Imatges de pÓgina

Putting up for sale a number
Of rare wits, like household lumber!
Many of the wisest sconces
Did not fetch the price of dunce's,
And for laugher's and for cryer's 3
There were neither bidders, buyers !
Knowing not in London town
If for philosophic crown
Up the market was or down,
But believing that a Vice
Always brings a liberal price !
Motley is the name I bear,
Motley is the coat I wear.

stoic, who gives some extraordinary specimens of his logic, and for whom there is a great competition, is knocked down for twelve Minæ. A peripatetic, or double person, (exoteric and esoteric) with his physical knowledge, brings twenty Minæ. Pyrrho, the sceptic, comes at last, who after having been disposed of, and in the hands of the buyer, is still in doubt whether he has been sold or not!

3 A Philosopher of Ephesus, founder of a sect named after himself. Flourished from 500 to 425, B. C. * “ Once more, Democritus, arise on earth,

With cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth,
See motley life in modern trappings dress’d,
And feed with varied fools th' eternal jest.”

Dr. Johnson. 6 How the Sage was rewarded will be seen by the following extract from an autograph letter (in the possession of Uncle Timothy) written by the excellent and learned Elizabeth Carter to Miss Highmore, dated April 23, 1752.

“I extremely honour the just indignation you express

Invited,4 I before had come,
But that I should, abash'd and dumb,
Have from your Sage received the shell
He struck so wisely and so well !
When in of Greece the early age
I strutted, fretted on life's stage
The character to me assign'd
Puzzled the Athenian mind.
For in my

brain the civic train
Suspecting something not quite sane,
Forced Hippocrates their fees on
To set once more right my reason.
Sitting in my quiet cottage,

at the cold reception which has been given by a stupid, trifling, ungrateful world to the RAMBLER. You may conclude by my calling names in this courageous manner, that I am as zealous in the cause of this excellent paper as yourself. But we may both comfort ourselves that an author who has employed the noblest powers of genius and learning, the strongest force of understanding, the most beautiful ornaments of eloquence in the service of Virtue and Religion can never sink into oblivion, however he may be at present too little regarded.”

Me, poor man! my library
Was dukedom large enough.”
Uncle Timothy had been thinking of the nest-like little
domicile of Democritus when he wrote the following

One of those neat quiet nooks
That into a garden looks
Give me for myself and books,


Not exactly in my dotage !
No shrewish wife, no stupid kin,

And let it be
Where resounds the huntsman's horn,
Where wave fields of golden corn,
And the birds sing to the morn

Right merrily!
Let, each tuneless pause to fill,
Ripple nigh a murmuring rill,
And, O, music sweeter still!

From village spire
Glittering with celestial rays,
On returning holy-days
Call me forth to prayer and praise

A pealing choir!
Round the walls of my retreat,
Pictured, let the poets meet,
Whom to look upon is sweet,

And fondly mark
How, in each expressive face
(Tinged by joy or sorrow's grace)
We the mind immortal trace,

That heavenly spark !
Charm’d by fancy, taught by truth,
Ye were dear to me in sooth
In the green leaf of my youth!

Now in the sear,
Better known and understood,
Ye are still more wise, more good
Solacers of my solitude!

And doubly dear!

7 “Who, having claw'd or cuddled into bondage

The thing misnamed a husband—” Tobin.

No duns without, no quacks within,
I saw the learned leech elate

Ye have made (it else had been
A troubled sojourn !) life serene,
And strew'd my path (not always green!)

With fairest flow'rs,
Immortal blossoms of the mind
In beauty born, by taste refined,
Garlands gloriously entwined,

For lonely hours!
Freshen’d by the morning dews
Let a friend who loves the Muse
His well-temper’d wit infuse,

And tell the time
(Seated in my woodbine shade)
When we two together stray'd
Making vocal grove and glade

With wizard rhyme!
And having struck the balance fair
"Twixt what we are, and what we were,
And reckon'd how much cross and care

Our path beset,
With what strength (not ours) we've striven,
Can we hope to be forgiven
hat we humbly owe to heaven

If we forget ?
The leaves of memory turning o'er,
Loved, lost companions we deplore;
Yet we shall meet, to part no more !

Let that content
'Till nearer still the prospect grows
Of the dark valley of repose,
And in the arms of death we close

A life well-spent.

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Unlatch my little garden gate.
Putting on his conjuring cap,
In hopes my vagrant wits to trap !
From his pocket peep'd a packet
Very like a certain jacket !
Giving his head a shake or two,
And looking wise-as doctors do!


O, let me still in heart be young!
And still let tuneful be my tongue!
For I would not be one among

The sordid old,
Cumberers of the ground they tread!
To every social feeling dead,
And but (with sorrow be it said)

Alive to gold.
8 And add to these retired Leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure.

Il Penseroso. The disciples of Epicurus were styled “Philosophers of the Garden” from that, which Epicurus had planted at Athens. Cimon embellished the groves of Academus with trees, walks, and fountains; and Cicero enumerates a garden as one of the more suitable employments for old age. “I have measured, dug, and planted the large garden which I have at the gates of Babylon,” said Cyrus, “ and never, when my health permits, do I dine until I have labored in it two hours. If there is nothing to be done, I labor in my orchard.” Atticus planted a garden after his own elegant taste, and Lucullus enjoyed the society of his friends and the delicious wine of Falernian in his splendid gardens. Sir William Temple gave orders for his heart to be enclosed in a silver casket, and placed under a sun-dial in that part of his garden, immediately opposite the window of his library. Pope and Cowper

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