he bottom, shaded with lilacs and laburnums, that
overlooks a pretty range of meadows, terminated by the village church.
The moon had now gained a considerable ascendancy in the sky; and the
silvery paleness and profound quiet of the surrounding landscape,
which, but an hour ago, had been enlivened by the sun's last rays,
seemed to affect the minds of us all very sensibly. Lysander, in
particular, began to express the sentiments which such a scene excited
in him.--"Yonder," says he, pointing to the church-yard, "is the
bourne which terminates our earthly labours; and I marvel much how
mortals can spend their time in cavilling at each other--in murdering,
with their pens as well as their swords, all that is excellent and
admirable in human nature--instead of curbing their passions,
elevating their hopes, and tranquillizing their fears. Every evening,
for at least one-third of the year, heaven has fixed in the sky yonder
visible monitor to man. Calmness and splendour are her attendants: no
dark passions, no carking cares, neither spleen nor jealousy, seem to
dwell in that bright orb, where, as has been fondly imagined, "the
wretched may have rest."--"And here," replied Philemon, "we do nothing
but fret and fume if our fancied merits are not instantly rewarded, or
if another wear a sprig of laurel more verdant than ourselves; I could
mention, within my own recollection, a hundred instances of this
degrading prostitution of talent--aye, a thousand."--"Gently reprimand
your fellow creatures," resumed Lysander, "lest you commit an error as
great as any of those which you condemn in others. The most difficult
of human tasks seems to be the exercise of forbearance and temperance.
By exasperating, you only rekindle, and not extinguish, the evil
sparks in our dispositions. A man will bear being told he is in the
wrong; but you must tell him so gently and mildly. Animosity,
petulance, and persecution, are the plagues which destroy our better
parts."--"And envy," replied Philemon, "has surely enough to
do."--"Yes," said Lysander, "we might enumerate, as you were about to
do, many instances--and (what you were not about to do) pity while we
enumerate! I think," continued he, addressing himself particularly to
me, "you informed me that the husband of poor Lavinia lies buried in
yonder church-yard; and perhaps the very tomb which now glistens by
the moonbeam is the one which consecrates his memory! That man was
passionately addicted to