’Tis either _Plato_, or _Plutarch_, or _Seneca_, or _Xenophon_, or _Epictetus_, or _Theophrastus_, or _Lucian_—or some one perhaps of later date—either _Cardan_, or _Budæus_, or _Petrarch_, or _Stella_—or possibly it may be some divine or father of the church, St. _Austin_, or St. _Cyprian_, or _Barnard_, who affirms that it is an irresistible and natural passion to weep for the loss of our friends or children—and _Seneca_ (I’m positive) tells us somewhere, that such griefs evacuate themselves best by that particular channel—And accordingly we find, that _David_ wept for his son _Absalom_—_Adrian_ for his _Antinous_—_Niobe_ for her children, and that _Apollodorus_ and _Crito_ both shed tears for _Socrates_ before his death. My father managed his affliction otherwise; and indeed differently from most men either ancient or modern; for he neither wept it away, as the _Hebrews_ and the _Romans_—or slept it off, as the _Laplanders_—or hanged it, as the _English_, or drowned it, as the _Germans_,—nor did he curse it, or damn it, or excommunicate it, or rhyme it, or lillabullero it.—— ——He got rid of it, however. Will your worships give me leave to squeeze in a story between these two pages? When _Tully_ was bereft of his dear daughter _Tullia_, at first he laid it to his heart,—he listened to the voice of nature, and modulated his own unto it.—O my _Tullia!_ my daughter! my child!—still, still, still,—’twas O my _Tullia!_—my _Tullia!_ Methinks I see my _Tullia_, I hear my _Tullia_, I talk with my _Tullia._—But as soon as he began to look into the stores of philosophy, and consider how many excellent things might be said upon the occasion—no body upon earth can conceive, says the great orator, how happy, how joyful it made me. My father was as proud of his eloquence as MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO could be for his life, and, for aught I am convinced of to the contrary at present, with as much reason: it was indeed his strength—and his weakness too.——His strength—for he was by nature eloquent; and his weakness—for he was hourly a dupe to it; and, provided an occasion in life would but permit him to shew his talents, or say either a wise thing, a witty, or a shrewd one—(bating the case of a systematic misfortune)—he had all he wanted.—A blessing which tied up my father’s tongue, and a misfortune which let it loose with a good grace, were pretty equal: sometimes, indeed, the misfortune was the better of the two; for instance, where the pleasure of the harangue was as _ten_, and the pain of the misfortune but as _five_—my father gained half in half, and consequently was as well again off, as if it had never befallen him. This clue will unravel what otherwise would seem very inconsistent in my father’s domestic character; and it is this, that, in the provocations arising from the neglects and blunders of servants, or other mishaps unavoidable in a family, his anger, or rather the duration of it, eternally ran counter to all conjecture.