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history of any of those heroes of the moral scene, whose life has been one continued deed of generosity to mankind, without feeling that, if there be virtue on earth, there has been virtue in that bosom which has suffered much, or dared much, that the world might be free from any of the ills which disgraced it. The strong lines, with which the author of the “Botanic Garden” concludes his praise of one of the most illustrious of these heroes of benevolence, scarcely express more than we truly feel on the contemplation of such a character. It does seem as if man, when he acts as man should act, is a being of some higher order than the frail, erring creature among whom we ourselves pass a life, that, with all its occasional acts of generosity and self-command, is still, like theirs, a life of frailty and error :


And now, Philanthropy! thy rays divine
Dart round the globe, from Zembla to the Line;
O'er each dark prison plays the cheering light
Like northern lustres o'er the vault of night.
From realm to realm, with cross or crescent crown'd,
Where'er Mankind and Misery are found,
O'er burning sands, deep waves, or wilds of snow,
Thy Howard, journeying, seeks the houso of woe.
Down many a winding step to dungeons dank,
Where anguish wails aloud, and fetters clank;
To caves bestrew'd with many a mouldering bono,
And cells, whose echoes only learn to groan;
Where no kind bars a whispering friend disclosc,
No sunbeam enters, and no zephyr blows-
He treads, inemulous of fame or wealth,
Profuse of toil, and prodigal of health:
With soft assuasive eloquence expands
Power's rigid heart, and opes his clenching hands;
Leads stern-eyed Justice to the dark domains,
If not to sever, to relax the chains;
Or guides awaken'd Mercy through the gloom,
And shows the prison, sister to the tomb;
Gives to her babes the self-devoted wife,
To her fond husband liberty and life.
The spirits of the good, who bend from high
Wide o'er these earthly scenes their partial eye,
When first array'd in Virtue's purest robe,
They saw her Howard traversing the globe,
Mistook a mortal for an angel-guest,
And ask'd what seraph foot the earth imprest.
-Onward he moves. Disease and death retire-
And murmuring demons hate him and admire.!

The benevolent spirit, as its object is the happiness of all who

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reach of its efforts, or almost of its wishes. When we speak of benefactions, indeed, we think only of one species of good action; and charity itself, so comprehensive in its etymological meaning, is used as if it were nearly synonymous with the mere opening of the purse. But “it is not money only which the unfortunate need; and they are but sluggards in well-doing,” as Rousseau strikingly expresses the character of this indolent benevolence, “who know to do good only when they have a purse in their hand.” Consolations, counsels, cares, friendship, protection, are so many resources which pity leaves us for the assistance of the indigent, even though wealth should be wanting. The oppressed -often continue to be

oppressed, merely because they are without an organ to render their complaints known to those who have the power of succor. It requires sometimes but a word which they cannot say; a reason which they know not how to state; the opening of a single door of a great man, through which they are not permitted to pass, to obtain for them all of which they are in need. The intrepid support of a disinterested virtue is, in such cases, able to remove an infinity of obstacles : and the eloquence of a single good man, in the cause of the injured, can appal tyranny itself in the midst of its power.


The goodness of God is, of all subjects of inquiry, that which is most interesting to us. It is the goodness of him to whom we owe, not merely that we exist, but that we are happy or uniserable now, and according to which we are to hope or fear for a future, that is not limited to a few years, but extends through all the ages of immortality. Have we, then, reason to believe that God is good ? that the designing power, which it is impossible for us not to perceive and admit, is a power of cruelty or kindness? Of whom is this the question? of those whose whole life has been a continued display of the bountiful provision of Heaven from the first moment at which life began.

But we are not to think that the goodness of God extends only to man. The humblest life, which man despises, is not despised by Him who made man of nothing, and all things of nothing, and

Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain?

The birds of Heaven shall vindicate their grain."! In vain do we strive to represent to ourselves all nature as our own, and only our own. The happiness which we see the other races around us enjoying is a proof that it is theirs as well as ours ; and that he, who has given us the dominion of all things that live on earth, has not forgotten the creatures which he has intrusted to our sway. Even in the deserts, in which our sway is not acknowledged, where the lion, if man approached, would see no lord before whom to tremble, but a creature far feebler than the ordinary victims of his hunger, or his wrath-in the dens and the wildernesses, there are pleasures which owe nothing to us, but which are not the less felt by the fierce hearts that inhabit the dreadful recesses. They, too, have their happiness; because they too were created by a Power that is good—and of whose beneficent design, in forming the world, with all its myriads of myriads of varied races of inhabitants, the happiness of these was a part.

