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into their breeches' pockets. Every man's posture bespoke a pacific turn of mind; but the distance being too great for their words to reach me, nothing transpired. I am willing, however, to hope that the secret will not be a secret long; and that you and I, equally interested in the event, though not, perhaps, equally well-informed, shall soon have an opportunity to rejoice in the completion of it."

To the same, Sept. 8, 1783. "I have been lately more dejected and more distressed than usual; more harassed by dreams in the night, and more deeply poisoned by them in the following day. I know not what is portended by an alteration for the worse, after eleven years of misery; but firmly believe that it is not designed as the introduction of a change for the better. You know not what I suffered while you were here, nor was there any need you should. Your friendship for me would have made you in some degree a partaker of my woes; and your share in them would have been increased by your inability to help me. Perhaps, indeed, they took a keener edge from the consideration of your presence. The friend of my heart, the person with whom I had formerly taken sweet counsel, no longer useful to me as a minister, no longer pleasant to me as a Christian, was a spectacle that must necessarily add the bitterness of mortification to the sadness of despair. I now see a long winter before me, and am to get through it as I can. I know the ground, before I tread upon it. It is hollow; it is agitated; it suffers shocks in every direction; it is like the soil of Calabria-all whirlpool and undulation. But I must reel through it; at least, if I be not swallowed up by the way."

To the same, Nov. 30, 1783. "I have neither long visits to pay nor to receive, nor ladies to spend hours in telling me that which might be told in five minutes, yet often find myself obliged to be an econo

mist of time, and to make the most of a short opportunity. Let our station be as retired as it may, there is no want of playthings and avocations, nor much need to seek them, in this world of ours. Business, or what presents itself to us under that imposing character, will find us out, even in the stillest retreat, and plead its importance, however trivial in reality, as a just demand upon our attention. It is wonderful how, by means of such real or seeming necessities, my time is stolen away. I have just time to observe that time is short; and by the time I have made the observation, time is gone. I have wondered in former days at the patience of the Antediluvian world; that they could endure a life almost millenary, with so little variety as seems to have fallen to their share. It is probable that they had much fewer employments than we. Their affairs lay in a narrower compass; their libraries were indifferently furnished; philosophical researches were carried on with much less industry and acuteness of penetration; and fiddles, perhaps, were not even invented. How then could seven or eight hundred years of life be supportable? I have asked this question formerly, and been at a loss to resolve it; but I think I can answer it now. I will suppose myself born a thousand years before Noah was born or thought of. I rise with the sun; I worship; I prepare my breakfast; I swallow a bucket of goat's-milk, and a dozen good sizeable cakes. I fasten a new string to my bow; and my youngest boy, a lad of about thirty years of age, having played with my arrows till he has stript off all the feathers, I find myself obliged to repair them. The morning is thus spent in preparing for the chace, and it is become necessary that I should dine. I dig up my roots; I wash them; I boil them; I find them not done enough, I boil them again; my wife is angry; we dispute; we settle the point; but in the mean time the fire goes out, and

weather is an exact emblem of my
mind in its present state. A thick
fog envelops every thing, and at
the same time it freezes intensely.
You will tell me that this cold gloom
will be succeeded by a cheerful
spring, and endeavour to encourage
me to hope for a spiritual change
resembling it ;-but it will be lost
labour. Nature revives again; but
a soul once slain lives no more. The
hedge that has been apparently dead,
is not so; it will burst into leaf and
blossom at the appointed time; but
no such time is appointed for the
stake that stands in it. It is as dead
as it seems, and will prove itself no
dissembler. The latter end of next
month will complete a period of
eleven years in which I have spoken
no other language. It is a long time
for a man, whose eyes were once
opened, to spend in darkness; long
enough to make despair an inveter
ate habit, and such it is in me. My
friends, I know, expect that I shall
see yet again. They think it neces-
sary to the existence of Divine truth,
that he who once had possession of
it should never finally lose it. I
admit the solidity of this reasoning
in every case but my own.
why not in my own? For causes
which to them it appears madness
to allege, but which rest upon my
mind with a weight of immoveable
conviction."

