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Ladies who write it well;—I know but two. First stands Joanna Baillie: She may stand

Among the first-class poets of the land, And claim her place among those sons of light,

Not as a courtesy, but her's by right. "Twere vain to question why and where so long

For centuries slept the Muse of Tragic Song?

Or why, reviving from her death-like rest, She made her mansion in a woman's breast?

Reasoning on points like this is useless stuff

We have a tragic poet-that's enough :
A tragic poet of true English breed,
Whom even after Fletcher we can read.
She teems with thought: and yet I own

her phrase,

Harsh and involved, deserves not equal praise;

What were her merits, if she only brought Fit power of words to match her power of thought?

And next-behind indeed-but next, I'd place

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Felicia Hemans, second in the race:

"Mrs Hemans is a lady (a young lady, I believe) of very considerable merit. Her imagination is vigorous, her language copious and elegant, her information extensive. I have no means of ascertaining the extent of her fame, but she certainly

I wonder the Reviews, who make such stir Oft about rubbish, never mention her? They might have said, I think, from mere

good breeding,

Mistress Felicia's works are worth the reading. pp. 18-20.

The first part of this poem, we may remark, is chiefly upon poets, and among these the author's favourite is Southey.

He is a poet-for his glancing eye Takes in the forms of earth, and air, and sky:

He, still at home where'er he takes his stand,

Mid Biscay's mountains or Arabia's sand, Calls by his magic art for prince or peer, Moslem or Christian, and they all appear: He too can paint, as well as Walter Scott, The misty valley and the sunless grot; And Byron's sullen muse could scarcely

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Are all then wrong?-and when the spi rit's tried,

Must all of every class be set aside?
Not so I spoke of some, and those a fer;
Many, I trust, are scriptural and true.
Many, called Fanatics, are deeply read,
And while they're warm at heart, are cool
of head:

Many of those who trust in Christ alone
Have holiness, not merits, of their own;
Work as if works were all, yet, humble
too,

Give the whole praise to him to whom 'tis due.

Just once a year-when summer days

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Just once a year, I break the chains that bind

For nine long months my body and my mind,

And fly, with eager pleasure, to unbend
In the mild converse of one humble friend.
He was not humble twenty years ago,
When side by side we struggled friend and
foe;

When side by side we tock our first de

grees,

The boast of Johnians he, and I of Caius:
Then, as he lay upon his truckle bed,
Imaginary mitres graced his head ;
Or French Savans in flattering vision came,
To hail the owner of his mighty name.
How would he then have scorned the fate
that now

Sheds such contentment on his placid brow: How turned with loathing from his humble lot,

In that lone vale forgetting and forgot. And yet he loves it now-for all his care, And all the objects of his love, are there: His is yon white-washed house with trees before,

And his the babes that play around the door;

His is the church, whose high but ruined

tower

Is decked with ivy, and each brighter flower;

And his the flock, who come from vale and hill,

On Sabbath-days that house of prayer to

fill.

The Dilly stops; and there expectant stand

The Vicar and his wife with open hand, And looks of cordial love, that seem to say,

We're glad you've come, and hope you mean to stay.

The evening scarce suffices us to hear
On either side the happenings of the year-
How Jack my godson, to his Sire's sur-
prise,

Has gained at Winchester the Latin prize: How the rude Squire has ceased to drink and swear,

And comes to church, and kneels when he is there:

How well the Sunday school succeeds, and how

The girls all curtsey, and the boys all bow: How rarely 'tis the Gamekeeper can tell He found a poacher skulking on the fell: How drinking bouts and boxing matches

cease,

And some old saints have died in faith and peace.

So pass the evening hours; and, pleased to hear

The toils and triumphs of a friend so dear,
I go to rest; but promise to attend
Next morn the parish-progress of my
friend.

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way,

Beneath whose shadow lie the tomb-stones grey.

There stands, of transept and of nave bereft,

One narrow aisle, the little that is left,
And there the Vicar pauses still to tell,
From what high glory Hartley Abbey fell;
How she in ancient times her Abbots sent,
With all a Bishop's pomp, to Parliament;
And spread her cloister'd palaces around
A hundred acres of that holy ground,
Till conscientious Henry's holy zeal
Reformed the corrupt church with fire and
steel.

I ne'er could catch this antiquarian rage, But you may read the whole in Dugdale's page.

'Tis but a step across the village green, Where the geese paddle in the pools be

tween:

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A trust in him who has the power to save
A hope that fearless looks beyond the
grave.

Then held she converse of her hopes and
fears,

Befitting Christians in a vale of tears.
Not her's, the cant of those, whose vulgar
slang

Is Greek to all who are not of the gang;
Not her's the lights by pride and passion
bred

From the deep quagmires of a muddy
head:

Not her's the fool-born jest and stifled sigh
With which philosophers prepare to die
Her talk was lofty-yet 'twas humble
too;

How much she had to hope, how much to
do-

How little she had done, how much re-
mained

To do, before the victory were gained-
To run, to fight, to wrestle, to endure,
To make her calling and election sure.
She spoke with gratitude of trials past,
And calmly dared anticipate the last:
She, when by care o'erwhelmed, by doubts
distressed,

Looked to the cross for peace, to Heaven

for rest;

And confidence in him who cannot lie,
Had made her patience strong, her courage
high.

