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 : 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 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 Are all then wrong?-and when the spi rit's tried, Must all of every class be set aside? Many of those who trust in Christ alone Give the whole praise to him to whom 'tis due. Just once a year-when summer days 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 When side by side we tock our first de grees, The boast of Johnians he, and I of Caius: 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 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, 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, 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: A trust in him who has the power to save Then held she converse of her hopes and Befitting Christians in a vale of tears. Is Greek to all who are not of the gang; From the deep quagmires of a muddy Not her's the fool-born jest and stifled sigh How much she had to hope, how much to How little she had done, how much re- To do, before the victory were gained- Looked to the cross for peace, to Heaven for rest; And confidence in him who cannot lie, “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, who go To search the lairs of poverty and woe, to find The body's pain embittered by the mind; the door Of an old lonely cottage on the moor: pair, With sallow checks, and thin, yet matted hair. Clay was the flooring, and the walls were And in thie window rags obscured the day; Untaught in youth, he led a wandering life, He sold the liberty he held so dear, tear. For six campaigns, he followed in the train ed The frame that ball and bayonet had spared; And he, with wasted limbs and aching Lay dying there upon that crazy bed. 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- 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 with ev'ry thought it seems to twine, |