must be kindled again. All this is very amusing. I hunt; I bring home the prey; with the skin of it I mend an old coat, or I make a new one. By this time the day is far spent; I feel myself fatigued, and retire to rest. Thus what with tilling the ground, and eating the fruit of it, hunting and walking, and running, and mending old clothes, and sleeping and rising again, I can suppose an inhabitant of the primæval world so much occupied, as to sigh over the shortness of life, and to find at the end of many centuries, that they had all slipt through his fingers, and were passed away like a shadow. What wonder then that I, who live in a day of so much greater refinement, when there is so much more to be wanted, and wished, and to be enjoyed, should feel myself now and then pinched in point of opportunity, and at some loss for leisure to fill four sides of a sheet like this? Thus, however, it is; and if the ancient gentlemen to whom I have referred, and their complaints of the disproportion of time to the occasions they had for it, will not serve me as an excuse, I must even plead guilty, and confess that I am often in haste when I have no good reason for being so." To the same, Jan. 13, 1784. "The new year is already old in my account. I am not, indeed, suf- To the same, March 19, 1784. ficiently second-sighted to be able "I converse, you say, upon other to boast by anticipation an acquain- subjects than that of despair, and tance with the events of it yet un- may therefore write upon others. born, but rest convinced that, be Indeed, my friend, I am a man of they what they may, not one of very little conversation upon any them comes a messenger of good to subject. From that of despair I me. If even death itself should be of abstain as much as possible for the number, he is no friend of mine. the sake of my company; but I will It is an alleviation of the woes even venture to say, that it is never out of an unenlightened man, that he of my mind one minute in the whole can wish for death, and indulge a day. I do not mean to say that I hope, at least, that in death he shall am never cheerful. I am often so; find deliverance. But, loaded as my always, indeed, when my nights have life is with despair, I have no such been undisturbed for a season. But comfort as would result from a sup- the effect of such continual listening posed probability of better things to the language of a heart hopeless to come, were it once ended. The and deserted, is, that I can never

And

give much more than half my atten. tion to what is started by others, and very rarely start any thing my self. My silence, however, and my absence of mind, make me sometimes as entertaining as if I had wit. They furnish an occasion for friendly and good-natured raillery; they raise a laugh, and I partake of it. But you will easily perceive that a mind thus occupied is but indifferently qualified for the consideration of theological matters.. The most useful and the most delightful topics of that kind are to me for bidden fruit-I tremble if I approach them. There are, however, subjects that do not always terrify me by their importance; such, I mean, as relate to Christian life and manners; and when such an one presents itself, and finds me in a frame of mind that does not absolutely forbid the employment, I shall most readily give it my attention, for the sake, however, of your request merely. Verse is my favourite occupation; and what I compose in that way, I reserve for my own use hereafter.

"I have lately finished eight volumes of Johnson's Prefaces, or Lives of the Poets. In all that number I observe but one man-a poet of no great fame of whom I did not know that he existed till I found him there, whose mind seems to have had the slightest tincture of religion; and he was hardly in his senses. His name was Collins. He sunk into a state of melancholy, and died young. Not long before his death, he was found at his lodgings in Islington by his biographer, with the New Testament in his hand. He said to Johnson, "I have but one book, but it is the best." Of him, therefore, there are some hopes. But from the lives of all the rest there is but one inference to be drawn that poets are a very worthless, wicked set of people."

To the same, March 19, 1785. "You will wonder, no doubt, when I tell you that I write upon a

card-table; and will be still more surprised when I add, that we breakfast, dine, sup, upon a card-table. In short, it serves all purposes, except the only one for which it was originally designed. The solution of this mystery shall follow, lest it should run in your head at a wrong time, and should puzzle you, perhaps, when you are on the point of ascending your pulpit; for I have heard you say, that at such seasons your mind is often troubled with impertinent intrusions. The round table, which we formerly had in use, was unequal to the pressure of my superincumbent breast and elbows, When I wrote upon it, it creaked and tilted, and, by a variety of inconvenient tricks, disturbed the process. The fly-table was too slight and too small; the square dining table, too heavy and too large, occupying, when its leaves were spread, almost the whole parlour; and the sideboard-table, having its station at too great a distance from the fire, and not being easily shifted out of its place and into it again, by reason of its size, was equally unfit for my purpose. The card-table, therefore, which had for sixteen years been banished as mere lumber; the cardtable, which is covered with green baize, and is therefore preferable to any other that has a slippery surface; the card-table, that stands firm and never totters,-is advanced to the honour of assisting me upon my scribbling occasions; and, because we choose to avoid the trouble of making frequent changes in the position of our household furniture, proves equally serviceable upon all others. It has cost us now and then the downfal of a glass: for, when covered with a table-cloth, the fishponds are not easily discerned; and not being seen, are sometimes as little thought of. But, having numerous good qualities which abundantly compensate that single inconvenience, we spill upon it our coffee, our wine, and our ale, without murmuring, and resolve that it shall be

our table still, to the exclusion of all others. Not to be tedious, I will add but one more circumstance upon the subject, and that only be cause it will impress upon you, as much as any thing that I have said, a sense of the value we set upon its escritorial capacity.-Parched and penetrated on one side by the heat of the fire, it has opened into a large fissure, which pervades not the moulding of it only, but the very substance of the plank. At the mouth of this aperture, a sharp splinter presents itself, which, as sure as it comes in contact with a gown or an apron, tears it. It hap pens, unfortunately, to be on that side of this excellent and never-tobe-forgotten table which Mrs. Unwin sweeps with her apparel, almost as often as she rises from her chair. The consequences need not, to use the fashionable, phrase, be given in detail: but the needle sets all to

rights; and the card-table still holds possession of its functions without a rival."

To the same, June 25, 1785. "They who have the means of grace, and an art to use them, will thrive any where; others nowhere. More than a few, who were former

that of the sun or of the moon. It is a flash in a dark night, during which the heavens seem opened only to shut again."

