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would be still more extensive and useful in domestic life. The obligations of gentlemen to qualify themselves by knowledge and industry to discharge the duties of benevolence, would be increased by marriage ; and the patriot—the hero—and the legislator, would find the sweetest reward of their toils, in the approbation and applause of their wives. Children would discover the marks of maternal prudence and wisdom in every station of life ; for it has been remarked that there have been few great or good men who have not been blessed with wise and prudent mothers. Cyrus was taught to revere the gods, by his mother Mandane—Samuel was devoted to his prophetic office before he was born, by his mother HannahConstantine was rescued from paganism by his mother Constantia—and Edward the Sixth inherited those great and excellent qualities, which made him the delight of the age in which he lived, from his mother, lady Jane Seymour. Many other instances might be mentioned, if necessary, from ancient and modern history, to establish the truth of this proposition.





ONCE on a time the story's short)
Sir Thomas graced King Harry's court;
A very Stagyrite at Greek,
And famed for reparlee and freak.
His janty thoughts in crabbed Saxon
We long have ceased to pay a tax on;
His bed of* plank, and shirt of hair,
No more create a stupid stare;
And all his verse and prose in Latin
Serve only moths and worms to fatten;
Himself and they, though highly rated,
Have both been since decapitated.

It chanced, a quidnunc, t'other day,
At Dobson's stopp'd, 'twas in his way;
And as he view'd the learned shelves,
Espied a tome in dusty twelves:
The title-page upon it bore
The name and style-Sir Thomas More;
And modern brains to puzzle quite,
'Twas wrote in Latin out of spite.

Poems of every name and nature,
Odes without fire, and harmless satire,

* Penances to which Sir Thomas thought proper to subject himself.

And epitaphs that moved no pity,
And epigrams that were not witty,
With panegyrics wrote in fear
To o'ershoot the mark—but came not near,
Were crowded here in imitation
Of Knickerbocker celebration.
Now as he turn’d the pages o’er,
In hope, amidst the musty lore,
Some wit to glean, or manly sense
To bear away in triumph thence,
He spied a hole, through which had crept
A worm, as on the shelf they slept,
Which, many a misanthropic year,
Had here indulged his ghostly cheer,
Till every leaf was more or less
The prey of his insatiateness.
The reptile seem'd a brute of sense,
And waged his war with some pretence.
Where Love displayed his rosy bowers
He trod with caution o'er the flowers;
As loth to mar a scene so fair,
Or else he deem'd the banquet spare:
Perhaps 'twas prudence bade him shun
An ambush worse than pike or gun;
Perhaps he now had lost the zest,
And spurn'd what once he fancied best;
So on he journey'd, till he came

fields and fairer game.
Where PANEGYRICS round him lay,
The hero urged his desperate way;
And, heedless or of lie or truth,
He plied his sharp remorseless tooth,
To prove the adage, since forgotten-
• In fancy ripe, in reason rotten.”

These past, a strange amorphous group Beneath him lay—an armed troop,

To open

That naughty dames and lords assailed, Astrologers and knaves impaled: Not such as those old Martial writ, That show'd their teeth, and barked, and bit; But such as you and I might write, To ease ourselves of present spite. Besides, there are some arrant fools Who scorn to live by sober rules; Self-loved alone, who, soon as spoke, Discharge a friend with every joke; And who amidst their missile dirt Cry out forsooth, 'tis all in sport: I do not say Sir Tom's are such, But put this in by way of crutch. Here to these EPIGRAMS he clings, And robs them of their guiltless stings. Tired of his critic task (the elf Had passed his life upon this shelf, A hundred years and more had sped Over his labours and his head). Poor Dennis lays him down to die Midst EPITAPH and Elegy. But e'en in death (so true is Pope) His ruling passion still had scope, For ere the gloomy leaves he quitted, Was every dirge with malice twitted. Nestor of worms! thy race is run! Dennis of worms! thy task is done! 'Tis mine to toll thy funeral knell — Thou Prince of Critics! fare thee well!



In proportion as I drew near the city, the tokens of its calamitous condition became more apparent. Every farm-house was filled with supernumerary tenants; fugitives from home; and haunting the skirts of the road, eager to detain every passenger with inquiries after news. The

passengers were numerous ; for the tide of emigration was by no means exhausted. Some were on foot, bearing in their countenances the tokens of their recent terror, and filled with mournful reflections on the forlornness of their state. Few had secured to themeslves an asylum; some were without the means of paying for victuals or lodging for the coming night; others, who were not thus destitute, yet knew not whither to apply for entertainment, every house being already overstocked with inhabitants, or barring its inhospitable doors at their approach.

Families of weeping mothers, and dismayed children, attended with a few pieces of indispensable furniture were carried in vehicles of every form. The parent or husband had perished ; and the price of some moveable, or the pittance handed forth by public charity, had been. expended to purchase the means of retiring from this theatre of disasters; though uncertain and hopeless of accommodation in the neighboring districts.

Between these and the fugitives whom curiosity had

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