A HUMANE AND BENEVOLENT PROPOSITION. -Our friend and correspondent, the quaint and felicitous 'RICHARD HAYWARDE,' has sent us the following essay upon 'Societies for Ameliorating the Condition of the Rich.' Our welcome guest came at too late an hour to take his seat among his compeers who had preceded us, so that we make room for him at our little end-table. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. RICHARD HAYWARDE. With your kind permission, he will now address a few words to the assembled company.

'THE quality of mercy is not strained:

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.'

ED. KNICKERBOCKER

SHAKSPEARS.

Ir has long been a matter of surprise to me, that amidst a multitude of beneyolent institutions we have none for ameliorating the condition of the rich. A large class is certainly left out of the sphere of popular charity, which, from a careful examination of the smallest camels in various menageries, and a personal inspection of JOHN HEMMING AND SON's best drilled-eyed cambric needles, seems to stand more in need of our sympathies than any people under the sun. We may also observe, when one of these highly-respected citizens is on his way to the other world, he is generally followed by an unusual concourse of clergymen; and this, like a consultation of physicians, would appear to indicate that the person was in more than ordinary peril, and therefore needed greater care and skill than one within the reach of customary medicines.

I am impelled to make this suggestion more particularly now, from the fact that this class is growing upon us: the evil is spreading, and to a greater extent than many good people imagine. I have been surprised lately to find many persons whom I did not imagine worth a copper, freely acknowledging themselves to be wealthy; and others, of whose poverty I had not a doubt, confessing, with some little tribulation and blushing, there was no truth in that report; that money was with them, yea, abundantly. Such being the case, a common sense of humanity should induce us to relieve our opulent brethren from a portion of their distress, in order to prevent extension of the mischief. Homo sum; nihil humani à me alienum puto.' We, who belong to the ancient and honorable order of poverty, must not be neglectful of such claims upon us. Yet we should do it tenderly and affectionately; not haughtily, and with an air of superiority, but with a grace.

'Poverty,' saith AUSTIN, 'is the way to heaven, the mistress of philosophy, the mother of religion, virtue, sobriety, sister of innocency and an upright mind.' True; I dispute not the words of the Father: but need we therefore exult and vain-gloriously contemn those who have the misfortune to be rich? Should we not rather take them by the hand, and show them the way to be better, wiser, happier? Should we not teach them that riches are only relative blessings; poverty a positive one? Should we let them struggle on for years and years in a wrong path, without endeavoring to pluck them as brands from the burning?' Riches are relative: our little domestic flashes of wealth pale their ineffectual fires before the dazzling opulence of the India House; nay, show like poverty itself, compared with that treasury of empires, which seems to realize

'the royal state which far

Outshone the wealth of Ormus or of Ind.'

And yet Tempus edax rerum: its ingots and tissues, its barbaric pearl and gold, will be scattered; oblivion will set its seal upon it; obscurity, with dust and ashes

Stay

The India House has a name connected with it-an humble and unpretending name- -whose influence will draw pilgrims thither while one crumbling stone rests upon another; and when the very ground where it now stands shall be forgotten, when its illustrious line of nameless nabobs lie neglected with the common multitude, upon that ancient edifice will rest, like a sunset glory, the fame of CHARLES LAMB.

If the above should seem to bear rather hard upon our wealthy brethren, I trust it will be forgiven me. I know that many are jealous of position, and derive no little self-respect from what they call their 'circumstances;' yet the suggestion came so pat, the comparisons followed so naturally, that I felt it a duty to proceed, and show how mutable is pecuniary fame; although I confess the idea I have broached, of 'wealth being only relative,' will make many of them show like paupers beside those eastern magnificats. Still, it is not in my nature to cast reflections. I could scarcely forgive the spiteful allusion of Hthe other day to a certain Gothic building, which he called 'the ecclesiastical rattle for grown-up children;' an epithet unworthy of a poor man glorying in the power of his literary affluence. No, far be it from me to countenance uncharitable reflections: let us remember we are all human, and, humanus est errare, many cannot help being rich; and souls vibrating between the opera-house and such places as the one above alluded to, drifting as it were upon tides of harmony any whither, are objects, not of our derision, but of our pity.

