, if he does not find it cou sistent with his views of a hereafter. In a word, his hopes are full of immortality; his schemes are large and glorious; and his conduct suitable to one who knows his true intere and how to pursue it by proper methods.

On the government of our thoughts.

ADDISC

A MULTITUDE of cases occur, in which we are no less accountable for what we think, than for what we do. As, first, when the introduction of any train of thought depends upon ourselves, and is our voluntary act, by turning our attention towards such objects, awakening such passions, or engaging in such employments, as we know must give a peculiar determination to our thoughts. Next, when thoughts, by whatever accident they may have been originally suggested, are indulged with deliberation and complacency.

2 Though the mind has been passive in their reception, and, therefore free from blame; yet, if it be active in their continuance, the guilt becomes its own. They may have

intruded at first, like unbidden guests; but if, when entered, they are made welcome, and kindly entertained, the case is the same as if they had been invited from the beginning.

3 If we are thus accountable to God for thoughts either voluntarily introduced, or deliberately indulged, we are no less so. in the last place, for those which find admittance into our hearts from supine negligence, from total relaxation of attention, from allowing our imagination to rove with entire license," like the eyes of the fool, towards the end of the earth."

4 Our minds are, in this case, thrown open to folly and vanity. They are prostituted to every evil thing which pleases to take possession. The consequences must be all charged to our account; and in vain we plead excuse from human infirmity. Hence it appears, that the great object at which we are to aim in governing our thoughts, is, to take the most effectual measures for preventing the introduction of such as are sinful; and for hastening their expulsion, if they shall have introduced themselves without consent of the will.

5 But when we descend into our breasts, and examine how far we have studied to keep this object in view, who can tell, "how oft he hath offended?" In no article of religion or morals are men more culpably remiss, than in the unrestrained indulgence they give to fancy: and that too, for the most part, without remorse. Since the time that reason began to exert her powers, thought, during our walking hours, nas been active in every breast, without a moment's suspension or pause.

6 The current of ideas has been always flowing. The wheels of the spiritual engine have circulated with perpetual motion. Let me ask, what has been the fruit of this incessant activity, with the greater part of mankind? Of the innumerable hours that have been employed in thought, how few are marked with any permanent or useful effect? How many have either passed away in idle dreams; or have been abandoned to anxious discontented musings, to unsocial and malignant passions, or to irregular and criminal desires?

7 Had I power to lay open that storehouse of iniquity which the hearts of too many conceal; could I draw out and read to them a list of all the imaginations they have devised, and all the passions they have indulged in secret; what a picture of men should I present to themselves! What crimes would they appear to have perpetrated in secrecy, which to their most intimate companions they durst not reveal!

8 Even when men imagine their thoughts to be innocently employed, they too commonly suffer them to run out into extravagant imaginations, and chimerical plans of what they