war-horse. His battles were fought in chariots, and his horses bore a conspicuous part in the glory of the frays. The following four lines in Pope's translation of Homer, are horribly picturesque :

"The horses' hoofs are bath'd in human gore,
And, dashing, purple all the car before;

The groaning axle sable drops distils,

And mangled carnage clogs the rapid wheels."

The three last lines in the following stanza, being part of Maurice's ode to Mithra, give as magnificent a description of the war-horse, as perhaps can be found any where except in the book of Job:

"Instant a thousand trumpets sound,
A thousand chiefs in arms appear,
And high their glittering banners bear;
The harness'd steed responsive neighs,
And while his footsteps spurn the ground,
His eye-balls burn, his nostrils blaze."

In the last line of all, the poet probably had his eye upon this passage in Job-" The glory of his nostrils is terrible."

My intention in making these splendid quotations is not so much, however, to eulogize the horse, as to vindicate him from the unfeeling cruelty of man.

The horse, in his wild state, while traversing the forests of Asia, is represented by travellers as being the happiest of animals; living perpetually in the society of his kind and in the enjoyment of freedom and plenty. Freedom is not, however, one of the rights of his nature. He is destined to come under the dominion of man, and to minister to the service and to the pomp and pageantry of this lord of the lower creation. Man has a charter right to this animal from the registry of heaven. He has a right to use him as not abusing him; to be his lord and master, but not his unfeeling tyrant. And it might have been expected that the superior excellence of this creature, his wonderful usefulness, the beauty of his form and the nobleness of his nature, would have protected him from wanton cruelty: and vet there is no animal else that men are in the habit of

treating so cruelly. The noxious animals have their lives taken from them at once. Few possess the ferociousness of disposition that would delight to put to death a fox, or even a wolf, by lingering tortures. But the horse experiences this horrible treatment from the hands of man, in a thousand instances. Backed, or driven by an unfeeling human monster-in the attire perhaps of a gentleman-his sides are goaded with the spur, or his flanks lashed with the whip, till he faints, falls, and expires in dumb agony: and then he is substituted by another, and that by another yet; which, each in his turn, are tortured to death-and that, not to save human life, but for the sake of conveying with unrivalled speed, a speech, or an article of news, that would suffer no damage though it arrived a few hours latter.

What would a disciple of Pythagoras say in this case? or what would he say in innumerable other cases of unfeeling barbarity used towards a creature so estimable for its usefulness, his faithfulness, and his courage? Assuredly he would say, "These christians will have their reward. In the next stage of their existence, they will be compelled to do penance in the bodily form of the animal they have so wantonly abused." But, fiction apart, we are fully assured, upon divine authority, that without mercifulness of disposition and conduct, we are not entitled the expectation of finding mercy; and that "a merciful man, is merciful to his beast."

Mark this! There is no worse sign, in children, nor any thing more necessary to be nipt in the bud, than a strong propensity to exercise cruelty upon the brute creatures within their power. It was the sport of Nero's boyhood, to impale flies upon the point of a needle; of his manhood, it was the sport, to inflict every kind torture upon his fellow beings.

CHAP. LI.

Of the folly of trying to please every body.

THERE is a happy medium betwixt the heartless disposition to please nobody, and the absurd aim to please every body; and fortunate are they who find this middle line, and keep to it so steadily as seldom to run into the extreme on either side.

It is no good sign to be indifferent with respect to what the world thinks or says of us, since it would argue either a fulness of pride or a total lack of sensibility. This would be the character of such indifference, were it real; but, in truth, it is mere affectation or pretence. If we except those that are at the very bottom of the scale of human life, and only a small proportion even of them, it may be fairly concluded that no man nor woman, is altogether indifferent about the good or bad opinion of fellow beings. So far from it, the few who lay claim to this unamiable distinction, have been found, generally speaking, peculiarly rancourous and vindictive toward such as had merely spoken disrespectfully of their talents. No authors, for example, have writhed with more agony under the merited lash of criticism, or been more jealous and vindictive, than some of those who pretended to look down with cold scorn upon the whole fraternity of critics.