My intention had been to refer to the miseries of the rich in this paper, but a mere allusion to so fruitful a subject will doubtless suggest enough to awaken. the sympathies of the benevolent. Avarice-mere avarice, in itself—is bad enough; a powerful astringent, it produces constipation of the mind, from whence comes ignorance, the mother of mischief. But AVARUS dies and endows benevolent institutions, and thereby the world is bettered. It is the tinsel show of real or affected wealth; its currents of folly, its ebbs and flows, tides, eddies and whirlpools; its generations, rising up in young misses who have not left off the rocking motion acquired in the cradle; its squab-dandies, stilting along on legs you might thrust in your double-barrel gun; its elders, with a reversion in Greenwood for the benefit of their heirs; it is this show, this pageant, to the philanthropist pitiable beyond the mimic efforts of the stage, the fictions of

imagination, or the supplications of the professional pauper who begs, with GOD knows how much content in his heart. I fear I also may be amenable to the charge of -'boasting poverty, with too much pride,'

as PRIOR hath it, and therefore will turn to the main part and body, or rather head, of my subject.

I propose to the benevolent, to establish societies for ameliorating the condition of the rich. I would suggest that a board of directors be appointed, with visiting committees, to inquire into the condition of the more opulent families, to call upon them personally, and give such advice and assistance as their several cases seem to require.

To the board of visitors, I would refer the motto above quoted:

'THE quality of mercy is not strained;

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is TWICE blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes?

Therefore take what you can, and be merciful.

I would recommend an asylum to be provided for those whose opulence is excessive, and whose mental incapacity prevents them taking proper care of themselves

I would suggest the purchase of substantial woolen garments for those who need them; gymnasiums for youth; and that a proper care be had for the moral culture of both sexes.

But, above all, I suggest the immediate organization of the society. The miseries of the rich afford so copious a field for the exercise of true benevolence, that I leave the matter to those more experienced and better able to advise than the humble writer of this paper.

CARLYLE ON COLERIDGE. - We recollect being greatly 'taken to task' and be-rated, several years ago, for venturing to intimate in these pages, on the best authority, that COLERIDGE, whose utterances,' as they were called, were just then the 'present rage,' was after all (and great intellect as he was) a good deal of a bore, what time he was wont to 'set in with his steady stream of talk.' Now hear what CARLYLE, his friend and admirer, says on this very 'sum'ject:'

'I STILL recollect his 'object' and 'subject,' terms of continual recurrence in the KANTEAN province; and how he sung and snuffled them into 'om-m-mject' and 'sum-m-mject,' with a kind of solemn shake or quiver as he rolled along.

'To sit as a passive bucket and be pumped into, whether you consent or not, can in the long-run be exhilarating to no creature, how eloquent soever the flood of utterance that is descending. But if it be withal a confused, unintelligible flood of utterance, threatening land-marks of thought, and drown the world and you I have heard COLERIDGE talk, with eager musical energy, two stricken hours, his face radiant and moist, and communicate no meaning whatsoever to any individual of his hearers; certain of whom, I for one, still kept eagerly listening in hope; the most had long before given up, and formed (if the room were large enough) secondary humming-groups of their own. He began any where; you put some question to him, made some suggestive observation; instead of answering this, or decidedly setting out toward answer of it, he would accumulate formidable apparatus, logical swim-bladders, transcendental life-preservers, and other precautionary and vehiculatory gear, for setting out; perhaps did at last get under way; but was swiftly solicited, turned aside by the glance of some radiant new game on this hand or that, into new courses, and ever into new; and before long into all the universe, where it was uncertain what game you would catch, or whether any."

