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great cause? Much. She can hold up superstition to ridicule, tyranny to disgust, slavery to shame; she can blast imposture; she can expose fraud. She can do more than this; she can dip her pencil in the beauties of holiness; she can make the good and the great appear as it were God walking to and fro upon the earth. She can do much to recommend virtue, to support religion, as well as to ridicule superstition and to brand vice. Ay, and there is a day coming when, on the pencil of the painter, as well as on the bells of the horses, shall be inscribed holiness to the Lord;' when this fine talent shall be consecrated entirely to him that gave it.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

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bear reflection, provided they advance his dignity as an intellectual, and his worth as a moral being. We should like, then, in every city, to see galleries of art, either thrown wide open to the public, or the admission to which is guarded by only a small fee. We should like to see the fine arts no longer monopolized by the rich and the powerful. We should like to see, on holidays, such galleries crowded by the labouring classes; husbands treating their wives and families to a sight of the masterpieces of Italian and British art; fathers holding up their chubby children, to get a nearer view of some of the humours of Hogarth or the graceful figures of Raffaelle; and to hear artisans in the street discussing the comparative merits of Teniers and Wilkie, of Reynolds and Raeburn. Surely, surely, this were a better expenditure of money and of time, on the part of the working classes, than plunging, during the holidays, into the deepest recesses of town debauchery, or carrying their vice forth to pollute the sweet solitudes of the country! The pre- Or the life of Thomas Campbell, nothing, save the merest sence of the silent and holy splendours of art, easily ac- outlines, have appeared since he died, which, of course, cessible to all, creating a taste for their own appreciation, have not been sufficient to satisfy the very natural breathing down a portion of their own ethereal spirit upon anxiety that exists to know more of the author of The their beholders, would contribute mightily, along with other causes, to purify the morals, to refine the tastes, to Pleasures of Hope'-the latest dead of that illustrious elevate and humanize the manners. Painting, again, has galaxy of poets who flourished during the first quarter in it a power of the keenest moral satire. It can hold up of the present century, only two or three of whom, alas! a mirror to nature. It can show scorn its own features now survive. Great as was Campbell's popularity during vice its own image. It can not only act as a mirror, but, his life, it cannot be doubted, that, as in the case of all on occasion, as a burning glass, at once showing and scorch-master minds, it will increase after his death. His fame ing up meanness, cruelty, and vice. In proof of this, we again mention the name of Hogarth. His works, by many supposed to be mere caricatures, are, in fact, great moral masterpieces. In his Idle and Industrious Apprentice he traces the contrasted paths of two youths, the one of whom, by industry and perseverance, reaches the highest honours of his profession, while the other, following the courses of shame, comes at last, in the expressive language of Bunyan, 'to a wide field, full of dark mountains, where he stumbled and fell, and rose no more.' In his Marriage-a-la-Mode, again, he lashes the frivolous, fashionable, heartless, loveless, and joyless marriages, which abounded in the upper circles of that age. In his Rake's and Harlot's Progress, he follows, with terrible fidelity, the dark windings of those twin paths leading down to the chambers of death. All his prints, indeed, are steeped in a deep moral sentiment, seem designed, many of them, as illustrations of the Proverbs of Solomon; and if we would see vice in all its low, contemptible, hate ful, and horrible aspects, contemplate it in the stern yet laughable hieroglyphics of Hogarth. But though we have no Hogarth now-a-days, we have Cruickshanks, whose illustrations of Dickens' works are quite as good as these admirable tales, and, like them, are surcharged with a cheerful and humane morality. And we scruple not to name, among our subordinate moral powers, such political caricaturists as H.B. and the getters up of the far-famed Punch.