“Well,” said I, dashing off a single

tear,

""Tis surely good for us to have been

here:

Such lively faith, such patient hope to see,
Does more than tomes of Dutch divinity
Not for the world these visits would I miss,
If all your sick-list cases be like this."
"Like this! I would they were; but those

who go

To search the lairs of poverty and woe,
Must nerve their hearts, and be prepared

to find

The body's pain embittered by the mind;
Or see the reckless sinner, that can die
Without a hope, and yet without a sigh;
Or hoping all in works of human pride,
As if no Saviour died, nor need have died."
With that he stopped; for we had reached

the door

Of an old lonely cottage on the moor:
There o'er the embers crouched a feeble

pair,

With sallow checks, and thin, yet matted hair.

Clay was the flooring, and the walls were
clay,

And in thie window rags obscured the day;
"Twas old and filthy all--the very air
Felt dull, and loaded with miasma there.
In one dark corner stood a crazy bed,
With half a broken tester over head;
There lay their only son, and he had been
The first in many a bold and bloody scene.

Untaught in youth, he led a wandering life,
Till caught by scarlet coat, and drum, and
fife,

He sold the liberty he held so dear,
And quitted home and friends without a

tear.

For six campaigns, he followed in the train
Of victory, through Portugal and Spain.
But cold, and midnight bivouacks, impair-

ed

The frame that ball and bayonet had spared;

And he, with wasted limbs and aching
head,

Lay dying there upon that crazy bed.
pp. 38-46.

The vicar's exhortation to this poor youth, we think a little too rough and vehement. Between it and a cough together, he almost receives his deathblow, and, instead of trying to soothe him, the two clerical Cantabs fairly

Turned to come away.

This was not very good-natured certainly, but, indeed, our author has no notion of poor huiman nature having any pretensions to be good; and he opens a sad battery upon those who its favour. In this attack, to be sure, are inclined to speak a single word in he is very impartial, for he is quite as severe upon himself as on any one else—and even predicts a melancholy and disgraceful doom as not unlikely to befall him before Christmas," an apprehension as to which we most sincerely pray that he may be mistaken. We wish, however, the fatal ides were well over, for it is very distressing, in any view, to think, that this ingenious poet should have his mind clouded by such a dreadful presentiment. "Turbida TERRET imago."-What may happen before this time twelvemonth, we do not pretend to say, though we augur the best, if he will only abstain from satire-but we rather think, he will get safely past the period of his present alarms, and we hope in net many days hence, to wish him, as we now do all our readers,-a MERRY CHRISTMAS.

A FEW SHORT REMARKS ON THE RE-
LATION OF CAUSE AND EFFECT.

NOTHING certainly can be more arbitrary, than the sequences which

I tell thee, if I followed nature's call, I should be hanged ere Christmas-that is all.

we observe in nature. Fire is followed by heat, ice by cold; but we can conceive, with the greatest ease, these sequences to be alternated, heat to be the consequence of ice, and cold of fire. It is quite conceivable that the whole chain of events should be reversed, and that every thing should follow every thing in a manner directly opposite to the present order. There cannot be a doubt, then, that in the operations of nature we perceive nothing but sequence, and had we no other source from which we could derive our idea of causation, we should have no such idea at all. The circumstance that natural sequences are invariably the same, however ingeniously maintained, seems to be nothing at all to the purpose. We can certainly conceive fire to be followed by heat through all eternity, without any more connexion between them, than there is between any two events the most distinct and separate.

An attempt has been made to shew, that there is no more connection between volition and the consequences of volition, than between the sequences of external nature. But this, we humbly conceive, is a mistake. When willing to do a thing, I do it, the perception of my mind is not merely that the volition took place, and that the thing willed took place, but it is farther, that the thing willed would not have taken place independently of the volition. There is not only a sequence perceived here, but a connexion. When I see fire, and feel the sensation of heat, I perceive merely the sequence of two different circumstances. I believe certainly that if there had been no fire, there would have been no heat, but I do not perceive this. It is a matter believed, not known. The connexion between volition and the consequences of volition, is a fact which I know or perceive as clearly as that the volition exists, or that the consequent result exists. Here then, and here alone, we find causation.. When having willed to do a thing, I do it, I perceive that I have power, that my will is the cause of that event, that the event is an effect.

