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By act of grace, my former state ;

how soon
Would height recall high thoughts, how soon unsay
What faint submission swore ! ease would recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void.
For never can true reconcilement grow
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep,
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse,
And heavier fall: so should I purchase dear,
Short intermission, bought with double smart.
This knows my punisher; therefore as far
From granting he, as I from begging peace ;
All hope excluded thus, behold instead
Of us outcast, exiled, his new delight,
Mankind created, and for him this world.
So farewell, hope, and with hope, farewell fear,
Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my good, by thee at least
Divided empire with Heaven's King I hold,
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;
As man ere long, and this new world, shall know.

An Antiquary.

SAMUEL BUTLER, The greatest and bitterest of English satirists, was born in 1612, died in 1680, after a varied life. His “Hudibras” is the work on which his fame chiefly rests, but his other publications were very numerous. The following passage, in reference to the over-affectation of love for the ancients, may be advantageously compared with the passage given from “ Martinus Scriblerus," p. 19.

An antiquary is one that has his being in this age, but his life and conversation is in the days of old. He despises the present age as an innovation, and slights the future; but has a great value for that which is past and gone, like the madman that fell in love with Cleopatra.

All his curiosities take place of one another according to their seniority, and he values them not by their abilities, but their standing. He has a great veneration for words that are stricken in years, and are grown so aged that they have outlived their employments. These he uses with a respect agreeable to their antiquity and the good services they have done. He is a great timeserver, but it is of time out of mind to which he conforms exactly, but is wholly retired from the present. His days were spent and gone long before he came into the world; and since, his only business is to collect what he can out of the ruins of them. He has so strong a natural affection to anything that is old, that he may truly say to dust and worms, You are my father,” and to

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rottenness, “Thou art my mother." He has no providence nor foresight, for all his contemplations look backward upon the days of old, and his brains are turned with them, as if he walked backwards. He values things wrongfully upon their antiquity, forgetting that the most modern are really the most ancient of all things in the world, like those that reckon their pounds before their shillings and pence, of which they are made up. He esteems no customs but such as have outlived themselves, and are long since out of use; as the Catholics allow of no saints but such as are dead, and the fanatics, in opposition, of none but the living.

My Study.

KIRKE WHITE. HENRY KIRKE WHITE, born at Nottingham, in 1785, applied himself so earnestly to study, that his constitution gave way, and he died in 1806.

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You bid me, Ned, describe the place
Where I, one of the rhyming race,
Pursue my studies con amore,
And wanton with the muse in glory:

Well, figure to your senses straight,
Upon the house's topmost height,
A closet, just six feet by four,
With whitewashed walls and plaster floor;

So noble large, 'tis scarcely able
T'admit a single chair or table;
And (lest the muse should die with cold)
A smoky grate my fire to hold-
So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose
To melt the ice-drop on one's nose;
And yet so big, it covers o'er
Full half the spacious room and more.

A window, vainly stuff"d about
To keep November's breezes out,
So crazy, that the panes proclaim
That soon they mean to leave the frame.

My furniture I sure may crack-
A broken chair, without a back;
A table, wanting just two legs,
One end sustain'd by wooden pegs;
A desk-of that I am not fervent-
The work of, sir, your humble servant
(Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler);
A glass decanter, and a tumbler,
From which my night-parch'd throat I lave,
Luxurious with the limpid wave.
A chest of drawers in antique sections,
A-saw'd by me in all directions :
So small, sir, that whoever views 'em,
Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em.
To these, if you will add a store
Of oddities upon the floor,
A pair of globes, electric balls,
Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls ;
And crowds of books on rotten shelves,
Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves ;
I think, dear Ned, you curious dog,
You'll have my earthly catalogue.
But stay-I nearly had left out
My bellows, destitute of snout;
And on the walls, good heavens! why, there
I've such a load of precious ware,
Of heads, and coins, and silver medals,
And organ-works, and broken pedals
(For I was once a-building music,
Though soon of that employ I grew sick);
And skeletons of laws, which shoot
All out of one primordial root;
That you, at such a sight, would swear
Confusion's self had settled there.
There stands, just by a broken sphcre,
A Cicero, without an ear;
A neck, on which, by logic good,
I know for sure a head once stood;

But who it was the able master
Had moulded in the mimic plaster,
Whether 'twas Pope, or Coke, or Burn,
I never yet could justly learn:
But knowing well that any head
Is made to answer for the dead
(And sculptors first their faces frame,
And after pitch upon a name,
Nor think it aught of a misnomer
To christen Chaucer's busto Homer,
Because they both have beards, which, you know,
Will mark them well from Joan and Juno),
For some great men, I could not tell
But neck might answer just as well,
So perch'd it up, all in a row
With Chatham and with Cicero.
Then all around, in just degree,
A range of portraits you may see,
Of mighty men, and eke of women,
Who are no whit inferior to men.

With these fair dames and heroes round,
I call my garret classic ground;
For though confined, 'twill well contain
The ideal flights of Madam Brain.
No dungeon's walls, no cell confined,
Can cramp the energies of mind!
Thus, though my heart may seem so small,
I've friends, and 'twill contain them all!
And should it e'er become so cold
That these it will no longer hold,
No more may Heaven her blessings give,-
I shall not then be fit to live.

The Imitation of Christ.

BEVERIDGE. A DISTINGUISHED divine, critic, and Oriental scholar, born in 1638, at Barrow, in Lincolnshire; died 1707.

Hoping that all who profess themselves to be the friends and disciples of Jesus Christ, desire to manifest themselves to be so by following both his precepts and example, I shall give the reader & short narrative of his life and actions, wherein we may all see what true piety is, and what real Christianity requires of us; and may not content ourselves, as many do, with being professors, and adhering to parties or factions amongst us, but strive to be thorough Christians, and to carry ourselves as such, by walking as Christ himself walked; which, that we may know at least how to do, looking upon Christ as a mere man, I shall show how he did, and by consequence how we ought to carry ourselves both to God and man, and what graces and virtues he exercised all along for our example and imitation.

Now for our more clear and methodical proceeding in a matter of such consequence as this is, I shall begin with his behaviour towards men, from his childhood to his death.

Just, therefore, when he was a child of twelve years of age, it is particularly recorded of him, that he was subject or obedient to his parents, his real mother and reputed father.* It is true, he knew at that time that God himself was his Father, for, said he,

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“Wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business ?”+ And knowing God to be his Father, he could not but know likewise that he was infinitely above his mother; yea, that she could never have borne him, had not himself first made and supported her. Yet, howsoever, though as God he was Father to her, yet as man she was mother to him, and therefore he honoured and obeyed both her and him to whom she was espoused. Neither did he only respect his mother whilst he was here, but he took care of her too when he was going hence. Yea, all the pains he suffered upon the cross could not make him forget his duty to her that bore him; but seeing her standing by the cross, as himself hung on it, he committed her to the care of his beloved disciple, who “took her to his own home."! Now, as our Saviour did, so are we bound to carry ourselves to our earthly parents, wh tsoever their temper or condition be in this world. Though

* Luke ii. 51.

| Luke ii. 49.

# John xix. 27.

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