Drawing the deeper to a lighter stain, Bringing the highest to the deep'st again. fellow, THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE. [Sir Richard Steele, born in Dublin, 1671; died at The blue with watchet, green and red with Llangunnor, near Caermarthen, Wales, 1st September, yellow; Like to the changes which we daily see Where none can say (tho' he it strict attends), Using such cunning as they did dispose eye Could not the manner of their mixtures spy. Then with those flowers they most of all did prize (With all their skill and in most curious wise And that the after world should strive in vain As of their songs, so of their lives they deem'd, ever, But as life was ordain'd they might persevere. With poverty in love we only close The hatred which they bore was only this, That every one did hate to do amiss. Their fortune still was subject to their will: Their want (O, happy!) was the want of ill. 1729. He is distinguished as the first of the British periodical essayists." He originated the Tatler, and of its 271 numbers he wrote 164; and Addison wrote 36. The Spectator, Guardian, Rambler, and other periodicals, were subsequently published on the model of the Tatier. Few men have acted so many different parts in life: he was a soldier, a writer of comedies, and the author of The Christian Hero-composed, it is said, chiefly for his own edification; he was a member of parliament, a commissioner of forfeited estates in Scotland (1715), and the patentee of the Royal Company of Comedians. The following is an excellent summary of his character and life: "Steele was one of the most amiable and one of the most improvident of men. His precepts were far better than his practice; his principles proved no match for his tastes. Often sinning, often repenting, always good natured, and generally in debt, he multiplied troubles as few men will, and bore them better than most men can."] Charity is a virtue of the heart, and not of the hands, says an old writer. Gifts and alms are the expressions, not the essence, of this virtue. A man may bestow great sums on the poor and indigent without being charitable, and may be charitable when he is not able to bestow anything. Charity is therefore a habit of good-will, or benevolence, in the soul, which disposes us to the love, assistance, and relief of mankind, especially of those who stand in need of it. The poor man who has this excellent frame of mind is no less entitled to the reward of this virtue than the man who founds a college. For my own part, I am charitable to an extravagance this way. I never saw an indigent person in my life without reaching out to him some of this imaginary relief. I cannot but sympathize with every one I meet that is in affliction; and if my abilities were equal to my wishes, there should be neither pain nor poverty in the world. To give my reader a right notion of myself in this particular, I shall present him with the secret history of one of the most remarkable parts of my life. I was once engaged in search of the philosopher's stone. It is frequently observed of men who have been busied in this pursuit, that though they have failed in their principal design, they have however made such discoveries in their way to it as have sufficiently recompensed their inquiries. In the same manner, though I cannot boast of my success in that affair, I do not repent of my engaging in it, because it produced in my mind such an habitual exercise of charity as made it much better than perhaps it would have been had I never been lost in so pleasing a delusion. As I did not question but I should soon have a new Indies in my possession, I was perpetually taken up in considering how to turn it to the benefit of mankind. In order to it I employed a whole day in walking about this great city to find out proper places for the erection of hospitals. I had likewise entertained that project, which has since succeeded in another place, of building churches at the court-end of the town, with this only difference, that instead of fifty, I intended to have built a hundred, and to have seen them all finished in less than one year. I had with great pains and application got together a list of all the French Protestants; and, by the best accounts I could come at, had calculated the value of all those estates and effects which every one of them had left in his own country for the sake of his religion, being fully determined to make it up to him, and return some of them double of what they had lost. As I was one day in my laboratory, my operator, who was to fill my coffers for me, and used to foot it from the other end of the town every morning, complained of a sprain in his leg that he had met with over-against St. Clement's Church. This so affected me, that as a standing mark of my gratitude to him, and out of compassion to the rest of my fellow-citizens, I resolved to new-pave every street within the liberties, and entered a memorandum in my pocket-book accordingly. About the same time I entertained some thoughts of mending all the highways on this side the Tweed, and of making all the rivers, in England navigable. But the project I