-We derive the ensuing remi

REMINISCENCES OF THE LATE JAMES MONTGOMERY. niscences of the late JAMES MONTGOMERY from Mr. JOHN ROSS DIX, a correspondent who, on a former occasion, contributed several well-written poetical articles to this Magazine, and whose 'Pencillings,' some years ago, in a Boston daily journal of high repute, attracted much attention in this country. Mr. Dix returned to England some five years ago, whence he but recently arrived in the metropolis, to fulfil an engagement upon a popular morning gazette, now rejoicing in a full tide of success.' His sketch of the 'Christian Poet' will be

perused with interest.

ED. KNICKERBOOKER.

ANOTHER star has shot from its mortal sphere; another poet has departed. Not long since, the tidings of WORDSWORTH's death saddened thoughtful hearts; SOUTHEY and COLERIDGE are scarcely cold in their honored graves; MOORE lives, but his once brilliant fancy is dimmed by insanity; WILSON is trembling on the verge of death; and lo! the 'Christian Poet,' the CowPER of his time, has passed to that world of which he loved to sing.

It was my happiness to know JAMES MONTGOMERY; and now that the intelligence of his death is reminding many of his 'Pelican Island,' or of his 'Prayer,' a few memories of him may not be uninteresting.

Some twelve years ago, the venerable bard of Sheffield delivered a course of lectures on Poetry at the Philosophical Institution of my native city, Bristol, England. I had frequently, of course, read his works, therefore I was not a little pleased to have an opportunity of seeing the man. So one pleasant summer evening I dropped into the lecture-room, which was crowded, the majority of the audience consisting of ladies. The reader may be quite sure that Quaker bonnets and Moravian muslins were conspicuous.

MONTGOMERY was a tall, thin man, with a sad countenance. His hair was in the transition state from sandy to gray: full, expressive eyes, lighted up an otherwise expressionless countenance. His nose was large and long, and his mouth had what KEATS would call 'a downward drag austere.' He was dressed in sober black, a thick white cravat encircled his throat, and altogether he looked parsonic.

It happened somewhat strangely that Mr. MONTGOMERY chose for his subject, on the evening to which I am particularly referring, the poems of THOMAS CHATTERTON, the immortal author of the Rowley Poems. Now, I had just written a biography of the 'sleepless soul which perished in its pride,' and of course felt deeply interested in aught that related to the wondrous boy of Bristol. I was prepared to hear an eulogium on his genius, but I did not expect that MONTGOMERY would couple my insignificant name with CHATTERTON's. As I sat listening- not very well pleased, by the way to the bard of Sheffield's criticisms on the bard of Bristol, I was somewhat startled by hearing my own name mentioned as the biographer of the latter: I could have crept into a nutshell. The worst of it was, that some good-natured friends of mine let my neighbors know that I was the scribbler. JOSEPH COTTLE, who, it will be remembered, was the publisher of SOUTHEY'S and WORDSWORTH's first works, was the first to shake me by the hand, and, of course, this fixed curious eyes on me.

The lecture ended, Mr. COTTLE introduced me to JAMES MONTGOMERY; and I had the happiness of spending an evening with him at his friend, Mr. BISTILL's, on Kingsdown. It was one of those calm, quiet times which memory loves to dwell upon; not exactly a CHARLES LAMB-ish evening, for there was offered only the 'cup that cheers but not inebriates,' and dear CHARLES preferred the pewter. It was a calm evening, and if no flashes of fun illuminated the parlor, there was something of an angel light' to gladden the place.

In conversation, JAMES MONTGOMERY did not shine; he was too pensive; too, I was almost about to say, too morose. Of contemporary literature he spoke little. SHELLEY was his abomination; of KEATS he had a high opinion; BYRON did not suit him; SOUTHEY he spoke of in the highest terms; and between these poets there was much in common; both were highly moral, greatly industrious, and neither of them, I think, ever wrote 'one line which, dying, they would wish to blot.'

In a letter of JAMES MONTGOMERY's, which lies before me as I write, occurs the following passage. It is dated March 13th, 1851.

