In the red cinders, while with poring eye
I gaz'd, myself creating what I saw.
Nor less amus'd have I quiescent watch'd
The sooty films, that play upon the bars
Pendulous, and foreboding in the view
Of Superstition, prophesying still,

Though still deceived, some stranger's near approach.
'Tis thus the understanding takes repose

In indolent vacuity of thought,

And sleeps and is refreshed. Meanwhile the face
Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask
Of deep deliberation, as the man

Were task'd to his full strength, absorbed and lost.
Thus oft, reclin'd at ease, I lose an hour
At evening, till at length the freezing blast
That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home
The recollected powers; and snapping short
The glassy threads, with which the fancy weaves
Her brittle toys, restores me to myself.

COWPER'S Task.

By one of those casual associations, formed sometimes in childhood, sometimes in youth, and sometimes in maturer years; one of those associations which would puzzle all the wisdom of the Egyptians to analyze, my passion for solitude increases, as the day declines, and I am always peculiarly pensive at the twilight hour. In merry spring time, when the weather is soft and inviting, in the dusky hours of ardent midsummer, and invariably during my autumnal vespers, I go out, like the contemplative Patriarch, to meditate in the field at even tide. But in the dolefulness of December, the inclemency of January, and the boisterousness of March, I sequester myself in the deepest shades of study, and emphatically love the life remote. By the legacy of a remote relation, there has lately been bequeathed me a very curious couch or sofa, which, I am credibly informed, was manufactured by a poetical upholsterer, exactly after the model of that, on which the immortal Cowper reclined. At the head of this vehicle of repose, I have contrived, by the aid of a sharp penknife, and the keener acuteness of the little French

少

milliner to cut a sort of pouch or pocket, just sufficient to contain two cigars. These while I smoke, with a sort of sacred solemnity and diplomatic deliberation inspire a train sometimes of merry but oftener of mournful reflections, which constitute the evening's reverie. During the tranquil hour, at which I indulge myself with the most delicious cates of intellectual luxury, I am sometimes at peace with myself, and the world. The rude asperity, the foul injustice, and the turbulent clamour of the multitude are forgotten. Complacency has her ample reign. Vacuna, goddess of leisure, hovers o'er my happy head,

Glowing visions gild my soul

And life's an endless treasure.

At other, and less genial moments, when my head throbs with anguish, or my heart with anxiety, when "the bleak affliction of the peevish East" assails every nerve, or the black demon of Misanthropy whispers the most injurious suggestions at the expense of poor human nature, I am then like BURTON'S melancholy man, and not even the placid power of tranquilizing tobacco can restore me to repose." In an hour so rude, I strive to summon, at a call, all the valiant troops of mind. I court all the consolation of philosophy; and by intense thought, or ardent application struggle to mitigate, though I may not banish the ills of life.

.

I have long been of opinion that a simple and honest record of my emotions and habits, at those hours when the majority of mortals are in a state of lethargy, might be useful to some and agrecable to others.

Now wintry night falls. In fleecy flakes, the silent snow descends, and clings to my casement. The hoarse wind moans through the sullen street, the knell of parting day is tolling; the ↑ laboured ox, in his loose traces, from the furrow comes, and the drudging drayman urges his toil no more. Now, whatever sound of gentle or rude is without, all is solitude and silence within. My study is my kingdom in the profoundest peace. Seated on my throne of tranquillity, I involve myself in my Spanish mantle, and suffer vagrant thought to run to and fro, † Milton.

Gray.

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as the wanderer will. I throw the reins on the neck of Fancy, and permit that horse aerial to scamper at pleasure over a boundless expanse. With what budget this same steed will r turn, after this rhapsodical commencement of the animal's jour ney must be referred to the scrutiny of those who may take the trouble to peruse our next speculation.

AN AUTHOR'S EVENINGS-FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

I HAVE always been of opinion that modern Englishmen are too partial to many of the Scottish writers. These have their value; but to prefer the style of lord Kaimes to that of lord Bolingbroke, the phrase of Campbell to the phrase of Harris, the periods of Thomson to the periods of Pope, is a most outrageous and absurd preference. Our opinion is strongly supported, by one who was not only a Scotchman himself, and a very judicious critic, but a more successful emulator than any of his countrymen, of Addison's luckiest expression. I allude to Dr. Beattie, who, in a familiar letter, thus refutes a standard opinion, at least on one side of the Tweed. His conclusion is perfectly modest, as it respects Caledonia, and perfectly just as it respects the genius of South Britain.

