NOTE 66. Page 250.

This fable has crept in our story-books.

NOTE 67. Page 273.

We have here a new version of an Æsopian fable.

NOTE 68. Page 280.

"This is the fable of Parnell's HERMIT, which that elegant and original writer has heightened with many masterly touches of poetical colouring, and a happier arrangement of circumstances. Among

other proofs which might be mentioned of Parnell's genius and address in treating this subject, by reserving the discovery of the angel to a critical period at the close of the fable, he has found means to introduce a beautiful description, and an interesting surprise."-WARTON.

That the reader may compare the two stories the more readily, it is inserted here.

"THE HERMIT.

"FAR in a wild, unknown to public view,

From youth to age a reverend hermit grew,

The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well:
Remote from men, with God he pass'd his days,
Pray'r all his business, all his pleasure praise.

"A life so sacred, such serene repose, Seem'd heaven itself, till one suggestion rose ; That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey,— This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway : His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, And all the tenour of his soul was lost: So when a smooth expanse receives imprest Calm nature's image on its wat'ry breast, Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, And skies beneath with answering colours glow: But if a stone the gentle sea divide,

Swift ruffling circles curl on every side,

And glimmering fragments of a broken sun,
Banks, trees, and skies in thick disorder run.
"To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight,
To find if books, or swains, report it right,
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew,
Whose feet came wand'ring o'er the nightly dew)
He quits his cell; the pilgrim's staff he bore,
And fix'd the scallop in his hat before;
Then with the sun a rising journey went,
Sedate to think, and watching each event.

"The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, And long and lonesome was the wild to pass; But when the southern sun had warm'd the day, A youth came posting o'er the crossing way! His raiment decent, his complexion fair, And soft in graceful ringlets wav'd his hair. Then near approaching, Father, hail! he cried, And hail, my son, the rev'rend sire replied; Words follow'd words, from question answer flow'd, And talk of various kind deceiv'd the road, "Till each with other pleas'd, and loth to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart. Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.

"Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day,
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober grey:
Nature in silence bid the world repose;
When near the road a stately palace rose;
There by the moon thro' ranks of trees they pass,
Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides with grass.
It chanc'd the noble master of the dome,

Still made his house the wand'ring stranger's home:
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise,
Prov'd the vain flourish of expensive ease.
The pair arrive; the liv'ry'd servants wait;
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate.

The table groans with costly piles of food,
And all is more than hospitably good.

Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown,
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down.
"At length, 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day,
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play:
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep,
And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep.
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call;
An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall;
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet grac'd,
Which the kind master forc'd his guests to taste.
Then pleas'd and thankful, from the porch they go;
And, but the landlord, none had cause for woe;
His cup was vanish'd; for in secret guise,
The younger guest purloin'd the glittering prize.
"As one who spies a serpent in his way,
Glist'ning and basking in the sunny ray,
Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near,

Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear:
So seem'd the sire; when, far upon the road,
The shining spoil his wily partner shew'd:

He stopp'd with silence, walk'd with trembling heart,
And much he wish'd, but durst not ask, to part;
Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard,
That generous actions meet a base reward.

"While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds, The changing skies hang out their sable clouds; A sound in air presag'd approaching rain, And beasts to covert scud across the plain. Warn'd by the signs, the wand'ring pair retreat, To seek for shelter at a neighb'ring seat. 'Twas built with turrets on a rising ground, And strong, and large, and unimprov'd around; Its owner's temper, tim'rous and severe, Unkind and griping, caus'd a desert there.

"As near the miser's heavy doors they drew, Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew; The nimble light'ning mix'd with show'rs began, And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders ran. Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, Driv'n by the wind, and batter'd by the rain. At length some pity warm'd the master's breast, ('Twas then his threshold first receiv'd a guest.) Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care, And half he welcomes in the shiv'ring pair; One frugal faggot lights the naked walls, And nature's fervour thro' their limbs recalls: Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine, (Each hardly granted) serv'd them both to dine; And when the tempest first appear'd to cease, A ready warning bade them part in peace.

1 Sour.