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tation, all the great things which he had undertaken and performed, since the commencement of his administration. He observed, that from the seventeenth year of his age, he had dedicated all his thoughts and attention to public objects, reserving no portion of his time for the indulgence of his ease, and very little for the enjoyment of private pleasure; that either in a pacific or hostile manner, he had visited Germany nine times, Spain six times, France four times, Italy seven times, the Low Countries ten times, England twice, Africa as often, and had made eleven voyages by sea; that, while his health pemitted him to discharge his duty, and the vigour of his constitution was equal, in any degree, to the arduous office of governing such extensive dominions, he had never shunned labour, nor repined under fatigue; that now, when his health was broken, and his vigour exhausted, by the rage of an incurable distemper, his growing infirmities admonished him to retire; nor was he so fond of reigning as to retain the sceptre in an impotent hand, which was no longer able to protect his subjects, or to render them happy; that, instead of a sovereign worn out with disease, and scarcely half alive, he gave them one in the prime of life, accustomed already to govern, and who added to the vigour of youth, all the attention and sagacity of maturer years; that if, during the course of a long administration, he had committed any material error in government, or if, under the pressure of so many, and great affairs, and amidst the attention which he had been obliged to give them, he had either neglected or injured any of his subjects, he now implored their forgiveness; that, for his part, he should ever retain a grateful sense of their fidelity and attachment, and would carry the remembrance of it along with him to the place of his retreat, as the sweetest consolation, as well as the best reward for all his services, and in his last prayers to Almighty God, would pour forth his ardent wishes for all their welfare.
Then, turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees, and kissed his father's hand, "If," says he, "I had left you, by my death, this rich inheritance, to which I have made such large additions, some regard would have been justly due to my memory on that account; but now, when I voluntarily resign to you what I might have still retained, I may well expect the warmest expressions of thanks on your part With these, however, I dispense; and shall consider your concern for the welfare of your subjects, and your love of
them, as the best and most acceptable testimony of your gratitude to me. It is in your power, by a wise and virtuous administration, to justify the extraordinary proof, which I this day give, of my paternal affection, and to demonstrate that you are worthy of the confidence which I repose Preserve an inviolable regard for religion; maintain the catholic faith in its purity; let the laws of your country be sacred in your eyes; encroach not on the rights and privileges of your people; and, if the time shall ever come, when you shall wish to enjoy the tranquillity of a private life, may you have a son endowed with such qualities, that you can resign your sceptre to him, with as much satisfaction as I give up mine to you."
As soon as Charles had finished this long address to his subjects, and to their new sovereign, he sunk into the chair, exhausted and ready to faint with the fatigue of such an extraordinary effort. During this discourse, the whole audience melted into tears; some, from admiration of his magnanimity; others, softened by the expressions of tenderness towards his son, and of love to his people; and all were affected with the deepest sorrow, at losing a sovereign, who had distinguished the Netherlands, his native country, with particular marks of his regard and attachment.
A few weeks thereafter, Charles, in an assembly no less splendid, and with a ceremonial equally pompous, resigned to his son the crown of Spain, with all the territories depending on them, both in the old, and in the new world. Of all these vast possessions, he reserved nothing for himself but an annual pension of a hundred thousand crowns, to defray the charges of his family, and to afford him a small sum for acts of beneficence and charity.
The place he had chosen for his retreat, was the monastery of St. Justus, in the province of Estremadura. It was seated in a vale of no great extent, watered by a small brook, and surrounded by rising grounds, covered with lofty trees. From the nature of the soil, as well as the temperature of the climate, it was esteemed the most healthful and delicious situation in Spain. Some months before his resignation, he had sent an architect thither, to add a new apartment to the monastery, for his accommodation; but he gave strict orders, that the style of the building should be such as suited his present situation, rather than his former dignity. It consisted only of six rooms; four of them in the form of friars' cells, with naked walls; the other two, each
twenty feet square, were hung with brown cloth, and furnished in the most simple manner. They were all on a level with the ground; with a door on one side into a garden, of which Charles himself had given the plan, and which he had filled with various plants, intending to cultivate them with his own hands. On the other side, they communicated with the chapel of the monastery, in which he to this humble retreat, was to perform his devotions. hardly sufficient for the comfortable accommodation of a private gentleman, did Charles enter, with twelve domestics only. He buried there, in solitude and silence, his grandeur and his ambition, together with all those vast projects, which, during half a century, had alarmed and agitated Europe, filling every kingdom in it by turns, with the terror of his arms, and the dread of being subjected to his power. VI.-Importance of Virtue.
VIRTUE is of intrinsic value, and good desert, and of indispensable obligation; not the creature of will, but but of necessary and immutable; not local or temporary, equal extent and antiquity with the Divine mind; not a mode of sensation, but everlasting truth; not dependent on power, but the guide of all power. Virtue is the foundation of honour and esteem, and the source of all beauty, order and happiness in nature. It is what confers value on all the other endowments and qualities of a reasonable being, to which they ought to be absolutely subservient; and without which, the more eminent they are, the more hideous deformities, and the greater curses, they become.
