common cares, some sincere attachment, some hour of youthful love, that each in its turn was a blessing to him then, and which now becomes a hallowed spot of beauty, casting its sacred light upon the trials and misfortunes of after-life. These are some of those sweet incidents which bind us to earth, and to each other; and which do not, like the more glittering vanities by which they are surrounded, "make to themselves wings and fly away." I have often noticed the power of religion as administering happiness. It casts a fitting glance upon the world, and seems to carry its possessor above all fear and suffering. It binds his reflections down to one point; and he does not, like others, seek to anchor his little bark amid the uneven waves of this world. He regards it as the sole end of his being, for he feels that in it there Happiness and misery, when considered in reference to society, may, perhaps, be said to be nearly relative terms. It cannot, however, be doubted, that contrasted states of feeling have a widely different influence upon individuals; yet the abstract portion of happiness and misery, belonging to any condition in this world, is but small. It appears to me, that the chief source of pleasure and pain is the imagination; and that any manifestation of an extreme in either, is dependent upon our temperament. A writer of a mild and contented mind, pictures the world in the light and varying tints of peaceful enjoyment; while one whose disposition is sad, and full of sensibility, usually speaks of it as harsh and unfeeling, and filled with sorrow. It is evident that neither of these views is in itself correct; we gain the truth by blending them together. That man whose fancy is lively and romantic, may, in one sense, be said to partake most of happiness, because he has it sometimes in deed, and always in thought. Whether, however, the pleasures of anticipation be greater than those of retrospection, is perhaps a question. Mr. Campbell and Mr. Rogers have contested the point; and for my part, I must join in the same theme as the elegant author of the Pleasures of Memory. The reason is this-the realities of life, of whatever descrip-hope, which was afterwards the suption, are never arrayed in the colours which we previously give them; fine scenery, for instance, seldom comes near to the ideas we formed of it; and therefore we experience disappointment in proportion to our excitement of mind. In this sense, then, "ignorance is bliss ;" and it is better for every man, no matter how dull his imagination may be, to rest satisfied with his conceptions, since thousands have proved it " folly to be wise." But independently of constitutional differences, there have been lights and shadows in every man's life. To select and dwell upon the happy passages, is a pleasing work; they glitter upon the rude path we have trodden, like the beautiful oases of the desart. There is none who is, or has not once been, endeared to something in the world around him; every one can remember some early friend, some portion of time that was exempt from are "truths which wake To perish never." I remember an instance of this. Maria N- was in her eighteenth year, and it was manifest that she was dying, the victim of a hopeless decline. She was the only daughter of a humble village curate, a pious and intelligent man. He had, in very early years, laid the foundation for that port of Maria. In her dying moments she felt its influence; through her youthful life it had budded and put forth leaves, but then it blossomed. Her heart was happy, for it had lost its attachment to the world, so that a sorrowful thought never tinged its peaceful reflections. I would not seem to jest, but consumption is a poetical malady, and there is something in its very appearance, when aided by religious feeling, that is indescribably interesting. The fixed look of resigned thought, the uncomplaining heart, the tearless yet spiritless eye, the pale thin hand, and that hectic spot upon the cheek, which is the sure harbinger of death, appeal too tenderly to the heart ever to be forgotten. The interval from the first touch of sickness, too, is a preparatory season, in which the soul is purified from all earthly blemish, and at last there is a union of all that is most holy in this world, and most happy in a better. Poor Maria, thou wast too delicate a blossom for the bleak winds of this world, and of thee, amid a thousand recollections, we cannot but say and feel, "Tho' other gifted minds we meet, To live with them is far less sweet sourness and fretfulness. Indeed, a series of years passed in this employment is often ended by suicide, for the mind having been so long accustomed to be easily and strongly excited, and to view successive disappointments through an improper medium, becomes subject to moments of perverted reason, if not of positive insanity. When we lose the simple unaffected motives to action which guided us in our youth, we commonly tisfied; and in the midst of his possessions, his cry is still ardent and incessant, "Who will shew me any good?" With regard to that pursuit in life which leads to the greatest proportion of happiness, the choice usually de-lose all that we can, in after-life, look pends upon the bias of the mind; and back upon with satisfaction, for the yet we shall perhaps obtain the most business of the world consists in the peace in that partial retirement from display of deceitful appearances, and the world, which, while it does not in practising a system of created deprive us of its good, exempts us evils. The most successful adventufrom many of its evils. It is a beauti-rer finds sufficient to render him dissaful story which Cicero relates of the conqueror Scipio, that even when invested with honours, and crowned with triumph, he used often, with his A retired and peaceable life, then, friend Lælius, to steal away from the is perhaps the most consonant with dazzling scenes around him, and, at the idea of happiness; for although Caieta and Laurentum, to play over in this situation we lose many moagain the earliest sports of his boy-mentary pleasures, yet we enjoy a hood, and gather pebbles and shells on the sea shore. The simplest pleasures are, after all, the happiest; and this incident, while it shews us how little of true peace belongs to earthly glories, also pictures to us how vividly the remembrance of infancy accompanies us through life, that even amid the splendours of the loftiest triumphs, there should be found those who could forsake their attractions, and find pleasure in their first amusements. Shakspeare knew