Mistook a mortal for an angel-guest, And ask'd what seraph foot the earth imprest. -Onward he moves. Disease and death retire- The benevolent spirit, as its object is the happiness of all who are capable of feeling happiness, is as universal in its efforts as are the miseries which are capable of being relieved, or the enjoyments which it is possible to extend to a single human being, within the reach of its efforts, or almost of its wishes. When we speak of benefactions, indeed, we think only of one species of good action; and charity itself, so comprehensive in its etymological meaning, is used as if it were nearly synonymous with the mere opening of the purse. But "it is not money only which the unfortunate need; and they are but sluggards in well-doing," as Rousseau strikingly expresses the character of this indolent benevolence, "who know to do good only when they have a purse in their hand." Consolations, counsels, cares, friendship, protection, are so many resources which pity leaves us for the assistance of the indigent, even though wealth should be wanting. The oppressed often continue to be oppressed, merely because they are without an organ to render their complaints known to those who have the power of succor. It requires sometimes but a word which they cannot say; a reason which they know not how to state; the opening of a single door of a great man, through which they are not permitted to pass, to obtain for them all of which they are in need. The intrepid support of a disinterested virtue is, in such cases, able to remove an infinity of obstacles: and the eloquence of a single good man, in the cause of the injured, can appal tyranny itself in the midst of its power. THE GOODNESS OF GOD. The goodness of God is, of all subjects of inquiry, that which is most interesting to us. It is the goodness of him to whom we owe, not merely that we exist, but that we are happy or miserable now, and according to which we are to hope or fear for a future, that is not limited to a few years, but extends through all the ages of immortality. Have we, then, reason to believe that God is good? that the designing power, which it is impossible for us not to perceive and admit, is a power of cruelty or kindness? Of whom is this the question? of those whose whole life has been a Darwin's Botanic Garden. continued display of the bountiful provision of Heaven from the first moment at which life began. It is the inquiry of those who, by the goodness of that God whose goodness they question, found, on their very entrance into this scene of life, sources of friendship already provided for them, merely because they had wants that already required friendshipwhose first years were years of cheerfulness almost uninterrupted, as if existence were all that is necessary for happiness-to whom, in after life, almost every exertion which they were capable of making was a pleasure, and almost every object which met their eye a sense of direct gratification, or of knowledge, which was itself delightful-who were not formed to be only thus selfishly happy, but seemed called, by some propitious voice of nature, to the diffusion of happiness, by the enjoyment which arose from that very diffusion-and warned from injuring others, by the pain which accompanied the very wish of doing evil, and the still greater pain of remorse, when evil had at any time been intentionally inflicted. Nor is it to be counted a slight part of the goodness of God that he has given us that very goodness as an object of our thought, and has thus opened to us, inexhaustibly, a pure and sublime pleasure in the contemplation of those divine qualities which are themselves the source of all the pleasures that we feel. Such is the goodness of God, in its relation to mankind, in infancy, in manhood, in every period of life. But we are not to think that the goodness of God extends only to man. The hum blest life, which man despises, is not despised by him who made man of nothing, and all things of nothing, and "whose tender mercies are over all his works." Has God, thou fool, work'd solely for thy good? In vain do we strive to represent to ourselves all nature as our own, and only our own. The happiness which we see the other races around us enjoying is a proof that it is theirs as well as ours; Pope's Essay on Man, Ep. III. v. 27–38. and that he, who has given us the dominion of all things that live on earth, has not forgotten the creatures which he has intrusted to our sway. Even in the deserts, in which our sway is not acknowledged, where the lion, if man approached, would see no lord before whom to tremble, but a creature far feebler than the ordinary victims of his hunger, or his wrath-in the dens and the wildernesses, there are pleasures which owe nothing to us, but which are not the less felt by the fierce hearts that inhabit the dreadful recesses. They, too, have their happiness; because they too were created by a Power that is good-and of whose beneficent design, in forming the world, with all its myriads of myriads of varied races of inhabitants, the happiness of these was a part. "Nor," as it has been truly said, "is the design abortive. It is a happy world after all. The air, the earth, the