Hist Div WZ 350 K36c 1892 jutions ot Physicians to English and American Literature. By Robert C. Kenncr, A. M., M. D, 5£S^^^^ THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES GIFT OF Dr. E. BELT GASTRIC DERANGEMENTS HORSFORD'S ACID PHOSPHATE. Unlike all other forms of phosphorus in combination, such as dilute phosphoric acid, glacial phosphoric acid, neutral phosphate of lime, hypo- phosphites, etc., the phosphates in this product are in solution, and readily assimilable by the system, and it not only causes no trouble with the digestive organs, but promotes in a marked degree their healthful action. In certain forms of dyspepsia it acts as a specific. Dr. H. R. Merville, Milwaukee, Wis., says: " I regard it as val- uable in the treatment of gastric derangements affecting digestion." Dr. E. Osborne. Mason City, la., says: "I consider it a valuable addition to the remedies in use for the relief of gastric disorders depend- ent on enervation." Dr. Albert Day, Superintendent of the Washington Home, B©s- ton, says: " For several years I have used it in cases of alcoholism and gastric irritation. It is of special value." Dr. T. G. CoMSTOCK, of the Good Samaritan Hospital, St. Louis, says: " For some years we have used it in a variety of derane:ements characterized by debility, as also in chronic gastric ailments. It is ap- proved of, unanimously, by the medical staff of this Hospital." Dr. G. W. Whitney, Marshall, Minn., says: "I have used it in debility of the nervous system, and deranged condition of all the secre- tory organs. I esteem it highly." Send for descriptive circular. Physicians who wish to test it will be furnished a bottle on application, without expense except express charges. Prepared under the direction of Prof. E. N. Horsford, by the EUMPOED CHEMICAL WORKS, Providence, R. I. Beware of Substitutes and Imitations. CAUTION:— Jie sure the tvord " ITorsford's " is Printed on the label. All others are spurious. Never sold in bulk. CONTRIBUTIONS OF PHYSICI/INS TO ENGLISH AND /MERICAN LITERATURE. BY ROBERT C. KENNER, A. M., M. D. 1892. GEORGE S. DAVIS, DETROIT, MICH. Copyrighted by GEORGE S. DA^^S. 1892. c<^ THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO MR. PAUL KRATZ, OF LOUISVILLE, KY., EETWEEN WHOM AND THE AUTHOR THERE HAS EXISTED THE WARMEST FRIENDSHIP SINCE THE FIRST MOMENT OF THEIR ACQUAINTANCE. PREFACE. The object of this little volume is to give an account of the activity of physicians in the field of general literature. It is impossible in a volume of this size to give more than an outline of the subject, and I have considered only the most prominent authors. Anything like a complete list would require several large volumes. I have frequently used selections which are used in Chambers' and in Cleveland's works on English literature, and here make acknowledgment. ROBERT C. KENNER. Louisville, Kv , July i, 1S92. CONTRIBUTIONS OF PHYSICIANS TO ENGLISH AND AMERICAN LITERATURE. *' But the knowledge of nature is only half the task of a poet; he must be acquainted likewise with all the modes of life. His character requires that he estimate the happiness and misery of every condition; observe the power of all the passions in all their combinations, and trace the changes of the human mind as they are modified by various institu- tions and accidental influences of climate or custom, from the sprightliness of infancy to the despondence of decrepitude. * * * His labor is not yet at an end; he must know many languages and many sciences." — Samuel Johnson. The writer of prose or poetry who would produce works which contain thoughts and inferences which will go down to posterity must of necessity be ac- quainted with the passions of men in all grades of society. Mere scholarship can never make up this want, and the monk, versed in all the erudition of the ages, would come far short of producing poems which would touch the heart of a nation as do those of Robert Burns. Shakespeare was acquainted with the hopes and fears of all classes. He was really a man of all the people, and had mingl-ed in their loves and hates and known the slavery of poverty and the lib- erty of wealth, and he was the greatest interpreter of the human heart and mind that has ever given the resources of his study to the world. Blair properly defined poetry to be " the language of passion." Without an acquaintance with the doings of the low, the great, the wise, and the simple, it is not easy to imagine how a poet, a man of genius, can breathe into his productions the breath of passion. Of course, being learned, he could imitate, but the imitation would be transparent and altogether lack the color- ing of nature, which is obtained by contact with the world, and which makes the idealistic creature of the true poet a real personage. Those authors, then, who have left behind works which will always be read and cherished, have been children of nature and citi- zens of the actual world, have known how hardships affect the heart, and been participants in the struggle with opposition and disappointment