So also is the seemingly happy existence of that minute species of life which is so abundant in every part of the great scene in which we dwell. I shall not attempt to trace the happiness upward, through all the alacrity and seeming delight in existence, of the larger animals—an ever-flowing pleasure, of which those who have had the best opportunities of witnessing multitudes of gregarious animals feeding together, and rejoicing in their common pasture, will be the best able to appreciate the amount. All have means of enjoyment within themselves; and, if man be the happy sovereign of the creation, he is not the sovereign of miserable subjects.

“Ask for wbat end the heavenly bodies shine,
Earth for whose use? Pride answers, 'Tis for mine :
For me, kind Nature wakes her genial power,
Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flower;
Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew
The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew;
For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings;
For me, health gushes from a thousand springs;
Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise;

My footstool earth--my canopy the skies."2 All these sources of blessings, that are infinite as the living beings that enjoy them, were made, indeed, for man, whose pride of many elements, that perhaps bears but a small proportion to the rest; and it is not of this single element that we are to think, when we consider the benevolence of that God who has willed the whole.

Of Dr. Brown's poetry, "The Paradise of Coquettes" ba been by far the most popular, though it is now but little read. Of it, the “Edinburgh Review"! thus speaks: “It is by far the best and most brilliant imitation of Pope that has appeared since the time of that great writer ; with all his point, polish, and nicely-balanced versification, as well as his sarcasm and witty malice: deficient, indeed, in the strong sense and compressed reasoning by which he is distinguished, but possessing all the brightness and elegance and vivacity of his lighter and more exquisite productions; and almost entitled, if it were not for its injudicious diffuseness and the defect of its machinery, to take its place by the side of the “Rape of the Lock.'"

The poem is in nine parts. The first part is prefatory, and has not much connection with the rest of the poem. The second part discovers to us “ Zepbyra," just returned at daybreak from an evening party; mortified at having been eelipsed by the charms of a late-arriving rival; and weighing in her bosom the pleasures of a coquette's life against the endless inquietudes and disappointments with which it is attended. The latter, she finds, vastly preponderate; and just as she has passed a solemn vow of abjuration of coquetry, a person called the Genius of Coquetry appears-pardons her basty resolve-and, by dint of flattery, wins her back to her pristine allegiance. With true feminine curiosity, she implores the deity to make use of his omniscient faculties in disclosing to her all the conquests she is to make: this he declines to do, but hints to her that they will be all that the most inordinate ambition could desire. The following is a part of the coquette's repining :


How did I hope to vex a thousand eyes !
Oh glorious malice, dearer than the prize!
Yet well was taught my brow that pride serene
Which looks no triumph where no doubt had been;
That easy scorn, all tranquil as before,
Which speaks no insult, and insults the more;
And with calm air, the surest to torment,
Steals angry Spite's last torment, to resent.

Why was the triumph given? Too flattering joy!
Frail hour which one frail minute could destroy !
He came-Hope! he basten’d to my seat;
I saw, and almost dream'd him at my feet,
Close by my side a gay attendant slave;
The glance, which thousands sought, to none he gave;
Scarce bow'd to nodding bevies when we walk’d,
Smiled when I smiled, and talk’d, and laugh’d, and talk'd;

1 Vol. xxiv. p. 397.

Held my light fan with more than woman's grace,
And shook the tiny zephyr o'er my face:
Why did I heedless trust the flattering sign,
As if no fan he e'er had broke but mine!
Ah, simple fool-yet wherefore nurse the smart?

The bubble he may break, but not my heart. The third canto begins in an ambiguous tone, somewhat between raillery, sarcasm, and apology for


Ye watchful sprites, who make e'en man your care,
And sure more gladly hover o'er the fair,
Who grave on adamant all changeless things,
The smiles of courtiers and the frowns of kings!
Say to what softer texture ye impart
The quick resolves of woman's trusting heart;
Joys of a moment, wishes of an hour,
The short eternity of Passion's power,
Breathed in vain oaths that pledge with generous zeal
E'en more of fondness than they e'er shall feel,
Light fleeting vows that never reach above,
And all the guileless changefulness of love!
Is summer's leaf the record! Does it last
Till withering autumn blot it with his blast?
Or frailer still, to fade ere ocean's ebb,
Graved on some filmy insect's thinnest web,
Some day-fly's wing that dies and ne'er has slept,
Lives the light vow scarce longer than 'tis kept?
Ah! call not perfidy her fickle choice!
Ah! find not falsehood in an angel's voice !
True to one word, and constant to one aim,
Let man's hard soul be stubborn as his frame;
But leave sweet woman's form and mind, at will,
To bend and vary, and be graceful still.

ANNE HUNTER, 1742–1821.

Anne Hunter, the wife of the celebrated anatomist, John Hunter, and the

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