was pierced to the heart at the news, and could not forbear going to inquire after his health. My mother took this opportunity of speaking in my behalf: she told him with abundance of tears, that I was come to see him, that I could not speak to her for weeping, and that I should certainly break my heart if he refused at that time to give me his blessing, and be reconciled to me. He was so far from relenting towards me, that he bid her speak no more of me, unless she had a mind to disturb him in his last moments; for, sir, you must know that he has the reputation of an honest and religious man, which makes my misfortune so much the greater. God be thanked he is since recovered; but his severe usage has given me such a blow, that I shall soon sink under it, unless I may be relieved by any impressions which the reading of this in your paper may make upon him. I am," &c.

Of all hardnesses of heart, there is none so inexcusable as that of parents towards their children. An obstinate, inflexible, unforgiving temper is odious upon all occasions, but here it is unnatural. The love, tenderness, and compassion which are apt to arise in us, towards those who depend upon us, is that by which the whole world of life is upheld. The Supreme Being, by the transcendent excellency and goodness of his nature, extends his mercy towards all his works; and because his creatures have not such a spontaneous benevolence and compassion towards those who are under their care and protection, he has implanted in them an instinct, that supplies the place of this inherent goodness. I have illustrated this kind of instinct in former papers, and have shewn how it runs through all the species of brute creatures, as indeed the whole animal creation subsists by it.'

This instinct in man is more general and uncircumscribed than in brutes, as being enlarged by the dictates of reason and

V. Nos 120, 121.-C.

duty. For if we consider ourselves attentively, we shall find that we are not only inclined to love those who descend from us, but that we bear a kind of (σropyý) or, natural affection, to every thing which relies upon us for its good and preservation. Dependance is a perpetual call upon humanity, and a greater incitement to tenderness and pity than any other motive what

soever.

The man therefore who, notwithstanding any passion or resentment, can overcome this powerful instinct, and extinguish natural affection, debases his mind even below brutality frustrates, as much as in him lies, the great design of Providence, and strikes out of his nature one of the most divine principles that is planted in it.

Among innumerable arguments which might be brought against such an unreasonable proceeding, I shall only insist on one. We make it the condition of our forgiveness that we forgive others. In our very prayers we desire no more than to be treated by this kind of retaliation. The case therefore before us seems to be what they call a case in point; the relation between the child and father being what comes nearest to that between a creature and its creator. If the father is inexorable to the child who has offended, let the offence be of never so high a nature, how will he address himself to the Supreme Being, under the tender appellation of a father, and desire of him such a forgiveness as he himself refuses to grant?

To this I might add many other religious as well as many prudental considerations; but if the last mentioned motive does not prevail, I despair of succeeding by any other, and shall therefore conclude my paper with a very remarkable story, which is recorded in an old chronicle published by Freher among the writers of the German history.1

1

Marquard Freher was a celebrated German lawyer of the sixteenth

Eginhart, who was secretary to Charles the Great, became exceeding popular by his behaviour in that post. His great abilities gained him the favour of his master, and the esteem of the whole court. Imma, the daughter of the emperor, was so pleased with his person and conversation, that she fell in love with him.' As she was one of the greatest beauties of the age, Eginhart answered with a more than equal return of passion. They stifled their flames for some time, under apprehension of the fatal consequences that might ensue. Eginhart at length resolving to hazard all, rather than live deprived of one whom his heart was so much set upon, conveyed himself one night into the princess's apartment, and knocking gently at the door, was admitted as a person who had something to communicate to her from the Emperor. He was with her in private most part of the night; but upon his preparing to go away about break of day, he observed that there had fallen a great snow during his stay with the prinThis very much perplexed him, lest the prints of his feet in the snow might make discoveries to the king, who often used to visit his daughter in the morning. He acquainted the princess Imma with his fears; who, after some consultations upon the matter, prevailed upon him to let her carry him through the snow upon her own shoulders. It happened that the Emperor not being able to sleep, was at that time up and walking in his chamber, when upon looking through the window he perceived his daughter tottering under her burthen, and carrying his first minister across the snow: which she had no sooner done, but she

cess.

century, who obliged the world with many curious and learned works, and among the rest with Rerum Germanicarum Scriptores, &c. 3 Tom. 1600, &c. In this work he has inserted an old monastic chronicle which contains the following tale.-V. Tom. 1, chronicon Lavrishamensis Coenobii”: sub anno 805.-C.

1 This lady had been betrothed to the Grecian emperor. (Regi Graecorum Desponsata. Freher.)-C.

returned again with the utmost speed to her own apartment. The Emperor was extremely troubled and astonished at this acci dent; but resolved to speak nothing of it till a proper opportuni ty. In the mean time Eginhart knowing what he had done could not be long a secret, determined to retire from court; and in order to it begged the Emperor that he would be pleased to dismiss him, pretending a kind of discontent at his not having been reward ed for his long services. The Emperor would not give a direct answer to his petition, but told him he would think of it, and appointed a certain day when he would let him know his pleasure. He then called together the most faithful of his counsellors, and acquainting them with the secretary's crime, asked them their advice in so delicate an affair. They most of them gave their opinion, that the person could not be too severely punished who had thus dishonoured his master. Upon the whole debate, the Emperor declared it was his opinion, that Eginhart's punishment would rather increase than diminish the shame of his family, and that therefore he thought it the most advisable to wear out the memory of the fact, by marrying him to his daughter. Accordingly Eginhart was called in, and acquainted by the Emperor, that he should no longer have any pretence of complaining his services were not rewarded, for that the Princess Imma should be given him in marriage, with a dower suitable to her quality; which was soon after performed accordingly.1 L.

1

Bayle, who has inserted the foregoing story in his dictionary (art. Eginhart) whence perhaps Addison had it, thinks that with a little embellishment it might be made one of the pleasantest tales in the world, particularly in the hands of such a writer as La Fontaine. The frontispieces might afford a striking parallel between the effects of love, and the effects of piety; be tween Æneas loaded with his father, and Imma bending under her gallant. The good Emperor beholding her at a distance (as he was star-gazing) would not be the least interesting figure in the piece; especially if the engraver did but enter into the reflection of a careful father on such an occaRion.-C.

FABLES were the first pieces of wit that made their appearance in the world, and have been still highly valued, not only in times of the greatest simplicity, but among the most polite ages of mankind. Jotham's fable of the trees is the oldest that is extant, and as beautiful as any which have been made since that time. Nathan's fable of the poor man and his lamb is likewise more ancient than any that is extant, besides the above-mentioned, and had so good an effect, as to convey instruction to the ear of a king without offending it, and to bring the man after God's own heart to a right sense of his guilt and his duty. We find Æsop in the most distant ages of Greece; and if we look into the very beginning of the commonwealth of Rome, we see a mutiny among the common people appeased by a fable of the belly and the limbs, which was indeed very proper to gain the attention of an incenssd rabble, at a time when perhaps they would have torn to pieces any man who had preached the same doctrine to them in an open and direct manner.1 As fables took their birth in the very infancy of learning, they never flourished more than when learning was at its greatest height. To justify this assertion, I shall put my reader in mind of Horace, the greatest wit and critic in the Augustan age; and of Boileau, the most correct poet among the moderns: not to mention la Fontaine, who, by this

1 V. Livy, lib. 2, sect. 32. Florus, lib. i. c. 23.—C.