work_id,theme,provenance,created_at,text,reviewed_on,id,comments,metaphor,dictionary,updated_at,context
5647,"","Searching ""soul"" and ""Brass"" in HDIS (Poetry); found again, ""pence;"" confirmed in ECCO.
",2005-06-07 00:00:00 UTC,"In that snug room, the scene of shrewd remark,
Whose window stares upon the saunt'ring park;
Where many a hungry bard, and gambling sinner,
In chop-fall'n sadness, counts the trees for dinner
In that snug room where any man of spunk
Would find it a hard matter to get drunk;
Where coy Tokay ne'er feels a cooks embraces,
Nor port nor claret show their rosy faces;
But where old Adam's beverage flows with pride,
From wide-mouth'd pitchers, in a plenteous tide;
Where veal, pork, mutton, beef, and fowl, and fish,
All club their joints to make one handsome dish;
Where stew-pan covers serve for plates, I ween,
And knives and forks and spoons are never seen;
Where pepper issues from a paper bag,
And for a cruet stands a brandy cag;
Where Madam Schwellenberg too often sits,
Like some old tabby in her mousing fits,
Demurely squinting with majestic mien,
To catch some fault to carry to the queen:
In that snug room, like those immortal Greeks,
Of whom, in book the thirteenth, Ovid speaks--
Around the table, all with sulky looks,
Like culprits doom'd to Tyburn, sat the cooks:
At length, with phiz that show'd the man of woes,
The sorrowing king of spits and stew-pans rose;
Like Paul at Athens, very justly sainted,
And by the charming brush of Raphael painted,
With out-stretch'd hands, and energetic grace,
He fearless thus harangues the roasting race;
Whilst gaping round, in mute attention, sit,
The poor forlorn disciples of the spit:
'Cooks, scullions, hear me ev'ry mother's son--
Know that I relish not this royal fun:
George thinks us scarcely fit ('tis very clear)
To carry guts, my brethren, to a bear.'--
'Guts to a bear!' the cooks, up-springing, cry'd--
'Guts to a bear,' the major loud reply'd.
'Guts to the dev'l!' loud roar'd the cooks again,
And toss'd their noses high in proud disdain:
The plain translation of whose pointed noses
The reader needeth not, the bard supposes;
But if the reason some dull reader looks,
'Tis this--whatever kings may think of cooks,
Howe'er crown'd heads may deem them low-born things,
Cooks are possess'd of souls as well as kings.
Yet are there some who think (but what a shame!)
Poor people's souls like pence of Birmingham,
Adulterated brass--base stuff--abhorr'd--
That never can pass current with the Lord;
And think because of wealth they boast a store,
With ev'ry freedom they may treat the poor:
Witness the story that my Muse, with tears,
Relates, O reader, to thy shrinking ears:
(cf. pp. 27-9 in 1787 edition)",2012-06-27,15095,"•Do these belong in Mineral or Uncategorized?
•INTEREST. USE in Entry
•Footnotes give, ""1. The larder. 2. This will be deemed strange by my country readers--but it is nevertheless true.""
• Reviewed 2007-04-26","""Yet are there some who think (but what a shame!) / Poor people's souls like pence of Birmingham, / Adulterated brass--base stuff--abhorr'd-- / That never can pass current with the Lord; / And think because of wealth they boast a store, / With ev'ry freedom they may treat the poor.""",Coinage,2014-03-03 18:24:27 UTC,Canto II
5685,"","Searching ""heart"" and ""steel"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2005-06-10 00:00:00 UTC,"Then comes a troop in gilded uniform,
The goodly band Johnsonian. Cowley first,
Poetic child, whose philosophic muse
Distracts, delights, torments, and captivates.
Let me attend, when, from the world retir'd,
He turn'd his restive Pegasus to graze,
And thought, and wrote, sedate and sober prose.
