pieces of silver and gold to a mixt multitude of indigent, maimed, and sick people. Hard by is erected a neat plain building, and in the front of it is opened to the view a long gallery, wherein young and old, of both sexes, are employed on various manufactures. Looking up to the person in the other scale, who weighs so light, I find there is a remarkable blindness in his eyes, notwithstanding they are drawn wide open; his features betray evident marks of weakness and fury; and he hugs in his arms (as if apprehensive of its danger) a carved model of a church, on which rises an exorbitant high steeple.

On the cornish of this room are to be seen some few heads of the best Greek and Roman philosophers, orators, and historians. On the ciel. ing I behold the battle of Blenheim; the brave exploits of ancient heroes, who saved their country from ruin, and through party rage became exiles, or lost their lives: and here likewise does the story of Socrates find place, with the manner of his death; together with the sufferings of the great instructors of mankind, who (from his days to our time) have been martyrs in the cause of truth.

FREE-THINKER, No. 158, Sept. 25, 1719.

The allegorical pictures delineated in these papers are coloured with considerable warmth and spirit. It may be re

marked, however, that the figures of Homer and Virgil, which possess several characteristic touches in accordance with the general opinion of criticism, are, nevertheless, inferior to the succeeding sketches of Pope, who, in his Temple of Fame, having placed these masters of the Epopea on lofty columns, thus gives us, in bold relief, their attitudes and attributes:

High on the first the mighty Homer shone ;
Eternal adamant compos'd his throne;
Father of verse! in holy fillets drest,

His silver beard wav'd gently o'er his breast.
Tho' blind, a boldness in his looks appears;
In years he seem'd, though not impair'd by years.
The wars of Troy were round the pillar seen :
Here fierce Tydides wounds the Cyprian Queen;
Here Hector, glorious from Patroclus' fall;
Here dragg'd in triumph round the Trojan wall.
Motion and life did every part inspire,
Bold was the work, and prov'd the master's fire:
A strong expression most he seem'd t' affect,
And here and there disclos'd a brave neglect.

1

A golden column next in rank appear'd,
On which a shrine of purest gold was rear'd;
Finish'd the whole, and labour'd ev'ry part,
With patient touches of unweary'd art:
The Mantuan there in sober triumph sate,
Compos'd his posture, and his looks sedate:
On Homer still he fix'd a rev'rend eye,
Great without pride, in modest majesty.
In living sculpture on the sides were spread
The Latian wars, and haughty Turnus dead
Eliza stretch'd upon the fun'ral pyre;
Eneas bending with his aged sire.

Troy flam'd in burning gold; and o'er the throne,
"Arms and the Man" in golden cyphers shone.

No. XXIII.

Cinis, et manes, et fabula fies,

PERSIUS.

A name, a shade, alas! thy lot shall be,
And dust and ashes all that's left of thee.

EVER since I was a school-boy, I have been fond of walking in Westminster-abbey, where, when my heart is heated by the violence of some unruly passion, I enjoy a cool composure, and a kind of venerable refreshment. Its dusky cloisters, majestic ailes, quire, organs, royal tombs, and reverend variety of strong, impressive images, have a never-failing power to reduce my mind from transport, when hope, prosperity, or pleasure, have betrayed it into vanity; or to relieve it, when disordered by a weight of anguish or oppression.

“Death and the sun (says a French writer) are two things not to be looked upon with a steady eye."-Though there is something in his observation rather pretty than just, yet so far is certainly true, that we are unqualified to think serenely on our dissolution, while we are surrounded by the noise and hurry of the world,

NO. 23. in its ambitious scenes; or softened into sensual wishes, by the languor of an idle solitude. While we are part of our own prospect, we can never view it justly: but, in such a situation as the abbey, we are placed as it were out of ourselves, and, from this ancient stand of death, look back upon a country which we seem no longer to have any concern in; and which, therefore, we can judge of with the necessary clearness and impartiality.

The mind that is steadfast enough to meditate calmly on death, will be armed to resist the strength and the flattery of human passions: such thoughts, if they make us not better, will at least make us wiser; since that must moderate our wishes, which puts us out of countenance at their levity; and who can reflect without being ashamed, that while every thing in life is accidental, and death the only certainty; we go on to act notwithstanding, as if all things else were infallible, and death but accidental.

I sometimes suffer myself to be shut up for five or six hours among the tombs, where I sit down, without ceremony or apprehension, among the proudest of those princes, who were once too stately to be conversed with, but at a distance, and with fear and reverence. I possess, in common with the spiders (their companions

and most constant servants, who spread network over their trophies), the unenvied privilege of surrounding those last beds of forgotten majesty. Here I bury myself in solemn silence, and imprint my imagination with images which awaken thought, and prepare me for humility: the stained and melancholy light that enters faintly through the painted windows, as if it wore a decent mourning, to become the scene it opens to me, guides me slowly, by the cloistered alleys, dusty tombs, and weeping statues, till I am lost in that still pomp of figured sorrow which on every side incloses me.

From finish'd prayer the flock disperse apace,
And each glad foot forsakes the dreary place:
The hooded prebend plods along before,
And the last verger claps the ringing door.
Then, thoughtful, lingering, curious, and alone,
In the dark temple, when the rest are gone,
No noise invades my ear, no murmʼring breath,
Not one low whisper in the hall of death;
No trampling sound swims o'er the silent floor,
But the slow clock that counts the sliding hour.

Here, indulging contemplation, I forget my cares and misfortunes, and disencumber myself from the forms and embarrassments of converse. I become the inhabitant of a quiet and unbusy world, where all is serene and peaceful: I am