Towful at the spectacle, or showing the least signs of pity towards the corpse.

The body was no sooner exposed and hung upon the wall, than the mother, who was in possession of the head, positively enjoined her surviving son to take down his brother's body, and bring it to her. In vain he endeavoured to persuade her from such a thought; in vain he represented to her the danger of the attempt. The more he seemed to refuse, the more she persisted in her demand. Her passion even carried her so far, as to threaten, in case of his disobedience, to throw herself at the feet of Rhamsinitus, and to discover to him the remaining thief that had robbed his treasury.

The son, finding every expostulation and every reasonable argument fruitless, resolved to undertake the hazardous enterprize. To this purpose he loaded several asses with skins filled with wine, and driving them towards the place where the guards were posted, he privately broke some of the skins, and let the wine flow about as it might. The guards, who were near enough to perceive the disaster, immediately run with pots to catch the wine and drink it. The owner, with the utmost vehemence, implored them to desist. They were as deaf as he wished them to all his intreaties. Instead of assisting him they only helped to consume his store. By this means they presently became intoxicated; which he perceiving resolved to pursue his conquest; and pretending in a sudden fit of good-humour to be contented with his loss, and to be pleased with their company, sat down amongst them, and generously opened a fresh skin of wine for their drinking. This had the desired effect; they all fell into the depth of drunkenness, and lay dead asleep upon the pavement. Finding each of them sufficiently dosed, he took down his brother's dead body, and by way of triumphal derision shaved every soldier upon the right cheek; then carrying away the corpse upon one of his asses, he brought it to his mother, in filial obedience to her unreasonable request.

So far Herodotus seems to believe the story true; nor, indeed, is it quite beyond the bounds of probability. Herodotus doubts the sequel, but continues the narration to this purpose.

Rhamsinitus, more and more disappointed and enraged at this new and insolent artifice, resolved at any rate, even at the dearest, to purchase the discovery of so dextrous, so bold, and so successful an offender. He ordered his daughter to prostitute herself in the regal palace to all comers indifferently, on those conditions, that every person should first swear to discover to her the most iniquitous actions of his life. The thief, who well knew to what purpose such a strange prostitution, accompanied by such extraordinary injunctions, had been made, resolved once more to elude the deep designs of the Egyptian monarch. He cut off the arm from the body of a man newly expired, and put it under his cloak, carrying it with him in that concealment to the daughter of Rhamsinitus. At his arrival he was sworn and questioned in the manner he expected, that the most iniquitous action he had ever done was cutting off his brother's head in

the treasury; and that his most subtle, was his method of intoxicating the guards, and conveying away his brother's corpse while they were asleep. The princess immediately endeavoured to seize him. The chamber was dark, and being favoured by that obscurity, he left the dead hand in hers; and while she thought she held him fast, he withdrew himself from her, and fortunately made his escape out of the palace.

This new event had a new effect upon the king. He was resolved to pardon him; and caused a proclamation to be published, that if he would discover himself, he should not only receive pardon, but a very great reward from Rhamsinitus. In reliance upon the royal promise, the thief came to the palace, and made an ample discovery of himself and of his transactions; and Rhamsinitus, according to his declaration, not only pardoned him, but gave to him in marriage the princess his only daughter.

Allowing the truth of those last circumstances, I mean the pardon and the marriage, I must own I think the behaviour of Rhamsinitus much more honourable and prince-like than the behaviour of Pope Sextus Quintus, in consequence of a declaration he had published, to forgive and reward the author of a pasquinade. The story, as I remember to have read it in Gregoria Leti, is this:

Pasquin appeared one day in a dirty shirt. Marforio asked him why his linen was so dirty. His answer was, "Because the Pope has made my laundress a princess." Sextus Quintus was of extreme low birth; he had even been a hog-driver. His sister to get her bread had been a laundress. On the brother's promotion to the papal chair, the sister was exalted to the high degree hinted at by Pasquin. So galling a reproach stimulated the pride and anger of Sextus. However, he repressed his inward sensations, and published a proclamation, by which he promised life, and the reward of a thousand pistoles to the author, if he would reveal himself, and confess the fact to the pope. In confidence of so gracious an edict, the author came to the Vatican, owned what he had done, and demanded the performance of the pontifical promise. The treasurer paid the sum of money in presence of the Pope. "I have paid you the sum promised," said Sextus," and now I grant you your life; but I have still kept your proper punishment in reserve; and therefore I order that your "tongue shall be cut out, and your hands cut off, to prevent you "from either speaking or writing any more such satires.' His Holiness's decree was immediately executed.

