Full of mercy, full of love, Look upon us from above, Thou who taught'st the blind man's night Thine and the day's (and that thine too). Returned into its infancy. The dumb amazed was to hear His own unchain'd tongue strike his ear. Our dust shall cease to be with men. It is very astonishing, that among the eighteen prose authors, whom Pope selected as authorities for an English Dictionary, the name of Taylor is not found. Forgotten it could not be, for we are expressly told by Spence, that the "list was talked over several times, and quite settled." Sir Walter Raleigh, it is said, was rejected twice, as being too affected. Had the poet ever perused the concluding chapter of the History of the World? For the omission of Taylor I can assign no reason. Certainly from no other writer could be gathered such stores of dignified and impressive words. No path of ancient or modern learning, however sequestered or untrodden, was unknown to him. His memory brought up treasures from the hidden deep; and never did a soldier of the Holy Cross issue forth in a more gorgeous equipment to fight for the Sepulchre of Christ. But the resplendent sword was of celestial temper, and that costly armour was mighty against the dart of the enemy as any coat of iron mail;-it protected while it shone*. PULPIT ELOQUENCE.-NORRIS OF BEMERTON. In the pulpit, as in the economy of private life, I consider gentleness and persuasion more efficacious than their contraries. For this reason I think the Sermons of Norris, upon the Beatitudes of our Saviour, models of exhortations to a village congregation. A minister should try to make his hearers in love with the Gospel. I have never known much good done by those who preach with the sword in their hand. * Fuller. A MERE LINGUIST. I NEVER regarded the character of a mere linguist with any admiration. Butler has hit it off with great spirit. He that has many languages to express his thoughts, and none worth expressing, he compares to one that can write all hands, but never the better sense; or can cast any sum of money, but has none. BIOGRAPHY.-SOUTHEY. CLEARNESS and simplicity of manner, diligence and impartiality in the collection and statement of facts, constitute the great and distinguishing merits of a biographer. Some histories are nothing but triumphal processions, where the author leads the way, scattering flowers. These are not lives, but panegyrics. To prove this proposition by its converse, look at Southey. How delightful it is to read his poetical criticisms; and what a loss has literature sustained in his once promised History of English Poetry. It would, indeed, have been a κτημα ες αεί. With more than Warton's learning, he possesses an eloquence and refinement of imagination to which that amiable writer has no preten sions. His style, like some noble river, glides softly on at "its own sweet will,"-deep and clear. His fancy, always warms and cheers without oppressing. His biographical sketches have the felicity and freedom of Goldsmith; they are tombs cut in crystal. SPENSER AND THE FAËRIE QUEEN. I HAVE never been able to understand what people mean by the tediousness of the Faërie Queen; for, to me, those winding and protracted paths always seem, to borrow a phrase from Davenant's Preface to Gondibert, as pleasant as a Summer passage on a crooked river, where going about and turning back is as delightful as the delays of parting lovers. There is, moreover, a peculiar and delicious charm even in the occasional dimness and obscurity of his pictures. The rich and solemn strain of his Muse still enchants the ear, though her features only glimmer faintly upon the eye. It is like the beloved one singing to you in the twilight. Pope makes a distinction between softness and sweetness of versification; placing one in Ovid and Dryden, the other in Virgil and Waller,-but you find both in Spenser. TITHES, WITH AN ILLUSTRATION FROM BURTON. My anger and disgust at the malevolent and disgraceful attacks levelled daily against the Church are absolutely without bounds. I am weary of looking out and crying, Watchman, what of the night? In reading the Anatomy of Melancholy the other morning, I was amused at the wrath which calumnies of a similar character had kindled in the breast of the learned scholar of Christchurch. The passage is worth quoting. He is inveighing against the ignorance of these malevolent antagonists, and he continues, " But though they should read, it would be to small purpose,—clames, licet, et mare cœlo confundas; thunder, lighten, preach hell and damnation, tell them 'tis a sin, they will not believe it denounce and terrify; they have cauterized consciences; they do not attend; as the enchanted adder, they stop their ears: call them base, irreligious, profane, barbarous, Pagans, Atheists, epicures (as some of them surely are), they cry, Euge! optime*; and applaud themselves with that miser, simul ac nummos contemplor in arca: say what you will, as a dog barks at the moon, to no * Ayre Rectified, Pt. ii., Sec. 2. |