Comes Milton next, that like his wakeful bird
Sings darkling, sings and mourns his eye-sight lost,
And nightly wanders to the Muses' haunt,
Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill,
Smit with the love of sacred song; to us
Displaying nature, and the blissful scenes
Of Paradise, though not to him returns
Day, or the sweet approach of ev'n or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine.
Sweet bard, that bears us softly now, and, smooth
As that unwrinkled flood that slowly winds
By Windsor's haughty tow'rs, and visits shores
Divinely various--rushes now, and leaps,
Confounding sense, immeasurable depth,
A foaming cataract, whose thund'ring fall
Disorders hell, and utmost earth and heav'n.
Comes Butler then, incomparable wit,
And not to be reprov'd, save when his muse
Decorum overleaps, and here and there
Bolts the coarse jest, to the chaste eye and ear
Offensive; for behind the comic mask
We find the scholar and the man of sense,
The friend of virtue, and the foe of vice.
Then follows courtly Waller, and in vain
On Amoret or Saccharissa calls,
With budget full of trifles, birth-day odes,
Congratulations, songs, and compliments,
And mythologic tales. Then Denham charms,
And from his own Parnassus, Cooper's Hill,
Sings the wide prospect that extended lies
Under his proud survey. Then Sprat. And then
Roscommon fills with elegant remark,
His verse as elegant; unspotted lines
Flow from a mind unspotted as themselves.
Then Wilmot tunes his reed, and in his song
Gives early specimen of genius, rare
And prone to excellence. But ah! how vain
Poetic hopes! The prime of life is lost,
His talent wasted, and the giddy fool
Grows old in pleasure, and denies his God.
The grave in view, a holy friend his guide,
He views his conduct with remorse, repents,
Acknowledges his fault, curses the wit
Of erring man that so outwits itself,
And dies, a martyr to the pains of vice.
Then Yalden sings, and fills us with delight,
His harp so tun'd that as the morning breaks
It breathes spontaneous rapture, and again
At ev'ning close with solemn eulogy
Welcomes the reign of night. With dewy eye
But harlot tear, then Otway's muse begins,
And charms who hears her with her Syren air;
To decency, alas, no friend, to vice
No enemy. His Celia then proclaims
Enamour'd Duke, at Floriana's grave
Sweet lamentation chanting. Dorset then
Hums nobly liberal, and hums too much,
Scarce heard an hour. Chaste Montague succeeds,
Stepney less pure, and Walsh with feeble wing
Half flying, half on foot. Then comes a bard,
Worn out and penniless, and poet still
Though bent with years, and in impetuous rhyme
Pours out his unexhausted song. What muse
So flexible, so generous as thine,
Immortal Dryden. From her copious fount
Large draughts he took, and unbeseeming song
Inebriated sang. Who does not grieve,
To hear the soul and insolent rebuke
Of angry satire from a bard so rare?
To trace the lubricous and oily course
Of abject adulation, the lewd line
Of shameless vice, from page to page, and find
The judgment brib'd, the heart unprincipled,
And only loyal at th' expence of truth,
Of justice, and of virtue? Meaner strain
The dapper wit commends of sprightly Garth.
We smile to see fantastic Poetry
Shake hands with Physic, and with grave burlesque
Arrange his gallipots, and gild his pills;
Then march in dreadful armour to the field,
To screen her new ally from hostile shocks,
With pestle truncheon, Cloacinian helm,
And levell'd squirt. Then heartily we laugh
With laughter-loving King, and much applaud
That vein of mirth which, innocent and clear,
In silver neatness flows. Young Phillips then,
Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme,
A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire,
Sings gravely jocund. Dismal rag applauds,
With sympathetic ardour touch'd, at sound
Of tatter'd galligaskins, college duns,
And subtle catchpole. Modest Pomfret then,
To soar aloft unable, with light wing
Above the plain scarce elevated skims,
A short and feeble flight. So have I seen
The spaniel-hunted quail with lowly wing
Shear the smooth air: and so too have I heard
That she can sweetly clamour, though compell'd
To tread the humble vale, nor ever mount
High as the ev'ning swift or morning lark.