66

"

When I consider this story, and recollect the great qualities and high situation of Sextus Quintus, I confess I am driven to a reflection which has often occurred to me, that excessive goodness and excessive greatness seem almost incompatible, as they seldom or ever meet in the same person. I am, Sir,

Dean's Yard, July 25, 1794.

Your constant reader,

J. D.

ON

IMPRUDENT FRIENDSHIPS.

Hoc primum sentio, nisi in bonis amicitiam esse non posse. CICERO.

HE difficulties which foreigners frequently complain of, in ac

Tquiring a knowledge of the English language, are many. In

particular, they tell us, that they are puzzled in their studies, and perplexed in their attempts to speak, from the circumstance of many words having the same meaning. They also object, that the same word often possesses five or six different meanings. But these difficulties are not confined to foreigners only; they often lie in our own way; and it is not unfrequent to hear a company of literary gentlemen disputing about the meaning of a word that ought to have been fixed long before they were born. Every person who attempts a new dictionary of our language, provided he is not a mere copyist, will soon find that the fixing of the meanings of certain very common words is his greatest difficulty.

The difficulty will also be heightened when we consider that it is often in vain to trace a word back to its first appearance in the language, with a view to give its original meaning. That original meaning, if it can be acquired, is of little use. If I were to call a man a knave, or a villain, I question much whether his resentment would abate, on my convincing him that these words originally meant nothing reproachful to the moral character.

To critics and lexicographers, however, I shall leave the definition of mere words, and only observe, that in conversation we much oftener hear common words used in an improper sense, than those which are less common and more erudite. The words paradox, problem, &c. are never misrepresented; whereas others, such as bonour, reputation, friendship, &c. are scarcely ever quoted, unless to be misapplied.

The words friendship and friend are used, indeed, in such a variety of senses, all different, that it is almost impossible to recognise the genuine features of that old-fashioned thing called friendship among such a group of unaccountables. A spendthrift, after various attempts to borrow money, complains with a sigh, that he has not a friend left in the world; and another, who has not quite reached this period, talks, with some pleasure, of meeting a dozen or two of friends to dinner at a tavern. Benjamin Bribewell, esq. invites his friends to meet at a public hall, and proceed from thence in a body! and Captain Swagger, of the Guards, who has accepted a challenge, requests a brotherofficer to go out with him as his friend, and see that he be fairly run through the body. Ladies who prefer keepers to husbands, usually call them their friends; and a highwayman who quarrels with his accomplices concerning the distribution of the booty, wonders that there should be any bickerings among friends. Nor is it very uncommon to read in the papers, that two coal-heavers or butchers, VOL. III,

P

after cutting and bruising one another until they can scarcely stand, are separated by their friends-nay, what is more remarkable, they sometimes shake hands, and agree to part friends!

Such are the common ideas of friendship; and if such is the only friendship men expect to contract, surely they have little reason to complain if they should be disappointed. After having prostituted the name, how can they expect the substance? After having dreamt only of the sign, how can they expect the thing signified? If we consider how those connexions which are called friendships are formed, we shall the less wonder that they are unstable with most men: it is sufficient to have been twice or thrice in each other's company, they become thereafter friends, and we are not to be surprised, if what is formed so hastily, should be as hastily dissolved. Houses that are thrown up quickly, and while the materials are green and unseasoned, cannot be expected to last long.

