tarnished laced coat, and on his manly face the marks of good fellowship, of illness, of kindness, of care: and wine. Stained,[errata 1] as you see him, and worn by care and dissipation, that man retains some of the most precious and splendid human qualities and endowments. He has an admirable natural love of truth, the keenest instinctive antipathy to hypocrisy, the happiest satirical gift of laughing it to scorn. His wit is wonderfully wise and detective; it flashes upon a rogue and lightens up a rascal like a policeman's lantern. He is one of the manliest and kindliest of human beings: in the midst of all his imperfections, he respects female innocence and infantine tenderness, as you would suppose such a great-hearted, courageous soul would respect and care for them. He could not be so brave, generous, truth-telling as he is, were he not infinitely merciful, pitiful, and tender. He will give any man his purse—he can't help kindness and profusion. He may have low tastes, but not a mean mind; he admires with all his heart good and virtuous men, stoops to no flattery, bears no rancour, disdains all disloyal arts, does his public duty uprightly, is fondly loved by his family, and dies at his work.[1]
If that theory be—and I have no doubt it is—the right and safe one, that human nature is always
- ↑ He sailed for Lisbon, from Gravesend, on Sunday morning, June 30th, 1754; and began the "Journal of a Voyage" during the passage. He died at Lisbon, in the beginning of October of the same year. He
Errata