Then blameless Hughes, in union with Pepusch,
Still to the eloquent orchestra tunes
His virtuous, unmeaning song. And now,
In tones that might attract an angel's ear,
Flows the smooth strain of righteous Addison.
Then Blackmore says an everlasting tale,
Bless'd with a callous muse. Genius in vain
Laughs at the fond attempt, for still he bawls,
And with gigantic dissonance subdues
The universal hiss. No poet--true--
But mark the man, and you shall find him good.
And what's the poet if the man be naught?
Let Buckingham reply. Genius and wit
May flourish for a day, and snatch the wreath
From awkward probity; but soon shall fade
The ready laurels of a vicious muse,
While amaranthine honours crown the brow
Of unpoetic virtue. Waller's muse
In courteous Granville lives, in Granville dies.
Who can refuse applause to tragic Rowe?
Who can withhold his honest praise from thee,
Tickel, thou friend of Addison, and virtue?
Who is not startled at the fertile wit
Of beardless Congreve? and who does not grieve
That 'twas not drawn in the defence of virtue?
How sweet the music of thy happy lines,
Poetic Prior; full of mirth thy muse,
And exquisite her jest. Ah! hear it not,
Ye sober fair, for fulsome is the tale,
And only fit for the distemper'd ear
Of jovial libertines. His graver song
Applaud unsatisfied, and ever laugh
To see him mount his furious Pegasus
Pindaric, often back'd, but back'd in vain,
And never to be tam'd by crazy wits.
'Twas an unruly and a hard-mouth'd horse,
""And slung his rider if he sat not sure,""
Dan Cowley said. Yet up sprung Mat, resolv'd.
O'er sea and land with an unbounded loose
Runs the mad steed, a Gilpin race I ween.
Hardly the muse can sit the head-strong horse.
See, now she gallops round the Belgic shore,
Now through the raging ocean ploughs her way,
To rough Ierne's camps; there sounds alarms,
In the dank marshes finds her glorious theme,
And plunges after him through Boyne's fierce flood.
Back to his Albion then, then with stiff wing
East, over Danube and Propontis' shores,
From the Moeotis to the northern sea,
To visit the young Muscovite; thence up,
Resolv'd to reach the high empyrean sphere,
And ask for William an Olympic crown.
Till, lost in trackless fields of shining day,
Unhors'd, and all revers'd, down, down she comes,
Comes rushing with uncommon ruin down.
Glorious attempt, but not unhappy fate.
'Twas lucky, Mat, thou had'st not giv'n a name
To some Icarian gulf, or shook at least
The carnal man so sore, that he had limp'd,
And lamely hobbled to the verge of life;
But, thanks to fate, thy pace is even yet,
And happily the Muse her mirthful song
In durance vile prolongs. So have I heard
The captive finch, in narrow cage confin'd,
Charm all his woe away with cheerful song,
Which might have melted e'en a heart of steel
To give him liberty. Hence, hence, away
Ye meaner wits, hide your diminish'd heads,
See genius self approaches. Homer's soul
A puny child informs. Let envy laugh
To see an urchin ugly as herself
The glory of our isle. For thee, great bard,
We twine the laurel wreath, and grant it thine
Thrice-won. Shall any mortal tongue presume
To scatter censure on thy charming page?
Hark, 'tis the din of twenty thousand curs
Who bark at excellence. Who best deserves
Must feel the scourge of infinite abuse,
For man to man is fiercer than the wolf,
More cruel than the tiger. Who can brook
The sight of aught more worthy than himself?
Invite an angel from the courts of heav'n,
Our critic eye shall spy a thousand faults
Where not a fault exists. Mistake me not,
I name not thee an angel, haughty bard,
Thy deeds were human. With an honest heart
I love the poet, but detest the man.
Thy purer lays what mortal can despise,
Thy baser song what mortal can approve,
Thou witty, dirty, patriotic Dean?
