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which, however, I take to be no great security to the brains of modern authors. But to let you see that the contrary to this often happens, I must acquaint you, that the highest and most extravagant heap of towers in the universe which is in this neighborhood, stands still undefaced, while a cock of barley in our next field has been consumed to ashes. Would to God that this heap of barley had been all that perished ! for, unhappily, beneath this little shelter sat two much more constant lovers than ever were found in romance under the shade of a beech-tree. John Hewet was a well-set man, of about five-and-twenty ; Sarah Drew might be rather called comely than beautiful, and was about the same age. They had passed through the various labors of the year together, with the greatest satisfaction: if she milked, it was his morning and evening care to bring the cows to her hand; it was but last fair that he bought her a present of green silk for her straw hat ; and the posie on her silver ring was of his choosing. Their love was the talk of the whole neighborhood. It was that very morn. ing that he had obtained the consent of her parents; and it was but till the next week that they were to wait to be happy. Perhaps, in the intervals of their work, they were now talking of the wedding-clothes; and John was suiting several sorts of poppies and field-flowers to her complexion, to choose her a knot for the wedding-day. While they were thus busied, it was on the last of July, between two and three in the afternoon, the clouds grew black, and such a storm of thunder and lightning ensued, that all the laborers made the best of their way to what shelter the trees and hedges afforded. Sarah was frightened, and fell down in a swoon on a heap of barley. John, who never separated from her, sat down by her side, having raked together two or three heaps, the better to secure her from the storm. Immediately there was heard so loud a crack, as if heaven had split asunder: every one was now solicitous for the safety of his neighbor, and called to one another throughout the field : no answer being returned to those who called to our lovers, they stepped to the place where they lay; they perceived the barley all in a smoke, and then spied this faithful pair: John with one arm about Sarah's neck, and the other held over her, as to screen her from the lightning. They were struck dead, and stiffened in this tender posture. Sarah's left eyebrow was singed, and there appeared a black spot on her breast : her lover was all over black, but not the least signs of life were found in either. Attended by their melancholy companions, they were conveyed to the town, and the next day were interred in Stanton Harcourt church-yard. My Lord Harcourt, at Mr. Pope's and my request, has caused a stone to be placed over them, upon condition that we furnished the epitaph, which is as fol. lows:

When eastern lovers feed the funeral fire,
On the same pile the faithful pair expire:
Here pitying Heaven that virtue mutual found,
And blasted both that it might neither wound.
Hearts so sincere, the Almighty saw well pleased,

Sent his own lightning, and the victims seized, But my Lord is apprehensive the country people will not understand this; and Mr. Pope says he'll make one with something of Scripture in it, and with as little of poetry as Hopkins and Sternhold.

Yours, &c.

BARTON BOOTH. 1681—1733.
BARTON BOOTH, though known in his day chiefly as an actor, deserves :
Notice in this work for his very beautiful song, entitled,

Sweet are the charms of her I love,

More fragrant than the damask rose,
Soft as the down of turtle-dove,

Gentle as air when Zephyr blows,
Refreshing as descending rains
To sunburnt climes and thirsty plains.
True as the needle to the pole,

Or as the dial to the sun;
Constant as gliding waters roll,

Whose swelling tides obey the moon;
From every other charmer free,
My life and love shall follow thee.
The lamb the flowery thyme devours,

The dam the tender kid pursues;
Sweet Philomel, in shady bowers

Of verdant spring, her note renews;
All follow what they most admire,
As I pursue my soul's desire.
Nature must change her beauteous face,

And vary as the seasons rise;
As winter to the spring gives place,

Summer th' approach of autumn flies:
No change on love the seasons bring,
Love only knows perpetual spring.
Devouring Time, with stealing pace,

Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow;
And marble towers, and gates of brass,

In his rude march he levels low:
But Time, destroying far and wide,
Love from the soul can ne'er divide.
Death only, with his cruel dart,

The gentle godhead can remove;
And drive him from the bleeding heart

To mingle with the bless'd above,

Where, known to all his kindred train,
He finds a lasting rest from pain.
Love, and his sister fair, the Soul,

Twin-born, from heaven together came:
Love will the universe control,

When dying seasons lose their name;
Divine abodes shall own his power
When time and death shall be no more.

JOHN ARBUTHNOT. Died 1735. Joax ARBUTINOT, the son of a clergyman of the Episcopal church of Scot. land, was born at Arbuthnot, near Montrose, not long after the Restoration. Having at a proper age entered the University of Aberdeen, he applied him. self with diligence to his studies. After taking his doctor's degree in medi cine, he resolved to push his fortunes in London. He began by teaching mathematics as a means of subsistence; and in 1697 he published “ An Examination of Dr. Woodward's Account of the Deluge.” This was considered a very learned performance, in the then infancy of geology; and his practice increasing with his profession, he became known to the most celebrated men of his day, and was, in 1704, elected a fellow of the Royal Society. The intimate friend and associate of Pope, Swift, Gay, Addison, Parnell, and other leading minds of that bright period of English literature, he was inferior to neither in learning or in wit, while in the versatility of his powers he was decidedly pre-eminent.

In 1714 the celebrated «Scriblerus Club" was formed, consisting of most of the greatest wits and statesmen of the times. In this brilliant collection of learning and genius, no one was better qualified than Dr. Arbuthnot, both in point of wit and erudition, to promote the object of the society, which was “to ridicule all the false tastes in learning under the character of a man of capacity enough, that had dipped into every art and science, but injudiciously in each.” One of the productions of this club was the “ Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus," written conjointly by Pope, Swift, and Arbuthnot, though the latter doubtless wrote the greater part of it. It is a severe satire upon the follies of mankind; and for keen wit, cutting sarcasm, and genuine humor, has not, perhaps, its superior in the language; but disfigured, as it occasionally is, by a coarseness and vulgarity which the manners of the age readily tolerated, is is now but little read.

