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upon the absolute necessity of mental tranquillity to the accomplishment of some of the highest flights of mind. Juvenal broached the same doctrine, and Dryden dilated it. The correctness of the opinion is not to be called in question.

For the exercise, or rather diversion of Poetry, there is nothing that requires so much serenity and cheerfulness of spirit: it must not be overwhelmed with the cares of life, or overcast with the clouds of melancholy or sorrow, or shaken and disturbed by the storms of injurious fortune. It must, like the halcyon, have fair weather to breed in. The soul must be filled with bright and delightful ideas, where it undertakes to come municate delight to others; which is the main end of poesy, One may see through the style of Ovid de Tristibus, the humbled and dejected condition of spirit with which he wrote it; there scarce remains any footstep of that genius,

" Quem nec Jovis ira, nec ignes, &c." The cold of the country had strucken through all his faculties, and benumbed the very feet of his verses. He is himself like one of the slaves of his own metamorphosis; and, though there remain some weak resemblances of Ovid at Rome, it is but, as he, says of Niobe,

In vultu color est seni sanguine, lumina mæstis
Stant immota gr-nis: nihil, est imagine vivim

FLET tamen. The truth is, for a man to write well, it is necessary to be in good humour; neither is wit less eclipsed with the unquietness of mind, than beauty with the indisposition of the body. So that it is almost as hard a thing to be a poet in despite of Fortune, as it is in despite of Nature,

Miss

N h ad all her relations assembled to advise, and give her permission to cut a wen on her forehead. A short time after, she fell desperately in love with an adventurer, and married him, without asking advice of any one. How many women resemble miss N ?

OBITUARY.-FOR THE PORT FOLIO.
Died, in Newburyport, Mrs. MARY WHITE, consort of the
Hon. DANIEL A. White, aged twenty-nine years.

"O) 'tis well with her,
But who knows what the coming hour,

Veil'd in thick darkness, brings to us?” It is the solace and support of Christians, amid the gloom and the depravities of life, that their Divine Master has indeed never left himself without witness. His blessed promise, “ Lo! I am with you alway,is never forgotten; and some pure and spotless spirit, has still been permitted to remain on earth, to remind us of our relation to heaven; to instruct us, by its virtues, how to act; to learn us, from its sorrows, how we should suffer; and, at length, intertwining round our hearts the golden and silken cords of piety and love, to draw us in the still “ linger. ing light of its upward track," to its own blissful mansions of virfue and repose! When such a one goes before us, it is impossible to speak what we feel; to describe our own sense of the loss, or give others an idea of its poignancy. Yet is it proper and fit, that those who loved Mrs. White as fondly as ourselves, should share our sympathy, and that those who knew her not, should be told of the inspired talents, the refined and trembling sensibility, the mild, silent, and elevated virtues, which bless and embalm her memory. A mind of brilliant and commanding genius, all whose energies had been fostered and cultivated to an unrivalled extent, united its expression in her features, with that of feelings ardent, chastened, and sublime. Her countenance, indeed, discovered something so unobtrusively interesting, so unearthly, so spiritual, that we could only regard it as an image of the impress of God on the soul, when it first came forth in the morning of creation, lovely, meek, and amiable from the hands of its Maker. Her society and her writings breathed the purest spirit of piety, of benevolence, and religion. These, indeed, were her muses. “They inspired her conversation, as they animated her life; and she never approached the sacred ground on which they dwelt, without an expansion of mind, and elevation of language." I knew her once, when her spirit was

buoyant as the breath of summer; joyous, animated, and sportive as the bland visions of youthful fancy; when light and happiness were scattered in her path; when she appeared only to cheer, to console, and to bless; when her gentle spirit flew out to meet the mourner; when her pittance was shared with those, “ who are not the world's friends, and her bountiful hand scattered food to the hungry, and raiment to the naked.” I knew her too, when, as if to show that the “smiles of religion can banish its tears,' that the heart is sometimes permitted, even here, to shine forth in all its moral sublimity and grandeur, the hand of God was laid heavily upon her, and her languishing body seemed sinking to earth, as it were, to exhibit in broader and fairer light, the purged sanctity of her soaring and celestial spirit. It appeared, indeed, totally abstracted from the world, its pleasures, its affections, and its bonds; separated from time and sense, its interests, and its kindred. Her eyes beaming with that hallowed splendour, which sometimes irradiates them before they are to “ close forever," seemed fixed on the smiles of her Saviour, and her soul bending before the footstool of her God. One would almost have thought her shadowy form, that “incorruptible body, which is destined to be the soul's last covering.”

