IMPERTINENCE at first is borne

With heedless slight, or smiles of scorn:
Teased into wrath, what patience bears
The noisy fool who perseveres?1

(1) Solomon advises us (in Prov. xxvi. 4,) not to answer a fool according to his folly, "lest thou also be like unto him:" but in the next verse tells us that we should answer him, "lest he be wise in his own conceit." Both counsels are needful, but the wise man knows the proper time to adopt either.

The morning wakes, the Huntsman sounds, At once rush forth the joyful Hounds;

They seek the wood with eager pace,

Through bush, through brier, explore the chase.
Now scatter'd wide they try the plain,
And snuff the dewy turf in vain.
What care, what industry, what pains!
What universal silence reigns!
Ringwood, a dog of little fame,
Young, pert, and ignorant of game,
At once displays his babbling throat;
The pack, regardless of the note,
Pursue the scent; with louder strain
He still persists to vex the train.

The Huntsman to the clamour flies,
The smacking lash he smartly plies.
His ribs all welk'd, with howling tone
The puppy thus express'd his moan:—
“I know the music of my tongue
Long since the pack with envy stung.
What will not spite? these bitter smarts

I owe to my superior parts."

"When Puppies prate," the Huntsman cried,

"They show both ignorance and pride:

Fools may our scorn, not envy, raise;
For envy is a kind of praise.
Had not thy forward noisy tongue
Proclaim'd thee always in the wrong,

Thou might'st have mingled with the rest,
And ne'er thy foolish nose confest:

But fools, to talking ever prone,

(1) This fable is ably drawn to show the impossibility of teaching ignorance

its own folly, when corroborated (as always) by self-conceit. The observation that envy is a kind of praise, is strictly true; moreover it is one concomitant of conceit, to be ever carping for praise, so that by seeking attention it attracts observation to its absurdity, which might otherwise escape censure from the powerful, or at all events the notice of the wise. "Argutos inter strepit anser olores," is the motto of every impertinent coxcomb, and in no instance, when introduced into society, does he fail to act up to it. Reiterated disappointment, the neglect which cuts the spirit like a sword, or the actual cautery of the world's scorn, together with those oppressive and continual cares, which wither in the soul all hope and energy of resistance, and render it, at length, passive beneath assault, test the difference between pride and conceit; for the latter, akin to vanity, falls speedily prostrate; the other, founded upon true self-esteem, is impregnable. Hence it has been well said, that a proud man is too proud to be vain, for vanity draws its support from the applause of the world, pride from the approbation of self, looking down with just contempt upon the fitful gusts of the "popularis aura," whose scorn or smile it neither seeks nor fears.

I HATE the man who builds his name
On ruins of another's fame:1

Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown,
Imagine that they raise their own;
Thus scribblers covetous of praise,
Think slander can transplant the bays.

(1) Juvenal's observation is:

"Miserum est alienæ incumbere famæ."-Sat. viii. 76.

Beauties and bards have equal pride,
With both all rivals are decried.
Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature,
Must call her sister "awkward creature;”
For the kind flattery's sure to charm,
When we some other nymph disarm.1
As in the cool of early day

A Poet sought the sweets of May,
The garden's fragrant breath ascends,
And every stalk with odour bends.
A Rose he pluck'd: he gazed, admired,
Thus singing, as the Muse inspired:-

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Go, Rose, my Chloe's bosom grace;

How happy should I prove, Might I supply that envied place With never-fading love!

There, Phoenix-like, beneath her eye,

Involved in fragrance, burn and die.

"Know, hapless flower! that thou shalt find

More fragrant Roses there:

I see thy withering head reclined
With envy and despair!

One common fate we both must prove;
You die with envy, I with love.”

"Spare your comparisons," replied
An angry Rose, who grew beside;
"Of all mankind you should not flout us
What can a Poet do without us!

(1) "For malice will with joy, the lie receive,
Report, and what it wishes true, believe."
Vide Yalden's Ovid's Art of Love.