no difference beHave the gods,

the fates; that Victorinus, a man of such piety, mildness, and truth, of the greatest innocence, so distinguished, in one word, for every excellence, should be thus afflicted by the bitter death of his son. Is this equitable or just if there be a providence over human affairs? Was this rightly preordained if all human concerns are determined by fate? Should this have been decreed by fate? Shall there, then, be tween the fortunes of the good and the bad? have the fates, no discrimination, that the son of such a man should be snatched from him? A villain, a wretch, whom it would have been better should never have been born, may bring up his children in security, and when he dies, may leave them behind him, while Victorinus, a holy man, who, it would have been the greatest publick benefit, should have had many children like himself, is deprived of the son to whom he was so dearly attached. What providence, out upon it! orders things so unjustly?* The fates have their name from pronouncing decrees; is this to pronounce rightly? The poets ascribe to the fates, distaffs and thread; there is no old woman who works in wool, so foolish and ignorant, as to spin, for a master's garment, a coarse thread full of knobs, and for that of a slave, one fine and even. But that the good should be afflicted with mourning, and that the bad should enjoy their families without loss, seems to me the business of the fates, spinning without weight or measure. Unless, indeed, some one may say, that we are tossed about in errour, and that, ignorant of the true nature of things, we desire evil, as if it were good, and, on the other hand, regard with aversion what is good, as if it were evil; and that death, which is dreaded by all, brings deliverance from labour, and cares and calamities, and releasing us from the wretched chains of the body, transports us to pleasant and tranquil places, filled with all that is good, where departed souls assemble. That this may be so, I should rather believe, than that there is no providence, or an unjust one, which orders all human affairs. But, if death be a subject of gratulation to men, rather than of mourning, then in proportion as any one may attain to it at an earlier age, so is he to be esteemed the happier, and the more acceptable to * Quæ, malùm, providentia tam iniquè prospicit + Fata a fando appellata sunt; hoccine est rectè fari?

the gods; being sooner disengaged from the evils of the body, and sooner called to enjoy the honours of a freed spirit. But though this may be true, it is of little importance to us, who are lamenting those whom we have lost; nor does the immortality of souls afford any consolation to us, who, while living, are suffering from the deprivation of our dearest friends. We ask for their appearance, voice, and form, the spirit which has been set free. We mourn over the disfigured countenance of the dead, the closed mouth, the eyes turned upward, the universal paleness. If it should be most clear that souls are immortal, this would be a subject for philosophers to discuss, but no relief to parents grieving for the loss of their children. But, however these things may be ordered by divine power, me, who am so near death, they cannot be a subject of long solicitude. For, if we become extinct forever, then at last to me who have long desired it-*

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to

Even my sweet grandson, whom I am bringing up in my arms, even be wounds and tortures me more and more. For in his face, I behold him who is lost; I imagine it to be a copy of his countenance; I seem to hear the very sound of his voice. Such a picture my grief fashions for itself. Ignorant of the real countenance of the deceased, I am wasted with sorrow in imagining something like it. My daughter conducts herself wisely. She reposes upon her husband, the best possible of men. He consoles her by sharing her tears and her sighs, by talking with her, and by sitting with her in silence. I, her aged parent, am not an object of consolation; for I ought to have died before him. No verses of the poets, nor precepts of the wise, could have such power to calm the grief of my daughter and assuage her pain, as the voice of a husband, so dear and so intimately allied. My age is my consolation, almost finished, as it is, and near to death. Whenever that may arrive, whether it be a time of darkness or of day, I will salute the heavens at my departure, and protest what I am conscious that I am; that I have committed nothing, in the long course of my life, dishonourable, reproachful, or base; that in my whole conduct, no deed of mine can be charged with avarice or treachery; but that, on the contrary, I have often acted with liberality, often as a friend, often with fidelity,

often with firmness, frequently too when my own life was in danger in consequence. I have lived in the greatest concord with the best of brothers, who, I rejoice, obtained the highest honours, through the goodness of your father, and whom, through your friendship, I perceive to be sufficiently at ease, and in great security. The honours which I have obtained, I have never sought for in a dishonest manner. I have given more labour to the care of my mind, than of my body. I have preferred study and learning to the advancement of my estate. I have chosen to be poor, rather than to be assisted by others, and to be in want, rather than to solicit. My gains were never sufficient for any prodigal expense, and sometimes have not afforded me necessaries.* I have spoken the truth carefully, I have heard the truth willingly. I have thought it better to be neglected than to flatter; to be silent than to dissimulate; to be a friend to few, rather than a humble attendant on many. I have desired but little, though I have deserved much. I have freely rendered to every one such assistance as was in my power. To those who deserved it, I have given help readily; to those who did not deserve it, without regarding consequences. No one's want of gratitude made me more slow to confer upon him readily such benefits as were in my power; nor did I ever become an enemy to the ungrateful. *

