simple elegance of style, of sincerity of opinion,. and force of sentiment and imagery have never yet been equalled. It is needless perhaps to add that the prose discourses of Cowley are alluded to. What a compliment to the Muses, that the best poets have also been the best writers of prose! Witness Cowley, Dryden, Addison, aud Cowper. This last poet has also a beautiful poem on Retirement, which would furnish a strong answer to Evelyn. And Zimmerman's Essay on Solitude, which has been so deservedly popular in this kingdom for the last twelve or fourteen years, though perhaps a little too tautologous, abounds in every part with arguments and reflections in opposition to those of our Essayist.

Why should solitude be passed in torpor, or even in trifling? Nothing can be more unfair than the comparison of a due and virtuous activity in public life with a vicious or at least foolish occupation of the days of retirement! If a public and private man should each make an ill use of the opportunities of his station, I cannot help thinking that the public man would be the worst, because his mischief would be the most extensive: on the contrary there are many benefits which the solitary man has an opportunity of conferring, of a more permanent and wider nature, than the highest public situation affords scope to perform. Perhaps I cannot give a more apposite instance than Bacon. What has rendered his name sacred to posterity? What are the benefits which he bestowed on mankind? Not the works of a politician and a chancellor ; but of a retired student! If it be objected that the duties of the former he abused; and executed those of the latter with incomparable exertion of talents and

industry,

industry, I desire that these immortal fruits may be compared with the most honest and able professional acts of any chancellor whom our history records.

. The truth is, that the finest facules are least adapted to the bustle and activity of the world. The kindness of Providence has ordained, that capacities of a less rare and coarser texture should be sufficient to carry on the ordinary business of society. A nice inspection of the characters of mankind will, I think, incontestibly prove this. Men of the highest genius have sometimes been forced into the vortex of public employment, but it appears to me that their conduct there, if nicely examined, will not disprove my assertion. Their speeches, and certain brilliant ebullitions, which alone survive the occasion, and which they might have excelled in their closets, stand forth to mislead us; but if we examine their cotemporaries, and those whose nearness gives some authority to their opinions, we shall hear them secretly confess, that, in the daily routine of practice, many whom we very justly esteem to have had very ordinary intellects, by far excelled them.

"The path of pleasure" says Zimmerman, "leads us to the world; the rude and rugged way is the road to honour. The one conducts you through society to places and employments either in the city or at court; the other, sooner or later, will lead you into solitude. Upon the one road you will perhaps become a villain; a villain rendered dear and interesting by your vices to society. Upon the other road, it is true, you may be hated and despised; but you will become a man. The rudiments of a great character must be formed in solitude. It is there alone that the solidity of thought,

the

the fondness for activity, the abhorrence of indolence, which constitute the hero and the sage, are first acquired."

Cowper in his "Retirement," beautifully says;

"Thus conscience pleads her cause within the breast,
Though long rebell'd against, not yet suppress'd,
And calls a creature formed for God alone,
For heaven's high purposes, and not his own,
Calls him away from selfish ends and aims,
From what debilitates and what inflames,
From cities humming with a restless crowd,
Sordid as active, ignorant as loud,

Whose highest praise is that they live in vain,
The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain,
Where works of man are cluster'd close around,
And works of God are hardly to be found,
To regions where in spite of sin and woe,
Traces of Eden are still seen below;
Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove,
Remind him of his Maker's power and love."

I will once more quote Zimmerman-" Solitude,' says he, "is the school in which we must study the moral nature of man: in retirement, the principle of observation is awakened; the objects to which the attention will be most advantageously directed pointed out by mature reflection, and all our remarks guided by reason to their proper ends; while, on the contrary, courtiers, and men of the world, take up their sentiments from the caprices of others,

are

and give

Perhaps the most original thinker, among the public men of the present day, is Mr. Wyndham; this truth extorts, while I am far from coinciding in all his political opinions.

their opinions without digesting the subject on which they are formed."

But why, perhaps Mr. Evelyn would say, is occasional solitude inconsistent with the most active employments? The statesman retires to his countryseat, carrying with him the materials of a busy life to brood over and digest-and the very contrast renders the pleasures of the new scene doubly delightful.

Hear again a passage of Cowper, in answer to this!

"Yet how fallacious is all earthly bliss ;

What obvious truths the wisest heads may miss!
Some pleasures live a month, and some a year,
But short the date of all we gather here,
Nor happiness is felt except the true,

That does not charm the more for being new.
This observation, as it chanced, not made,
Or if the thought occurr'd, not duly weigh'd,
He sighs-for after all by slow degrees,
The spot he lov'd has lost the power to please;
To cross his ambling poney day by day,
Seems at the best but dreaming life away,
The prospect, such as might enchant despair,
He views it not, or sees no beauty there,
With aching heart and discontented looks,
Returns at noon, to billiards or to books,
But feels, while grasping at his faded joys,

A secret thirst of bis renounc'd employs, MD A
He chides the tardiness of every post,
Pants to be told of battles won or lost,
Blames his own indolence, observes, though late,
"Tis criminal to leave a sinking state,

Flies to the levee, and receiv'd with grace,

Kneels, kisses hands, and shines again in place."

But

ductory lines to a set of pastorals proposed to be written in the manner recommended by this great, but unequal, critic. Pastoral, says he, being the representation of an action or passion, by its effects upon a country life, admits of all ranks of persons, because persons of all ranks inhabit the country. It excludes not therefore, on account of the characters necessary to be introduced, any elevation or dignity of sentiment: those ideas only are improper, which, not owing their original to rural objects, are not pastoral.

These lines were written nearly two and twenty years ago, by a very young man scarcely of age.

Introductory Address to the Muses.

(FROM EDWIN AND HENRY. A PASTORAL.)
Ye sacred Powers, who lift your lyres on high
To join the living chorus of the sky!
Stoop from the clouds- (for oft by secret hill,
Or haunted stream, the poet's ear to fill
With lofty song, ye deign'd of old,) and raise
My lowly thoughts to blazon Nature's praise!
You, holy Muses, you, from childhood's dawn,
With ceaseless love, on mountain, vale, or lawn,
Have I pursu'd, and oft at Cynthia's gleam,

By sacred fount have watch'd to meet your beam,
And from your hands to drink th' inspiring stream.
(For not alone from out the clouds you hold
With bard's high converse-but on earth unfold-)
Then with your heavenly flame my breast inspire,
And ne'er, O ne'er may I degrade the fire!
Teach me with Nature's scenes, by Nature's plan,
To soothe, exalt, or melt the heart of man [began.
And where she strikes, enforce, and lead where she,

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