Painting, within certain limits, may be of service in fanning the flame of devotion. We have often felt its power in this respect, but never more than when once or twice visiting the little chapel in the ancient Castle of Glammis. Filled with a 'dim religious light,' surrounded with paintings by a female hand of some past century, executed with much taste and elegance, lying in the very groin of a vast old edifice, and begirt by the everlasting music of the great trees which cast their shadows on the castle, it has a most imposing effect upon the imagination. The air becomes religion, and we bend in solemn worship to the great of old.' Painting has hitherto only indicated her capacities for scriptural illustration and devotional excitement. She has hitherto devoted too much of her power and skill to vice or to folly; been too often employed in feeding man's vanity by portrait-painting, or his malignity by caricature. But there is a higher and holier destiny before her. She has her work to do in that struggle which shall yet take place between the powers of light and darkness. What can she do in this

has not reached all its fulness; it will grow with the lapse of years. Time, which obscures the glory of meaner men, will but add new lustre to his. Wherever the English language is spoken, and as long as English poetry is read, his works will be cherished. The purity of style, the delicacy of taste, the freshness and sublimity of thought, the concentration of idea, with the vigour and manly eloquence by which they are characterised, leave an impression on the mind of an elevating and enduring nature. His lyrical pieces are confessedly not surpassed by those of any other poet, to whatever age or country he may belong.

The father of Thomas Campbell was a respectable merchant in Glasgow, of an old Highland family, and an intelligent and accomplished man. The poet, who was the tenth and youngest child of his parents, was born in that city on the 27th July, 1777, when his father had reached his 67th year. The latter was an intimate friend of the celebrated Dr Thomas Reid, professor of moral philosophy in the university of Glasgow, and the infant poet was baptized by the venerable doctor, who preached in the college-hall on the Sabbath, and who named him after himself. To those who are curious in the matter of locality, it may be stated that Campbell was born in the High Street, about a stone-cast from the University, of which he was afterwards thrice elected Lord Rector. The house in which he first saw the light stood on the opposite side of the college, close to what is now the east end of George Street, and has long since been taken down, to make way for improvements in that part of the city. At the age of seven, young Campbell was sent to the grammar-school of his native city, where he was taught Latin by a Mr David Alison, then a highly popular and successful teacher of the classics in Glasgow. He showed considerable aptitude as a scholar: and when he was twelve years old, he commenced his studies at Glasgow college. In his thirteenth year, he succeeded, after a formidable competition with a student nearly twice his own age, in gaining the bursary on Archbishop Leighton's foundation. He continued seven years at the university; receiving at the close of each session numbers of prizes, the reward of his industry and zeal. The exercises which gained him these distinctions were often of a very difficult nature, and such as tested his powers severely; but

his correct taste and sound judgment, combined with his diligence and application, enabled him to accomplish the tasks prescribed to him, in a manner highly creditable to himself and most satisfactory to his teachers. In translations from the Greek especially, he excelled; so much so, indeed, that his fellow-students were afraid to enter the lists with him. His poetical versions of several Greek plays of Aristophanes, Eschylus, and others, obtained the highest commendations of his professor, who, in awarding the prize for a translation of The Clouds' of Aristophanes, thus eulogised, in terms the most flattering, the production of the youthful poet, that, in his opinion, it was the best performance which had ever been given in within the walls of the university. Portions of these translations have been published in his works.

of the vortex, which is like the sound of innumerable chariots, creates a magnificent and fine effect.' He afterwards removed to Edinburgh, where he engaged in private teaching, living in Alison Square, in the Old Town ; and having completed The Pleasures of Hope,' he published it, at the age of twenty-two, in April, 1799. The poem was dedicated to Dr Robert Anderson, the biographer of the poets, who had shown him much attention and kindness. The success of that work was brilliant and immediate; it placed the young author at once in the foremost rank of the poets of the time; and, at the very outset of his literary career, gave him ample confidence and encouragement to proceed. His poem, remarkable for its harmony of versification and genuine fervour of style, and for the generous sentiments and feelings of patriotism that pervade it, gained for him the notice and friendship of Dugald Stewart, Professor Playfair, Henry Mackenzie, and other eminent men of that time, while he also made the acquaintance of Brougham, Jeffrey, Sidney Smith, and James Grahame, author of

At this period of his life, Campbell is described as being a fair and beautiful boy, with pleasant and winning manners, and a mild and cheerful disposition. That he had himself, at this early age, an innate perception of his own growing powers, is proved by his commencing to write poetry at the age of thirteen, and by his great de-The Sabbath.' sire, even while still but a year or two at college, to see himself in print. Having got one of his juvenile poems printed, to defray the expense of this, to him then, bold adventure, it is related that he had recourse to the singular expedient, whether of his own accord or suggested to him by some of his class-fellows is not known, of selling copies to the students at a penny each. This anecdote has been told by one who remembers having seen the beautiful boy standing at the college-gate with the slips in his hand. Campbell himself, in after years, used to be angry when he was reminded of this incident; but surely it reflects anything but discredit upon him!

