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When she saw Mountford she crawled forward on the ground, and clasped his knees; he raised her from the floor; she threw her arms round his neck, and sobbed out a speech of thankfulness, eloquent beyond the power of language.

suit, when not yet recovered from: the wounds I had received; the dear woınan and these two little boys followed me, that we might starve together; but Providence interposed, and sent Mr. Mountford to our support: lhe has relieved my family from the gnawings of hunger, and rescued me from death, to which a fever, consequent on my wounds, and increased by the want of every necessary, had almost reduced me. Inhuman villain! I exclaimed. lifting up my eyes to Heaven. Inhuman indeed! said the lovely woman who stood at my side: Alas! sir, what had we done to offend him? what had these little ones done, that they should perish in the toils of his vengeance? I reached a pen which stood in the ink-standdish at the bed-side. May I ask the amount of the sum for which you are imprisoned? I was able, he replied, to pay all but 500 crowns. I wrote a draught on the banker with whom I had a credit from my father for 2500, and presenting it to the stranger's wife, you will receive, madam, on presenting this note, a sum more than sufficient for your husband's discharge: the remainder I leave for his industry to improve. I would have left the room: each of them laid hold of one of my hands; the children clung to my coat.Oh! Mr. Harley, methinks I feel their gentle violence at this mo

Compose yourself, my love, said the man on the bed; but he, whose goodness has caused that emotion, will pardon its effects. How is this, Mountford? said I; what do I see? what must I do? You see, replied the stranger, a wretch, sunk in poverty, starving in prison, stretched on a sick bed! but that is little: there are his wife and children, wanting the bread which he has not to give them! Yet you cannot easily imagine the conscious serenity of his mind; in the gripe of affliction, his heart swells with the pride of virtue it can even look down with pity on the man whose cruelty has wrung it almost to bursting. You are, I fancy, a friend of Mr. Mountford's; come nearer and I'll tell you; for, short as my story is, I can hardly command breath enough for a recital. The son of count Respino (I started as if I had trod on a viper) has long had à criminal passion for my wife; this her prudence had concealed from me; but he had lately the bo'dness to declare it to myself. He promised me affluence in exchange for honour; and threatened misery, as its attendant, if I kept it. I treated him with the con-ment; it beats here with delight in tempt he deserved: the consequence expressible! Stay, sir, said he, I was, that he hired a couple of bra- do not mean attempting to thank voes, (for I am persuaded they act-you; (he took a pocket-book from ed under his direction) who attempted to assassinate me in the street; but I made such a defence as obliged them to fly, after giving me two or three stabs, none of which however were mortal. But his revenge was not thus to be disappointed: in the little dealings of my trade I had contracted some debts, of which he had made himself master for my ruin; I was confined here at his

100,

under his pillow) let me but know what name I shall place here next to Mr. Mountford? Sedley-he wrote it dowu; an Englishman too, I presume. He shall go to Heaven notwithstanding, said the boy, who had been our guide. It began to be too much for me; I squeezed his hand that was clasped in mine; his wife's I pressed to my lips, and burst from the place to give vent to

the feelings that laboured within me. || Oh! Mountford, said I, when he had overtaken me at the door: it is time, replied he, that we should think of our appointment; young Respino and his friends are waiting us. Damn him, damn him! said I, let us leave Milan instantly; but soft; I will be calm; Mountford, your pencil. I wrote on a slip of paper

To Signor Respino,

instance, is ground at the mill, it assumes a new substantial form, whereby the corn is converted into flour; and that afterwards, when water is mingled with the flour, the whole is metamorphosed, as it were, and assumes directly another substantial form, and is then no longer flour, but paste; and again, when that paste is thrown into the oven, and duly baked, it becomes at once a new substantial form; and such baked paste, in a word, is metamorphosed into bread.

These various sorts of substantial

When you receive this I am at a distance from Milan. Accept of my thanks for the civilities I have received from you and your family. As to the friendship with which you were pleased to honour me, the pri-instance, in a horse, besides his

son, which I have just left, has exhibited a scene to cancel it forever. You may possibly be merry with your companions at my weakness, as I suppose you will term it. give you leave for derision; you may effect a triumph; I shall feel it.

EDWARD SEDLEY.

I

You may send this if you will, said Mountford, coolly; but still Respino is A MAN OF HONOUR; the world will continue to call him so. It is probable, I answered, they may; I envy not the appellation. If this is the world's honour; if these men are the guides of its manners-Tut!

forms are admitted, indeed, by some, in all other natural bodies; thus, for bones, his flesh, his nerves, his brains, his blood, which, by the circulation thereof through his veins and arteries, nourishes and supports each individual part of him; and besides all these, the animal spirits, which are the principles and springs of all motions; there are some philosophers, I say, inaintain, with him, that there is a substantial form, exclusive of all the before-mentioned articles, which they admit to be the soul of the horse; they strenuously maintain, that this imaginary form is not drawn or extracted from the matter itself, but the energy or powperemptorily insist, that it is an entity, really and truly distinct from the matter, whereof it is not any individual part, or, even in the least, any modification of it whatsoever. Aristotle still further maintains, that all terrestrial bodies are com

said Mountford, do you eat macaro-er of that matter: in a word, they

ni?