May that gracious Being, who is the wisdom of God, and the power of God, who was himself once on earth, to bear our sorrows, and expiate our sins, support the heart-broken mourners, under the dispensation which has taken her to himself. May he bind up where he has bruised; may he heal where he has smitten, and pour balm where he has wounded.

O! from her sorrows, may we learn to live: .
O! from her triumphs, may we learn to die.

The strictures on the Drama, accompanied by a critique on Mr. Payne, are postponed for want of room.

TO THE PUBLIC. During the autumnal and midsummer months of the last year, which has forever fled away, on the pinions of Time, the Editor of this Journal was compelled to relinquish its duties, and to be regardless of its delights, in consequence of the furious onset of three potent adversaries, Sickness, Sorrow, and Adversity. Under the ardency of the summer solstice, and while *the dog star's unfropitious ray was flaming, he was confined to the couch of Languor and Anguish; and, in the decline of autumn, he was afflicted by one of the most tremendous domestic calamities, which can agonize the Sensibility, nourish the Melancholy, and overpower the Fortitudet of man. The influence of infirm health, in marring the operations, both of manual and mental industry, is familiar to every patient, as well as to every physician; and when to corporeal Pain and yawning Lassitude, the "Sickness of the Soul" is superadded, from such an abhorred alliance all the brilliant powers of Invention, and all the strong body guards of Labour keep obstinately aloof, or fly timidly away. The pen of the readiest writer corrodes in the standish; his papers and projects reposing, ingloriously, on the shelves of dust, or in the pigeon holes of oblivion. His desk is overthrown, his manuscripts are mouldy, and his vase, of ink is as dry, as the vessel of the gospel outcast, while wandering in the parched wilderness of Beersheba. What Johnson emphatically calls the load of life, is then truly wearisome. Society presents nothing to gladden, and Solitude nothing to sooth. In vain do we fly to the sequestered shades of the country. Let allthe beauties of Nature solicit our notices—let all the diver

* Pope.

+ The allusion is to the regretted demise of one of the dearest and most renerable of his family friends. A mortuary and biographical sketch of the late Mr. DENNIE will appear from the pen of his son, as soon as the excited sensibility of the latter will allow him to do ample justice to the merits, and to hallow the memory of the deceased. Of this amiable and accomplished parent, a very elegant eulogy has been pronounced in many of the public papers, by a faithful friend of the family, and one of the most eloquent Lawyers in Newengland. Edmund Burke.

Dr. Jolinson.
VOL. VII.

sities of Pleasure court our acceptance-let the birds carol enchantingly in the grove, and the flowers bloom odoriferously in the meadow; let the breeze whisper softly in the wood, and the sun dance gayly on the water; each rural sight, each rural sound* is equally lost to him, who is under the dominion of that relentless Power, which the poet Gray energetically calls the TAMER OF THE HUMAN BREAST,

Whose iron scourge, and torturing hour

The bad affright, afflict the best.

By one, who was himself a severe sufferer, it has been remarked, with truth and eloquence, that there are, perhaps, very few conditions more to be regretted than that of an active mind, labouring under the weight of a distempered body. The time of such a man is always spent in forming schemes, which a change of wind hinders him from executing; his powers fume away in projects and in hope, and the day of action never arrives. He lies down, delighted with the thoughts of to-morrow, pleases his Ambition with the Fame he shall acquire, or his Benevolence with the Good he shall impart. But in the night the skies are overcast, the temper of the air is changed, he wakes in languor, impatience and distraction, and has no longer any wish but for ease, nor any attention but to misery. It may be said that Disease generally begins that equality, which Death completes; the distinctions, which set one man so much above another, are very little perceived in the gloom of a sick chamber, where it will be vain to expect entertainment from the gay, or instruction from the wise; where all human glory is obliterated, the wit is clouded, the reasoner perplexed, and the hero subdued; where the highest and brightest of mortal beings finds nothing left him but the consciousness of innocence.

This dismal description of the despotism of Discase the Editor feels to be no fable. Partially rescued from the galling shackles of Pain, he is now so far convalescent, as to invoke, with languid voice, some inspiration from the Muse.

* Cowper

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