had most at heart was the settling upon every man in Great Britain three pounds a year (in which sum may be comprised, according to Sir William Pettit's observations, all the necessities of life), leaving to them what ever else they could get by their own industry to lay out on superfluities. I was above a week debating in myself what I should do in the matter of impropriations, but at length came to a resolution to buy them all up, and restore them to the church. As I was one day walking near St. Paul's, I took some time to survey that structure, and not being entirely satisfied with it, though I could not tell why, I had some thoughts of pulling it down, and building it up anew at my own expense. For my own part, as I have no pride in me, I intended to take up with a coach and six, half a dozen footmen, and live like a private gentleman. It happened about this time that public matters looked very gloomy, taxes came hard, the war went on heavily, people complained of the great burdens that were laid upon them. This made me resolve to set aside one morning to consider seriously the state of the nation. I was the more ready to enter on it, because I was obliged, whether I would or no, to sit at home in my morning-gown, having, after a most incredible expense, pawned a new suit of clothes, and a full-bottomed wig, for a sum of money, which my operator assured me was the last he should want to bring all our matters to bear. After having considered many projects, I at length resolved to beat the common enemy at his own weapons, and laid a scheme which would have blown him up in a quarter of a year had things succeeded to my wishes. As I was in this golden dream somebody knocked at my door. I opened it, and found it was a messenger that brought me a letter from the laboratory. The fellow looked so miserably poor that I was resolved to make his fortune before he delivered his message. But seeing he brought a letter from my operator, I concluded I was bound to it in honour, as much as a prince is, to give a reward to one that brings him the first news of a victory. I knew this was the long-expected hour of projection, and which I had waited for with great impatience above half a year before. In short, I broke open my letter in a transport of joy, and found it as follows: "SIR,-After having got out of you everything you can conveniently spare, I scorn to trespass upon your generous nature, and therefore must ingenuously confess to you that I know no more of the philosopher's stone than you do. I shall only tell you for your comfort. that I could never yet bubble a blockhead out of his money. They must be men of wit and parts who are for my purpose. This made me ingenuity. How I have succeeded you yourapply myself to a person of your wealth and self can best tell.-Your humble Servant to command, "THOMAS WHITE. "I have locked up the laboratory, and laid the key under the door." I was very much shocked at the unworthy treatment of this man, and not a little mortified at my disappointment, though not so much for what I myself as what the public suffered by it. I think, however, I ought to let the world know what I designed for them, and hope that such of my readers who find they had a share in my good intentions will accept of the will for the deed. TOWN AND COUNTRY; AN ODE. IMITATED FROM HORACE. Oh! well may poets make a fuss My heart is all at pant to rest What joy have I in June's return? But faint the flagging zephyr springs, And turns me "dust to dust." My sun his daily course renews His setting shows more tamely still, But down a chimney's pot! Oh! but to hear the milkmaid blithe; The dewy meads among!-- Oh! but to smell the woodbine sweet! For meadow-buds I get a whiff How tenderly Rousseau review'd I hunt in vain for eglantine, That marks the Bell and Crown! Where are ye, birds! that blithely wing My blackbird is a sweep! Where are ye, linnet, lark, and thrush! That perch on leafy bough and bush, And tune the various song? Two hurdy-gurdists, and a poor Street-Handel grinding at my door Are all my "tuneful throng." Where are ye, early-purling streams, Whose waves reflect the morning-beams And colours of the skies? My rills are only puddle-drains From shambles, or reflect the stains Of calimanco-dyes! Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones:Not thus the city streamlets flow; They make no music as they go, Though never "off the stones." Where are ye, pastoral pretty sheep, And skin-not shear-the lambs. The pipe whereon, in olden day, But merely breathes unwholesome fumes, The rank weed-"piping hot." All rural things are vilely mock'd, An Ingram's rustic chair! Where are ye, London meads and bowers, Wherein the zephyr wons? No pastoral scenes procure me peace; No cot set round with trees: Oh! well may poets make a fuss My heart is all at pant to rest THOMAS HOOD.1 1 It will interest the admirers of the author of The Song of the Shirt to know, on the authority of his son, that the former always signed his name Thomas Hood, and the latter always Tom Hood. This distinction removes any difficulty there might be in identifying the works of the father from those of the son. |