The Greek chair, during his attendance at the university, was filled by Professor Young, who was a complete enthusiast in Grecian literature. From him Campbell caught the same enthusiasm, which, nourished and strengthened as it was by his success at college, endured during his whole life. Often, in his latter years, has the writer of this sketch, while sitting in his company, been electrified by the beauty and power with which he recited favourite passages from the Greek poets, with whose writings his mind was richly stored, and which he appreciated and praised with the characteristic warmth of one who was himself a master in their divine art.

After completing his classical and philosophical course, Campbell attended the lectures of Professor Millar on civil law. Admitted into the inner circle of Millar's home society, he acquired from him, in a great measure, that liberality of mind and ardent love of liberty which mark his writings, and which distinguished his conversation and character.

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The profits derived from the sale of The Pleasures of Hope,' which ran through four editions within a year, enabled him to carry into execution a wish he had for some time cherished, namely, to make the tour of Germany. Early in 1800 he accordingly proceeded from Leith to Hamburg, and remained for about a year on the Continent, visiting in the time several of the German states. War was at that period raging in Bavaria, and thither he hastened, with a strong desire animating his breast of, as he expressed himself, seeing human nature exhibited in its most dreadful attitude. From the walls of the Monastery of St Jacob, he witnessed the memorable battle of Hohenlinden, fought on the 3d of December, 1800, between the French, under General Moreau, and the Austrians, when the latter were signally defeated. The sight of Ingoldstadt in ruins,' he said, in a letter which he wrote descriptive of the scene,' and Hohenlinden covered with fire, seven miles in circumference, were spectacles never to be forgotten.' His spirit-stirring lyric of Hohenlinden was written upon this event. He afterwards proceeded in the track of Moreau's army over the scene of combat, and then continued his route. He used to relate the following incident, as illustrative of the phlegm and attention to his own interest of his German postilion, which happened at this time. The latter, while driving him near a place where a skirmish of cavalry had occurred, suddenly stopped, alighted, and disappeared, without uttering a word, leaving the carriage, with Campbell in it, alone in the cold, for the ground was covered with snow; and he was absent for a considerable time. On his return, the poet discovered that the provident German had been engaged cutting off the long tails of the slain horses, which he deliberately placed on the vehicle beside him, and silently pursued his journey. When Ratisbon was occupied by the French, Mr Campbell happened to be in the town at the time, but he was treated with kindness by the victors. The enthusiasm and genius of the young traveller seem to have made a very favourable impression on the French officers, who evinced their respect for him by entertaining him at their different mess-tables, and furnishing him with a pass that carried him in safety through the French army. Afterwards, however, he was not so fortunate, as he was

On leaving college, he went to reside for about a year on the romantic banks of Loch Goil, among the mountains of Argyllshire. His paternal grandfather possessed the estate of Kernan, in the Highlands; and it was in reference to it that the beautiful and pathetic stanzas beginning At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,' were composed. He was for some time tutor in a private family residing on the sea-coast of the Island of Mull; and while in that situation, he planned and wrote a considerable part of his most celebrated poem, 'The Pleasures of Hope.' His youthful musings were nourished amid the magnificent scenery around him, and by the contemplation of the wild aspects of nature that presented themselves on every side, his ideas were ex-plundered of nearly all his money, books, and papers, while panded, and his imagination was filled with many bright and majestic images, which he afterwards introduced with such admirable effect into his poetry. 'Lochiel's Warning' and 'Lord Ullin's Daughter,' for instance, could only have been written by one who cherished an intense love and admiration for Highland scenery and Highland associations. He himself has mentioned the delight with which he used to listen, at the distance of many leagues, to the far-heard roar of Corryvreckan. 'When the weather is calm,' he says, 'and the adjacent sea scarcely heard on these picturesque shores, the sound