Laugh on, laugh on. With pencil exquisite
Picture the features of encourag'd vice,
And fashionable folly. Give the fair,
The peerless Stella, everlasting worth,
Deride thy narrow paper-sparing friend;
And gall the great. But why shall thy sweet Muse
Turn scavenger, and the foul kennel rake
For themes and similes? What heart but grieves,
To find an equal portion in thy song
Of elegantly fair and grossly foul?
Now honest Gay, a city shepherd, sings,
Nor sings in vain to us. In Arcady
We love to stray, and dream of happy days
No eye has seen, no heart has felt. We love
The land of Fairy, and the puny deeds
Of dapper elves. Whate'er the frantic poet
In his wild mood imagines, we applaud.
Nor wholly scorn with Gay or Broom to stray,
Or Ambrose Philips, through enchanted land
To painted meadows, flow'ry lawns and hills,
To crystal floods, cool groves, and shady bow'rs,
And rills that babble, tinkle, purl, and murmur.
How sweet the song that from thy mellow pipe,
Dear Parnel, flow'd. Death overheard amaz'd,
And his stone couch forsook, all wonder now,
And now all envy. Sure he thought no bard
Of mortal mixture could such tones create;
Or if of mortal mixture, he had liv'd
Double the days of man, and stol'n from years
Due to the reign of silence and of death,
Song so divine. With the bad thought possess'd,
He keen'd his arrow on a flint, advanc'd,
And threw it greedily, his lipless jaws
Gnashing with hate. So fell betimes the bard,
So triumph'd death, and at the bloody deed
Shook his lean bones with laughter. Cursed fiend,
Thou bane of excellence, go hence, and laugh;
Yet shall the pious poet sing again,
And thou shalt hear, and with eternal wrath
Ay burning, dance with agony, and gnaw,
Howling for pain, the adamantine gates
Of treble-bolted Hell.",,15196,•C-H takes from Poems (1808),"""So have I heard / The captive finch, in narrow cage confin'd, / Charm all his woe away with cheerful song, / Which might have melted e'en a heart of steel / To give him liberty""",Metal,2009-09-14 19:43:00 UTC,""
5714,"","Searching ""soul"" and ""silver"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2005-06-03 00:00:00 UTC,"Contrive me, Artisan, a Bowl
Of Silver ample as my Soul;
And in the bright Compartments bring
The sweet Profusion of the Spring;
Let that fair Season, rich in Flowers,
Shed Roses in ambrosial Showers;
Yet simply plain be thy Design,
A festive Banqueting of Wine;
No Hieroglyphics let it have,
No foreign Mysteries engrave:
Let no blood-thirsty Heroes wield
Rough Armour in the silver Field;
But draw me Jove's delightful Boy,
Paschus the God of Wine and Joy:
Let Venus with light Step advance,
And with gay Hymen lead the Dance.
Beneath the Leaf-embellish'd Vine,
Full of young Grapes that promise Wine,
Let Love, without his Armour meet
The meek-ey'd Graces laughing sweet.
And on the polish'd Plain display
A Group of beauteous Boys at Play;
But no Apollo, God of Day,",,15243,"","""Contrive me, Artisan, a Bowl / Of Silver ample as my Soul""",Metal,2009-09-14 19:43:08 UTC,The Odes of Anacreon
5729,"","Searching ""heart"" and ""iron"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2005-06-07 00:00:00 UTC,"To the door he went,
And left her. She obey'd, to be set free
From this her dreary mansion little loth,
And having paid her landlord, left his house,
And came to Ernest's. With a gracious smile,
Such as the tender father gives his child,
He at his door receiv'd her. To her room
Now he conducts her, at the table's head
Now seats her, and proclaims her with delight
Queen of the feast. With cheerfulness and ease
She rules the board, and half forgets her grief.