the insufficiency of power to convey real happiness, when he made one of his characters exclaim, freedom from those ever-varying cares, which are the consequence of too close an intercourse with the world. It may also be remarked, that there is much of pain attendant upon what are called the pleasures of life; and it would be difficult to select many of the amusements which abound in this age, upon which, by serious reflection, the participator in them could say, that the evil had not overbalanced the good. There are a thousand petty troubles woven in the threads of a life of gaiety, which continually harass the mind, and which are a far more effectual barrier to peace, than is the action of a heavy disappointment. Perhaps it might be proved, that a great evil has usually a less serious effect upon us than a succession of wayward trifling "Oh that the desart were my dwelling circumstances, inasmuch as we are place," &c. In proportion as we grow out of the thoughts, feelings, and amusements, which formed our earlier life, so do we become allied to objects, which, in the event of our obtaining a lookedfor good, always cast a shadow upon the possession. When toiling after wealth and power, as the means of happiness, we see things in an unreal light; and if, after a life of slavery, these objects are gained, the native disposition is usually lost in that of compelled unresistingly to bow to the one, while our minds have free room to think upon and repine at the others. To keep on the "even tenor of our way," then, no matter how unworldly is the pursuit, is the best preservative against a life of anxious inquietude; and I have always admired those simple-hearted expressions of old Isaac Walton, where he prays for a blessing upon all those, who, as he says," dare trust in Providence, and be quiet, and go a-angling." G. M. POETRY. TRIBUTARY LINES, To the memory of Richard Cumberland, Esq. most respectfully inscribed to his Eldest Daughter, Lady Edward Bentinck, written in 1813.-By S. HUGHES. EMBALM'D in tears, that from affection flow, The mortal part reposes;-unconfin'd The virtuous soul, flown to its native skies, Thy genius blaz'd with undiminish'd rays! Does it avail that genius early shone In thee, and Wisdom chose thee for her own? Ne'er can a grateful Muse omit to pay In her the virtues of her sire combin'd, With all the graces of the female mind! Nought can avert th' irremeable dooin, For excellence is hurried to the tomb! If those who ne'er beheld thy blooming grace, And in thy features sought thy sire to trace, Who view'd thee only with a mental eye,Esteem'd and lov'd thee,-if they breathe a sigh, And o'er thy sacred relics drop a tear, What feel thy friends, to whom thou wast most dear? Deep their affliction, who, by friendship's tie, Strengthen'd the bond of consanguinity: "Ah! Mariamne!"-will they oft exclaim, Breathing a tender sigh with thy dear name. "Ah! Mariamne! lovely and belov'd, Thy pious fortitude by Heav'n approv'd, Now meets its great reward, where ev'ry eye From tears is free, where perfect ecstasy, Through ever-during ages will prevail, When the foundations of the earth shall fail." S. HUGHES. NOTE. This amiable lady was born in Madrid, August 27, 1780. Her father being sent to Spain, by Government, to effect a separate peace: (see his Memoirs.) RICHMOND PHEASANTRY. YE who delight to walk 'mid rural scenes, Till all blend sweetly with the azure sky; Of thousand beauties which the eyes descry, Within this rich inclosure, none outvie Within a circling wall are kept with care, Which take their brilliant titles from the mine Of Guinea, where for gold poor negroes toil, The strutting peacock, vainest of the vain, His tail expands, arrang'd in proud array, Matilda, come-my carols deign to hear, And with approving smiles the poet cheer. Know that some minds feel happy to be drest In plumes like those which clothe the pheasant's breast; And some their fate with discontent bewail, Then peace shall bless thee with a smile SOON as the radiant ruler of the world, Euphemia, waken'd by a solar beam, sires Beneath the sun-illum'd cerulean sky. Could yet appreciate with exact esteem, Her grateful admiration, were the plains, With drooping head, and well known golden hue, The reaper's hand inviting, gently wav'd. The wheaten rick rotund its golden head, thought She Each precious grain the golden crown contain'd; A costly pearl appear'd, or valu'd gem, Nature enliven'd and inanimate, His praise to celebrate, she had invok'd, Who clothes the earth in variegated dress, And makes it teem with life-sustaining fruits. By Phoebus' heightening glow, Euphemia knew The swift advance of noon,-with ling'ring look, And restrospective glance, she homeward bent Her way; her mind in bright anticipation, Of the world invisible; by hope assured, His minist'ring angels should commission, R. K**TT. ONE GLASS MORE. STAY, mortal, stay! nor heedless thus And eager wait to hear the cry Go, view that prison's gloomy cells, Had these a tongue, they'd to thee speak, Behold that wretched female form, He'll whisper in thy startled ear, Stay, mortal, stay! repent, return, The pois'nous draught indignant spurn, O fly the ale-house, horrid den! Lest thou, perchance, should'st sip again " THE PROGRESS OF PHILANTHROPY. Written for the Anniversary of the Hexham Free School, Nov. 5th, 1821.-By J. Ridley. IN early days, mid superstition's sway, Or beam'd on Britain her effulgence bright: Those days of darkness mark'd with mystic rite, Replete with hideous crimes and orgies dire; Then youth, in ignorance and mental night, To deeds of cruelty were taught t'aspire; Who most ferocious was, he honour'd most his sire! But mark the change!-what happy days succeed! At first, with tardy steps they faintly gleam; Till, from the light, see ignorance recede, Beneath the influence of truth's dazzling beam: Then rous'd, at length, as from a torpid dream, Our sires perceive the dawn of mental day; And nurs'd by liberty, the genial stream Still pours upon the land its peaceful ray; And still its light shall spread, nor aught obstruct its way. Hail! land of lib'ral philanthropic souls! Whom nought can from their destin'd goal detain ; Alike, when from his throne the tyrant And when encourag'd by a milder reign. 'Gainst claims repugnant to the public See SYDNEY firmly by his rights remain! And RUSSEL nobly by his comrades stood, Though doom'd, alas! to shed their patriotic blood. The name of HOWARD ne'er shall be forgot! His was a zeal that burnt with purest flame; With God-like feeling all his plans were fraught, His life was mercy, and his end the same. |