*

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LIFE OF ARISTOTLE. (Concluded from page 149.)

This same philosopher insists, that for the formation of any natural bo-posed of the four elements: that is to

say, of earth, water, air, and fire; that the two first, being ponderous, naturally incline to the centre of the world; and, on the other hand, the two last, being light, keep at as great a distance from it as they possibly can.

dy, it is absolutely necessary it should have another principle, besides that first matter, which he calls form. Some, indeed, imagine, that thereby he means nothing more than the disposition of its various parts; others, however, are of opinion, that he means a substantial entity, really Besides these four elements, howand in all respects distinct from thatever, he admits of a fifth, of which all matter; and that when any corn, for celestial bodies were composed, and beings or intelligences as are forever employed in superintending those particular rotations.

the motion whereof was always cir-roll round that earth by such certain cular. He conceived, that above the air, though under the concavity of the moon, there was a globe of fire, from whence all flames had their source, and into which they were resolved, as brooks and rivers naturally discharge their waters into the sea.

Aristotle farther maintained, that matter was divisible ad infinitum; that the universe was perfectly full, and that there was no such thing as a vacuum in all nature; that the world was eternal; that the sun had rolled round its axis from eternity, as it does at present, and that such rotation will never cease; that the human species likewise were subsisting before the commencement of time; that had there been such a thing in fact as a first parent, he must have been born without either father or mother, which is a direct contradiction, and perfectly absurd. In the same manner he argues in regard to the birds of the air. It is downright ridiculous, says he, to imagine that there was ever one particular egg, from whence the whole species of birds received their being; or that there ever was one particular bird that laid the first egg, because the bird proceeds from an egg; but that egg came from a bird, and that from another preceding, and so backwards ad infinitum. The same argument is farther made use of by him in regard to all the other various species of animals throughout the universe.

Aristotle insists, that all that vast expanse, which at this day is covered over with the waters of the ocean, was formerly dry land; and farther, that what now appears to be dry land, shall, in the process of time, be covered with the waters last mentioned.

The reason that he gives for the support of this assertion is this: That the rivers and impetuous torrents are continually carrying sand and earth along with their respective currents; by virtue whereof their banks are gradually increasing, and the sea, though imperceptibly retreating; insomuch that, since time never ceases, those vicissitudes of earth into sea, and sea into earth again, are continually happening from one age successively to another without end. He adds, moreover, that in divers places, remote from the sea, and on divers mountains, the sea, having withdrawn its waters from them, has left behind a vast variety of shells; and that by digging into the bowels of the earth, the workmen have frequently found anchors, and broken pieces of ships. And according to Ovid, Pythagoras was of the same opinion.

He maintains, moreover, that the heavens are incorruptible; and that notwithstanding all sublunary beings are liable to corruption, yet the parts whereof they are composed will never decay, that they only change their position; that from the destruc-selves: such, for instance, as pesti

tion of one, another springs up to supply its place, and by that means the whole mass of the world will con tinue forever complete. To this he adds, that the earth is at the world's centre; and that the first and snpreme Being causes the heavens to

Now Aristotle insists, that these alterations from sea to land, and land to sea, which are thus imperceptibly made, during a long process of time, are, in a great measure, the reason why the memory of things past are so frequently erased. He adds, moreover, that other accidents sometimes intervene, which occasion the loss of the arts themlences, wars, famines, earthquakes, fires, or, in a word, such total desolations, as at once extirpate and destroy a whole city or country, except some few that escape by flight into the adjacent deserts, where they lead a savage life, and beget, in the

most miserable wretches under the sun: that the only way to make them become blessings, is to make a generous nse of them, and by bounty and benevolence, to relieve those who are in necessity and dis

course of time, a new generation of people, who gradually cultivate those lands in which they reside, or others, which they casually discover, or revive those arts, which are above mentioned to be lost; and that the very selfsame notions are recollect-tress: whereas real happiness ought

ed and renewed from one time to to consist in something truly subanother without end. This is his stantial, and of intrinsic value, which way of arguing; and by such pro-ought carefully to be hoarded up, positions as these, he maintains, that and never to be parted with. notwithstanding those various vicis- In short, Aristotle was of opinion, situdes and revolutions above allow-that true happiness wholly consisted ed, yet the machine of the world subsists without corruption.