Day rose, and day retir'd. Night after night
Withdrew, and ere she thinks of preparation
The promis'd week is gone. She begs one more,
And yet another. To protract her stay
Ernest consents, unwilling to dismiss
A guest so lovely. At the long delay
Young Henry too was pleas'd, with secret love
Towards Ophelia burning. For what youth
Can look on woman beauteous as the morn
With tearful eyes emerging from distress,
All penitence and sorrow--and not love?
Is there a man whose iron heart is proof
Against such charms? Lay not his bones by mine.
For should they touch, 'twere like a sudden spark
Let fall by chance among the nitrous casks
Lodg'd in the bowels of a ship of war,
Which in a moment blows her to the Moon.",,15286,"","""Is there a man whose iron heart is proof / Against such charms?""",Metal,2009-09-14 19:43:15 UTC,""
5732,"","Searching ""heart"" and ""steel"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2005-06-10 00:00:00 UTC,"""Then hear,"" said Gilbert. ""To this spot I came,
""Intending hurt to none. From the loud surge
""But ill escap'd, and climbing the rude cliff
""Through a steep moulder'd gap, at a small hut
""Belonging to the fisher and his son,
""I found this suit, and chang'd it for my own
""All dripping wet. Soon as the tempest ceas'd
""I left the hut thus clad, and tow'rds the wood
""Came with all speed, well knowing these my friends
""And these my sisters had not hearts of steel,
""And might be griev'd at my delay. I saw,
""Just as my weary feet had reach'd this spot,
""This lovely maid upon that bench asleep.
""I saw, and was refresh'd; but had not gaz'd
""A moment's space, ere yonder villain came,
""Thy friend; and I retir'd, and unperceiv'd
""Beheld the dev'lish antic at his wiles.
""I knew his purpose, (for the outward act
""Gives true assurance of the inward mind,)
""And burning with impatience stood awhile,
""Till he all passion seiz'd the helpless maid
""Alone and sleeping, and with touch profane
""Thought to have feasted on those crimson lips
""And that vermilion cheek. I sprung to help her
""And sure my arm had more than usual strength,
""For with one blow I fell'd him to the earth,
""And set the captive free. She fled alarm'd,
""And hardly stay'd to cast one thankful look
""On him who sav'd her--but that gracious smile
""Repays me well. The shameless villain rose,
""And, cursing me by ev'ry name above,
""Ran at my life. The second blow you saw,
""Which plung'd him headlong in the miry brook.
""And if an act like this can need defence,
""I stand prepar'd to give it; for be sure,
""Had it been Fred'rick I had done the same,
""And Fred'rick had deserv'd it.""",,15292,•C-H takes from Poems (1808),"""'And these my sisters had not hearts of steel, / 'And might be griev'd at my delay""",Metal,2009-09-14 19:43:16 UTC,""
6187,"","Searching ""mill"" and ""heart"" in HDIS (Poetry); confirmed in ECCO",2006-12-12 00:00:00 UTC,"You're told that in my ways I'm very evil!
So ugly; fit to travel for a show,
And that I look all grimly where I go!
Just like a devil!