endeavouring to cross into Italy, by the route of the Tyrol, which prevented him from proceeding farther in that direction. While he continued in Germany, he devoted himself to acquiring the German language, and also resumed his Greek studies, under Professor Heyne. He made the friendship of the two Schlegels, and of other eminent men of that country, and passed an entire day with the venerable Klopstock, who died two years afterwards. On his return to Hamburg, on his way home, he casually became acquainted with some refugee Irishmen, who had been engaged in the rebellion of 1798, and their story

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suggested to him his beautiful ballad of The Exile of Erin,' which he wrote at Altona. The hero of the poem was an Irish exile, named Anthony M'Cann, whom he had met at Hamburg. After remaining in that city for a few weeks, he embarked for Leith, but the vessel he was on board of, being, while on its passage, chased by a Danish privateer, was compelled to put in at Yarmouth. Finding himself so near London, he at once decided upon paying it a visit. He entered the metropolis for the first time, without being provided with a single introduction; but his reputation had preceded him, and he soon found admission into literary society. In one of his letters, published by Washington Irving, he describes his impressions of a sort of literary social club, to which he had been introduced by Sir James Mackintosh, in the following terms:-Mackintosh, the Vindicia Gallica, was particularly attentive to me, and took me with him to his convivial parties at the King of Clubs'-a place dedicated to the meetings of the reigning wits of London-and, in fact, a lineal descendant of the Johnson, Burke, and Goldsmith society, constituted for literary conversations. The dining-table of these knights of literature was an arena of very keen conversational rivalship, maintained, to be sure, with perfect good nature, but in which the gladiators contended as hardly as ever the French and Austrians, in the scenes I had just witnessed. Much, however, as the wit and erudition of these men pleases an auditor at the first or second visit, this trial of minds becomes at last fatiguing, because it is unnatural and unsatisfactory. Every one of these brilliants goes there to shine; for conversational powers are so much the rage in London, that no reputation is higher than his who exhibits them. Where every one tries to instruct, there is, in fact, but little instruction; wit, paradox, eccentricity, even absurdity, if delivered rapidly and facetiously, takes priority, in these societies, of sound reasoning and delicate taste. I have watched sometimes the devious tide of conversation, guided by accidental associations, turning from topic to topic, and satisfactory upon none. What has one learned? has been my general question. The mind, it is true, is electrified and quickened, and the spirits finely exhilarated; but one grand fault pervades the whole institution; their inquiries are desultory, and all improvements to be reaped must be accidental. Campbell's own conversational powers were of the highest order, and he showed singular discrimination in the choice of subjects of an interesting and instructive nature. Mere talk for display on the part of others must, therefore, have been exceedingly disagreeable to him.

