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Vigor from toil, from trouble patience grows.
But, ah! it withers in the chilling hour.
Of all the warring winds of heaven they rise, And from the stormy promontory tower,
And toss their giant arms amid the skies, While each assailing blast increase of strength supplies.
THE QUIET MIND.
THOUGH low my lot, my wish is won,
All I thought life would do, is done,
The last request is made.
I have a friend, I value here,
I wish not it were mine to wear
I only wish the bliss of life,
The trumpet's taunt in battle-field,
What peace can all their honors yield?
Though praise and pomp, to eke the strife,
Rave like a mighty wind;
What are they to the calm of life,
I see the world pass heedless by,
It costs me not a single sigh
And come what will of care or woe,
They're comforts in their kind;
When friends depart, as part we must,
POLITENESS is the just medium between form and rudeness. It is the consequence of a benevolent nature, which shows itself to general acquaintance in an obliging, unconstrained civility, as it does to more particular ones in distinguished acts of kindness. This good nature must be directed by a justness of sense, and a quickness of discernment, that knows how to use every opportunity of exercising it, and to proportion the instances of it to every character and situation. It is a restraint laid by reason and benevolence upon every irregularity of the temper, which, in obedience to them, is forced to accommodate itself even to the fantastic cares, which custom and fashion have established, if, by these means, it can procure, in any degree, the satisfaction or good opinion of any part of man
kind; thus paying an obliging deference to their judgment, so far as it is not inconsistent with the higher obligations of virtue and religion.
This must be accompanied with an elegance of taste, and a delicacy observant of the least trifles, which tend to please or to oblige; and, though its foundation must be rooted in the heart, it can scarce be perfect without a complete knowledge of the world. In society, it is the medium that blends all different tempers into the most pleasing harmony; while it imposes silence on the loquacious, and inclines the most reserved to furnish their share of the conversation. It represses the desire of shining alone, and increases the desire of being mutually agreeable. It takes off the edge of raillery, and gives delicacy to wit.
To superiors, it appears in a respectful freedom. No greatness can awe it into servility, and no intimacy can sink it into a regardless familiarity. To inferiors, it shows itself in an unassuming good nature. Its aim is to raise them to you, not to let you down to them. It at once maintains the dignity of your station, and expresses the goodness of your heart. Το equals, it is every thing that is charming; it studies their inclinations, prevents their desires, attends to every little exactness of behavior, and all the time appears perfectly disengaged and careless.
Such and so amiable is true politeness; by people of wrong heads and unworthy hearts, disgraced in its two extremes; and, by the generality of mankind, confined within the narrow bounds of mere good breeding, which, in truth, is only one instance of it.
There is a kind of character, which does not, in the least, deserve to be reckoned polite, though it is exact in every punctilio of behavior; such as would not, for the world, omit paying you the civility of a bow, or fail in the least circumstance of decorum. But then these people do this merely for their own sake: whether you are pleased or embarrassed with it, is little of their care. They have performed their own parts, and are satisfied.
THOUGH Nature weigh our talents, and dispense
Ye powers, who rule the tongue,-if such there are,— And make colloquial happiness your care, Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate, A duel in the form of a debate. Vociferated logic kills me quite;
A noisy man is always in the right;
I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair,
Dubius is such a scrupulous, good man;
A story, in which native humor reigns,
But sedentary weavers of long tales
I pity bashful men, who feel the pain
The fear of being silent makes us mute.
And only blushes in the proper place;
But counterfeit is blind, and skulks, through fear,
Humility the parent of the first,
The circle formed, we sit in silent state,
"Yes, ma'am," and "No, ma'am," uttered softly, show,
And coughs, and rheums, and phthisics, and catarrh.
And now, let no man charge me that I mean