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Numb. 162. Tuesday, October 5, 1751.

 

Orbus es, et locuples, et Bruto consule natus, Esse tibi veras credis amicitias? Sunt veræ; sed quas Juvenis, quas pauper habebas, Quis novus est, mortem diligit ille tuam.	Mart.
What! old, and rich, and childless too, And yet believe your friends are true? Truth might, perhaps, to those belong, To those who lov'd you poor and young; But, trust me, for the new you have, They'll love you dearly——in your grave.	F. Lewis.

 

ONE of the complaints uttered by Milton's Sampson, in the anguish of blindness, is, that he shall pass his life under the direction of others; that he cannot regulate his conduct by his own knowledge, but must lie at the mercy of those who undertake to guide him.

There is no state more contrary to the dignity of wisdom, than perpetual and unlimited dependence, in which the understanding lies useless, and every motion is received from external impulse. Reason is the great distinction of human nature, the faculty by which we approach to some degree of association with celestial intelligences; but as the excellence of every power appears only in its operations, not to have reason, and to have it useless and unemployed is nearly the same.

Such is the weakness of man, that the essence of things is seldom so much regarded as external and accidental appendages. A small variation of trifling circumstances, a slight change of form by an artificial dress, or a casual difference of appearance, by a new light and situation, will conciliate affection, or excite abhorrence, and determine us