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To brave the storms, ah! many a storm I ween,
That hover round life's sad and gloomy scene.
But ere I go, accept these artless lays,
That flow sincere, nor ask a poet's praise;
If they my boundless gratitude will speak,
No more I ask, no greater meed I seek.
Sadly I go-the truth my tears will tell-
Sadly, dear Eton, take a long farewell;
For dawning reason warns, that leaving you,
To peace, to innocence, I bid adieu:
Yes, it is true, whate'er the world may say,
Within your walls the moral virtues play;
Infuse their power in ev'ry pupil's breast,
And give the features health, the conscience, rest.
Oh! if thy precepts would for ever live,
Stampt on my breast, and their chaste influence give;
Still should I virtue's warning voice revere,
Nor lend to Syren's song a wanton ear.
Amid the frantic mirth, the senseless noise,
Which headstrong youth too oft mistake for joys;
My inmost thoughts I still would turn to thee,
Call on thy name, and boast my reason free.
Accept then, Eton, this my grateful pray'r,
Long may'st thou flourish Phoebus' fav'rite care;
Long may'st thou rear on high, the antique tow'r,

Secure from greedy time's malicious pow'r.

And thou, fair Thames, who view'st with conscious pride,

The jocund sports that skirt thy sedgy side,

Farewell! no more shall I thy banks along,
Sooth'd by soft murmurs, pen my uncouth song;
No more by warm ideas wrapt, shall dream,
Of gay poetic ground and sacred stream.

To you, ye much lov'd trees, beneath whose shade,
Through classic walks, in musing mood I stray'd;
I bid farewell, 'tis tyrant time commands,

To seek new walks, and fields, in other lands;

To other lands I go; no more shall meet
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The well-known face, no more the friend shall greet:

Yes, dear companions, I shall find but few,

On life's great stage, such candid friends as you.
I go, compell'd your friendship to forsake ;-
But O! whatever parts in life you take,
O! in his part may each successful prove,
And crown the wish of my fraternal love.
But what return, what due return can song,
Song weak as mine, give them to whom belong
The little gleanings of my classic lore,

And all my knowledge (were that knowledge more)

Yet I will thank you, nor the thanks refuse,
Ye kind Instructors of my lisping muse:
Accept the wishes of a grateful heart,
That feels far more than language can impart.
Whenever good shall mark my humble way,
To you the merit and the thanks I'll pay ;'
Where'er I go, your mem'ries shall be dear,
I'll love your lessons, and your names revere.
From pleasure's paths unwillingly I stray,
The summer past, then comes a winter's day;
Sadly I go-the truth my tears will tell-
Sadly, dear Eton, take a long farewell.

N° 18. MONDAY, MARCH 12, 1787.

Fruitur famâ sui.-TACITUS.

He becomes a witness of the opinions which others entertain of him.

'MERCURY,' says the fabulist, 'wishing to know in what estimation he was held by mankind, put off the insignia of divinity, and assuming the air and appearance of a mere mortal, entered into the shop of a statuary. Having purchased at a considerable price, a Jupiter, a Juno, a Fury or two, and some other nick-nacks of the same kind-" and what," said he, pointing to a statue of himself, which stood on graceful tiptoe in the window, "what may be the price of that elegant image ?"-" Sir,"-replied the artist, "you have proved so good a customer to me, for some of my best pieces, that I shall but do you justice, if I throw you that paltry figure into the bargain.'

Prevalent as every species of curiosity is among mankind, there is none which has so powerful an influence over every man, as this desire of knowing what the world may think of him. There is none, the gratification of which is so eagerly desired, or, in general, so heartily repented of.

A man in his absence will undoubtedly be spoken of with more freedom than when present; his faults will be more openly pointed out; his vices more strongly censured; his whole character will undergo a stricter examination, and will be scrutinized with less reserve, and more impartiality. Censure will not be restrained by the fear of giving offence; nor praise allured, by the hopes of conciliating affection.

