of his noble patron, the Earl: he thus speaks of this loss to the arts, “Death has put an end to that life that had been the support, the cherisher, and comfort of many, many others, who are left to lament, but none more heartily than Vertue."

In 1743 he was a little revived by being honoured with the Duke of Norfolk's notice, and his modest merit raised him many friends. The widow of the Earl of Oxford alleviated as much as lay in her power the loss of her Lord, and their daughter, the Duchess of Portland, became to him a munificent patroness. The late Prince of Wales, father to his present Majesty, employed him to collect whatever related to English antiquity; and Vertue was delighted to see his fate linked with a revival of the arts he best loved: he was useful to an accomplished Prince, but a silent foe soon drew a veil over his comfort. 66 Unhappy day!" he exclaims on the

A weakness in his sight increasing, the loss of his noble friends, and those who survived not encouraging him as they had been used to do, he became dejected and melancholy, but his piety, mildness, and ingenuity, remained unaltered, and he laboured to the last in order to leave a decent competence to a wife with whom he had lived many years in the most tender harmony. He died July the 24th, and was buried in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey. In his religion he was a strict Roman Catholic, but those principles never warped his attachment to the arts. His partiality to Charles I. did not clash much with his religion, but no artist has ever preserved more monuments of Queen Elizabeth; whatever relates to her history he records with the most patriotic fondness, and all her heroes were his his candour could reconcile toleration with Popery.

FEAR is a solitary sentiment with which nature has endowed every animal to insure their preservation. There is not a reasonable being in existence but has some dread of danger, and he who has not must be either a fool or a madman. But the effects of fear are as various as the differences of disposition, and it is the manner of shewing it that distinguishes bravery from cowardice, and places an immense barrier between them.

When the brave find themselves in a perilous situation fear recals their strength, commands their sangfroid, animates their souls, assists them to discover means and resources, and greatly diminishes the danger by the good use they make of their intellects. Cowards, on the contrary, lose their presence of mind, their faculties are benumbed, and they increase the danger by the efforts they make to avoid it.

In the sangfroid that stamps a man's character with bravery, there is a ground of natural confidence in one's self, and he who does not esteem himself will never

confidence. Courage that has been tried is always the most certain; like skill it improves by perseverance. In children it may be cultivated by exposing them with yourself, first to small dangers, and afterwards to greater, shewing them how they may with presence of mind avoid peril, Raise imaginary dangers, and let them form projects of defence; then try them, and see if the agitation arising from fear will make them forget their project of defence. If this happens it must be repeated to them, and they must be convinced of the security of the plan they had formed if it had been carried into effect. The child will then be persuaded that he has been useful to you, and this will make him confident in his own abilities, which is the basis on which rests courage. Progressive experience will accustom him to it, and the effervescence of youth will carry him through it with success; but he must be in some degree curbed, or he will perhaps fall into rashness, which, being once unsuccessful, would make him return to cow

power of honour, you will in this manner conduct him by degrees to view danger in a proper light, and he will grow up a courageous man.

When your child's courage is formed with respect to himself, and that it never forsakes him in unforeseen cases, you will have only one step more to make to apply this courage to the service of others, and which, according to circumstances, leads to generosity, magnanimity, and heroic valour.

A sentiment natural to man, at least as much so as fear, which it often triumphs over, is the first element which, joined with courage, produces its virtues. This sentiment is compassion. All men are moved by its influence, so much so, that they will always expose themselves more or less to save their fellow-creatures from danger. In a moment of compassion the most selfish man thinks no more of himself. The risk he runs being, or appearing to him uncertain, cannot be put in competition with the inevitable danger with which he sees his fellow-creature menaced, and the stronger sentiment overcoming the weaker he devotes himself, or acts as if he did.

It appears from this that it is not the greatest service a man can receive to risk one's life for him; it is done every day for those that are perfectly indifferent to us, sometimes even for enemies, without feeling more affection for them. The man who would sacrifice his most favourite passion to the peace of others would be infinitely more generous; but it is not of this species of generosity that we mean to treat, it is of that courage opposed to fear which is employed for the service of others.

Habit augments this courage, as all praiseworthy customs increase the sentiment from which they spring. This habit does not dissimulate danger, but it adds to coolness, prudence, and activity, which renders it less to be dreaded, and are the principal ingredients which enter into the composition of courage, or the manner which brave men conduct themselves in perilous situations.

We learn by experience that there are other dangers besides physical ones; compassion, love, and justice are also moved at moral dangers. We resist iniquity and

intrigue, and our disposition becomes more elevated.

Another sentiment augments this elevation; this sentiment is honour. All men wish to be esteemed; many think it absolutely necessary.