Dr. Arbuthnot died on the 27th February, 1735. As a wit and a scholar the character in which he is best known to us, he may be justly ranked among the most eminent men of an age distinguished by a high cultivation of intellect and an almost exuberant display of wit and genius. “His good morals,' Pope used to say, “ were equal to any man's, but his wit and humor superior to all mankind." "He has more wit than we all have,” said Dean Swift to a lady, “and his humanity is equal to his wit." In addition to these brilliant qualities, the higher praise of benevolence and goodness is most deservedly due to him. His warmth of heart and cheerfulness of temper rendered him much beloved by his family and friends, towards whom he displayed the most constant affection and attachment.'

1 Read an article in Retrospective Review, viii 285.

Among the miscellaneous writings of Dr. Arbuthnot there is a short poem, which, notwithstanding its faults in metre, and occasional harshness,“ may fairly be ranked as one of the noblest philosophical poems in the language. It is marked by a conciseness and strength in the argument, a grandeur of thought, a force and propriety of language, a fine discrimination, and a vigor. ous grasp of mind, together with sound principles and pious sentiments, that are not often combined within the same limits.” ?

What am I? how produced ? and for what end?
Whence drew I being? to what period tend ?
Am I the abandon'd orphan of blind chance?
Dropt by wild atoms in disorder'd dance ?
Or from an endless chain of causes wrought?
And of unthinking substance born with thought:
By motion which began without a cause,
Supremely wise, without design or laws?
Am I but what I seem, mere flesh and blood;
A branching channel, with a mazy flood ?
The purple stream that through my vessels glides,
Dull and unconscious flows like common tides:
The pipes through which the circling juices stray,
Are not that thinking I, no more than they:
This frame compacted with transcendent skill,
Of moving joints obedient to my will,
Nursed from the fruitful glebe, like yonder tree,
Waxes and wastes; I call it mine, not me:
New matter still the mouldering mass sustains,
The mansion changed, the tenant still remains :
And from the fleeting stream, repair'd by food,
Distinct, as is the swimmer from the flood.
What am I then ? sure, of a nobler birth.
By parents' right I own, as mother, earth;
But claim superior lineage by my SIRE,
Who warm'd th' unthinking clod with heavenly fire:
Essence divine, with lifeless clay allay d,
By double nature, double instinct sway'd;
With look erect, I dart my longing eye,
Seem wing'd to part, and gain my native sky;
I strive to mount, but strive, alas! in vain,
Tied to this massy globe with magic chain.
Now with swift thought I range from pole to pole,
View worlds around their flaming centres roll:
What steady powers their endless motions guide,
Through the same trackless paths of boundless void!
I trace the blazing comet's fiery trail,
And weigh the whirling planets in a scale:
These godlike thoughts, while eager I pursue
Some glittering trifle offer'd to my view,
A gnat, an insect of the meanest kind,
Erase the new-born image from my mind;
Some beastly want, craving, importunate,
Vile as the grinning mastiff at my gate,

1 " The Friend," I. 202.

Cails off from heavenly truth this reasoning me, And tells me, I'm a brute as much as he. If on sublimer wings of love and praise, My soul above the starry vault I raise, Lured by some vain conceit, or shameful lust, I flag, I drop, and flutter in the dust. The towering lark thus from her lofty strain Stoops to an emmet, or a barley grain. By adverse gusts of jarring instincts tost, I rove to one, now to the other coast : To bliss unknown my lofty soul aspires, My lot unequal to my vast desires. As 'mongst the hinds a child of royal birth Finds his high pedigree by conscious worth; So man, amongst his fellow brutes exposed, Sees he's a king, but 'tis a king deposed: Pity him, beasts ! you, by no law confined, Are barr'd from devious paths by being blind; Whilst man, through opening views of various ways Confounded, by the aid of knowledge strays; Too weak to choose, yet choosing still in haste, One moment gives the pleasure and distate; Bilk'd by past minutes, while the present cloy, The flattering future still must give the joy. Not happy, but amused upon the road, And (like you thoughtless of his last abode, Whether next sun his being shall restrain To endless nothing, happiness, or pain.

Around me, lo, the thinking, thoughtless crew, (Bewilder'd each) their different paths pursue; Of them I ask the way; the first replies, Thou art a god; and sends me to the skies. Down on the turf (the next) thou two-legg'd beast, There fix thy lot, thy bliss, and endless rest. Between these wide extremes the length is such, I find I know too little or too much.

“ Almighty Power, by whose most wise command, Helpless, forlorn, uncertain here I stand; Take this faint glimmering of thyself away, Or break into my soul with perfect day!” This said, expanded lay the sacred text, The balm, the light, the guide of souls perplex'd: Thus the benighted traveller that strays Through doubtful paths, enjoys the morning rays; The nightly mist, and thick descending dew, Parting, unfold the fields, and vaulted blue. “O Truth divine! enlighten'd by thy ray, I grope and guess no more, but see my way; Thou clear'dst the secret of my high descent, And told me what those mystic tokens meant; Marks of my birth, which I had worn in vain, Too hard for worldly sages to explain. Zeno's were vain, vain Epicurus' schemes, Their systems false, delusive were their dreams;

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