Aristotle, indeed, is very curious in his researches after those things which are most capable of rendering mankind happy in this life. He refutes, in the first place, all such libertines as imagine that happiness solely consists in sensual enjoyments. He insists, that they are not only of short duration, but soon create a disgust, enervate the body, and stupify the brain. In the next place, he discards the notion of such as are ambitious, and think that happiness wholly consists in pomp and gran'deur, and never scruple the practice of the vilest and most indirect means in the attainment of any post of honour and advantage.

in the most disinterested and impartial action of the mind, and in the constant practice of all social duties. He insists, moreover, that the noblest employment of the mind is the study of nature: that is to say, that no time can be spent more advantageously than in making deep researches into all celestial and terrestrial bodies, but more particularly into the existence of the supreme Being. He observes, however, that no person can be said to be perfectly happy, without having some competent portion of the good things of this life; for unless we are so possessed, we cannot employ our time on any sublime speculations, nor in the practice of any social duties. As for instance, in case we are poor and indigent, we can have no opportunity of obliging our friends; and it is doubtless one of the highest pleasures that this life affords, to be in a capacity of doing good to those whom we sincerely love: And thus, says he, true felicity consists in three things: first, in the faculties of the

He insists, that honour and esteem subsist in the person who pays that homage; and adds, that the ambitious man is fond of being respected for some particular virtue, which he willingly would have the world believe to be implanted in him; and, by consequence, that true happiness consists rather in vir-mind; such, for instance, as wis

tue, than in honours and preferments, which are perfectly extra

neous.

He confutes, in the last place, the notion of such as are avaricious, and imagine that true happiness solely consists in riches. He insists, that riches are not to be coveted for their own sake; since they only render such as possess them and dread the thought of making use of them, the

dom and prudence; secondly, in natural perfection; such, for instance, as beauty, strength, health, and the like; and lastly, in the blessings of fortune; such, for instance, as riches and honours. It is his opinion, that virtue alone is not sufficient to make a man happy; that there is an absolute necessity for mankind to be possessed in some degree of the blessings of life; and that a wise man must be inevitably unhappy, if he be either in pain, or in distress. On the other hand, he assures us, that vice is sufficient of itself to make mankind thoroughly unhappy; that notwithstanding we roll in riches, and are possessed of all the blessings of life besides, yet still, in case we are vicious, we can never be happy; that though the wisest man in the world was not totally exempt from affliction, yet those misfortunes were such only as 'were light and trivial; that virtues and vices were not inconsistent things; that the same man might possibly be very just and honest, and yet be a downright libertine in his heart.

the deputies or leading men in a re public are wasting their time in assemblies and debates, the monarch has got possession of the place he aimed at, and carried his plan into actual execution. The administrators, or heads of a republic, are under little or no concern for its real benefit and welfare, in case they can but promote their private interest by its downfall. They soon grow jealous of each other, from whence arise animosities and divisions, and so, in process of time, the republic very seldom fails of being ruined and undone; whereas in a monarchical state, the prince has no other interest in view but that of his kingdom; and, in consequence, his sub

He admitted of three several de-jects must be a flourishing people.

grees of friendship: the first was that of consanguinity; thenext that of inclination; and the last that of universal benevolence.

Aristotle was once asked, what benefit and advantage could possibly arise from the practice of lying. Why this, replied he, He that is addicted to that mean-spirited vice may be assured, that no one will believe him whenever he speaks the truth.

He was of opinion, that the study of the belles lettres contributed, in a great measure, towards the practice of virtue, and assures us, moreover, that it was the greatest consolation Aristotle being once blamed by a imaginable to all such as were high-friend for bestowing his benevolence ly advanced in years.

He acknowledges (as Plato did before him) a supreme Being, and an overruling Providence.

on an unworthy object; It is not, said he, because he is that wicked worthless person as you observe, that I have pity and compassion on him, but because he is my fellow creature.

He insists, that all our ideas proceed originally from the senses; that a person born blind could never have any adequate notion of colours; nor, on the other hand, could one that had been deaf from his birth, have the least conception of to the eye; and that, notwithstand

articulate sounds.

In regard to politics, his notion was, that a monarchical state was preferable to all others, because in all others there were more persons than one to sit at the helm of government; as an army is more likely to prove victorious when headed by one general, than if there were twenty commanding officers invested with equal power; so it is in the regulation of a kingdom. Whilst

It was a common saying of Aris totle, both to his friends and pupils, that knowledge, in regard to the soul, was much the same as light is

ing its roots might possibly prove somewhat bitter, yet its delicious fruits made an ample compensation.

Sometimes when Aristotle was disgusted at the misconduct of the Athenians, he would tell them, with an air of derision, that notwithstanding they had a profusion of whole some laws, as well as of the best corn; yet they would be lavish of the latter, without paying the least veneration or respect to the former,

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