better off? I have fifty pounds, and six months' work at the Encyclopædia!' The Encyclopædia here mentioned was Brewster's Edinburgh Encyclopædia, to which he contributed several papers, especially biographies, an account of the drama, and an extended historical notice of Great Britain, all of which were marked with the taste and elegance of style which invariably distinguished his writings. Soon after his settlement at Sydenham, he published, anonymously, a compiled work, in three volumes 8vo, entitled 'Annals of Great Britain, from the Accession of George III. to the Peace of Amiens,' intended, probably, as a continuation of Hume and Smollett's Histories This was the first of his commissions from a London publisher. He now devoted himself to writing and compiling for the booksellers, and furnishing occasional articles to the daily press and other periodical publications. His conversational powers, as we have already stated, were very great, and these, with his other qualities, acquired for him an extensive circle of friends. In the social parties and convivial meetings of Sydenham and its neighbourhood, his company was at all times eagerly courted, and among the kindred spirits with whom he was in the habit of associating there, were the brothers James and Horace Smith, Theodore Hook, and others who afterwards distinguished themselves in literature. Through the influence of Charles James Fox, he obtained in 1806, shortly before that statesman's death, a pension from Government of £300 per annum. Campbell was at this period, and for many years afterwards, a working author, the better portion of his days being spent in literary drudgery and task-work. His gains from the booksellers were not always, however, in proportion to the merit of the matter supplied to them, and an anecdote is recorded which strongly illustrates his feelings in regard to them. Having been invited to a booksellers' dinner, soon after Pam, one of the trade, had been executed by command of Napoleon, he was asked for a toast, and with much earnestness as well as gravity of manner, he proposed to drink the health of Bonaparte. The company were amazed at such a toast, and asked for an explanation of it. Gentlemen,' said Campbell, with sly humour, 'I give you Bonaparte in his character of executioner of the booksellers. Mr Campbell was well aware of the value of time, and the necessity of availing one's self of every opportunity of acquiring useful information. Although charged with having written little, and even accused of being indolent, he never slackened in his exertions or gave himself up to idleness. Even bytimes, he thought, should not be thrown away. Dr Johnson once remarked that it was useful to carry a book in one's pocket, that those occasional unemployed lapses of time which occur in every man's life, such as waiting under shelter till the rain ceases, travelling, or being unexpectedly detained any where, should be profitably occupied. Campbell was of opinion that even the time spent in shaving might be employed in study; and he once made a calculation of how soon a man might learn a language during the short space spent each morning in that most delicate and necessary operation.

After a short sojourn in London, the poet returned to Edinburgh, where, strange to say, he was subjected to a private examination by the authorities as a suspected spy, from his having been known to have been in the society, while on the Continent, of some of the Irish refugees. He easily satisfied the civic guardians of his unshaken loyalty, and continued to reside for about a year in Edinburgh, during which time he wrote his Lochiel's Warning,' and others of his well known ballads and minor poems. It is related, as an instance of the wonderful powers of memory of the late Sir Walter Scott, that on Lochiel's Warning' In the beginning of 1809 he published his second being read to him in manuscript, he requested to be al- volume of poems, containing 'Gertrude of Wyoming,' a lowed to peruse it for himself, and then astonished the simple Indian tale, in the Spenserian stanza, the scene author by repeating it from memory from beginning to of which is laid among the woods of Pennsylvania; Glenend. Campbell now determined upon removing to Lon-ara, the Battle of the Baltic, Lochiel, and Lord Ullin's don, as the best field for literary exertion. Accordingly, Daughter. A subsequent edition contained also the touchearly in 1803, he repaired to the metropolis, and, on his ing ballad of O'Connor's Child. This volume added arrival, he resided for some time in the house of his greatly to his popularity, and the high reputation which brother poet Mr Telford, the celebrated engineer. In he had now acquired must have been very gratifying to the autumn of the same year he married his cousin, Miss his feelings. Indeed, even in the meridian of his living Matilda Sinclair, of Greenock, a lady of considerable per-renown, the native simplicity and goodness of his heart sonal beauty, and fixed his residence in the beautiful village of Sydenham, in Kent, about seven miles from London. At the time of Campbell's marriage, it appears that hope and reliance on his own exertions, formed by far the largest portion of his worldly fortune, for on his friend Telford remonstrating with him on the inexpediency of marrying so early, he replied, When shall I be

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rendered him peculiarly pleased with any attention of a complimentary nature which was shown to him. Of this many instances might be given, but the following, related by himself, may be quoted here:-In writing to a friend in 1840, respecting the launch of a man-of-war at Chatham, at which he was present, he mentioned that none of the compliments paid to him on that occasion affected