water, teem with delighted existence. In a spring noon, or a summer evening, on whichever side I turn my eyes, myriads of happy beings crowd upon my view. The insect youth are on the wing.' Swarms of new-born flies are trying their pinions in the air. Their sportive motions, their wanton mazes, their gratuitous activity, their continual change of place without use or purpose, testify their joy and the exultation which they feel in their lately discovered faculties. A bee, amongst the flowers in spring, is one of the most cheerful objects that can be looked upon. Its life appears to be all enjoyment; so busy and so pleased: yet it is only a specimen of insect life, with which, by reason of the animal being half domesticated, we happen to be better acquainted than we are with that of others."1 Such is the seemingly happy existence of that minute species of life which is so abundant in every part of the great scene in which we dwell. I shall not attempt to trace the happiness upward, through all the alacrity, and seeming delight in existence, of the larger animals-an ever-flowing pleasure, of which those who have had the best opportunities of witnessing multitudes of gregarious animals feeding together, and rejoicing in their common pasture, will be the best able to appreciate the amount. All have means of enjoyment within themselves; and, if man be the happy sovereign of the creation, he is not the sovereign of miserable. subjects. Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine, Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew All these sources of blessings, that are infinite as the living beings that enjoy them, were made, indeed, for man, whose pride makes the arrogant exclusive assumption-but they were made also for innumerable beings whose very existence is unknown to man, and who know not, in their turn, the existence of him who supposes that all these means of happiness are for himself alone. There is, at every moment, an amount of happiness on the earth, of which the happiness of all mankind is an element indeed, but only one of many elements, that perhaps bears but a small proportion to the rest; and it is not of this single element that we are to think, when we consider the benevolence of that God who has willed the whole. Of Dr. Brown's poetry, The Paradise of Coquettes" has been by far the most popular, though it is now but little read. Of it, the "Edinburgh Review" thus speaks: "It is by far the best and most brilliant imitation of Pope that has appeared since the time of that great writer; with all his point, polish, and nicely-balanced versification, as well as his sarcasm and witty malice deficient, indeed, in the strong sense and compressed reasoning by which he is distinguished, but possessing all the brightness and elegance and vivacity of his lighter and more exquisite productions; and almost entitled, if it were not for its injudicious diffuseness and the defect of its machinery, to take its place by the side of the Rape of the Lock.'" The poem is in nine parts. The first part is prefatory, and has not much connection with the rest of the poem. The second part discovers to us "Zephyra," just returned at daybreak from an evening party; mortified at having been eclipsed by the charms of a late-arriving rival; and weighing in her bosom the pleasures of a coquette's life against the endless inquietudes and disappointments with which it is attended. The latter, she finds, vastly preponderate; and just as she has passed a solemn vow of abjuration of coquetry, a person called the Genius of Coquetry appears-pardons her hasty resolve and, by dint of flattery, wins her back to her pristine allegiance. With true feminine curiosity, she implores the deity to make use of his omniscient faculties in disclosing to her all the conquests she is to make this he declines to do, but hints to her that they will be all that the most inordinate ambition could desire. The following is a part of the coquette's repining: 1 Essay on Man, Ep. I. v. 131-140. 2 Vol. xxiv. p. 397. SOLILOQUY AFTER THE BALL. How did I hope to vex a thousand eyes! Oh glorious malice, dearer than the prize! Which speaks no insult, and insults the more; Steals angry Spite's last torment, to resent. Why was the triumph given? Too flattering joy! I saw, and almost dream'd him at my feet, Close by my side a gay attendant slave, The glance, which thousands sought, to none he gave; Scarce bow'd to nodding bevies when we walk'd, Smil'd when I smil'd, and talk'd, and laugh'd, and talk'd; And shook the tiny zephyr o'er my face: Why did I heedless trust the flattering sign, As if no fan he e'er had broke but mine! Ah, simple fool-yet wherefore nurse the smart? The third canto begins in an ambiguous tone, somewhat between raillery and apology for THE CHANGEFULNESS OF WOMAN. Ye watchful sprites, who make e'en man your care, And sure more gladly hover o'er the fair, Who grave on adamant all changeless things, The smiles of courtiers and the frowns of kings! Say to what softer texture ye impart The quick resolves of woman's trusting heart; Joys of a moment, wishes of an hour, The short eternity of Passion's power. Breath'd in vain oaths that pledge with generous zeal |