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last. Kindly affection, mature philosophy, shrewd observation, just balancing of virtues and defects, softening pathos, and elevating sentiment, gradually succeed each other, so sweetly expressed, so felicitously blended, that the mind is borne along, as the body might be in a wellbalanced boat upon the gently-moving surface of some delightful stream. Just consider the

exquisite propriety of the epithets, and the sweet flow of the harmonious cadences in the opening lines:

"Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,

Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po,
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor,
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door,
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste, expanding to the skies,
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My HEART, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee:
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain."

Let any one of manly feeling ponder upon these lines, and we mistake if he will not pay them the tribute of an honest tear.

Consider the united simplicity, elegance, and affectionateness of the lines which immediately follow :

"Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend;
Blest be that spot where cheerful guests retire,
To pause from toil and trim their evening fire;
Blest that abode where want and pain repair,
And every stranger finds a ready chair;
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd,
Where all the ruddy family around

Laugh at the jests or pranks which never fail,
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale;
Or press the bashful stranger to his food,
And learn the luxury of doing good."

That last line may be well known, but it never can be common-place. Would to Heaven that it were more in the hearts of rich men, and more in the conduct of the powerful; would that that which is lavished upon senseless pomp and prodigality, or worse than that, upon low corruption and base animal sensuality, were devoted to the "luxury of doing good." But let us be thankful that even in this respect, things are not worse than they are. There is in this country a great deal devoted to the luxury of doing good, and this luxury is unostentatious, and vaunteth not itself, while folly and preposterousness delight in an insulting publicity. But let us turn again to Goldsmith :

"Even now,

where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down, a pensive hour to spend ;

And placed on high, above the storm's career,
Look downward where a hundred realms appear,
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide,
The pomp of kings-the shepherd's humbler pride.
When thus creation's charms around combine,
Amidst the store should thankless pride repine?
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain

That good which makes each humbler bosom vain?"

The philosopher answers in the negative, and wisely resolves that his universal sympathy should take in all, and rejoice with all the good that he beholds, whether it be humble or elevated

in its character.

But then comes the natural

feeling of the unsatisfyingness of the whole world to the human soul, which, by the constitution which its Maker has given it, yearns after something better-after a less broken happiness, a less chequered condition :

"As some lone miser, visiting his store,

Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er;
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still.
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies;
Yet oft a sigh prevails and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard of human bliss so small;
And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find
Some spot to real happiness consign'd,

Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest,
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest."

What an exquisite aspiration of benevolence! The lines that follow possess an energy which is perhaps the rarest excellence in Goldsmith's poetry:

"But where to find that happiest spot below
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own;
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease;
The naked negro, panting at the Line,
Boasts of his golden sands, and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave;
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,
His first, best country, ever is his home.”

All these fine and touching ideas are to be

found in the prologue of one short poem by Goldsmith! How different from the inane verbosity which book makers now-a-days amass into volumes.

DESPOTISM AND OBEDIENCE.

DESPOTISM, when viewed as the attribute of a person or a party, is unspeakably hateful. The exercise of mere power upon the uncontrolled suggestion of human wilfulness-of the slow mistakes of prejudice, or the impetuous injustice of passion-is frightful to behold, and every honest and courageous man ought to resist it by all lawful means. Nevertheless "the despotism of the law"-though there may be some degree of needless pomposity in the expression-signifies an excellent thing, well worthy of the respect of society. The despotism of the law is the direct antagonist of personal or party despotism. I speak not now of countries where the will of an individual is law, and where consequently the law is as unstable as the temper of him who makes it. I speak of our own country, where law is a deliberate and solemnly arranged thing, to which the consent of various ranks and classes of the people is necessary. In such a case, the despotism of the law is to party or personal despotism, as the judgment of the whole is to the

wilfulness of a part. The only true representation which exists of the judgment or deliberate will of the whole nation, is that which the law affords. When any body of men, no matter what their station may be, who have not the authority to make laws, presume to set up their will in opposition to the law's decree, they make an insolent attempt to exercise despotism, and they deserve to be punished. Such a body of men, though they should be those who take a part in the making of laws, are yet but a part, and it is insolent tyranny if they set up their will against the judgment of the whole, which is expressed in the law of the land.

Some people think that there is something very fine in despotism. It touches their imagination, and they look upon it as the poetry of power. This is the rhodomontade of sentiment -it is unspoken rhapsody-and, when brought under the consideration of sober judgment, is discovered to be sheer folly. Power is indeed a grand thing; but if severed from wisdom and benevolence, it is at best a Satanic grandeur. When united with a waspish temper and a strutting vanity, its grandeur is lost, and it becomes merely hateful and disgusting. Moreover, religion dictates, and experience teaches, that the true elevation of humanity lies at the opposite pole. He that humbleth himself shall be exalted. It is well said by Mr. Farquhar Tupper, in his "Proverbial Philosophy :"

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