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him so deeply as the circumstance of the band of two they should be handling a quadrant. It infatuates every regiments striking up The Campbells are coming,' as one, said they, who is so unhappy as to be touched with he entered the dockyard. The writer of this well recol- it. He is often more attentive to every change of countelects with what humour he told the following anecdote:-nance in a celebrated beauty than to the phases of the Soon after the publication of his 'Gertrude,' he was in- moon; and is more anxious to be acquainted with all her vited to a friend's house in the country to pass a day or manoeuvres than with the motions of the whole planetary two, and was received with every attention and kindness. system. One in particular affirmed, upon his knowledge, His friend had a daughter, a lively little girl of about six that he had been acquainted with students in anatomy, or seven years of age, who had been previously warned by who looked with more curiosity into the countenance of a her mother to show great respect to their guest, for he young beauty than upon the dissection of a bullock's eye. was no less a personage than the illustrious author of the Some, who pretended to see much farther than the vulgar, Pleasures of Hope. The child at first stood in consider- considered every thing relating to love as capricious and able awe of the poet, not exactly comprehending what visionary. Since we are all formed of the same materisort of visiter he could be; but won by the frankness and als, it seemed to them very unreasonable that a little difplayfulness of his manner, she soon became quite familiar ference in form and colour should raise such violent comwith him. She had not, however, forgotten the phrase motions. Beauty, they said, was but a superficial coverof her mother, and archly repeated it on all occasions, ing, and every thing at the bottom was alike. Upon this although she could not pronounce the word illustrious. principle, they looked upon it as the height of philosophy When at any time Campbell entered the room where she to view with indifference what has always given mankind was, she would cry out 'Oh! here comes the issustious author the greatest pleasure. This humour they carried so far of the Pleasures of Hope;' and when he went out she that they lamented they could not strip nature herself of would bawl after him, "There goes the issustious author her delusions, as they termed them, by taking off those of the Pleasures of Hope.' Night and day, morning, agreeable colourings of light and shade which lie upon obnoon, and eve, as long as he remained there, she repeated jects around us, and give them all their richness and beauty. the phrase like a cuckoo-note, and its constant iteration, They would have been glad to have turned the creation which the parents endeavoured in vain to repress, caused into a colourless and dreary waste, that they might have nim considerable amusement. Campbell was particularly wandered up and down, and taken a closer survey of it. fond of children, especially if they were girls. The story of his advertising for a little girl, with whose archness, and liveliness, and childish beauty, he was one day smitten while taking his usual walk in St James' Park, is well known.

Having brought down the sketch of his life to the period of the publication of Gertrude of Wyoming,' in 1809, we shall continue it in our succeeding number.

THE VALUE OF AFFECTION.
A REVERIE: BY ROBERT HALL.

AFTER reading some passages in the fourth book of Vir-
gil, in which he paints the distress of Dido, upon her
being deserted by Æneas, I could not help revolving in
my mind, with a good deal of uneasiness, the miseries of
love. My reflections threw me into a Reverie, which
presented to my mind an imaginary train of circum-
stances, which I shall now relate, hoping they may tend
to cherish that virtuous sensibility which is the ornament
of our nature. My fancy naturally carried me into the
times of heathenish superstition, which I hope will be my
apology for mentioning gods and goddesses. I imagined
that the power of love had occasioned general discontent,
and that the different orders of men had entered into an
agreement to petition Jupiter for her removal.

I thought that at the head of these complainers stood the men of learning and science; they lamented with vehemence the inroads of love, and that it often betrayed them from the paths of knowledge, into perplexity and intrigue. They alleged that it extinguished, in the bosom of the young, all thirst after laudable improvement, and planted in its stead frivolous and tormenting desires. That the pursuit of truth called for a tranquil and serene state of mind; whilst love was constantly attended with tumult and alarm. Whatever turn she takes, said they, she will ever be an enemy to labour; her smiles are too gay, and her disappointments too melancholy, for any serious application. They were grieved to see that so trifling a passion should occupy so much time and attention, and that man, who was formed to contemplate the heavens and the earth, should spend half his life in gaining the good graces of the weaker and more inconsiderable part of his species. I thought I perceived that this turn for love and gallantry gave particular offence to the whole tribe of astronomers and profound philosophers. They saw, with indignation, that many of our youth were more anxious to explain a look than to solve a problem, and that they would often be playing with a fan when

