But since that I

Must die at last, 'tis best
Thus to use myself in jest,

By feigned death to die.

Yesternight the Sun went hence,
And yet is here to-day ;

He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way:
Then fear not me,

But believe that I shall make
Hastier journies, since I take

More wings and spurs than he.

O! how feeble is man's power,
That if good fortune fall,

Cannot add another hour,

Nor a lost hour recall!

But come bad chance,

And we join to it our strength,
And we teach it art and length,
Itself on us t' advance.

Let not thy divining heart
Forethink me any ill:

Destiny may take thy part,

And may thy fears fulfil;

But think that we

Are but laid aside to sleep;
They who one another keep
Alive, ne'er parted be.

HERODOTUS AND THUCYDIDES.

THE style of Herodotus is full of sweetness, and shines with a mild and pellucid lustre; but the stream is shallow, and you may dive a hundred times without bringing up a single pearl. No author of equal reputation was ever so deficient in beauty of sentiment, or weight and dignity of reflection. But he possesses the art of story-telling, he is an admirable raconteur. He abounds also in splendid and animating shows, and there is undoubtedly something very striking and impressive in the long array and picturesque pomp of his history. His merits, indeed, seem to be essentially poetical; and there is force in Mr. Thirlwall's remark, that in the unity of his subject, Herodotus resembles the epic poets; so much so, indeed, that he may be supposed to have formed his plan from the Homeric writings.

The unity of the Iliad and the History you will observe, consists in the predominance of one great thought in the one, Achilles; in the other, the Persian power. You do not find this unity in

• Alluding to a previous observation of Mr. Thirlwall, who had been speaking of Herodotus.

C

Thucydides, a writer in whom I see realized the saying of Mirabeau, "that words are things." But his power is not the result of melo-dramatic art. He is, indeed, vehement, but then it is the vehemence of truth; his diction copious, yet well chosen; his thoughts impetuous, yet always advancing in close order. Read his famous description of the Pestilence at Athens: the author is swallowed up in his subject,—the painter chained before his own picture.

BOLINGBROKE AND HIS PHILOSOPHY.

I KNOW too well the danger and injustice of hastily judging any eminent individual. The faintest breath clouds the glass through which we contemplate their actions. There is a proposition in Newton's Optics which has always appeared to me very happily illustrative of this subject. "If the eye-glass be tinted faintly with the smoke of a lamp or torch to obscure the light of the star, the fainter light in the circumference of the star ceases to be visible, and the star (if the glass be sufficiently soiled with smoke,) appears something more like a mathematical point." It loses, in fact, to our eye, that particular character which by nature. belongs to it. So it is with the conduct of those

great men who have played the first part on the world's stage. God knows, smoke is never wanting to obscure the light of the noblest actions: of Bolingbroke's political character, therefore, I will say nothing, but of his literary pretensions, I should be rejoiced to see a fair and liberal estimate. His philosophical writings have been characterized by Warburton with great severity, as containing the rankness of South, without his force, and the malignity of Marvell, without his wit. For the erection of his own system, he thought it necessary to ridicule or demolish every other. Not satisfied with occupying a vacant spot, of which several are to be found in philosophy and metaphysics, he set about clearing the whole region. His hand is against every man. The wise and thoughtful Cudworth becomes only a nonsensical paraphraser of nonsense; Wollaston is fit for an asylum; Clarke is a presumptuous rhapsodist; the venerable Sherlock is beaten down with a sneer. Yet he himself was, after all, the victim of what he calls the delirium of metaphysical theology. I should like to see the valuable parts of his works threshed out from the chaff that covers them; for, with all his errors and imperfections, Bolingbroke was an extraordinary individual: the influence he attained over the most celebrated of his contemporaries, proves that. "I really think," said Pope, "there is some

thing in that great man which looks as if he was placed here by mistake." To me, the philosopher never appears in so attractive an attitude as when leaning in tears over the chair of the suffering poet*.

A HINT FROM THE CHARACTERISTICS.

LORD SHAFTESBURY calls the Rules of Art the Philosophical Sea Cards, by which the adventurous Intellects of the age are wont to steer.

JEREMY TAYLOR, THE SPENSER OF PROSE.

AND why should I not call Taylor a poet? Is not The Holy Living and Dying, a sacred and didactic poem, in almost as wide a sense of the word as the Commedia of Dante? What Bard of ancient or modern times has surpassed, in richness of language, in fertility of fancy, in majesty of sentiment, in grace of imagery, this Spenser of English prose?

To Taylor belonged the "believing mind" of Collins. With the romance of the early chroniclers he was deeply imbued. The spirit of discovery had then made little progress; and the knowledge actually acquired only served to kindle the darkness *See Spence's Anecdotes.