With horns, and tail, and hoofs that make folks start;
And in my breast a millstone for a heart!",,16365,"","""With horns, and tail, and hoofs that make folks start; / And in my breast a millstone for a heart!""","",2014-03-03 18:11:26 UTC,""
6859,"","Searching ""coin"" and ""imagination"" in Google Books",2011-05-20 16:44:21 UTC,"Quick parts and good practical sense and judgment are of a very different complexion [r], and have not unfrequently a separate existence. Men are caught indeed by the effusions of a brilliant fancy and bright imagination; but its refulgence and flashes, like the coruscations of the diamond, serve only to sparkle in the eye of the beholder, and to dazzle his sight, without further use or advantage to any one: whereas practical good sense circulates like current coin to general profit. Shining parts, like the bright colourings of porcelain, or the lustres of glass in a well furnished house, are beautiful decorations and striking ornaments; but good sense, like the solid service of plate, is alone substantial and intrinsically valuable. Sound judgment is of daily life, not only to its possessor, but to all, who have the good fortune to be connected with him. There is no station in life, which a plain, good understanding does not adorn, no occurrence of daily experience, which does not partake of its genial influence. The man of parts may be admired for his quickness, as the racer is, who flies before the wind; but it is the draft or road-horse of steadier pace that (like good sense) is useful to mankind. It is not the warmth and elevations of fancy, or the quick and bright assemblage of ideas, which irradiate the paths of beneficial truth; since none are more liable to error than they, who conduct themselves by the wild and dancing light of imagination alone. None can less bear the sobriety of plain reasoning, or have less patience to trace the process of a serious argument than they, whose fire and vivacity make them love nothing, but what is uncommon, marvellous, and striking. But useful truths and moral duties are neither uncommon nor marvellous; and consequently the exalted and elastic genius is apt to decry the poor, low, groveling spirit of those, who seek to conciliate the affections and to deserve the respect of mankind, by an anxiety to perform the plain duties of social life. The fear of being shackled by vulgar rules and vulgar opinions without inquiring into their propriety, decency, or truth, is the bane of many a promising genius, who owes his ruin to what he prides himself on possessing--superior abilities; since these may be specious without solidity, and showy without sense.--Such an one may likewise be endued (or think he is so) with a soul of sensibility; but not having cultivated the practical powers of a discriminating judgment, his affectation of sentiment will lead him captive at will, and his acute feelings will as often be exercised on wrong as right objects. He will encroach in many a particular on the powers of this poor tortured word, and will plead a sensibility in love, in friendship, in compliance with evil, as a sufficient, nay a meritorious excuse for transgressing the plainest rules of common sense and common morality. So little then are either bright parts, or the mere effusions of sentiment to be deemed respectable, unless they submit to be guided by discretion, prudence, and judgment; they may assist as ornamental and enlivening auxiliaries, but are too capricious, volatile, and unsteady, to be ever safely entrusted with the supreme command.
(pp. 371-2)",,18454,"","""Men are caught indeed by the effusions of a brilliant fancy and bright imagination; but its refulgence and flashes, like the coruscations of the diamond, serve only to sparkle in the eye of the beholder, and to dazzle his sight, without further use or advantage to any one: whereas practical good sense circulates like current coin to general profit.""",Coinage,2011-05-20 16:57:50 UTC,""
6859,"","",2011-05-20 16:46:28 UTC,"Quick parts and good practical sense and judgment are of a very different complexion [r], and have not unfrequently a separate existence. Men are caught indeed by the effusions of a brilliant fancy and bright imagination; but its refulgence and flashes, like the coruscations of the diamond, serve only to sparkle in the eye of the beholder, and to dazzle his sight, without further use or advantage to any one: whereas practical good sense circulates like current coin to general profit. Shining parts, like the bright colourings of porcelain, or the lustres of glass in a well furnished house, are beautiful decorations and striking ornaments; but good sense, like the solid service of plate, is alone substantial and intrinsically valuable. Sound judgment is of daily life, not only to its possessor, but to all, who have the good fortune to be connected with him. There is no station in life, which a plain, good understanding does not adorn, no occurrence of daily experience, which does not partake of its genial influence. The man of parts may be admired for his quickness, as the racer is, who flies before the wind; but it is the draft or road-horse of steadier pace that (like good sense) is useful to mankind. It is not the warmth and elevations of fancy, or the quick and bright assemblage of ideas, which irradiate the paths of beneficial truth; since none are more liable to error than they, who conduct themselves by the wild and dancing light of imagination alone. None can less bear the sobriety of plain reasoning, or have less patience to trace the process of a serious argument than they, whose fire and vivacity make them love nothing, but what is uncommon, marvellous, and striking. But useful truths and moral duties are neither uncommon nor marvellous; and consequently the exalted and elastic genius is apt to decry the poor, low, groveling spirit of those, who seek to conciliate the affections and to deserve the respect of mankind, by an anxiety to perform the plain duties of social life. The fear of being shackled by vulgar rules and vulgar opinions without inquiring into their propriety, decency, or truth, is the bane of many a promising genius, who owes his ruin to what he prides himself on possessing—-superior abilities; since these may be specious without solidity, and showy without sense.—-Such an one may likewise be endued (or think he is so) with a soul of sensibility; but not having cultivated the practical powers of a discriminating judgment, his affectation of sentiment will lead him captive at will, and his acute feelings will as often be exercised on wrong as right objects. He will encroach in many a particular on the powers of this poor tortured word, and will plead a sensibility in love, in friendship, in compliance with evil, as a sufficient, nay a meritorious excuse for transgressing the plainest rules of common sense and common morality. So little then are either bright parts, or the mere effusions of sentiment to be deemed respectable, unless they submit to be guided by discretion, prudence, and judgment; they may assist as ornamental and enlivening auxiliaries, but are too capricious, volatile, and unsteady, to be ever safely entrusted with the supreme command.
