Equally industrious with his plough as his sword, Washington esteemed idleness and inutility as the greatest disgrace of man, whose powers attain perfection only by constant and vigorous action. Washington, in private life, was as amiable as virtuous, and as great as he appeared sublime on the public theatre of the world. Living in the discharge of all the civil, social, and domestic offices of life; temperate in his desires, and faithful to his duties; for more than forty years of wedded love, his high example strengthened the tone of public manners. In the bosom of his family, he had more real enjoyment than in the pride of military commands, or in the pomp of sovereign power. On the whole, his life affords the brightest model for imitation, not only to warriors and statesmen, but to private citizens; for his character was a constellation of all the talents and virtues which dignify or adorn human nature.

HON. GEORGE CANNING.

TALENTS are the road to celebrity; a road that has been travelled with success by so many eminent men in former ages, that their names, were they mentioned, would fill a volume. Waving therefore, as their characters are public,their nominal enumeration, we shall mention two splendid characters, of modern times, equally eminent and equally successful; we mean the late Hon. Joseph Addison, and Mr. Canning. Betwixt the former and Mr. Canning, we think a tolerably correct picture may be drawn as, for example; both were educated at public schools; both derived celebrity from their juvenile productions, an advantage from their juvenile connexions; both delighted in the same kind of studies, communicated them to the public through the same medium; and, from the impulse of genius, both ascended to the important office of principal Secretary of State. It is useless to pursue this comparison any further, feeling the truth of the

assertion, viz. that although we sometimes see merit neglected, yet we must more frequently have occasion to observe it luxuriating in an ample reward.

Hon. George Canning, the thread of whose memoir we mean to unwind, was a descendant of a family of great respectability in Ireland. His father, the late George Canning, Esq. having left his native country, settled in England, where he died, April 11th, 1771, soon after the birth of his son George, the subject of this memoir.

Passing over the infancy of this gentleman, let us observe, that under the care of an uncle, a respectable merchant of the city of London, his education commenced by him he was sent to Eton. The exact period when he was entered or how long his fagship continued, we are unacquainted; but his admission into that school must certainly have been at a very early period; for we find that in 1786, he was one of the senior scholars, and had besides, from his talents, attained a very distinguished rank among his contemporaries.

There was not a more eloquent or a more powerful orator in the House of Commons

than Mr. Canning. His delivery was graceful-his conceptions correct and luminous.

:

Like all honest men, he went into his subject too warmly-he felt too intensely. He stood in need of that quality which his predecessor so preeminently enjoyed-coolness in reasoning, and command of temper in replying. Mr. Canning had the misfortune (and a great one it is!) of being a wit and in many of his speeches gave utterance to flashes of merriment, that in his cooler moments, he felt sorry for. It is with wit, as it was with the late Mr. Horne TookeThe difficulty is not in speaking the words, but in stopping them as they come out.' Such is the curse of a jester, that the repartee which, in the profligacy of his imagination, he gives birth to, the million' take to be the feelings of his heart. But it is impossible, that a man like Canning, an amiable and affectionate husband and parent, and a kind master, could be unfeeling or callous hearted.

TO A PINE.

[Original.]

OLD Tree! whose waving arms were kindly spread
O'er me when childhood's early pranks were played,
Beneath whose shade my youthful fancy's dreams
Were muttered mingling with the voice of streams;
Whose whispering foliage, greeting every breeze,
Still promised coming days of blissful ease;
To thy accustomed shelter oft I stray,
To muse o'er scenes of many a by-gone day.

What though no fertile vale thy root has fed,
No flowers, nor clustering vines around thee spread,
Tho' moss-crowned rocks and knolls of bristling fern
Make thy wild mountain site more proudly stern-
Still, still I love thee, for my early thought
Here learnt to dwell on nature-gladly caught
A larger view of all her loveliness,

A nearer, of her wild and witching grace.

When rosy fingered Morn her glories shed,
Or meek-eyed Eve her shadowy curtain spread,
When Spring returned with flowers and swelling
floods,

Or Autumn tinged with varied hues the woods;