The next class of petitioners I observed, were the men of business. They set out with remarking that they did not join in the complaints that were made against love upon their own account; for though they had been weak enough, in the younger part of their lives, to fall under its influence, it was many years since they had felt the slightest impression of it. They had in view the welfare of their children, and, this being neither more nor less than their affluence, they were led to consider love chiefly in the light of an expensive passion. Its little tendernesses and endearments appeared to them inexpressibly ridiculous, and they wondered how any body could be foolish enough to spend hours in tattling to women, without thinking to gain a farthing by it. They gave a long list of young men, who had been frugal and industrious, till they were enticed by love to prefer pleasure to profit. They declared that when we take an account of balls and treats, and trinkets of various kinds, with the loss of time inseparably attendant upon them, it was at the peril of a fortune to attempt the heart of a beloved object. I was a good deal amused with the manner in which they treated of love; they considered it as they would any other commodity, setting a price upon every part of it. They reckon a sigh at a shilling, and, if it chance to be observed by the person for whom it is intended, it is well even if half-a-guinea clear the expense of it. A side glance was rated at half as much as a full view; they portioned out all the parts of a beautiful person, and made a valuation of each of them. The same scale was applied to their very attitudes: for the sight of a beautiful woman dancing was accounted a matter of enormous expense; and, if she chanced to smile with any degree of complacency upon any one, it was well if he was not ruined; under these impressions, they considered love as the certain forerunner of poverty.

There was one complaint raised against this passion, which I thought had something in it more plausible than any I have yet mentioned; it turned upon the case with which it makes its approaches upon us, and the impossibility of guarding against its first advances. We have been able, said they, by art to manage the elements, so as in general to prevent any dangerous overflowings of them. We brave the storm in ships, and dive into the sea in bells; but the ingenuity of man has hit upon no contrivance to save us from the influence of love. Could we call it in to amuse a leisure hour, or to relieve the languor of a few tedious moments, and then dismiss it again, it might be esteemed a blessing in a life so barren of enjoyment. But it is an influence that is shed all around us, and pours itself upon us in every corner.

It often lies hid betwixt the keys of a harpsichord, and is shaken out with a few touches of the fingers. It flounces in an apron, and is trailed along with a flowing robe. No circumspection can preserve us from it; for it will often steal upon us when we are least upon our guard. It hides itself in a lock, and waves in ringlets of the hair. It will enter by an eye, an ear, a hand, or a foot. A glance and a gaze are sometimes equally fatal.

of man.

I was next presented with a scene which I thought as interesting and solemn as can enter into the imagination This was no other than a view of the whole train of disappointed lovers. At the sight of them, my heart insensibly melted into the most tender compassion. There was an extreme dejection, mingled with a piercing wildness in their looks, that was very affecting. Cheerfuluess and serenity, I could easily perceive, they had long been strangers to. Their countenances were overspread with a gloom which appeared to be of long standing, and to be collected there from dark and dismal imaginations. There was, at the same time, all that kind of animation in their features which betokens troubled thoughts. Their air and manner was altogether singular, and such as marks a spirit at once eager and irresolute. Their step was irregular, and they ever and anon started and looked around them, as though they were alarmed by some secret terror. I was somewhat surprised, in looking through the whole assembly, not to see any one that wept. When they were arrived at the place where they had determined to present their united petitions, I was particularly attentive to observe every thing that passed. Though I listened, I could not learn any thing distinctly. After an interval of profound silence, a murmur only of broken sighs and piercing exclamations was heard through the assembly. I should have mentioned that some of them fell off before they had got to the place of rendezvous. They halted for some time, and continued in a melancholy suspense, whether they should turn back or go forward. They knew not which to prefer, the tranquillity of indifference or the tender distresses of love; at length they inclined to the latter, not having resolution even to wish for the extinction of a passion which mingled itself with the very elements of their existence. Why,' said they, 'should we banish from our minds the image of all that is pleasing and delightful, and which, if we could once forget, there would be nothing left in the world worth remembering? The agitation and anxiety felt upon this occasion, could I lay it fully open to the reader, would form a much more interesting picture than the deliberations of Cæsar, whether he should pass the Rubicon.

I imagined there were several other distinct bodies of men, who complained to the heavenly powers of the tyranny of love, but, the particulars having in a great measure faded from my memory, the reader must excuse my passing them over in silence. I must not, however, forget to observe, that the number and unanimity of those who presented their petitions on the occasion were such, that they might fairly be considered as representing the sentiments of far the greater part of mankind.

