lent fever, which terminated fatally in September, 1761. The severity of this blow was so keenly felt by her, that her life was for some time in danger; but at length the assiduity of her friends and the consolations of religion had their duo weight, and she gradually recovered her spirits and her peace of mind. In 1773, Mrs. Chapone published her "Letters on the Improvement of the Mind," addressed to her favorite niece, the eldest daughter of the Rev. John Mulso. The work was most favorably received, and soon became extensively eirculated. It is, indeed, "one of the best books that can be put into the hands of female youth; the style is casy and pure, the advice practical and sound, and the whole uniformly tends to promote the purest principles of morality and religion." In 1775, she published her "Miscellanies in Prose and Verse," in one volume. Of the poems of this volume, which were, for the most part, the productions of her early life, the best is the "Ode to Solitude." This was the last work she published. From this time she was called almost every year to mourn the loss of some near and dear friend, which so oppressed her spirits, at her advanced period of life, that at length both her mind and body yielded to the attacks of age and sorrow. Toward the close of the century her faculties began to decay, and she died at Hadley, on the 25th of December, 1801. ODE TO SOLITUDE. Thou gentle nurse of pleasing woe, To thee from crowds, and noise, and show, With eager haste I fly; Thrice welcome, friendly Solitude, Oh let no busy foot intrude, Nor listening ear be nigh! Soft, silent, melancholy maid, Still at the mild approach of night, To thee alone my conscious heart With thee among the haunted groves, For she can time and space control, Ah! no-ye vain delusions, hence! Shall Fancy cheat the precious hour, O Wisdom! from the sea-beat shore, Oh guide me to the humble cell There, let my soul to Him aspire, There, to his gracious will divine, Then peace shall heal this wounded breast, From selfish passion pure; Peace which, when human wishes rise, ON THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TEMPER. The next great point of importance to your future happiness is what your parents have, doubtless, been continually attentive to from your infancy, as it is impossible to undertake it too earlyI mean the due Regulation of your Temper. Though you are in great measure indebted to their forming hands for whatever is good in it, you are sensible, no doubt, as every human creature is, of propensities to some infirmity of temper, which it must now be your own care to correct and to subdue: otherwise, the pains that have hitherto been taken with you may all become fruitless; and, when you are your own mistress, you may relapse into those faults which were originally in your nature, and which will require to be diligently watched and kept under, through the whole course of your life. If you consider that the constant tenor of the gospel precepts is to promote love, peace, and good-will amongst men, you will not doubt that the cultivation of an amiable disposition is a great part Elizabeth Carter. of your religious duty; since nothing leads more directly to the breach of charity, and to the injury and molestation of our fellowcreatures, than the indulgence of an ill-temper. Do not, therefore, think lightly of the offences you may commit, for want of a due command over it, or suppose yourself responsible for them to your fellow-creatures only; but, be assured, you must give a strict account of them all to the Supreme Governor of the world, who has made this a great part of your appointed trial upon earth. The principal virtues or vices of a woman must be of a private and domestic kind. Within the circle of her own family and dependants lies her sphere of action-the scene of almost all those tasks and trials which must determine her character and her fate here and hereafter. Reflect, for a moment, how much the happiness of her husband, children, and servants must depend on her temper, and you will see that the greatest good, or evil, which she ever may have in her power to do, may arise from her correcting or indulging its infirmities. Though I wish the principle of duty toward God to be your ruling motive in the exercise of every virtue, yet, as human nature stands in need of all possible helps, let us not forget how essential it is to present happiness, and to the enjoyment of this life, to cultivate such a temper as is likewise indispensably requisite to the attainment of higher felicity in the life to come. The greatest outward blessings cannot afford enjoyment to a mind ruffled and uneasy within itself. A fit of ill-humour will spoil the finest entertainment, and is as real a torment as the most painful disease Another unavoidable consequence of ill-temper is the dislike and aversion of all who are witnesses to it, and, perhaps, the deep and lasting resentment of those who suffer from its effects. We all, from social or self love, earnestly desire the esteem and affection of our fellow-creatures; and indeed our condition makes them so necessary to us, that the wretch who has forfeited them must feel desolate and undone, deprived of all the best enjoyments and comforts the world can afford, and given up to his inward misery, unpitied and scorned. But this can never be the fate of a goodnatured person: whatever faults he may have, they will be generally treated with lenity; he will find an advocate in every human heart; his errors will be lamented rather than abhorred; and his virtues will be viewed in the fairest point of light. His good-humor, without the help of great talents or acquirements, will make his company preferable to that of the most brilliant genius, in whom this quality is wanting: in short, it is almost impossible that you can be sincerely beloved by anybody, without this engaging property, whatever other excellencies you may possess; but, with it, you will scarcely fail of finding some friends and favorers, even though you should be destitute of almost every other advantage. Perhaps you will say, "All this is very true; but our tempers are not in our own power-we are made with different dispositions, and if mine is not amiable, it is rather my unhappiness than my fault." This is commonly said by those who will not take the trouble to correct themselves. Yet, be assured, it is a delusion, and will not avail in our justification before Him "who knoweth whereof we are made," and of what we are capable. It is truc, we are not all equally happy in our dispositions; but human virtue consists in cherishing and cultivating every good inclination, and in checking and subduing every propensity to evil. It is observed, that every temper is inclined in some degree, either to passion, peevishness, or obstinacy. With regard to the