Should he therefore take advantage of his supposed absence, to discover the true opinions of others with regard to himself, he will run no little risk of hearing disagreeable truths; which at the same time that they inform him of foibles in himself, against which he had hitherto shut his eyes, seldom or never fail to estrange his esteem from those, to whom he is indebted for the information.

Advice, however earnestly sought, however ardently solicited, if it does not coincide with a man's own opinions, if it tends only to investigate the improprieties, to correct the criminal excesses of his conduct; to dissuade from a continuance, and to recommend a reformation of his errors; seldom answers any other purpose than to put him out of humour with himself, and to alienate his affections from the adviser. If then, censure, even when thus courted under the name of kindness, is so destructive to all friendship, how much more so must it be, when being bestowed unasked and unavowed, its intention seems not so much to caution, as to criminate; to reform, as to condemn. For in this light must all strictures, passed on an absent person, appear to himself; when instead of the candour of open advice, the warnings of friendly admonition, he fancies that he discovers the meanness of secret calumny, the malice of deliberate detraction.

It cannot then but be evident to every man how dangerous an experiment it is, thus artfully to search

out the opinion others may entertain of him; which when discovered, is generally the cause of not a little mortification; and makes an impression on the mind, hardly ever to be effaced, by subsequent professions of esteem, or even series of disinterested services. An impression, which is deepened by a sense of the treachery of those, who took advantage of his absence to canvas his faults; and by a remembrance of the dishonest artifice by which he obtained a knowledge of their opinions.

And if it be thus necessary for every man to be cautious of prying into the opinions of others, with regard to himself, it is no less necessary that he should beware, before whom or what persons he delivers his own opinion. An unlucky censure, an unintentional sarcasm, has sometimes checked the progress of intimacy, has loosened the bonds of friendship, and has branded the unwary author of it with the title of a cynic, or a slanderer. I remember an instance of this kind, which though not very serious in its consequences, must nevertheless have been extremely distressing. A gentleman in a crowded theatre, turned suddenly round to a stranger who sat beside him, and inquired hastily what ugly hag was that coming into an opposite box?'The stranger with a low bow of acknowledgment, replied, that it was his sister.' The gentleman, confounded and ashamed, made an eager but awkward endeavour to exculpate himself; and as errors, like misfortunes, seldom come singly, pardon me, Sir,' cried he, it was not that good-looking young lady, I meant to point out to you, but that deformed witch, that sits next to her.'-The stranger repeated his obeisance, and that, Sir,' said he, is my wife.' There is not perhaps another situation so distressing as one of this kind; where an unhappy mortal, having, by a casual inadvertency, made one false step, which he is unable to retrieve, becomes

conscious of his mistake; and, unwilling to go forward, yet knowing not how to recede, confused in apologies, and entangled in excuses, seeking in vain for some clue of explanation, wanders through a maze of error, and is lost in a labyrinth of perplexity. But it is not my intention to weary my readers, through the whole of this paper, with prudential cautions, and dogmas on discretion. I shall at present consider my subject only as it relates to myself. 'Scribam ipse de me.' 'I will become my own historian,' says Cicero, in that extraordinary specimen of unbounded vanity, his letter to Lucceius; multorum tamen exemplo, et clarorum virorum,' ' in imitation however of many and illustrious men.'-To become 'their own historians' has been the constant practice of all my illustrious predecessors; none of whom have omitted, in some part of their works, to descant on the importance and usefulness of their undertaking; to display the unavoidable inconveniences, or boast of the peculiar advantages incident to their situation.

Availing myself of these precedents, I may be allowed to boast, that there is no one who enjoys so many favourable opportunities of gratifying the curiosity, which I have made the subject of this paper, of discovering the real opinion my readers entertain of myself and my lucubrations. Personally unknown, even to my fellow-citizens, as Gregory Griffin, I am afforded considerable entertainment by becoming an auditor of their criticisms on the work, and a confidant of their conjectures on the author. Many a time have I heard in silence my own accusation; have joined in a general sneer, or even affected to participate in a hearty laugh at my own expense. And as often, to the great pain of my natural modesty, have I tacitly assented to the praise, or even loudly concurred in the commendations of my own performances. In trials of the former kind, I own I have sometimes found it diffi