This desire can only be accomplished by rendering services to others, for we seldom love those who have never been of use to us; or as the fear of cowards can be put to no good purpose, every man wishes to appear brave. A great many pretend they have never felt the influence of terror; this must have arisen from their having wrongfully analized these sensations; for why do they avoid the falling of a stone, or the overturning of a cart? However, the wish of being thought courageous impels many people to brave not only uncertain but imminent dangers. There are men who, though great cowards, spurred on by honour, transport their cowardice in the midst of perils, and support the appearance of courage so well, that did not the anxiety of their minds betray itself no one could dive into their

secret.

These unfortunate people are not brave; but it is not their fault, for no one can say they are not men of honour, and they might have acquired some degree of cou rage had they been well educated.

The being who rushes into unexpected dangers to relieve a fellow-creature may not be naturally courageous; may possess no sangfroid, and lose his intrepidity in a case of long foreseen perils; he is then only a feeling man, though not less interesting, affected by a striking scene.

Who, then, is blessed with true courage? It is he who, having increased by habit and experience the self-confidence with which nature had endowed him, remains collected in the midst of dangers, chooses the best means of avoiding them, and equally free from weakness and temerity, weighs and compares his powers and his faculties, and feeling they have not been bestowed upon him for his own use alone, applies them, through the inspiration of instinct, reason, and justice, to the relief of the oppressed; and who, conceiving the esteem of mankind to be the most precious good, looks upon his existence, the valus

1 am far from happy: my time hangs so heavy on my hands that I am devoured with the spleen. I am half inclined to believe the truth of that saying, that no lot can be more dreadful than that of a young woman condemned to pass three years, if she would wish to appear correct, in a state of widowhood. . My deceased husband, who was picked out for me by my parents, was neither young nor very agreeable in his person but he was always kind and obliging. Never did I experience from him the smallest contradiction, however, unreasonable my demands, or misplaced my capricious requests. This behaviour, as rare as it is meritorious in a husband, lasted not only through the first six months of our union, according to long established custom, but he continued to preserve the same conduct towards me till I had the misfortune of losing him. Can it then be a matter of surprise when I inform you, that I most deeply and sincerely lamented his death? The first year of my mourning I passed in the country, almost without society. Constantly dressed in black from head to feet, sad and melancholy, I saw only my own servants, my tenants, and the Mayor of the neighbouring provincial town, a most respectable man, upwards of sixty years of age.

The next year, I quitted my country retreat, where every thing recalled to my mind only the most painful recollections, and I purchased a small cottage ornée about ten miles distance from the metropolis: there I began to receive and return the visits of my neighbours, but not very frequently, and I only observed this conduct to avoid the stigma of affectation, which certain charitable people had already began to accuse me of. I changed also my weeds, which I had vowed eternally to wear, and wore by turns black, white, and grey, and at length confined myself entirely to white. If I still continued to wear my widow's cap, it was because a very agreeable young gentleman told me how extremely interesting it made me look. Indeed, I must say, it gave additional softness to a skin almost transparently fair, and a pair of fine blue eyes fringed with long dark silken lashes.

I still felt, however, at the bottom of my heart, a grief that seemed incapable of

admitting any cure; but, nevertheless, I began to think less of the past, and my thoughts became occupied in forming plans for the future. One of my relations wrote to me, informing me that his daughter was going to be married, and that my company at her wedding could not be dispensed with. At first I refused the invitation, but the young bride elect came herself to tear me away from my dear cottage. She gave me such a brilliant account of her dresses and her jewels, and drew such a lively picture of the happiness she was about to enjoy with the husband of her choice, that I could no longer refuse to be present at her wedding. It was the beginning of the fashionable winter in London, and we set off together: the head of my young companion seemed absolutely turned with her fine clothes, the different routs and public places she had visited, and the numerous invitations she had received to balls, &c. She had been all her time before at either a fashionable boarding-school, or at the country seat of her grandfather, whose darling she was, and who was expected to add to her already immense fortune, several thousand pounds. Notwithstanding the deep tinge of melancholy yet cast over my whole demeanour, I found myself in a manner compelled to share in her amusements and adopt her taste in my attire. Every day I found myself surrounded by my different relatives and alliances, and consequently, my spirits rose in proportion as I was considered and made much of. The dress of my cousin Caroline, without being more elegant than my own, was more costly, or at least it may be said it was more studied, and her husband seemed delighted in encouraging her to eclipse every other woman by the richness of her attire. At first sight her youth, her early bloom, and the beauty of her person, gave her every ascendancy over me; but when our separate attrac tions came to be known, the balance was evidently in my favour: for as soon as it was known that my young kinswoman had been married two months, that she almost idolized her husband, and that he felt for her a mutual adoration, the attentions of the gentlemen towards her considerably diminished, and the young fops of fashion, who had before paid her unceasing homage, now fluttered round me, and seemed