The use of it is not confined to any one stage of our existence, or to any particular situation we can be in, but reaches through all the periods and circumstances of our beings. Many of the endowments and talents we now possess, and of which we are too apt to be proud, will cease entirely with the present state; but this will be our ornanient and dignity, in every future state, to which we may be removed. Beauty and wit will die, learning will vanish away, and all the arts of life be soon forgot; but virtue will remain forever. This unites us to the whole rational creation; and fits us for conversing with any order of superior natures, and for a place in any part of God's works. It procures us the approbation and love of all wise and good beings, and renders them our allies and friends. But what is of unspeakably greater consequence, is, that it makes God our friend,
assimilates and unites our minds to his, and engages his Almighty power in our defence. Superior beings of all ranks are bound by it, no less than ourselves. It has the same authority in all worlds that it has in this. The further any being is advanced in excellence and perfection, the greater is his attachment to it, and the more is he under its influence. To say no more, it is the law of the whole uni verse; it stands first in the estimation of the Deity; its original is his nature; and it is the very object that makes him lovely.
Of what consequence, There is no argument influence a reasonable One virtuous dispo
Such is the importance of virtue. therefore, is it, that we practise it? or motive, in any respect fitted to mind, which does not call us to this. sition of soul, is preferable to the greatest natural accomplishments and abilities, and of more value than all the treasures of the world.—If you are wise, then study virtue, and contemn every thing that can come in competition with it. Remember that nothing else deserves one anxious thought or wish. Remember that this alone is honour, glory, wealth, and happiness. Secure this, and you secure every thing. Lose this, and all is lost.
VII. Address to Art.
O ART! thou distinguishing attribute and honour of human kind! Who art not only able to imitate nature in her graces, but even to adorn her with graces of thine own! Possessed of thee, the meanest genius grows deserving, and has a just demand for a portion of our esteem; devoid of thee, the brightest of our kind lie lost and useless, and are but poorly distinguished from the most despicable and base. When we inhabited forests, in common with brutes, not otherwise known from them, than by the figure of our species, thou taughtest us to assert the sovereignty of our nature, and to assume that empire for which Providence intended us. Thousands of utilities owe their birth to thee; thousands. of elegancies, pleasures, and joys, without which, life itself would be but an insipid possession.
Wide and extensive is the reach of thy dominion. No element is there, either so violent or so subtle, so yielding or so sluggish, as by the powers of its nature to be superior to thy direction. Thou droadest not the fierce impetuosity of fire, but compellest its violence to be both obedient and useful. By it, thou softenest, the stubborn tribe of mine
rals, so as to be formed and moulded into shapes innumerable. Hence weapons, armour, coin; and, previous to these and thy other works and energies, hence all those various tools and instruments which empower thee to proceed to farther ends more excellent. Nor is the subtile air less obedient to thy power, whether thou willest it to be a minister to our pleasure or utility. At thy command it giveth birth to sounds, which charm the soul with all the powers of harmony. Under thy instruction, it moves the ship over the seas; while that yielding element, where otherwise we sink, even water itself, is by thee taught to bear us; the vast ocean, to promote that intercourse of nations which ignorance would imagine it was designed to intercept. To say how thy influence is seen on earth, would be to teach the meanest what he knows already. Suffice it but to mention, fields of arable and pasture; lawns, and groves, and gardens, and plantations; cottages, villages, castles, towns, palaces, temples, and spacious cities.
Nor does thy empire end in subjects thus inanimate. Its power also extends through the various race of animals, who either patiently submit to become thy slaves, or are sure to find thee an irresistible foe. The faithful dog, the patient ox, the generous horse, and the mighty elephant, are con tent all to receive their instructions from thee, and readily to lend their natural instinct or strength, to perform those offices which thy occasions call for. If there be found any species which are serviceable when dead, thou suggestest the means to investigate and take them; if any be so savage as to refuse being tamed, or of natures fierce enough to venture an attack, thou teachest us to scorn their brutal rage; to meet, repel, pursue, and conquer.
Such, O Art, is thy amazing influence, when thou art employed only on these inferior subjects, on natures inanimate, or at best irrational. But, whenever thou choosest a subject more noble, and settest to the cultivation of mind itself, then it is thou becomest truly amiable and divine—the ever-flowing source of those sublimer beauties, of which no subject but mind alone is capable. Then it is thou art enabled to exhibit to mankind the admired tribes of poets and orators; the sacred train of patriots and heroes; the godlike list of philosophers and legislators; the forms of virtuous and equal politics; where private welfare is made the same with public-where crowds themselves prove disinterested, and virtue is made a national and popular characteristic.