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[I extract the following lines from a Poem with which a Correspondent has favoured me, entitled "THE SEER." B. B.]
battle's strife renew,
And, born to conquer or to
Disdain to tremble, yield, or fly.
They fall to meet an early tomb,
While faster still the life-blood flows,
And louder rings the battle's shout,
The signs of death, and fearful rout :
ON FALSE CANDOUR.
Candour, which loves in see-saw strain to tellboms: 943 757 12
Of all the falsities which mankind adopt, either to feign virtues which they have not, or to conceal blots which they have, there is no one species of affectation so odious as False Candour. He who conceals his real opinion under this loathsome veil is like the general⠀⠀ who, fearing to put forth manfully ly his whole str whole strength, has recourse to a shifting system of manoeuvres. professors of Candour are divided into two classesthose who pretend to cloak what is true; and those who are (as they express themselves) constrained to assert what is false.
The first class can often be recognized in those who, meeting you, will say, "I do not think our neighbour's affair so very bad; to be sure, no woman should admit any one in the absence of her husband; but then her case allows palliation:" Or, "Well, really I think there are uglier persons than our friend So-and-So," though he may happen to be one of those boob and tri
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Now these persons think, or pretend to think, that, by, 3 this mock liberality, they do a great service to the pers
son mentioned; whereas, to defend a man from the imputation of imperfections which are palpable to every observer, is like a ruined spendthrift pretending to keep up his appearance, and to deceive his already-awakened creditors. If a man has faults, let them be borne, and let not the remedy, by an attempt at an excuse, become worse than the disease.
For my part, I do not love to beat about the bush, when my object must be known; and, although there is no necessity for raking up a man's blemishes, it is still worse to expose them by an injudicious defence. The next class are those who say, "Well, really, I are the most hideous personage I ever
ust say that you are
saw; I am sorry to
to say any for go thing harsh, but the truth must be told." Then, if you mention it to a mutual friend, he will tell you, that the Candid gentleman is a person who will speak his own mind. It is very well for Pope to write,
,odw szor love to speak out all my mind, as plain that odl awodduk As honest Shippen, or downright Montaigne,
timbs bigoda ngasow on „sura ad os The truth is, that though politeness, in its modern sense, has weakened the natural simplicity of manners, it has, at the same time, e same time, blunted the edge of bitterness if it has destroyed the warmth of friendship and genuine kindness, it covers the coolness of indifference, and smothers the turbulence of animosity. Conceive the disturbance which would be caused in female society if every one spoke that which lay nearest her heart. How many who thought themselves amiable, young, and
beautiful, would be hailed by the complimentary appellation of an "Ill-natured old Crump.'
In a professor of Candour we never can distinguish whether they are friends; for on one side one side they are masked under whining hypocrisy; on the other, under pretended independence. They are not not your real enemies, but those concealed under the appearance of friendship, who are so uncontrolled in their strictures. Gay has warned us against both parties in the couplet,
And another eminent writer has enlarged on the idea in these lines, which serve as
a conclusion to my
Give me th' avowed, th' erect, the manly foe,
P.S. My readers will perceive that I have kept to the Horatian maxim, "Servetur ad imum, &c.," for the same author furnished my motto and conclusion.
THE CAPTIVE MINSTREL'S COMPLAINT.
Shall I, amid my prison gloom,
Doom'd here, unfriended and alone,
To moulder on the dungeon stone?
My very keepers seem to me
To shun the child of misery.
They've bound my limbs, they cannot bind
And though they snatch'd my joys away,
Might wish to break my chain, and share
The happy scene of youthful days,
Like summer ray on wintry day
It beams through clouds of sorrow's night. And though that beam is twice as fleet,
Yet still, I trow, 'tis twice as sweet,
To one o'er whose distracted soul
The icy waves of sorrow roll.
Yet e'en in hope there is some pain ;
Whose mind in hope hath no relief?