ers.

Dr. Johnson, who was acquainted with Savage, supports all his accusations, in one of the most spirited of the "Lives of the Poets." Mr. Galt, in his " Lives of the Players," labors to show that Savage and Dr. Johnson are chargeable with many misrepresentations and much exaggeration; and that seems to be the opinion now generally entertained. There is consideraale vigor, and feeling in the following lines by Savage.

Mother, yet no mother! 'tis to you

My thanks for such distinguished claims are due.
You, unenslaved to nature's narrow laws,
When championess for freedom's sacred cause,
From all the dry devoirs of blood and line,

From ties maternal, moral, and divine,

Discharged my grasping soul; pushed me from shore
And launched me into life without an oar.

No mother's care

Shielded my infant innocence with prayer;
No father's guardian hand my youth maintained,
Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrained.

This passage from Savage, and our subject will serve to introduce to us the prose of Dr. Johnson, full of significance and energy, but deficient in variety and grace:

It is natural to inquire upon what motives his mother could persecute him in a manner so outrageous and implacable; for what reason she could employ all the arts of malice, and all the snares of calumny, to take away the life of her own son, of a son who never injured her, who was never supported by her expense, nor obstructed any prospect of pleasure or advantage: why she would endeavour to destroy him by a lie a lie which could not gain credit, but must vanish of itself at the first moment of examination, and of which only this can be said to make it probable, that it may be observed from her

conduct, that the most execrable crimes are committed without apparent temptation.

"This mother is still alive, and may perhaps even yet, though her malice was so often defeated, enjoy the pleasure of reflecting, that the life, which she often endeavoured to destroy, was, at least, shortened by her maternal offices; that though she could not transport her son to the plantations, bury him in the shop of a mechanic, or hasten the hand of the public executioner, she has had yet the satisfaction of embittering all his hours, and forcing him into exigencies that hurried on his death."

So

Our own royal family of the Hanoverian line has exhibited several remarkable instances of the waning of natural affection between the reigning sovereign and his eldest son. early as 1751, Horace Walpole remarks, that it "ran a little in the blood of the royal family to hate the eldest son." Prince Frederick, though he experienced the aversion of his father and mother, and had a similar family dislike for his own eldest son, nevertheless was well aware that such feelings were not calculated to render him popular. Accordingly, when his mother paid a visit of ceremony to the princess, after her lying-in, Prince Frederick would not utter a word to her whilst they were in the house, yet, on her return to her carriage, as soon as they came in sight of the populace, he knelt down in the dirt, and kissed her hand. The old and young Pretender had similar bickerings, originating in Bolinbroke's suggestion, that the father's claims should be relinquished in favor of the son, who had a better chance of conciliating the English people.

Some writers have dwelt on maternal unkindness, owing to a rivalry which has occasionally been found between mothers

and daughters. Pope, in drawing the picture of a perfect woman, places not far below the merit of being "mistress of herself, though China fall," that of hearing "sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear." Butler charges the sex with this rivalry, but imputes it to daughters, and that only in the case of a conflict for precedence; a subject, which, from the Wife of Bath of Chaucer, to the Sylphs in the Rape of the Lock, has been viewed rather sensitively by the fair sex.

Besides the joys of place and birth
The sex's paradise on earth;

A privilege so sacred held,

That none will to their mothers yield;
But, rather than not go before,

Abandon heaven at the door.

The Duchess of Marlborough, when she quarrelled with the grand-daughter Lady Jersey, blacked over the face of her picture which hung in the Duchess' drawing-room, and had inscribed underneath it-" She is blacker within."

This subject of the feelings of parents towards their children may be concluded in an edifying manner by a citation from Parnell's Hermit. As this poet's few remains are not much read in the present day, I will give an opinion of his merits by a brother poet, Campbell. "The compass of Parnell's poetry is not extensive, but its tone is peculiarly delightful not from mere correctness of expression, to which some critics have stinted its praises, but from the graceful and reserved sensibility that accompanied his polished phraseology. The curiosa felicitas, the studied happiness of his diction, does not spoil its simplicity. His poetry is like a flower that has been trained and planted by the skill of the gardener, but which preserves, in its cultured state, the natu

:

ral fragrance of the wilder air." Parnell's Hermit is resolved to make a pilgrimage; on his way he is joined by a young man of engaging appearance and manners, and who is, in fact, an angel sent to instruct the Hermit. This delightful companion first commits several apparent crimes of the blackest die, and, afterwards, assuming his celestial character, explains that they were, in fact, nothing but acts of charity and benevolence. The transaction with which we are concerned is that of strangling a baby in its cradle, which, primá fácie, might well startle the Hermit.

Now night's dim shades again involve the sky-
Again the wanderers want a place to lie;
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh.
The soil improv'd around, the mansion neat,
And neither poorly low, nor idly great:
It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind,
Content, and not to praise, but virtue kind.
Hither the walkers turn with weary feet,
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet:
Their greeting fair bestow'd with modest guise,
The courteous master hears, and thus replies:
Without a vain, without a grudging heart,
To him who gives us all, I yield a part,
From him you come, for him accept it here,
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer.
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread,
Then talk'd of virtue till the time of bed;
When the grave household round his hall repair,
Warn'd by a bell, and close the hours with prayer.
At length the world, renew'd by calm repose,
Was strong for toil, the dappled morn arose;
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept
Near the clos'd cradle where an infant slept,
And writh'd his neck. The landlord's little pride,
O strange return! grew black, and gasp'd, and died.
Horror of horrors ! what! his only son!

How look'd our Hermit when the fact was done; Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part, And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart: Confus'd, and struck with silence at the deed, He flies, but trembling fails to fly with speed. His steps the youth pursues; the country lay Perplex'd with roads, a servant show'd the way : A river cross'd the path; the passage o'er Was nice to find; the servant trod before; Long arms of oaks an open bridge supply'd, And deep the waves beneath the bending glide The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin, Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in. Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head, Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. Wild sparkling rage inflames the Hermit's eyes, He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, Detested wretch! But scarce his speech began, When the strange partner seem'd no longer man : His youthful face grew more serenely sweet; His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet; Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair; Celestial odours breathe through purpled air. And wings, whose colours glitter'd on the day, Wide at his back their gradual plumes display, The form etherial burst upon his sight, And moves in all the majesty of light.

Then know the truth of government divine,

And let these scruples be no longer thine.

What strange events can strike with more surprise, Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes? Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just, And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust!

Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, But now the child half wean'd his heart from God. (Child of his age) for him he liv'd in pain,, And measur'd back his steps to earth again, To what excesses had his dotage run? But God to save the father, took the son. To all but thee, in fits he seem'd to go,