first, it is so injurious to society, and so odious in itself, especially in the female character, that one would think shame alone would be sufficient to preserve a young woman from giving way to it: for it is as unbecoming her character to be betrayed into ill-behavior by passion, as by intoxication, and she ought to be ashamed of the one as much as the other. Gentleness, meekness, and patience are her peculiar distinctions, and an enraged woman is one of the most disgusting sights in nature. JAMES BEATTIE, 1735-1803. JAMES BEATTIE, a much admired poet and a distinguished moral philosopher, was born in Lawrence Kirk, Kincardineshire, in the north-east part of Scotland, on the 20th of October, 1735. His father, who was poor, died when the poet was only ten years old; but his elder brother kept him at school till he obtained a "bursary" (a kind of benefaction for poor scholars) at the Marischal College, Aberdeen, where he remained four years. Having received his degree of A. M. in 1753, he took a small school at Fordoun, near his native village. Here he employed his time chiefly in studying the classics, and in composing various small poetical pieces, which appeared from time to time in the "Scot's Magazine," and drew him more and more into notice, until, in 1758, he was appointed usher in the grammar-school at Aberdeen; and in two years after he was elected professor of moral philosophy and logic in the Marischal College. He immediately prepared a course of lectures for the students, and in 1761 published a small volume of poems, consisting chiefly of those which had already appeared anonymously in the "Scot's Magazine." In 1765 he published his poem, "The Judgment of Paris," which has but little merit. The same year he became acquainted with the poet Gray, then on a visit to Scotland, whom he reverently admired; and a friendship was formed between the two poets which terminated only with the death of Gray. In June, 1767, he married Miss Mary Dun, daughter of the rector of the grammar-school at Aberdeen. In the same year, he began to prepare his cele brated "Essay on Truth," which appeared in 1770; and so much interest did it excite that, in less than four years, it went through five editions, and was translated into several foreign languages. Its chief aim was to refute the skeptical writings of Hume, or, in Dr. Beattie's own words, "to overthrow skepticism, and establish conviction in its place." In 1771, he gave to the world the first book of his celebrated poem, "The Minstrel." It was received with universal approbation. Honors flowed in upon him from every quarter. He visited London, and was admitted to all its brilliant and distinguished circles; and Goldsmith, Johnson, Garrick, and Reynolds were soon numbered among his friends. On a second visit, in 1773, he had an interview with the king and queen, which resulted in his receiving a pension of two hundred pounds per annum. In 1774, Beattie published the second book of "The Minstrel," the success of which quite equalled that of the former. A new edition of his "Essay on Truth" appeared in 1776, together with three other essays-on Poetry and Music; on Laughter and Ludicrous Composition; and on the Utility of Classical Learning. In 1786, he published his "Evidences of Christianity;" and in the year following, appeared his "Elements of Moral Science." In 1790, he lost his eldest son;2 and, in 1796, his only remaining one. These afflictions, together with the insanity of his wife, of which there were some indications even a few years after they were married, seriously affected his health. In April, 1799, he suffered a stroke of the palsy-a repetition of which, in 1802, deprived him of the use of his limbs; and death finally ended his sufferings, in the sixty-eighth year of his age, on the 18th of August, 1803. He was buried beside his two sons in the churchyard of St. Nicholas, Aberdeen. 1 A very able article on this essay may be found in the Edinburgh Review, x. 171. In the early training of his eldest and beloved son, Dr. Beattie adopted an expedient of a romantic and interesting description. His object was to give him the first idea of a Supreme Being; and his method, as Dr. Porteus, Bishop of London, remarked, "had all the imagination of Rousseau, without his folly and extravagance." "He had," says Beattie, "reached his fifth (or sixth) year, knew the alphabet, and could read a little; but had received no particular information with respect to the Author of his being, because I thought he could not yet understand such information, and because I had lesrued, from my own experience, that to be made to repeat words not understood is extremely detrimental to the faculties of a young mind. In the corner of a little garden, without informing any person of the circumstance, I wrote in the mould, with my finger, the three initial letters of his name, and sowing garden-cresses in the furrows, covered up the seed, and smoothed the ground. Ten days after, he came running to me, and, with astonishment in his countenance, told me that his name was growing in the garden. I smiled at the report, and seemed inclined to disregard it; but he insisted on my going to see what had happened. 'Yes,' said I, carelessly, on coming to the place, I see it is so; but there is nothing in this worth notice: it is mere chance,' and I went away. He followed me, and taking hold of my eat, said, with some earnestness, It could not be mere chance, for that somebody must have contrived matters so as to produce it.' I pretend not to give his words or my own, for I have forgotten both; but I give the substance of what passed between us in such language as we both understood. So you think,' I said, 'that what appears so regular as the letters of your name cannot be by chance?' 'Yes,' said he, with firmness, 'I think so!' 'Look at yourself,' I replied, and consider your hands and fingers, your legs and feet, and other limbs; are they not regular in their appearance, and useful to you?' He said they were. Came you then hither,' said I, by chance? No,' he answered, that cannot be; something must have made me.' And who is that something? I asked. He said he did not know. (I took par ticular notice that he did not say, as Rousseau fancies a child in like circumstances would say, that his parents made him.) I had now gained the point I aimed at; and saw that his reason taught him (though he could not so express it) that what begins to be, must have a cause, and that what is formed with regularity must have an intelligent cause. J there fore told him the name of the Great Being who made him and all the world, concerning whose adorable nature I gave him such information as I thought he could in some measure comprehend. The lesson affected him deeply, and he never forgot either it or the circumstance that introduced it." |