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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" has 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 "Zephyra," just returned at daybreak from an evening party; mortified at having been eclipsed 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 hasty 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:

SOLILOQUY AFTER THE BALL.

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 hasten'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, sareasm, and apology for

THE CHANGEFULNESS OF WOMAN.

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 daughter of Mr. Robert Home, was born in the year 1742. She enjoyed the friendship of Mrs. Elizabeth Carter and Mrs. Montagu, and was no inconsiderable member of that circle of literary ladies who composed their society. She excelled in lyric poetry, and two of her songs, "My mother bids me braid my hair," and "The Mermaid's Song," are embalmed in the undying melodies of Haydn. She died in London on the 7th of January, 1821. Her poetry displays much elegance and feeling, of which the following are fair specimens :

TO-MORROW.

How heavy falls the foot of Time!
How slow the lingering quarters chime,
Through anxious hours of long delay!
In vain we watch the silent glass,
More slow the sands appear to pass,
While disappointment marks their way.

To-morrow-still the phantom flies,
Flitting away before our eyes,

Eludes our grasp, is pass'd and gone; Daughter of hope, Night o'er thee flings The shadow of her raven wings,

And in the morning thou art flown!

Delusive sprite! from day to day,
We still pursue thy pathless way:

Thy promise, broken o'er and o'er,
Man still believes, and is thy slave;
Nor ends the chase but in the grave,
For there to-morrow is no more.

LOT OF THOUSANDS.

When hope lies dead within the heart,
By secret sorrow long conceal'd,
We shrink lest looks or words impart
What may not be reveal'd.

'Tis hard to smile when one would weep:
To speak when one would silent be;
To wake when one would wish to sleep,
And wake to agony.

Yet such the lot for thousands cast
Who wander in this world of care,
And bend beneath the bitter blast,
To save them from despair.

Yet nature waits her guests to greet,
Where disappointment cannot come;
And time leads with unerring feet
The weary wanderer home.

TO MY DAUGHTER,

On being separated from her on her marriage.
Dear to my heart as life's warm stream,
Which animates this mortal clay,
For thee I court the waking dream,
And deck with smiles the future day;
And thus beguile the present pain
With hopes that we shall meet again.

Yet will it be as when the past

'Twined every joy and care and thought,
And o'er our minds one mantle cast

Of kind affections finely wrought?
Ah, no! the groundless hope were vain,
For so we ne'er can meet again!

May he who claims thy tender heart
Deserve its love, as I have done!
For, kind and gentle as thou art,

If so beloved, thou'rt fairly won.
Bright may the sacred torch remain,
And cheer thee till we meet again!

VICESIMUS KNOX, 1752-1821.

VICESIMUS KNOX, son of the Rev. Vicesimus Knox, was born on the 8th of December, 1752. After completing the usual course of preparatory study, he entered St. John's College, Oxford. While here, and before he took his bachelor's degree, he wrote and published anonymously many of those "Essays" which have chiefly contributed to his fame. They were very much admired, and a second edition was soon called for, which were greatly enlarged and to which he prefixed his name, under the title of "Essays, Moral and Literary." These essays are written in a forcible and elegant style, formed on the purest classical models, and contain most valuable directions for the cultivation of the under standing, and the conduct of life; and what recommends them still more, is the rich fund of classical and miscellaneous entertainment they afford.1

From college, after having regularly taken the degrees of bachelor and master of arts, Mr. Knox was elected, in 1778, to succeed his father as head master of Tunbridge School. He held this post of honor and usefulness for thirty-three years, or till 1811, when he, in turn, was succeeded by his son. His next publication was a work entitled "Liberal Education, or a Practical Treatise on the Methods of acquiring Useful and Polite Learning." This was well received, and was soon republished in our country, and was translated into the French. In 1788, he published a series of miscellaneous papers under the title of "Winter Evenings," which, though not equal, on the whole, to the "Essays," abound in fine writing and excellent moral instruction. In his introductory essay, he thus comments on the title he had chosen, and speaks in praise of

1 "Few publications have been more popular, and more deservedly so, than these instructive Essays, which have passed through sixteen editions. The subjects on which Dr. Knox has expatiated in these volumes are numerous and well chosen, and they uniformly possess a direct tendency either to improve the head or amend the heart. To persons of every description, but especially to young persons, the essays of our author are invaluable; their first praise is, that they recommend, in a most fascinating manner, all that is good and great; and secondly, they are in a high degree calculated to form the taste, and excite a spirit of literary enthusiasm."-DRAKE'S Essays, vol. v. 365.

A WINTER EVENING.

Books enable the imagination to create a summer in the midst of frost and snow; and, with the assistance of culinary fire, whose comfortable warmth supplies, round the parlor hearth, the absence of the sun, I believe the winter is considered by few as less pleasurable, upon the whole, than the season of soft breezes and solar effulgence.

The student shuts the door while the chill wind whistles round his room, and the rain beats upon the tiles and pavements, stirs his fire, snuffs his candle, throws himself into his elbow chair, and defies the elements. If he chooses to transport himself to warm climates, to regions delightful as the vale of Tempé, or even to riot in all the enchanting scenes of Elysium, he has only to take a volume from his bookcase, and, with every comfort of ease and safety at home, he can richly feast his capacious imagination.

For myself, I must acknowledge that, though I have no objection to games in moderation, I have, at the same time, no taste for them. They appear to me too dull and unideal to afford a thinking man, who values his leisure, an adequate return of amusement for the time they engross. In a rural retirement, what could I do in the winter evenings, when no society interrupted, but read or write? I have done both in a vicissitude pleasant to myself, and as my inclination or my ideas of propriety suggested. In these employments I have found my time pass away, not only innocently, but pleasantly; and most of these lucubrations are literally what their title insinuates, the produce of the Winter Evenings.

After "The Winter Evenings," appeared "Letters to a Young Nobleman ;” "Christian Philosophy," in two vols.; "Considerations on the Lord's Supper," in one vol.; and a pamphlet "On the National Importance of Classical Education." He also published, for the use of his school, expurgated editions of Horace and Juvenal, and that series of selections from the works of the best English authors, well known as "Elegant Extracts" and "Elegant Epistles." After a life of great usefulness and industry, he died at Tunbridge, on the 6th of September, 1821. His literary reputation was deservedly great; but, what is still better, his whole character was a model of Christian virtue, and all his works were calculated to improve the heart as well as inform the mind.

ON THE PERIODICAL ESSAYISTS.

I am not in the number of those politicians who estimate national good merely by extent of territory, richness of revenue, and commercial importance. I rather think that pure religion, good morals, fine taste, solid literature, and all those things which, while they contribute to elevate human nature, contribute also to render private life dignified and comfortable, constitute that true national good to

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