'I feel that my course is nearly ended; but I am willing to 'depart and be with CHRIST, which is far better.' My life has not been cloudless, but the bright and morning star has always shone on

my pathway. My dear Sir, let me earnestly entreat you to devote your energies to His service 'whose service is 'perfect freedom.''

I frequently met Mr. MONTGOMERY after my first introduction to him. Once, and once only, I saw his temper ruffled. A gentleman unluckily asked him when the next edition of his 'Satan' would come out. The author of the 'Wanderer of Switzerland' blazed up. "That fop!' he exclaimed, that fop of Bath has pillaged my name: my name is MONTGOMERY; his is, no one knows what. I should be ashamed of myself if I had written such trash as the 'Omnipresence of the DEITY."

As a proof of MONTGOMERY's kindness, let me relate the following incident:

Some three hundred years ago, an old church in South Wales was destroyed by a flood. A new edifice was, in 1842, erected on its site, and to aid the funds, the Marquis of Bute allowed his grounds at Cardiff Castle to be converted into a bazaar. I was then editing the county paper, and so was a small lion. It occurred to some of us that if four poems by popular authors were written on the subject of the lost church, and well 'got up,' some addition to the funds might be made. I wrote to WORDSWORTH; he sent a sonnet, not a good one though, to SOUTHEY, and received a letter from his wife, (CAROLINE BOWLES,) stating that he had long ceased to use his pen. I applied to JAMES MONTGOMERY, and he forwarded a beautiful poem, which, in my 'Pen and Ink Sketches,' I have published.

Well, the Christian poet has gone to receive his crown, and well does he deserve it. Here he served his MASTER who is in heaven, and there he waves his triumphant palm. How magnificent the idea of MONTGOMERY meeting CowPER, and JOHN BUNYAN, and MILTON, and ISAAC WATTS, and the rest of those 'worthies' who have gone before! In heaven they will recognize each other, for I earnestly believe that we shall know in heaven even as we are known. And how blissful must be that meeting, when

'SISTERS and brothers form the ring again,
And parted lovers bind the broken chain;
Fathers amid their gathered children rest,
And tender mothers bless them and be blest.'

WITH these reminiscences of the poet will doubtless come to the minds of many of our readers his own beautiful lines upon 'The Grave.' He has himself at last found that

'calm for those who weep,

The rest for weary pilgrims found, Who softly lie and sweetly sleep, Low in the ground.

"The storm that wrecks the wintry sky No more disturbs his deep repose Than summer-evening's latest sigh,

That shuts the rose.

'He lived-and deeply cherished still
The sweet remembrance of the past:
Relied on HEAVEN'S unchanging will
For peace at last.

'Sought the true treasure, seldom found,
Of power the fiercest griefs to calm,
And soothe the bosom's deepest wound
With heavenly balm!'

MONTGOMERY Conducted for many years the 'Sheffield Iris' weekly journal with taste, ability and moderation. Of his longer poetical works, probably his 'Greenland' was the most popular. "The subject,' says Dr. GRISWOLD, in his 'Poets and Poetry of England,' 'was more in unison with his devotional cast of thought: the poem is full of graphic deseriptions and rich and varied imagery. The patient and earnest labors of the Moravian missionaries are described in it with a sympathetic and genuine enthusiasm. The minor poems of MONTGOMERY, however, his little songs and cabinet-pieces, will be the most frequently read, and the most generally admired. They have the antique simplicity of pious GEORGE WITHERS; a natural, unaffected earnestness, joined to a pure poetic diction, which will secure to them a permanent place in English literature. The character of his genius is essentially lyrical. His shorter pieces are full of devotion to the CREATOR, Sympathy with the suffering, and a cheerful, hopeful philosophy.' It may not be generally known to our readers that Mr. MONTGOMERY was the eldest son of a Moravian clergyman, and was born at Irvine, in Scotland, on the fourth of November, 1771; so that he must have been at the ripe age of fourscore and upward when he died. He was at one time intended by his parents for the Moravian ministry, but his tendency was not in that direction.