Perhaps Providence never chastises the folly of men more justly than by granting the indulgence of their requests. Upon this occasion, I observed, their wishes were accomplished, and they were relieved from a tyranny of which they had so heavily complained. Upon an appointed day, the goddess of love took her flight to the higher regions, from which she had descended; her influence was at once withdrawn, and all her enchantments were broken up. I thought nothing could equal the joy that was expressed upon this occasion. The air rung with acclamations, and every man was in haste to congratulate his neighbour on his deliverance from a thraldom which had sunk the spirit and degraded the dignity of the human race. They seemed all to be lightened of a load, and to break forth with fresh vivacity and spirit. Every one imagined he was entering upon quite a new career, and that the world was laid fresh open before him.

I could not help feeling an inward delight in seeing my fellow-creatures made at once so happy. At the same time I was anxious to know what would follow upon this new revolution, and particularly whether it would answer the high expectations that were formed from it. Upon my looking around, I was a witness to appearances which filled me with melancholy and regret. A total change had taken place in the whole train of human affairs, and I observed to my sorrow the change was every where for the worse. It was melancholy now to enter into company; for, instead of conversation enlivened by vivacity and wit, there was nothing heard but a drowsy humming, to the last degree tiresome and insipid. In the social intercourse of men the heart had no place; pleasure, and the desire of pleasing, were equally unknown. Those whom I had an opportunity of observing, I thought very much resembled the loungers and coxcombs of our day, who, without any view of receiving pleasure, mingle in a crowd, and engage in conversation, not to enjoy time, but to kill it. I now sought in vain for those friendly meetings at which I had often been present, where every one, desirous of adding something to the pleasure of the whole, drew forth the fairest ideas of his mind, and, by the display of tender sentiments, melted the heart, and soothed the imagination. With what regret did I recollect those conversation parties in which my heart was wont to be full, and to pour itself forth as we talked ourselves alternately into sadness and into joy! I had an opportunity of correcting a mistake, into which I had fallen, in imagining that love reached only to courtship and marriage; I saw that it insensibly mingles with our most trifling actions, refining our thoughts, and polishing our manners, when we are least aware of it. The men had now entirely thrown aside that tenderness and gallantry which are the great ornaments of human nature, and are so peculiarly needful to temper, and soften the rudeness of masculine strength. Men and women were now placed quite upon a level, so that the harmonious softness of the female voice was drowned in turbulence and noise. The ear was filled, but the heart was left empty. Politeness was exchanged for a tame civility, wit for merriment, and serenity for dulness. I began to think more highly than ever of the fair sex, and regarded them in a new light, as a beautiful mirror lying in the fancy of a lover, for him to dress his thoughts by. People were every where falling a prey to dejection, and complaining of the faintness of human enjoyments, as might well be expected, when the influence of love was withdrawn from them, which, by inspiring romantic hopes and romantic fears, keeps the mind always in motion, and makes it run clear and bright. You may be sure nothing could make a more ridiculous appearance than courtship, at a time when women retained their vanity, after they had lost their charms. Such is the force of habit, that you might often see a pretty creature twirling her fan, and playing off her little enchanting airs before her lover, who perhaps sat all that time perfectly insensible, fingering his buttons or picking his teeth. Vanity, I perceived, was a kind of instinct in women, that made them employ the whole artillery of their charms, when they knew they could do no execution. Indeed, their airs appeared so ridiculous now, in the eyes of the men, that they had often much ado to refrain from laughter. The coquettes particularly, in their flutterings to and fro, made as odd a figure as fish which should be frozen around in the very act of swimming. Out of respect to the ladies, however, I would compare them to the Grecian chiefs, who, according to the representation of the poets, carried with them so lively an impression of their former employments, that they would be marshalling their troops, and brandishing their swords, even in the shades below. However, the fair sex were soon relieved from this sort of ridicule. They no longer took any pains to smooth their brow, to soften their features into a smile, or to light up the beam of brightness in their eye. Careless of offending, where they knew they could not please, they became negligent in their persons, and vulgar in their

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