the guilty Mortimer reposed. It was in a little nook at the extremity of the cottage garden, unnoticed by epitaph or elegy. A wild rose was blooming on the sod, and a few withered leaves of hanging cypress were strewed upon his grave. Never had I thought of the perfect wretchedness of vice till I looked on the narrow spot that enclosed the remains of the seducer of Rosalie De Voisin. MUSICKS DUELL. By Richard Crashaw, 1646. NOW Westward Sol had spent the richest Beames A sweet Lutes-master in whose gentle aires Of closer straines, and ere the warre begin Charg'd with a flying touch: and staightway shee Quicke volumes of wild Notes; to let him know Trayles her playne Ditty in one long-spun note, Straines higher yet; that tickled with rare art Of short thicke sobs, whose thundering volleyes float, In that sweet soyle it seemes a holy quire, Whose sylver-roofe rings with the sprightly notes Of sweet lipp'd Angell-Imps, that swill their throats In creame of Morning Helicon, and then Preferre soft Anthems to the Eares of men, To woo them from their Beds, still murmuring Till a sweet whirle-wind (striving to gett out) Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat Into loose extasies, that she is plac't Above her selfe, Musicks Enthusiast, Shame now and anger mixt, a double staine In the Musitians face; yet once againe (Mistresse) I come; now reach a straine my Lute Above her mocke, or bee for ever mute; Or tune a song of victory to mee, Or to thy selfe sing thine own Obsequie'; Of his owne breath: which marryed to his lyre Doth tune the Sphæares, and make Heavens selfe looke higher. Feeles Musick's pulse in all her Arteryes; Those parts of sweetnesse which with Nectar drop, The humourous strings expound his learned touch, The lute's light Genius now does proudly rise, Whose flourish (Meteor-like) doth curle the aire Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone: At length, (after so long, so loud a strife Of all the strings, still breathing the best life His finger's fairest revolution In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall) This done, hee lists what shee would say to this, Of chatt'ring, stringes, by the small size of one (That liv'd so sweetly) dead, so sweet a Grave! RHYME AND REASON. From The Etonian." "Non eadem est ætas, non mens." HORACE. HE whose life has not been one continued monotony; he who has been susceptible of different passions, opposite in their origins and effects, needs not to be told, that the same objects, the same scenes, the same incidents, strike us in a variety of lights, according to the temper and inclination with which we survey them. To borrow an illus tration from external senses,-if we are situated in the centre of a shadow valley, our view is confined and our prospect bounded; but if we ascend to the topmost heights of the mountain by which that valley is overshadowed, the eye wanders luxuriantly over a perpetual succession of beautiful objects, until the mental faculties appear to catch new freedom from the extension of the sight; we breath a purer air, and are inspired with purer emotions. Thus it is with men who differ from each other in their tastes, their studies, or their professions. They look on the same external objects with a different internal perception; and the view which they take of surrounding scenes is beautified or distorted, according to their predominant pursuit, or their prevailing inclination. We were led into this train of ideas by a visit which we lately paid to an old friend, who, from a strong taste of agricultural pursuits, has abandoned the splendour and absurdity of a town life, and devoted to the cultivation of a large farming establishment, in a picturesque part of England, all the advantages of a strong judgment and a good education. His brother, on the contrary, who was a resident at the farm during our visit, has less of sound understanding than of ardent genius, and is more remarkable for the warmth of his heart than the soundness of his head. In short, to describe them in a word, Jonathan sees with the eye of a merchant, and Charles with that of an enthusiast: Jonathan is a man of business, and Charles is a poet. The contrast between their tempers is frequently the theme of conversation at the social meetings of the neighbourhood; and it is always found that the old and the grave shake their heads at the almost boyish enthusiasm of Charles; while the young and the imprudent indulge in severe sarcasms at the mercenary and uninspired moderation of his brother. All parties, however, concur in admiring the uninterrupted cordiality which subsists between them, and in laughing good-humouredly at the various whims and foibles of these opposite characters, who are known throughout the country by the titles of Rhyme" and "Reason." We arrived at the farm as Jonathan was sitting down to his substantial breakfast: We were delighted to see our old friend, now in the decline of life, answering so exactly the description of Cowper, "An honest man close buttoned to the chin, Broad cloth without and a warm heart within." We felt an inward satisfaction in contemplating his frieze coat, whose debut we remember to have witnessed five years ago, and in speculating upon the snows which five additional winters had left upon his head, since our last interview. It was some time before we recovered sufficiently from our reverie to inquire after the well-being of our younger companion, who had not yet made his appearance at the board." Oh !” said Jonathan, “ Charles is in his heyday years; you must indulge him for the present; we can't expect such regularity from five-and-twenty, as from six-and-fifty." He had hardly done speaking when a loud halloo sounded as the avant-courier of Charles approached, and in less than a minute he presented himself before us." Ten thousand pardons!" he cried. "One is enough," said his brother. "I've seen |