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resemble Herminius clothed in a coat of mail; the warriors perceive the helmet, the lance, and the dazzling plume; they expect to meet with equal force; they begin the onset with violence, and the first wound cuts to the heart.

Injustice may not only destroy female happiness and peace, but it may detach the heart from the first object of its affections; who knows whether the effects produced by slander may not sometimes obliterate truth from the memory? Who can tell whether the authors of this calumny, having already embittered life, may not even after death deprive an amiable woman of those regrets which are universally due to her memory?

In this description I have hitherto portrayed only the injustice of men towards any distinguished female :—is not that of her own sex equally to be feared? Do they not secretly endeavour to awaken the ill will of men against her? Will they ever unite, in order to aid, to defend, and support her in her path of difficulty?

Nor is this all: opinion seems to exempt men from all those attentions usually paid to the sex in all that concerns an individual, whose superior abilities are generally allowed; towards such, men may be ungrateful, deceitful, and ill designing, without being called to account by the public." Is she not an extraordinary woman?" Every thing is comprised in these words: she is left to the strength of her own mind, to struggle as she can with her afflictions. The interest usually inspired by females, the power which is the safeguard of men, all fail her at once: she drags on her isolated existence like the Parias of India, amongst all those distinct classes, into none of which she can never be admitted, and who consider her as fit only to live by herself, as an object of curiosity, perhaps of envy, although, in fact, deserving of the utmost commiseration.



An English Eclogue, by Southey, but not in his Works,


WHOM are they ushering from the world, with all This pageantry and long parade of Death?


A long parade, indeed, Sir; and yet here
You see but half; round yonder bend it reaches
A furlong farther, carriage behind carriage.


'Tis but a mournful sight, and yet the pomp Tempts me to stand a gazer.

Yonder schoolboy,

Who plays the truant, says, the Proclamation
Of Peace was nothing to the show; and even
The chairing of the members at election
Would not have been a finer sight than this,
Only that red and green are prettier colours
Than all this mourning. There, Sir, you behold
One of the red-gown'd Worthies of the City,
The envy and the boast of our Exchange,
Aye, what was worth, last week, a good half million,
Screw'd down in yonder hearse.

Then he was born

Under a lucky planet, who to-day
Puts mourning on for his inheritance.


When first I heard his death, that very wish
Leap'd to my lips; but now the closing scene
Of the comedy hath waken'd wiser thoughts;
And I bless God, that when I go to the grave,
There will not be the weight of wealth like his
To sink me down.


The Camel and the Needle

Is that, then, in your mind?


Even so. The text

Is Gospel wisdom. I would ride the Camel-
Yea, leap him flying, through the Needle's eye,
As easily as such a pamper'd soul

Could pass the narrow gate.

Your pardon, Sir.
But sure this lack of Christian charity
Looks not like Christian truth.

Your pardon too, Sir,

If, with this text before me, I should feel

In the preaching mood But for these barren fig-trees,

With all their flourish and their leafiness,
We have been told their destiny and use,
When the axe is laid unto the root, and they
Cumber the earth no longer.

Was his wealth

Stor'd fraudfully, the spoil of orphans wrong'd,
And widows who had none to plead their right?


All honest, open, honourable gains,
Fair legal interest, bonds and mortgages,
Ships to the East and West.

Stranger. Why judge you, then, So hardly of the dead?


For what he left

Undone ;-for sins, not one of which is mention'd
In the Ten Commandments. He, I warrant him,
Believ'd no other gods than those of the Creed:
Bow'd to no idols-but his money-bags:
Swore no false oaths, except at the Custom-house :
Kept the Sabbath idle: built a monument
To honour his dead father: did no murder:
Was too old-fashioned for adultery;
Never pick'd pockets: never bore false witness;
And never, with that all-commanding wealth,
Coveted his neighbour's house, nor ox, nor ass.

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But the poor man rung never at his door;
And the old beggar at the public gate,
Who, all the summer long, stands hat in hand,
He knew how vain it was to lift an eye
To that hard face. Yet he was always found
Among your ten and twenty pound subscribers,
Your benefactors in the Newspapers.
His alms were money put to interest
In the other world, donations to keep open
A running charity-account with Heaven:
Retaining fees against the last assizes,
When, for the trusted talents, strict account
Shall be required from all, and the old arch lawyer
Plead his own cause as plaintiff.



I must needs

Believe you, Sir; these are your witnesses,
These mourners here, who from their carriages
Gape at the gaping crowd. A good March wind
Were to be pray'd for now, to lend their eyes
Some decent rheum. The very hireling mute
Bears not a face blanker of all emotion
Than the old servant of the family!

How can this man have liv'd, that thus his death
Cost not the soiling one white handkerchief!!!

Who should lament for him, Sir, in whose heart
Love had no place, nor natural charity?
The parlour spaniel, when she heard his step,
Rose slowly from the hearth, and stole aside
With creeping pace; she never rais'd her eyes'
To woo kind words from him, nor laid her head
Uprais'd upon his knee, with fondling whine.
How could it be but thus! Arithmetic
Was the sole science he was ever taught.
The Multiplication-table was his Creed,
His Paternoster, and his Decalogue.

When yet he was a boy, and should have breath'd
The open air and sunshine of the fields,

To give his blood its natural spring and play,
He in a close and dusky counting-house,
Smoke-dried, and sear'd, and shrivel'd up his heart.
So, from the way in which he was trained up,
His feet departed not; he toil'd and moil'd,
Poor muckworm! through his threescore years and ten,
And when the earth shall now be shovel'd on him,
If that which serv'd him for a soul were still
Within its husk, 'twould still be dirt to dirt.


Yet your next Newspapers will blazon him
For industry and honourable wealth
A bright example.


Even half a million

Gets him no other praise. But come this way

Some twelvemonths hence, and you will find his virtues

Trimly set forth in lapidary lines,

Faith with her torch beside, and little Cupids
Dropping upon his urn their marble tears.

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From a very rare Volume of old Poetry.

The Fountaines smoake, and yet no flames they shewe;
Starres shine all night though undeserned by day;
And Trees does spring, yet are not seene to growe;

And Shadowes moove, although they seeme to stay:
In Winter's woe is buried Summer's blisse,
And Love loves most, when Love most secret is.
The stillest streame descries the greatest deepe;

The clearest skie is subject to a shower;
Conceit's most sweete when as it seemes to sleepe;

And fairest dayes doe in the morning lower.
The silent groves sweete nymphs they cannot misse,
For Love loves most where Love most secret is.

The rarest jewels hidden virtue yeeld,

The sweete of traffique is a secret gaine,
The yeere once old doth shew a barren field,

And plants seeme dead, and yet they spring again.
Cupid is blind; the reason why, is this,
Love loveth most when Love most secret is.

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