in a considerable state of forwardness | follies and vices of that dissipated when that melancholy event took place. country. This work has gone through This building was opened for divine three editions; and it is not unfreworship on May 27th, 1812, and from quently used by travellers as a guidethat time to the present, it has been book, through the romantic scenery of the active scene of Mr. Raffles's la- Savoy. bours. In December, 1820, Mr. Raffles was created Doctor of Laws, by the Senatus Academicus of the Marischal College and University of Aberdeen, from whence he had previously received the degree of Master of Arts. His testimonials on being created a Doctor, were signed by the Dukes of Sussex and Somerset, as Graduates of the same degree in the English Universities. a Of Dr. Raffles's abilities as preacher, it is unnecessary for us to say any thing; they are too generally known, and too highly appreciated, to obtain additional eminence from our encomium, or to receive increasing fame from our eulogy. The crowds which attend his ministry, the affection which is felt for him by the members of his church, and the universal esteem with which he is regarded by all classes of society, are the best tributes to his talents and his virtues, and the brightest and best rewards he can hope for, or desire, on this side of eternity. Dr. Raffles has been the author of several useful and important works. In 1812, he published, "Memoirs of the Life and Ministry of the Rev. Thomas Spencer." Of this work, one of the most interesting pieces of biography in the English language, five editions have been printed, and nearly six thousand copies have been sold in this country alone, and probably more than that number in America. It is supposed that this book has contributed as much as any modern work, to induce pious young men to enter the ministry. In 1815, Dr. Raffles published a new edition of Brown's Self-interpreting Bible, with additional notes, in two quarto volumes. In 1817, he accompanied his cousin, Sir T. S. Raffles, in a tour through France, Switzerland, &c. &c. and on his return, he was prevailed upon by the solicitations of numerous friends, to publish his Tour in a series of letters. The observations he has made in his progress through France, afford a true but melancholy picture of the In 1820, Dr. Raffles públished a volume of Lectures on some important branches of practical religion; and a second volume, (in continuation,) on Doctrinal Subjects, is now in the press. He is also the author of the following sermons, "The Claims of Jesus of Nazareth examined;" a demonstration sermon to the Jews. "Missions to the Heathen vindicated from the charge of enthusiasm ;" preached before the London Missionary Society. "Sermon to the People, delivered at the ordination of the Rev. J. A. Coombs, at Salford, near Manchester;" and "A Discourse on Purgatory," delivered at Preston, in Lancashire. So great was the interest excited on hearing this last discourse, that Dr. Raffles, in compliance with the wishes of many of the congregation, was induced to deliver it a second time on a subsequent day. Dr. Raffles is the author of that excellent tract, "The Sunday School Teacher's Monitor;" and of several essays, &c. in different periodical works, particularly of " A Life of the late benevolent Robert Spear, Esq. of Milbank, near Manchester," published in the first number of "The Investigator," of which work Dr. Raffles is joint editor with Drs. Collyer and Brown. In Sir T. S. Raffles's History of Java, is part of the Brata Yudha, or, "The War of Woe," a Javanese poem; which Dr. Raffles has recomposed, and put into elegant English verse, from the verbal translation of his cousin. It has been a matter of regret, that only a part of this poem has been published. It abounds with true touches of nature; and we cordially join with an eminent critic in the hope, that "not only in justice to the poetry of Java, but to the talent displayed by this gentleman, the whole of his metrical version will be given to the public." In 1815, Dr. Raffles married Mary Catherine Hargreaves, daughter of the late James Hargreaves, Esq. of Liverpool, by whom he has two children. ESSAYS MORAL AND LITERARY. No. 3.-On Retrospection. "The present joys of life we doubly taste, When looking back with pleasure on the past." That man may be said to live long, who is often engaged in looking back upon the past; for the proper estimate of life, does not depend upon months and years, but upon the events which have happened to us since we had a being. Actions, not the revolution of PERFECT happiness is not the lot of the seasons, are what we have to judge humanity; we are born for trouble as by. That individual who has most to the sparks fly upward. But perhaps treasure up, and who contemplates the mixture of good and evil fate which the oftenest, partakes most of exisis given to every man, ought not to be tence, whether his life be thirty, or made the cause of so much regret as threescore years and ten. To mere it frequently is. We know that our listless sensation, one day is as a enjoyments are increased by the endu- thousand. But it is also the faculty rance of previous sorrows; and that of the mind not only to observe these the cup of consolation which we occurrences which belong to itself, but sometimes taste, is the sweeter from in imagination at least to become the remembrance that there have been acquainted with what has befallen times when it was not ours. A long others;-to learn what has been the series of unbroken misery, is almost fate of kings and conquerors, of phiimpossible to exist; and the few sun-losophers and statesmen; and to recur ny spots that light up the track of human life, are dearer to us from the consciousness that they have been but few. It is the many turns in our eventful journey-the joys and griefs which have been given to us, that make life so dear, and that cause it to be a fit subject for meditation. Perhaps there is not a purer pleasure in which we can be engaged, than in dwelling upon the varied scenes of our past being, and in considering those conclusions which the calm remembrance of them must voluntarily make. The mind sees where it did right, and where it did wrong; when it was happy, and when it was miserable. We behold the hills and the valleys, the flowers and the brambles, which have crossed our path; we remember the springs of pure water which have flowed by the way-side, and the sweet resting-places where we have reposed, after the day of toil. We recollect some tender trial of feeling, some series of joys, that then seemed wedded for ever-the golden hopes of our youth rise up before us in their dreamlike beauty, and then come back upon our hearts again," to soothe us with their earliest sympathy. Oh! what a compound is human life!