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and away it happens luckily that they suit the times they live in. Washington is an instance: and yet if ever great man looked like "a tool in the hands of Providence," it was he. He appears to have been always the same man, from first to last, employed or unemployed, known or unknown;-the same steady, dry-looking, determined person, cut and carved like a piece of ebony for the genius of the times to rule with. Before the work was begun, there he was, a sort of born patriarchal staff, governing herds and slaves; and when the work was over, he was found in his old place, with the same carved countenance, and the same stiff inflexibility, governing them still. And his slaves were found with him. This is what a soldier ought to be. Not indeed if the world were to advance by their means, and theirs only; but that is impossible. Washington was only the sword with which Franklin and the spirit of revolution worked out their purposes; and a sword should be nothing but a sword. The moment soldiers come to direct the intellect of their age, they make a sorry business of it. Napoleon himself did. Frederick did. Even Cæsar failed. As to Alfred the Great, he was not so much a general fighting with generals, as a universal genius warring with barbarism and adversity; and it took a load of sorrow to make even him the demigod he was. "Stand upon the ancient ways," says Bacon, "and see what steps may be taken for progression." Look, for the same purpose, (it may be said) upon the rest of the animal creation, and consider the qualities in which they have no share with you. Of the others, you may well doubt the greatness, considered as movers, and not instruments, towards progression. It is among the remainder you must seek for the advancement of your species. An insect can be a provider of the necessaries of life, and he can exercise power, and organize violence. He can be a builder; he can be a soldier; he can be a king. But to all appearance, he is the same as he was ever, and his works perish with him. If insects have such and such an establishment among them, we conceive they will have it always, unless men can alter it for them. If they have no such establishment, they are of themselves incapa
ble of admitting it. It is men only that add and improve. Men only can bequeath their souls for the benefit of posterity, in the shape of arts and books. Men only can philosophize, and reform, and cast off old customs, and take steps for laying the whole globe nearer to the sun of wisdom and happiness: and in proportion as you find them capable of so hoping and so working, you recognize their superiority to the brutes that perish.
ADAM'S FORESIGHT OF THE EVILS OF THE MARRIED SYSTEM, AS NOW PREVAILING.
In our last number, there was a quotation from Milton upon this subject, which though apposite to it in one respect, was not the passage we intended to give. Not having our books with us, and being at a distance from them, we were obliged to trouble a friend to make the extract for us; and he, in his anxiety to hit upon the right one, missed it. If his zeal had been less, he would have found it as easily as the heart in his bosom.
We have since met with a reference to the very passage in one of Mr Hazlitt's Essays, and shall take the opportunity of strengthening our quotation with his own introduction of it.
"How few," says he, " out of the infinite number of those that marry and are given in marriage, wed with those they would prefer to all the world; nay, how far the greater proportion are joined together by mere motives of convenience, accident, recommendation of friends, or indeed not unfrequently by the very fear of the event, by repugnance and a sort of fatal fascination: yet the tie is for life, not to be shaken off but with disgrace or death: a man no longer lives to himself, but is a body (as well as mind) chained to another, in spite of himself—
"So Milton (perhaps from his own experience) makes Adam exclaim in the vehemence of his despair—
He never shall find out fit mate, but such
To human life, and household peace confound.""
Table Talk, vol. i, p. 224.
SPECIMENS OF BRITISH POETESSES.
Yet once more, O ye fair ones, and once more
We come to pluck your fancies, sweet and good,
Borrow your leaves for our Companions here.
Nor having room enough in our last number for a charming domestic ballad attributed to Mr Wordsworth's sister, we were compelled to omit it. Having a little too much in our present, we avail ourselves of the opportunity to lay it before the reader.
66 ADDRESS TO A CHILD DURING A BOISTEROUS
"What way does the wind come? what way does he go?
Thro' wood and thro' vale; and o'er rocky height
Which the goat cannot climb takes his sounding flight.
He tosses about in every bare tree,
As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
"He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
"Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Save in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
That he's left for a bed for beggars or thieves!
"As soon as 'tis daylight, tomorrow with me
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;
"Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
—But let him range round; he does us no harm,
Untouch'd by his breath, see the candle shines bright, And burns with a clear and steady light;
Books have we to read,-hush! that half-stifled knell, Methinks 'tis the sound of the eight-o'clock bell.
"Come, now we'll to bed! and when we are there,
We add the poem we alluded to, on the Sea, by Mrs Hemans. 66 THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. "What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells, Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ? -Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells, Bright things which gleam unreck'd of, and in vain. -Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!
We ask not such from thee.
"Yet more, the depths have more!-What wealth untold,
Won from ten thousand royal argosies.
-Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main,
"Yet more, the depths have more! thy waves have roll'd Above the cities of a world gone by!
Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old,
"Yet more! the billows and the depths have more!
"Give back the lost and lovely!-those for whom
"To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,