(pp. 371-2)
",,18455,"","""Shining parts, like the bright colourings of porcelain, or the lustres of glass in a well furnished house, are beautiful decorations and striking ornaments; but good sense, like the solid service of plate, is alone substantial and intrinsically valuable.""",Metal,2011-05-20 16:58:21 UTC,""
7837,"",ECCO-TCP,2014-03-12 15:22:32 UTC,"THIS Proverb has been generally misunderstood and misapplied. It has been conceived to allude to the folly of giving to others what we want ourselves; and covetous men have used it in justification of their own selfishness. We here see an instance of it. A hungry pauper has just received a mess of pottage from the hands of benevolence; and two or three poor wretches, as hungry as himself, are craving part of it; but he is deaf to their solicitations, and steels his heart against their wants. It is not that a man is expected to give away what he is going to eat, to any vagrant that may ask him; but there is a method of refusing an alms, that reflects no discredit on the refuser. Self-preservation is the first law of nature; and we are justifiable in providing food for ourselves and families; but that being done, a good christian, and one who can feel for the distresses of another, will naturally bestow a little of what he can spare, to those to whom Fortune has not been so bountiful as to himself. He who is poorest has always something to spare; and a cup of cold water, given in the spirit of charity, will mark the disposition of the giver. To take care of ourselves and families, and provide against an evil day, is certainly the duty of every man. In this sense charity may be said to begin at home. As a man should be just before he is generous, so should he be prudent before he is charitable: that is to say, there is no more room for a person in debt to be generous, than there is for him to be charitable, whilst his family is unprovided for. But, if charity, in this sense, should begin at home, it is not necessary it should end there also. The provision we are to make for ourselves is not to be boundless. When we enjoy fully the necessaries of life, and some of its comforts, we should be willing to contribute to the necessities of others; impart those comforts where we can, and not suffer our unlimited wants to be an excuse for uncharitableness.
(pp. 29-31)",,23626,"","""A hungry pauper has just received a mess of pottage from the hands of benevolence; and two or three poor wretches, as hungry as himself, are craving part of it; but he is deaf to their solicitations, and steels his heart against their wants.""",Metal,2014-03-12 15:22:32 UTC,""
7837,"",ECCO-TCP,2014-03-12 15:25:58 UTC,"Vain are a man's titles--vain his wealth--vain his pursuits of pleasure--the guilty mind has no enjoyment--neither rank nor riches can steel the breast against the stings of conscience--""The wicked fleeth when no man pursueth.""--He flies, like a hunted deer, from the terrors of his own mind, and the dread of future punishment drives him to despair.
(p. 71)",,23631,"","""Vain are a man's titles--vain his wealth--vain his pursuits of pleasure--the guilty mind has no enjoyment--neither rank nor riches can steel the breast against the stings of conscience.""",Metal,2014-03-12 15:32:48 UTC,""