Putting up for sale a number Of rare wits, like household lumber! Did not fetch the price of dunce's, stoic, who gives some extraordinary specimens of his logic, "Once more, Democritus, arise on earth, 5 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, I before had come, But that I should, abash'd and dumb, 5 Have from your Sage received the shell 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." 6 “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 WISH. 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, Let, each tuneless pause to fill, Call me forth to prayer and praise Round the walls of my retreat, Whom to look upon is sweet, How, in each expressive face That heavenly spark! Charm'd by fancy, taught by truth, Ye were dear to me in sooth In the green leaf of my youth! Better known and understood, Ye are still more wise, more good And doubly dear! 7 "Who, having claw'd or cuddled into bondage The thing misnamed a husband—” Tobin. No duns without, no quacks within, Ye have made (it else had been And strew'd my path (not always green!) Immortal blossoms of the mind In beauty born, by taste refined, Freshen❜d by the morning dews (Seated in my woodbine shade) And having struck the balance fair Our path beset, With what strength (not ours) we've striven, Can we hope to be forgiven What we humbly owe to heaven If we forget? The leaves of memory turning o'er, "Till nearer still the prospect grows And in the arms of death we close A life well-spent. Unlatch my little garden gate. Putting on his conjuring cap, In hopes my vagrant wits to trap! O, let me still in heart be young! Cumberers of the ground they tread! And but (with sorrow be it said) 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 |