Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know, No sounds, alas! would touch the' impervious ear, The watchful guests still hint the last offence, New sorrow rises as the day returns, But few there are whom hours like these await, In life's last scene what prodigies surprise, From Marlborough's eyes the streams of dotage flow, What care, what rules, your heedless charms shall save, Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find? Must dull Suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, No cries invoke the mercies of the skies? Which Heaven may hear; nor deem religion vain. But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice. And makes the happiness she does not find. THE VANITY OF WEALTH. No more, thus brooding o'er yon heap, 302 SELECTIONS FROM GOLDSMITH. ESSAYS. PITY AND FRIENDSHIP INCOMPATIBLE. It is usually said by grammarians, that the use of language is to express our wants and desires; but men who know the world hold, and, I think, with some show of reason, that he who best knows how to keep his necessities private, is the most likely person to have them redressed; and that the true use of speech is not so much to express our wants, as to conceal them. When we reflect on the manner in which mankind generally confer their favours, there appears something so attractive in riches, that the large heap generally collects from the smaller; and the poor find as much pleasure in increasing the enormous mass of the rich, as the miser, who owns it, sees happiness in its increase. Nor is there in this any thing repugnant to the laws of morality. Seneca himself allows, that, in conferring benefits, the present should always be suited to the dignity of the receiver. Thus, the rich receive large presents, and are thanked for accepting them. Men of middling stations are obliged to be content with presents something less; while the beggar, who may be truly said to want indeed, is well paid if a farthing rewards his warmest solicitations. Every man who has seen the world, and has had his ups and downs in life, as the expression is, must have frequently experienced the truth of this doctrine; and must know, that to have much, or to seem to have it, is the only way to have more. Ovid finely compares a man of broken fortune to a falling column; the lower it sinks, the greater weight it is obliged to sustain. Thus, when a man's circumstances are such that he has no occasion to borrow, he finds numbers willing to lend him; but, should his wants be such that he ṣues for a trifle, it is two to one whether he may be trusted with the smallest sum. A certain young fellow whom I knew, whenever he had occasion to ask his friend for a guinea, used to prelude his request as if he wanted two hundred; and talked so familiarly of large sums, that none could ever think he wanted a small one. The same gentleman, whenever he wanted credit for a suit of clothes, always made the proposal in a laced coat; for he found by experience, that, if he appeared shabby on these occasions, his tailor had taken an oath against trusting; or, what was every whit as bad, his foreman was out of the way, and would not be at home for some time. There can be no inducement to reveal our wants except to find pity, and, by this means, relief; but before a poor man opens his mind in such circumstances, he should first consider whether he is contented to lose the esteem of the person he solicits, and whether he is willing to give up friendship to excite compassion. Pity and friendship are passions incompatible with each other; and it is impossible that both can reside in any breast, for the smallest space, without impairing each other. Friendship is made up of esteem and pleasure; pity is composed of sorrow and contempt: the mind may, for some time, fluctuate between them, but it can never entertain both at once. In fact, pity, though it may often relieve, is but at best a short-lived passion, and seldom affords distress more than transitory assistance: with some it scarcely lasts from the first impulse till the hand can be put into the pocket; with others, it may continue for twice that space; and, on some of extraordinary sensibility, I have seen it operate for half an hour together: but still, last as it may, it generally produces but beggarly effects; and where from this motive we give five farthings, from others we give pounds. Whatever be our feelings from the first impulse of distress, when the same distress solicits a second time, we then feel with diminished sensibility; and, like the repetition of an echo, every stroke becomes weaker; till, at last, our sensations lose all mixture of sorrow, and degenerate into downright contempt. These speculations bring to my mind the fate of a very good-natured fellow, who is now no more. He was bred in a counting-house, and his father, dying just as he was out of his time, left him a handsome fortune and many friends to advise with. The restraint in which my friend had been brought up, had thrown a gloom upon his temper, which some regarded as prudence; and, from such considerations, he had, every day, repeated offers of friendship. Such as had money, were ready to offer him their |