very comedy; so much more did he gird hypocrisy and pretension in general than in the particular: but Charles the Second said of him after his death, that he had "not left a better man behind him in England." His partisanship, his politics, his clever satire, his once admired "metaphysical" poetry, as Johnson calls it, nobody any longer cares about; but still, as Pope said, We love the language of his heart.

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He has become a sort of poetical representative of all the love that existed of groves and gardens in those days -of parterres, and orchards, and stately old houses; but above all, of the cottage; a taste for which, as a gentleman's residence, seems to have originated with him, or at least been first avowed by him; for we can trace it no farther back. “A small house and a large garden" was his aspiration; and he obtained it. Somebody, unfortunately, has got our Cowley's Essays—we don't reproach him, for it is a book to keep a good while; but they contain a delightful passage on this subject, which should have been quoted. Take, however, an extract or two from the verses belonging to those Essays. They will conclude this part of our subject well: Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good! Hail, ye plebeian underwood!

Where the poetic birds rejoice,

And for their quiet nests and plenteous food,
Pay with their grateful voice.

Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying,
Hear the soft winds above me flying,

With all their wanton boughs dispute,
And the more tuneful birds to both replying,
Nor be myself, too, mute.

Ah! wretched and too solitary he,
Who loves not his own company!

He'll feel the weight of it many a day,
Unless he call in sin or vanity,

To help to bear 't away.

When Epicurus to the world had taught

That Pleasure was the Chiefest Good,

(And was, perhaps, i' th' right, if rightly understood,) His life he to his doctrine brought,

And in a garden's shade that sovereign pleasure sought.

Where does the wisdom and the power divine

In a more bright and sweet reflection shine-
Where do we finer strokes and colours see
Of the Creator's real poetry,

Than when we with attention look

Upon the third day's volume of the book?
If we could open and intend our eye,
We all, like Moses, should espy,

Ev'n in a bush, the radiant Deity.

In the Salonian garden's noble shade,
Which by his own imperial hands was made.
I see him smile, methinks, as he does talk
With the ambassadors, who come in vain
To entice him to a throne again.

show

"If I, my friends," said he, "should to you
All the delights which in these gardens grow,
'Tis likelier much that you should with me stay,
Than 'tis that you should carry me away;
And trust me not, my friends, if every day
I walk not here with more delight,

Than ever, after the most happy fight,

In triumph to the capitol I rode,

To thank the gods, and to be thought, myself, almost a god."

A noble line that-long and stately as the triumph which it speaks of. Yet the Emperor and the Poet agreed in preferring a walk down an alley of roses. There was nothing so much calculated to rebuke or bewilder them there, as in the faces of their fellowcreatures, even after the "happiest fight."

shall round our subject properly by finishing the circle where we began it; and in order to render our plan as complete as possible, we have not been without a sense of chronological order. In resuming, therefore, the subject of Etna, we proceed to regard the mountain in relation to the impression it makes on modern times and existing inhabitants.

The reader is aware that our Jar was not intended to be associated with nothing but sweets. Bees, it was observed, extract honey from the bitterest as well as sweetest flowers; and we only stipulated, as they do, for a sweet result;-for something, which by the fact of its being deducible from bitterness, shows the tendency of Nature to that dulcet end, and gives a lesson to her creature man to take thought and warning, and do as much for himself. In truth, were man heartily to do so, and leave off asking Nature to superintend everything for him, and take the trouble off his hands, which it seems a manifest condition of things that she should not (man looking very like an experiment to see how far he can develop the energies of which he is composed, and prove himself worthy of continuance), how are we to know that he would not get rid of all such evils as do not appear to be necessary to his well-being, and, in the language of the great Eastern poet, make "the morning stars sing for joy ?"—sing for joy, that another heaven