virtuous, and to survive in the eternal records of fame?'
"While Xenocrates was thus discoursing, Polemo seemed to be transported with a sacred enthusiasm; his eyes flashed fire, his countenance glowed with martial indignation, and the whole expression of his person was changed. Presently the philosopher, who had remarked the effect of his discourse, painted in no less glowing colours the life and manners of an effeminate young man; 'Unhappy youth,' said he, 'what word shall I find equal to thy abasement? Thou art the reproach of thy parents, the disgrace of thy country, the scorn or pity of every generous mind. How is nature dishonoured in thy person, and all her choicest gifts abortive! That strength which would have rendered thee the glory of thy city and the terror of her foes, is basely thrown away on luxury and intemperance; thy youth and beauty are wasted in riot, and prematurely blasted by disease. Instead of the eye of fire, the port of intrepidity, the step of modest firmness, a squalid paleness sits upon thy face, a bloated corpulency enfeebles thy limbs, and presents a picture of human nature in its most abject state. But hark! the trumpet sounds; a savage band of unrelenting enemies has surrounded the city, and are preparing to scatter flames and ruin through the whole! The virtuous youth, that have been educated to nobler cares, arm with generous emulation, and fly to its defence. How lovely do they appear, dressed in resplendent arms, and moving slowly on in close impenetrable phalanx! They are animated by every motive which can give energy to a human breast, and lift it up to the sublimest achievements.
Their hoary sires, their venerable magistrates, the beauteous forms of trembling virgins, attend them to the war, with prayers and acclamations. Go forth, ye generous bands, secure to meet the rewards of victory or the repose of honourable death! Go forth, ye generous bands, but unaccompanied by the wretch I have described! His feeble arm refuses to bear the ponderous shield; the pointed spear sinks feebly from his grasp; he trembles at the noise and tumult of the war, and flies like the hunted hart to lurk in shades and darkness. Behold him roused from his midnight orgies, reeking with wine and odours, and crowned with flowers, the only trophies of his warfare; he hurries with trembling steps across the city; his voice, his gait, his whole deportment, proclaim the abject slave of intemperance, and stamp indelible infamy upon his name.'
"While Xenocrates was thus discoursing, Polemo listened with fixed attention. The former animation of his countenance gave way to a visible dejection; presently his lips trembled and his cheeks grew pale; he was lost in melancholy recollection, and a silent tear was observed to trickle down. But when the philosopher described a character so like his own, shame seemed to take entire possession of his soul; and, rousing as from a long and painful lethargy, he softly raised his hand to his head, and tore away the chaplets of flowers, the monuments of his effeminacy and disgrace; he seemed intent to compose his dress into a more decent form, and wrapped his robe about him, which before hung loosely waving with an air of studied effeminacy. But when Xenocrates had finished his discourse, Polemo approached him with
all the humility of conscious guilt, and begged to become his disciple, telling him that he had that day gained the most glorious conquest that had ever been achieved by reason and philosophy, by inspiring with the love of virtue a mind that had been hitherto plunged in folly and sensuality. Xenocrates embraced the young man, and admitted him among his disciples. Nor had he ever reason to repent of his facility; for Polemo, from that hour, abandoned all his former companions and vices, and by his uncommon ardour for improvement, very soon became celebrated for virtue and wisdom, as he had before been for every contrary quality."
"Thus," added Mr Barlow, "you see how little reason there is to despair of youth, even in the most disadvantageous circumstances. It has been justly observed, that few know all they are capable of: the seeds of different qualities frequently lie concealed in the character, and only wait for an opportunity of exerting themselves; and it is the great business of education to apply such motives to the imagination as may stimulate it to laudable exertions. For thus the same activity of mind, the same impetuosity of temper, which, by being improperly applied, would only form a wild, ungovernable character, may produce the steadiest virtues, and prove a blessing both to the individual and his country."
"I am infinitely obliged to you for this story," said Mr Merton; "and as my son will certainly find a Xenocrates in you, I wish that you may have reason to think him in some degree a Polemo. But since you are so kind as to present me these agreeable hopes, do not leave the work unfinished, but tell me what you
think the best method of treating him in his present critical situation." "That," said Mr Barlow, "must depend, I think, upon the workings of his own mind. He has always appeared to me generous and humane, and to have a fund of natural goodness amid all the faults which spring up too luxuriantly in his character. It is impossible that he should not be at present possessed with the keenest shame for his own behaviour. It will be your first part to take advantage of these sentiments, and instead of a fleeting and transitory sensation, to change them into fixed and active principles. Do not at present say much to him upon the subject. Let us both be attentive to the silent workings of his mind, and regulate our behaviour accordingly."
This conversation being finished, Mr Merton introduced Mr Barlow to the company in the other room. Mrs Merton, who now began to be a little staggered in some of the opinions she had been most fond of, received him with uncommon civility, and all the rest of the company treated him with the greatest respect. But Tommy, who had lately been the oracle and admiration of all this brilliant circle, appeared to have lost all his vivacity; he, indeed, advanced to meet Mr Barlow with a look of tenderness and gratitude, and made the most respectful answers to all his inquiries; but his eyes were involuntarily turned to the ground, and silent melancholy and dejection were visible in his face.
Mr Barlow remarked, with the greatest pleasure, these signs of humility and contrition, and pointed them out to Mr Merton the first time he had an opportunity of speaking to him without being overheard; adding, "that, unless he was much deceived,