Tothe Editorofthe Christian Observer. THE revival of English hexameters and some recent minor poetical in Southey's Vision of Judgment, compositions, induces me to send ter version of Psalm viii, with a you the following antique hexameview to shew that this notable contrivance has been long tried and justly exploded. It was most affected in the age of Queen of the taste of that of George the Elizabeth; but is utterly unworthy position: in parody and burlesque Fourth, especially for sacred comit may still retain its charms. Abraham Fraunce's introduction of David is not more inapposite than "Olympus" into the Psalms of

the imitation of Greek and Latin measures in English versification.

C. A. L.

CERTAYNE PSALMS BY ABRAHAM FRAUNCE. 1591. PSALM VIII.

O Prince all puysant, O King al-mightyly ruling,

ly ornaments of this garden which How wondrous be thy works, and how strange are

thy proceedings!

Thou hast thy greate name with moste greate glory reposed

Over, above those lamps, bright burning lamps of Olympus,

Ev'a very babes, yong babes, yong sucking babes thy triumphant

Might set foorth; to the shame of them which

injury offer,

Ev'n to the shame of them which damned blasphemy utter.

When that I looke to the skies, and lyft myne eyes to the heavens,

Skies thyne owne hand work and heavens fram'd by thy fingers;

you once watered, here flourished, and here have seemed to wither. Others, transplanted into a soil apparently less favourable to their. growth, either find the exchange an advantage, or at least are not impaired by it. Of myself, who had once both leaves and fruit, but who have now neither, I say nothing; or only this,-That when I am overwhelmed with despair, I repine at my barrenness, and think it hard to be thus blighted; but when a glimpse of hope breaks in upon me, I am contented to be the sapless Sunne daye's eye shynyng, moone night's light thing I am, knowing that He who has commanded me to wither, can command me to flourish again, when He pleases. My experiences, however, of this latter kind, are rare and transient. The light that reaches me cannot be compared either to

When that I see this sunne, that makes my sight to be seeing

And that mooue, her light, light half darck, renuing,

chereful apearing

When that I see sweete starres through christal skies to be sprinckled,

Some to the first spheare fixt, some here and there to be wanderyug,

And yet a constant course with due revolution endyng;

Then doe I think, O Lord, what a thing is man, what a wonder!

REVIEW OF NEW PUBLICATIONS.

The Book of the Church. By ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq. LL. D. Poet Laureate, &c. &c. 2 vols. 8vo. 24s. London. 1824. The Book of the Roman Catholic Church, in Letters addressed to Robert Southey, LL. D., on his "Book of the Church." By CHARLES BUTLER. 1 vol. 8vo. 9s. 6d. London. 1825.

FEW undertakings are more difficult than to write a just and candid ecclesiastical history of England. The bias which we receive from education, from intercourse with particular classes of society, and even from circumstances apparently of little moment at the time, has often a mighty effect upon our views in questions of religion; and, with the utmost integrity of purpose, we are apt father to give to the scenes which pass before us the colour of our own minds, than to delineate them according to the light and shade which they actually present. So different on subjects of this nature are the statements of different writers in reference to the same periods, so discordant are their accounts concerning the same individuals, as it respects their motives, their character, and their conduct, that we cannot but wonder by what process of reasoning, or by what principle consistent with sound sense and common honesty, some of these writers can have succeeded in persuading themselves of the correctness of their own representations. There must in these cases be a great degree of self-deception. If the evil were confined to the authors of these narratives, it might be allowed to pass without much animadversion, or merely with that expression of compassionate concern which we feel for other mental hallucinations; but the misfortune is, that the mischief is propagated and travels far. It is pleasant to have

other persons to think for us, and we readily acquiesce in the authority of those who are after the fashion of our own school, or lean towards the party to which we belong : and the errors of one age pass with a strong recommendation to the next; so that it is impossible to calculate upon the mischief produced by the prejudices of a single individual, especially if he be a man of unblemished character, and of acknowledged ability.

If, in the midst of such praise, which is due to Mr. Southey for the very entertaining volumes now before us, and for the spirit of candour which generally pervades them, we seem occasionally to discover something, perhaps not a little, of that bias which we have just noticed, we would advert to it as another proof how difficult it is even for men of upright minds, to divest themselves of some feelings, not favourable to sound discrimination. Of any thing like intentional misrepresentation, the author of these volumes stands perfectly clear; but some of his statements we consider as incorrect and some of his views as by no means defensible.

The period embraced by this work comprizes the interval between the times of the ancient Britons, previously to the invasion of this island by the Romans, and the Revolution of 1688. No references are given to the authorities upon which the several parts of the narrative are founded. This is a circumstance which we greatly regret. With every feeling of respect for Mr. Southey's care in the selection of his materials, and his fidelity in presenting to us the result of his best judgment in the history which he founds upon them, we cannot very readily concede to any historian the privilege of deciding for us, on many most questionable points without furnishing the grounds of

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