"We, who live in Scotland, are obliged to study English from books like a dead language. Accordingly when we write, we write it like a dead language, which we understand, but cannot speak; avoiding, perhaps, all ungrammatical expressions, and even the barbarisms of our country, but at the same time without communicating that neatness, ease and softness of phrase, which appears so conspicuously in ADDISON, lord LYTTELTON, and other elegant English authors. Our style is stately and unwieldy, and clogs the tongue in pronunciation, and smells of the lamp. We are slaves to the language we write, and are continu- / ally afraid of committing gross blunders; and, when an easy, familiar, idiomatical phrase occurs, dare not adopt it, if we recollect no authority, for fear of Scotticisms. In a word, we handle English, as a person who cannot fence, handles a sword; continually afraid

of hurting ourselves with it, or letting it fall, or making some awkward motion that shall betray our ignorance. An English author is the master, not the slave of his language, and wields it gracefully because he wields it with ease, and with full assurance that he has the command of it. In order to get over this difficulty, which I fear is in some respects insuperable after all, I have been continually poring upon Addison, the best parts of Swift, lord Lyttelton, &c. The ear is of great service in these matters; and I am convinced the greater part of Scottish authors hurt their style by admiring and imitating one another. At Edinburgh, it is said by your critical people, that Hume, Robertson, &c. write English better than the English themselves, THAN WHICH, in my judgment, THERE CANNOT BE À GREATER ABSURDITY. I would as soon believe that Thuanus wrote better Latin than Cicero or Cæsar, and that Buchanan was a more elęgant poet than Virgil or Horace. In my rhetorical lectures, and whenever I have occasion to speak on this subject to those who pay any regard to my opinion, I always maintain a contrary doctrine, and advise those to study English authors, who would acquire a good English style."

I have an aversion both for the levity and licentiousness of the harlot Muses, who were worshipped by their lewd adorers, amid that profligacy, which immediately succeeded to the puritanism of Cromwell. Yet it must be confessed that the gentlemen and the courtiers, in good king Charles's jovial days, were thoroughly versed in the character of the female sex; and had the wits of that age imparted to us their knowledge, in the language of philosophy, instead of the idiom of the bagnio, our acquaintance with human nature would be more intimate. WALLER, for example, though bred among the corruption of the court, yet perfectly pure of its taint, is at once a chaste and faithful delineator of the female heart. Indeed, though it is reported he was not a very successful gallant, he appears in all his verses, to describe the nature of woman, with all the precision of a La Bruyere. Perhaps there never was found, since the commencement of the reign of poetry, so perfect a parallel between soft and shining beauty, as that which the genius of our poet has run between

Amoret and Sacharissa.

But I am still more edified with a few

brief verses, where the whole truth is revealed, and certainly without a particle of flattery.

Anger, in hasty words, or blows,
Itself discharges on our foes;
And sorrow too finds some relief,
In tears, which wait upon our grief:
So every passion, but fond love,
Unto its own redress does move;
But that alone the wretch inclines,
To what prevents his own designs;
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep,
Disordered, tremble, fawn and creep;
Postures, which render him despis'd,
Where he endeavours to be priz'd;
For Women, born to be controll❜d,
Stoop to the forward and the bold;
Affect the haughty and the proud,
The gay, the frolick, and the loud;
Who first the generous steed opprest,
Not kneeling, did salute the beast ;

But, with high courage, life and force,
Approaching, tam'd the unruly horse.

The allusion in the closing lines is rather too coarse for the refinement of the present age; and taste might object to the politeness of the expression. But, it is more than suspected, that the poet's theory is correct; and they who have had the nearest opportunities of analyzing that very complex substance, a fine lady's bosom, will inevitably agree with Mr. WALLER.

In Currie's edition of the works of BURNS, volumes which, whether we regard the philosophical biographer, the original poet and the ill-fated man equally merit our regard, is a very humorous and descriptive ballad, which for fidelity of description, archness of humour, and a certain graphical manner, deserves the attention of the good natured reader.