OF MEMORY. It is the treasure-house of the mind, wherein the monuments thereof are kept and preserved. Plato makes it the mother of the Muses. Aristotle sets it in one degree further, making experience the mother of arts, memory the parent of experience. Philosophers place it in the rear of the head; and it seems the mine of memory lies there, because there men naturally dig for it, scratching it when they are at a loss. This again is two-fold; one, the simple retention of things; the other, a regaining them when forgotten. Artificial memory is rather a trick than an art, and more for the gain of the teacher than profit of the learners. Like the tossing of a pike, which is no part of the postures and motions thereof, and is rather for ostentation than use, to show the strength and nimbleness of the arm, and is often used by wandering soldiers, as an introduction to beg. Understand it of the artificial rules which at this day are delivered by memory mountebanks; for sure an art thereof may be made, (wherein as yet the world is defective,) and that no more destructive to natural memory than spectacles are to eyes, which girls in Holland wear from twelve years of age. But till this be found out, let us observe these plain rules. First, soundly infix in thy mind what thou desirest to remember. What wonder is it if agitation of business jog that out of thy head which was there rather tacked than fastened? It is best knocking in the nail over night, and clinching it the next morning. Overburden not thy memory to make so faithful a servant a slave. Remember, Atlas was weary. Have as much reason as a camel, to rise when thou hast thy full load. Memory, like a purse, if it be over full that it cannot shut, all will drop out of it; take heed of a gluttonous curiosity to feed on many things, lest the greediness of the appetite of thy memory spoil the digestion thereof. Marshal thy notions into a handsome method. One will carry twice more weight trussed and packed up in bundles, than when it lies untoward, flapping and hanging about his shoulders. Things orderly fardled up under heads are most portable. Adventure not all thy learning in one bottom, but divide it betwixt thy memory and thy note-books. He that with Bias carries all his learning about him in his head, will utterly be beggared and bankrupt, if a violent disease, a merciless thief, should rob and strip him. I know some have a common-place against commonplace-books, and yet perchance will privately make use of what they publicly declaim against. A common-place-book contains many notions in garrison, whence the owner may draw out an army into the field on competent warning. ONE of the most exquisite of the early English lyric poets, was Robert Herrick. But little is known of his life. His father was a goldsmith of London, and he was born in that city in 1591. He studied at Cambridge, and took orders in the established church, and obtained a place to preach in, in Devonshire, which he lost at the commencement of the civil wars. At the Restoration he was re-appointed to his vicarage, but died soon afterwards, in 1662. Abating some of the impurities of Herrick, we can fully join with an able critic in the Retrospective Review in pronouncing him one of the best of English lyric poets. "He is the most joyous and gladsome of bards; singing like the grasshopper, as if he would never grow old. He is as fresh as the Spring, as blithe as the Summer, and as ripe as the Autumn. . . . His poems resemble a luxuriant meadow, full of king-cups and wild flowers, or a July firmament, sparkling with a myriad of stars. His fancy fed upon all the fair and sweet things of nature: it is redolent of roses and jessamine; it is as light and airy as the thistle down, or the bubbles which laughing boys blow into the air, where they float in a waving line of beauty." TO PRIMROSES, FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest monu Teem'd her refreshing dew? Alas! you have not known that shower 1 Vol. v. page 156. Read also, remarks in "Drake's Literary Hours." Nor felt th' unkind Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speak, whimpering younglings; and make known Ye droop, and weep. Is it for want of sleep; Or, that ye have not seen as yet Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? "That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, TO BLOSSOMS. Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Your date is not so past, What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, But you are lovely leaves, where we Their end, though ne'er so brave: HOW THE HEART'S-EASE FIRST CAME. Frolic virgins once these were, Over-loving, living here; Being here their ends denied, Ran for sweethearts mad, and died. Love, in pity of their tears, And their loss of blooming years, For their restless here-spent hours, Giave them heart's-ease turn'd to flowers. THE CAPTIVE BEE, OR THE LITTLE FILCHER. As Julia once a slumbering lay, It chanced a bee did fly that way, For some rich flower he took the lip Of Julia, and began to sip: But when he felt he suck'd from thence He drank so much he scarce could stir; And thus surprised, as filchers use, THE NIGHT PIECE.-TO JULIA. Whose little eyes glow Like sparks of fire, befriend thee! No will-o'-th'-wisp mislight thee, Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee! Let not the dark thee cumber; What though the moon does slumber, The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear without number! Then Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me: My soul I'll pour into thee! THE PRIMROSE. Ask me why I send you here This primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew? The sweets of love are mix'd with tears. Ask me why this flower does show UPON A CHILD THAT DIED. Here she lies, a pretty bud, EPITAPH UPON A CHILD. Virgins promised, when I died, UPON A MAID. Here she lies, in beds of spice, CATHERINE PHILIPS. 1631-1664. MRS. CATHERINE PHILIPS was the daughter of John Fowler, a London merchant, and married, when quite young, James Philips, a gentleman of Cardiganshire. Her devotion to the Muses showed itself at a very early age, and she wrote under the fictitious name of Orinda. She continued to write after her marriage; though this did not prevent her from discharging, in a most exemplary manner, the duties of domestic life. Her poems, which had been dispersed among her friends in manuscript, were first printed without her knowledge or consent. She was very much esteemed by her con |