There are, on the other hand, some persons who entertain a notion of friendship, so very celestial and romantic, as is not to be expected from the frailty of human nature. They mistake the nature of a friend, just as much as the others of whom I have been speaking. They expect every thing from a friend, and in this are as much in fault as the others who expected any thing. Romantic notions of friendship are much cherished in novels and sentimental writings, but their tendency is often fatal, and at all times pernicious. A very short intercourse with the world of inen, convinces them that they have been reading of ideal beings, and their tempers are apt to be soured; in consequence of which they entertain worse notions of men than they deserve.

There are two kinds of men from whom it is impossible to expect real friendship; and if we are sufficiently guarded against them, we shall be furnished with every necessary precaution against a world abounding in a mixture of characters. The one of these is, the lowminded ignorant man; the other is the bad or immoral man. With either of these I aver that it is impossible to form that connexion to which we give the name of friendship, or, if in appearance formed, it will be utterly impossible to retain it, so as to reap the advantages of friendship when they are wanted. My reasons are these:

With regard to the ignorant and low-minded, friendship is not a pas ion, but an operation of the intellect. The understanding must ever be employed in perfecting it, and in preventing those sallies of momentary regard, which savour more of whim and caprice than of friendship. Of all this an ignorant man knows nothing, and a lowminded man will practise nothing. In such minds self-interest usually has a strong hold; for I would wish it to be understood that mere ignorance, without this poverty of sentiment and generosity, is a misfortune that may be remedied, and never can be the object of censure. There is a wide difference between the ignorance of a man in whom the natural feelings have not been adulterated by vice, nor civilized and refined by education, and that of an illiterate mechanic, who, while he can scarcely spell his name, or comprehend a rational argument, can yet take pride in grasping more money than he who is

capable of instructing a nation. It is one of the few good advices which Lord Chesterfield gives, never to keep company with those who are at once low in birth, low in mind, and low in manners.'

The second class of men with whom it is impossible to hold friendship, consists of the bad. From much reading, and from no small horizon of observation, I think I may challenge the world to produce an instance of real friendship subsisting for any length of time between two bad men, or between a good man and a bad one. The thing is, indeed, in its own nature impossible. The very essence, the life's blood, if I may use the expression, of friendship, is mutual benevolence; and how that can be expected to exist in minds habituated to profligacy, it is impossible to conceive. It is likewise of the nature of friendship to be disinterested; but no bad man can be expected to entertain a sentiment so pure. If he did he could not practise it, for bad men are ever necessitous, ever covetous, ever desirous of something which they want to supply their pleasures, or, as they probably will term it, to make them happy.-If the whole of friendship consisted in giving pecuniary assistance, they would be the last persons to practise even that, from the urgency of their own demands. But, this, though something, is not the all of friendship. How many consolations, how much kindness, what important relief, may a friend afford, of which the loose and profligate can have no idea? No: their skill lies not in averting the calamities of life, or in consoling the troubled sufferer. They cannot

- Administer to a mind diseased

Nor 'pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow.'

Should any be yet disposed to doubt the truth of the proposition which I have laid down, namely, that it is morally impossible to hold friendship with the ignorant and low-minded, and with the profligate, I will add, that my argument derives considerable strength from another consideration. In the various circumstances and situations of human life, innumerable cases occur, in which wisdom only can advise and extricate, and in which piety only can console and assist. And having stated this, I will beg leave to ask, whether, in every possible situation of life, wisdom and goodness be not preferable to their opposites ?-I entertain no fears for the issue of this question: I am not afraid of the wisdom of a blockhead, nor am likely to be charmed by the benevolence of a profligate.

Ill-judged friendships are the bane of human happiness. A rational creature becomes a mere dupe by them, an useless character to himself, and only serviceable to those who impose upon him. Tom Fickle partakes much of such a character. His friends are innumerable, and he seems to think it necessary to keep up an increase; they no sooner drop off, which they do the moment that their ends are served, than he supplies their place with others. New faces are to him new friends. The man in whose house he dines, or who dines in his house, is his friend. An interchange of civilities and treats is all he expects. Yet he is not without some idea, a confused one, indeed, of friendship, and bitterly laments that Jack or Dick Such-a-one has played him a scurvy-trick; he did not expect to be treated so by a friend! In truth,

a