Well read, well tempered, with religion warmed,
That fire abated which impels rash youth,
Proud of his speed to overshoot the truth,
As time improves the grapes’ authentic juice,
Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use,
And claims a reverence in his shortening day,
That ’tis an honour and a joy to pay.”
Cowper.
“CUM, Balaam! Stor yer pins, aud chap, or we sahn’t get te d’ Marlpit Wood afoore dinner tahme.” Adam Olliver, astride his faithful but laggard donkey, sought with small success to put that philosophic quadruped to a quicker pace. Balaam was not to be flurried out of the jog-trot which had become a part of his nature, and walking or galloping was equally out of the question. This Adam well knew, but he had got into the habit of talking to his four-footed retainer in his lonely labours in valley and hill-side, and, doubtless, if all his confidential talk with his long-eared but not particularly retentive listener could be reported, a volume, considerable alike in size and sense, might easily be forthcoming.