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sprang up beneath his feet in the stir of Cheapside. Think you that he thought of flowery hedge or sunny grass then, or rather was it not all May-time in his heart?

COWLEY.

"Who pelts now, Will? But granting that thy arguments hit the mark, I cannot turn from my early love. A small house, a pleasant garden decked out with flowers and healthful fruits, with one fair face to smile upon me and brighten at my happiness, and store of precious books for Summer and Winter hours;-in such a hermitage, and with such companions, how inaudibly the hours would glide away*. Our calendar would be marked only

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Cowley in several of his poems has sketched, in charming colours, his scheme of rural retirement.

Yet ere I descend to the grave,

May I a small house and large garden have,
And a few friends, and many books, both true:
Both wise, and both delightful too.

And since Love ne'er will from me flee,

A mistress moderately fair,

And good, as guardian angels are,

Only beloved, and loving me!

In his Essay 'Of Greatness,' he speaks of a convenient brick house with decent wainscot, and pretty forest-work hangings." "Lastly, (for I omit all other particulars, and will end with that which I love most in both conditions), not whole woods

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by white stones; and yet how the multitude clings to the world, until some affliction is sent in mercy, to wean the child by making bitter the breasts of its adopted mother; and even then it longs to return to her arms. The love of the world is the universal passion. How many stones have been flung at its head; yet the Giant lives! Preachers have thundered at it, poets have whipped it, philosophers have laughed at it. What do men go out into the wilderness to see? Vice predominant, learning despised, religion trampled under foot. Each folly jangling its bells,-each tinkling cymbal collecting its swarm of proselytes. What can a good man hope for in the whirl and noise of company; how can he listen to the music of his own thoughts, or nourish those young and tender imaginings which are only reared into mature stature and beauty by the milk of a purer and better time. This sequesterment is not, indeed, a ladder for the ambitious spirit to mount; yet how often it leads to heaven!

“The amusements of the city weary and satiate us; but Nature, like a tender mother, has always some new present for her children; nor ever sends

cut in walks, nor vast parks, nor fountains, nor cascade gardens; but herb, and flower, and fruit gardens, which are more useful, and the water every whit as clear and wholesome as if it darted from the breasts of a marble nymph, or the urn of a river god."

them from her lap without a blessing. Doth not Contentment more often pitch her tent beside the woodland spring, or in the warmth of a sheltered glen, than by the gate of princes? Every walk in the garden, or the fields, refreshes and delights the soul with that visible eloquence which our heavenly Father hath diffused over all his works. Every blade of grass, every blossom on the bough, every carol among the leaves, is only another letter in the alphabet of the religion taught by Nature.

"Can we wonder that the seeds of faith and purity shoot up and flourish in this genial atmosphere? Alas! how soon they perish in those unwatered hearts which are hardened by the pursuits of ambition and wealth! Even the qualities which have already blossomed into beauty and fragrance, are often neglected and trodden down, for our hands are far too busy in Mammon's service to tie up the drooping flower. Yet men still persevere in seeking, with their miserable sophistries, to entangle our judgments; preaching up the value of dignities, the importance of power, the glory of palaces. They still continue to boast of their servitude to that Moloch, whose dissonant music drowns the voice of reflection and wisdom. Oh, fools! not to perceive their chains, though the iron be cased in gold. Armatorum trecenta Perithoam cohibent

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catena*. Miserable deceptions! The gossamer thread on yonder leaf is not more fragile. The feeble wings of a fly in Autumn would break through such a cobweb. No! here would I set up my tabernacle,-here would I leave my Pillar of Memorial. The place has a sanctity for me,—the faces are familiar to me: I love even the trees around us. Here let me remain."

HERVEY.

"And me, too, while I have thee, Cowley. But sometimes, at least, we may go into the world to study man, as a surgeon visits the abodes of the sick, to search into their diseases. How can we

*

Why are not the Essays of Cowley printed in a separate form for general circulation? Every lover of English literature has their beauties by heart; but I cannot refrain from quoting one brief passage from the Essay on Liberty,' as a most admirable commentary on the preceding remark. He is speaking of the great rich man. "He's guarded with crowds, and shackled with formalities. The half hat, the whole hat, the half smile, the whole smile, the nod, the embrace, the positive parting with a little bow; the comparative at the middle of the room, the superlative at the door: and if the person be pan huper sepastus, there's a huper-superlative ceremony then of conducting him to the bottom of the stairs, or to the very gate; as if there were such rules set to these Leviathans, as are to the sea: Hitherto shalt thou go, and no further."

To understand the full meaning and force of these polite ceremonies, a man must be a scholar and poor.

hope to heal the wounded spirit, if we know not its anatomy; if we have not examined those fine and delicate sympathies which constitute the nervous system of the mind. The philosopher may have store of simples, but what will they avail if the skill to apply them be wanting. Cannot we carry our poetry and love of the country with us into the world, as we do the love of our homes and of our mothers? Can

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COWLEY.

"Stop, William! All thou seekest can be found here; let us carefully explore our own hearts, and the great heart of Humanity will be as open before us, as though Nature had shaped a living man in crystal to aid our studies*. Once more,-Why should we set out on this perilous journey? Why barter our health, our innocence, and our peace, for a few splendid feathers, or coloured beads? Why venture our hands into the lion's mouth, for the little honey in his jaws? Dost thou thirst after

glory? then sit here and

gather it. Fame can

translate thy works into all tongues, and carry thy name to the corners of the earth. Oh, happy student

* See Cowley's Ode to Dr. Scarborough.

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