Social qualities and feelings are among the primitive ingredients of our nature, and to divest ourselves of them would be to divest ourselves of humanity itself. They are rather to be cherished and cultivated, every way, and by all lawful means. It is not only right but laudable, to wish to be generally esteemed and beloved -to cultivate friendship-to avoid giving unnecessary offence and to conform to the feelings and customs of those about us, so far as may be done with a good conscience, and consistently with one's personal circumstances. It is not only right but laudable, to make it a part of our own pleasure to please others; and when we are compelled to differ with them, to do it, if possible, without rancour or bitterness.

There is such a thing as a union of condescension and firmness; and a happy thing it is. To condescend in things indifferent, in things trivial, in things that touch not the conscience, nor seriously harm or endanger one's earthly interest and welfare; and meanwhile to go not a step farther for any persuasion whatever ; no, not to please one's nearest friends-that is the gold

en mean.

As some pretend to care for none, there are those who, on the other hand, try to please all, by becoming— not in its best sense- "all things to all men." Some do it from selfish designs altogether; and others from a too yielding temper. These last cannot bear, in any case, to be opposed or to oppose: and so they readily fall in with the sentiments and views of their present company, and side with every man they meet. Often this pliability of mind or temper is owing to a sort of amiable weakness, but it is destructive of all respectability of character.

I know not how to illustrate this point better than by the following story, which as to substance and pith, may be regarded as undoubtedly true.

Some very long time since, Parson M, of Massachusetts (then a British colony,) being at Boston, bought him a wig there, and returning home, wore it at church the next sabbath. As a wig of such a size and shape was quite a novelty in that obscure place, it gave offence to almost the whole congregation, who, both male and female, repaired the next day to their minister's house, and stated their complaint, the burden of which was, that the wig was one of the Boston notions, and had the look of fashion and pride. The good-natured minister, thereupon, brought it forth, and bade them fashion it to their own liking. This task they set about in good earnest, and with help of scissors, cropped off lock after lock, till at last they all declared themselves satisfied--save one,-who alleged, that wearing any wig at all, was in his opinion, a breach of the commandment, which saith, "Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath." This last objector Mr. M- silenced, by

convincing him that the wig, in the condition it then was, did not resemble any thing either above or below. Even so fares it with the characters that make it their aim to please every body. Slashed on this side and on that, and twisted into every shape and out of all shape, they finally come to the condition of his reverence's wig.

CHAP. LII.

A comment upon a celebrated Allegory of Antiquity.

A CELEBRATED ancient philosopher of the pagan school, has represented human nature under the similitude or analogy of a chariot drawn by two horses; the one, of excellent mettle and lively motion; and the other sluggish and obstinate: so that while the former sprung forward, his mate hung back. And it must be owned, there is a striking aptness in this little allegory.

Of all the animals in the whole living world, none are seen to act inconsistently, but those of Adam's race.— The lower animals, acting from what we call blind instinct, are nevertheless, uniform and consistent in their conduct; while ourselves, who proudly lay claim to the high endownments of Reason, run into inconsistencies and absurdities every day of our lives. We know the right, and approve it; we see the wrong, and condemn it and after all, very often the right we reject or forsake, and the wrong we pursue.

This marvellous phenomenon, namely, the disjointed condition of human nature and the perpetual variance of man with himself, has been plainly visible in all ages; and oft has mole-eyed philosophy puzzled herself in vain to account for it. It used to be thought by the engrossers of the wisdom of this world, that the mind and the body were unequally yoked together; that the former, being of a celestial mould, was naturally inclined to mount upward, and that the latter ever checked the noble flights of its yoke-fellow, forcing it back to kindred earth. The wise son of Sirach seems to have