-of what hopes, and loves, and joys, and friendships,-of what griefs, and cares, and broken plensures, is it composed! To begin a review of our past life, is to create for ourselves one of the purest enjoyments; and at the close of our reflections, to become not only wiser but better. 66 to scenes which are as old as the earth on which we tread. It is the great privilege of a meditative man, that let him be situated as he may, he will always find sufficient variety in his own recollections, well to employ his thoughts. He can never be said to be alone, for he has companions in his own bosom, that will never leave him nor forsake him; and he can often walk in the midst of crowded cities with as much composure, as he can in the green fields around his country cottage. He may observe the complex machinery of the universe, he may analyze the passions and motives by which men are actuated, shunning the evil and cherishing the good. He may ramble among the flowers of the valley, and find improvement there; he may watch the rising and the setting sun, and gaze upon the innumerable company of stars, which, "Ebb in the aërial dome, Moving the pendulum of heav'n;" or turn his thoughts inward, and meditate upon the final destiny of his own being. To such a man time cannot be said to be short; every past hour brings to him something for reflection, and every object he sees, something for instruction; the smallest incident will often awaken him to a remembrance of some considerable occurrence in his life, that passes before him, and that "bears a glass which shows him many more." Perhaps the purest of all our recol lections, or at least that which brings with it the greatest degree of self-satisfaction, is the level days of our childhood. Almost all that we have done, or said, or thought of, since that happy time, has had something of care mixed with it, that has too often sullied and broken our best enjoyments. We feel that when the pcet says "the world is too much with us," he is telling us a sorrowful truth, and we are at times ready to determine it shall be so no longer. But its specious gaieties lead us on and on, promising those things they never perform, and holding for our acceptance some faroff good, which we find, too late, is unattainable. Still, amidst all our disappointments, the remembrance of our early days casts a beautiful halo around our path, and throws many a sunbeam on the cloudy skies. Men perhaps are never so decidedly acquainted with what they are and have been, as when overtaken by misfortune, and never feel the real value and pleasure of retrospection so forcibly, as when in this situation. When the heart is searching after some blessing, real or imaginary, it often forgets those joys that are past; and it is only when our expectations receive a gentle check, that we see the full brightness of our early days. It is then that we inwardly wish for another revolution of their artless sports. Childhood is the "glory and the freshness of a dream," which we exchange for "the light of common day ;" and notwithstanding all that we may possess in the world, its power, honour, and riches, there are moments, and not a few, when we are compelled almost involuntarily to exclaim, that there hath passed away a glory from the earth." 66 Next to the pleasure derived from a contemplation of the scenes of our childhood, is that of remembering the hopes and loves of our youth. The one is a season of unalloyed happiness; the other is a state of fear and joy. In the one we follow the innocent dictates of nature; in the other we begin to plan out schemes, and seek to become men of power and affluence. Youth is the time when the mind is formed, and the affections exercised; and in after-years we well remember this period as it gave the bias to our fate. In many cases it may be seen how small an incident No. 42.-VOL. IV. will change the current of life, and how often it is that a mere saying or thoughtless action will decide the destiny of our future days. But there are some men who can scarcely be said ever to have marked out for themselves one decided path; such a man was Rousseau-impatient, romantic, and tender-hearted, he was rather the sport of chance or fortune, than one who travelled in any beaten track. Never was there a man who so intensely remembered his youthful days, and never perhaps was there a man who had so many things to remember. What to me constitutes the chief delight in reading Rousseau's Confessions, is, the vividness with which he pictures his happy moments, and the charm of gentle pity which he casts over his weightiest sorrows. Who can have forgotten his meeting with Madame Warrens, the passionate love he bore for her, which seemed to cling to him with firmer hold as his years increased; or the thrilling exclamations of his withered spirit, which sound upon the ear like those piercing words of Lear, when, amid the desolation of his heart he cried, "Never, never, never." Perhaps the remembrance of happiness can only be pleasurable when the heart is in some degree peaceful; when it is broken by sorrow, its reflections must be painful. The fittest state for recollection is, when we have partaken of folly sufficiently to know its bitterness, and tasted as much of unbroken joy as to feel its worth. Much more might be advanced, but I shall not proceed;-these few imperfect reflections have been suggested by finding among my papers the following lines. I am not an unhappy man, nor one whose mind is soured by disappointment; yet I cannot help wishing that I was now the same as when I penned these verses, for although nineteen summers have hardly passed over my head, there are few who have tasted more of good and evil life. August, 1820. |