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My dearest Marcus, I have suffered much and severely in my health. Then, by hard misfortune I have lost my grandson in Germany; unhappy that I am, I have lost our Decimanus. If I were made of iron, I could not write more at this time. I have sent you a book, which may supply the place of all others.'

* This sentence is thus edited by Mai; Sumptu nunquam prodigo fui, quæstui interdum necessario. I cannot put any satisfactory meaning upon these words, and have therefore, ventured to read thus: Sumptui nunquam prodigo fuit quæstus, interdum nec necessario.

Poetry.

[During the last year, Miss Baillie, a lady entitled, perhaps, to the next place after Shakspeare among English dramatists, published a collection of poems, chiefly original, for the benefit of a friend. She obtained contributions from some of the most distinguished living poets; and from others not unknown to fame. But the volume hardly answers the expectations, which such a statement might excite. Some of the most pleasing pieces are by authors, who seem to have first appeared as such in this collection. One of these is the following by H. Gally Knight, Esq. Perhaps no high poetical merit is to be claimed for it; but it has the charm of natural and deep feeling, and pure moral sentiment.]

A PORTRAIT.

Yes,-while my sight is yet allow'd to rest

On those dear features, (which it calms my breast
To look upon, and, as I watch them, give
The purest bliss, that mortals may receive,)
Let me preserve their image for a space,
And from the life a faint resemblance trace.
Oh! if the likeness were correctly made,
And if my colours were not such as fade,

Through time's long year the portrait would be prais❜d,
And future ages profit, as they gaz'd.

Lovely is youth,-but robb'd of vermil hue,
Age may be lovely, and enchant the view,
When the soul brightens, and the immortal ray
Is seen more clearly through the shrine's decay ;
When the mild aspect, cloudless and serene,
Reveals in silence what the life has been,-
Untroubled as the awful close draws near,
Still fondly turn'd to all remaining here;
Still breathing peace, and tenderness, and love,
Illum'd with nearer radiance from above.

Such, such 'tis mine to witness day by day,
And more than filial reverence to pay.
For if I owe her life, and ev'ry flow'r,
That e'er I gather'd since my natal hour,

And (more than life, or happiness, or fame,)
The fear of God, since I could lisp his name;
If no conflicting ties divide my heart,

And chance, nor change have forc'd us yet apart;
If for the other each too oft has fear'd,
And mutual woes and peril have endear'd;
Now that her spirit unsubdued remains
By sharpen'd trials and increasing pains,

I view the mother and the saint in one,
And pay beyond the homage of a son.

Ye who approach her threshold, cast aside
The world, and all the littleness of pride;
Come not to pass an hour, and then away
Back to the giddy follies of the day ;—
With rev'rent step and heav'n directed eye,
Clad in the robes of meek humility,
As to a temple's hallow'd court, repair,
And come the lesson, as the scene, to share;
Gaze on the ruin'd frame, and pallid cheek,
Prophetick symptoms, that too plainly speak!
Those limbs that fail her as she faulters by;
Pangs that from nature will extort a sigh;
See her from social intercourse remov'd,
Forbid to catch the friendly voice she lov'd;
Then mark the look compos'd, the tranquil air,
Unfeign'd contentment still enthroned there!
The cheerful beams, that, never quench'd, adorn
That cheek, and gladden those who thought to mourn;
Benignant smiles for all around that shine,
Unbounded love, and charity divine!
This is Religion-not unreal dreams,
Enthusiast raptures and seraphick gleams;

But Faith's calm triumph-Reason's steady sway,
Not the brief lightning, but the perfect day.

Mark we the close of years without offence;
Of more than this, and more than innocence,--
A life of deeds-a long, unblemished course
Of generous action, and of moral force.

Her have I seen assail'd by deepest wo,
O'erwhelming desolation's sudden blow;
How much she felt, the body's ills display;
From that dread hour began the slow decay.