It is said, indeed, that a priori we do not infer effects from volition. I must have moved my hand before I could know that such a motion would be produced by my willing it. This

is very true. But it is no matter at what time 1 learn the fact, if I come to learn it at all. I will the motion of my hand, my hand moves. Immediately I perceive, although I had no fore-knowledge of the circumstance, that the motion of my hand would not have been, unless the volition had been. I do not know that the motion of my hand will follow volition the next minute. But whatever may happen next minute, my present knowledge is complete and perfect, that the motion of my hand was connected with my volition in a manner quite peculiar, and unlike any of the sequences of the material universe.

No small embarrassment seems to have been introduced into this subject from the unfortunate use of the terms necessary connexion. When we say a thing is necessary, we mean that it could not possibly be otherwise. Now, although there is such a thing as necessary truth, or propositions, the reverse of which is inconceivable and absurd, yet it is by no means so clear that we can call any condition of existence necessary. Whatever is, may be conceived to be otherwise. But, although we may be unable to say any thing concerning the necessity of any condition of existence, we may certainly say, with very great distinctness, things exist in such or such a manner. Although we may have no grounds for asserting that there is such a thing as necessary connexion, we may yet speak with great decision of real or positive connexion. I will to move my hand, and my hand moves; here I perceive that my hand would not have moved independently of my volition, as certainly as that my volition took place, or that the motion of my hand took place. I perceive, therefore, that there is a real connexion between the two events; but, that this connexion is necessary, or could not possibly be otherwise, is only to be affirmed where we speak of an omnipotent Being, whose will must necessarily be followed by whatever he wills. Necessity, indeed, does not seem to enter into the idea of causation. Causation is simply the connexion perceived between volition and the consequences of volition.

It may very naturally be objected to all this representation, that we are in the constant use of applying the words cause and effect to the establish

D.

ed sequences in the external world; but they are not its causes; and if it but this will appear to be no objection should be true that the wills of men at all, if we attend to the ground of are, in some respects, influenced and our belief in the regular recurrence of directed by superior will, yet, in as natural events. Although we per- far as they are wills, or exert volition, ceive no connexion between such e- they are free, or, what is the same vents similar to the connexion be- thing, are not effects from a cause. It tween volition and action, yet the re- may be demonstrated, that the Sugularity of their recurrence necessari- preme Will must be free, or not the ly impresses us with the notion of a effect of any thing, from this circumplan or system in Nature; and, as a stance, that if it were the effect of plan implies, in the very conception, any thing, it would not be the Sua planning mind, intention and voli- preme Will; because, in that case, it tion, it is in this way, and in this way must be the effect of another will, alone, that regularity or invariableness which is absurd. Unless, therefore, of sequence suggests the notion of cau- you come to rigid predestination, husation. We cannot, in fact, therefore, man will is free; and if you come to take a step into creation, without vir predestination, human will is not will. tually perceiving, as clearly as we per- In short, freedom, or acting as a cause, ceive any thing else, the existence of not as an effect, enters into the notion mind or Deity; and the belief with of volition, and, to speak otherwise, is which we look forward to the conti- to pervert the meaning of words. nuance of the laws of Nature is, in truth, nothing else but an acknowledgment of our trust in the Divine appointments. Whenever a change takes place, our attention is roused; we are occupied in tracing out the nature of the process; in every regular series of events we attend to the order of the sequence; and, as each in its order occurs, we regard it as an indication that the next is designed to follow. The first event being the sign of the cause which is to produce the second, we naturally enough speak of it as if it were the cause itself, although nothing can be plainer, upon reflection, than that natural events are only signs of each other. Fire is only a sign or mark that heat will be presented to us when we move our hands towards it. We certainly believe that heat will follow the perception of fire, but we do not perceive any connexion whatever between these two existences. We never, then, really suppose the one to be the cause of the other.

This account of the nature of causation is the more agreeable, that it strikes at once at the root of all that vexatious dispute on the subject of liberty and necessity which has so of ten perplexed the human understanding. If the idea of causation relates merely to the action of will, it is absurd to inquire what is the cause of volition. When you get at volition, you get to the fountain-head of cau<ation; motives or ideas of the underanding may always precede volition,

A MONODY ON THE DEATH OF A
DEAR FRIEND.

with ev'ry thought it seems to twine,
OH friend belov'd, so dear thy name,
Still o'er my soul returns to claim,
Some fond remembrance, mix'd with thine,
Nor comes in vain. With deep regret
I mourn thee,-and can ne'er forget,-
While I recal our life's gay prime,
And progress of succeeding years,
Feeling how firmly fix'd by time,
(Like some fair plant he slowly rears,)
Our friendship stood; and I possest,
Of heaven's choice gifts, the first, and best,
A faithful friend. Oh bond rever'd!
Long try'd, long trusted; still the same,--
Which way the vane of fortune veer'd
Around the points, of praise, or blame,
Unchang'd amidst each rise, or fall,
Possessing much, or losing all.
Can love so nurtur'd e'er decay?
Ah, no! while memory shall last,
This solitary heart must pay
Its sacred tribute to the past.
But feeble were my strains to tell,
The pang of nature's last farewell.

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