for place and recognition in the world. When one reads the "Traveller," he feels with Goldsmith that love of country which beams through- out the poem, and he enters with delight into those splendid meditations upon the countries through which he roamed as a wandering musician. Goldsmith knew the common ambitions^ passions, and aims of the people in all these countries, and easily turned this treasured knowledge into immortal verse. Now the physician, more than any other man in society, occupies the position to observe the ways and passions of all. He is called when death is about to remove the loved one — 3 — from the family circle, and is almost daily called to witness the most vivid depictures of the passions. He goes to the palace of the rich, and to the poor man's hovel, and to the den of wickedness, where he often has to remain long, and of course is compelled to learn more or less of their actions, superstitions, and modes of life. To him the matron and the maid, the saint and the sinner, open their hearts, and nothing is withheld. He is then eminently in the place to observe all those qualities of heart and mind which form such a large part of the poet's essential knowl- edge. I shall not go back much beyond the Eliza- bethan period. Beyond that time the medical sci- ences had not begun the great strides which charac- terize their march after Harvey's discovery. This brilliant period of intellectual vigor, like every subse- quent 'one, has witnessed a number of physicians who have found rest and recreation in their contributions to literature. I shall consider as the starting point of this -essay, then, the time which may be looked upon as the period when the discovery of the circulation of the blood may be said to have gained common recog- nition. It is well known to all students of medical literature that many refused to believe in Harvey's discovery. A poet, whose fame is imperishable and whose heart was filled with poetic sympathies, was Henry Vaughan (1621-1695). He was always poor, and the — 4 — history of his Hfe is the record of many sad and rigorous experiences. Yet his poems show that the fire of true genius lit up his way. It has been said that his poems are harsh, and Campbell is not disposed to give the poet great credit. I believe those who read his poems with an honest desire to discern his excellences will not fail to find them beset with some of the most radiant gems that scintillate in the coronet of the truly inspired bard. He was a devoted Chris- tian, and his works are largely of a religious character. The following specimens of his poetry will give the reader an idea of his powers and the tenor of his thoughts: EARLY RISING AND PRAYER. When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave To do the like; our bodies but forerun The spirit's duty: true hearts spread and heave Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun; Give Him thy first thoughts then, so shalt thou keep Him company all day, and in Him sleep. Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer should Dawn with the day: there are set awful hours 'Twixt heaven and us; the manna was not good After sun rising; far day sullies flowers: Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth. sins glut. And heaven's gate opens when the world's is shut. Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the hush And whisperings amongst them. Not a spiing Or leaf but hath his morning hymn; each bush And oak doth know I Am, Can'st thou not sing? O leave thy cares and follies ! Go this way, And thou art sure to prosper all the day. — 5 — Serve God before the world: let Him not go Until thou hast a blessing; then resign The whole under Him. and remember who Prevailed by wrestling ere the sun did shine; Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin, Then journey on. and have an eye to heaven. Mornings are mysteries; the first the world's youth, Man's resurrection, and the future's bud, Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth. Is styled their star; the stone and hidden food; Three blessings wait upon them, one of which Should move— they make us holy, happy, rich. When the world's up, and every swarm abroad, Keep well thy temper, mix not with each clay; Despatch necessities; life hath a load Which must be carried on and safely may; Yet keep those cares withaut thee; let the heart Be God's alone, and choose the better part, THE RAINBOW. Still young and fine, but what is still in view We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new. How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring eye Thy burnished flaming arch did first descry; When Zerah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, The youthful world's gray fathers, in one knot Did with intentive looks watch every hour For thy new light, and tremble at each shower ! And when thou doth shine, darkness looks white and fair; Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air; Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours — 6 — Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. Bright pledge of peace and sunshine, the sure tie Of thy Lord's hand, the object of His eye ! When I behold thee, though my light be dim. Distinct and low, I can in thine see Him, Who looks upon thee from His glorious throne. And minds the covenant betwixt all and One. John Locke (1632-1704). — One of the most re- splendent intellects which has ever dawned upon this planet was that of John Locke. He left to posterity his essay " On Human Understanding " and other great works which have enriched our literature in a monumental manner. Locke was the son of a gentle- man of small fortune, and received his education mostly at Oxford. He had not been practicing medi- cine long before he was called to attend the Earl of Shaftesbury. He succeeded in relieving or curing this nobleman of a troublesome affection, and the patient, as is many times the case, became warmly attached to his physician; for years they were friends, and his fortune rose and fell with that of the Earl. He was forced at one time on account of political persecutions to fly to Holland for an asylum. While stopping in Holland, he was often compelled to remain hidden in the most secluded portions of the country to avoid detection and capture by relentless enemies. But when the Prince of Orange ascended the British throne he was allowed to return to his native England and live in comparative exemption from disturbance of political strife and jealousy. We give some selections taken at random from his works, which will give the reader an idea of the profundity of this great physician's intellect: "CHRISTMAS CEREMONIES AT CLEVES. " About one in the morning I went a-gossiping to our Lady. Think me not profane, for the name is a great deal modester than the service I was at. I shall not describe all the particulars I observed in that church, being the principal of the Catholics in Cleves; but only those that were particular to the occasion. Near the high altar was a little altar for this day's solemnity; the scene was a stable wherein was an ox, an ass, a cradle, the Virgin, the Babe, Joseph, shepherds, and angels, dramatis persojicB. Had they but given them motion, it had been a per- fect puppet-play, and might have deserved pence apiece; for they were of the same size and make that our English puppets are; and I am confident these shepherds and this Joseph are kin to that Judith and Holophernes which I have seen at Bartholomew Fair. A little without the stable was a flock of sheep, cut out of cards; and these, as they then stood without their shepherds, appeared to me the best emblem I had seen a long time, and methought represented these poor innocent people, who, whilst their shep- herds pretend so much to follow Christ, and pay their devotion to Him, are left unregarded in the barren — 8 — wilderness. This was the show; the music to it was all vocal in the quire adjoining, but such as I never heard. They had strong voices, but so ill-tuned, so ill-managed, that it was their misfortune, as well as ours, that they could be heard. He that could not, though he had a cold, make better music with a chevy chase over a pot of smooth ale, deserved well to pay the reckoning, and go away athirst. However, they were the honestest singing-men I have ever seen, for they endeavoured to earn their money, and earned it certainly with pains enough; for what they wanted in skill, they made up in loudness and variety. Every one had his own tune, and the result of all was like the noise of choosing parliament-men, where every one endeavours to cry loudest. Besides the men, there were a company of little choristers. I thought, when I saw them at first, they had danced to the other's music, and that it had been your Gray's Inn revels; for they were jumping up and down about a good charcoal fire that was in the middle of the quire — this their devotion and their singing was enough, I think, to keep them warm, though it were a very cold night — but it was not dancing but singing they served for; for, when it came to their turns, away they ran to their places, and there they made as good harmony as a concert of little pigs would, and they were much about as cleanly. Their part bemg done, out they sallied again to the fire, where they played till their cue called them, and then back to their — 9 — places they huddled. So negligent and slight are they in their service in a place where the nearness of adversaries might teach them to be more careful." ''CAUSES OF WEAKNESS IN MEN'S UNDERSTANDINGS. " There is, it is visible, great variety in men's understandings, and their natural constitutions put so wide a difference between some men in this respect, that art and industry would never be able to master; and their very natures seem to want a foundation to raise on it that which other men easily attain unto. Amongst men of equal education, there is great in- equality of parts. And the woods of America, as well as the schools of Athens, produce men of several abilities in the same kind. Though this be so, yet I imagine men come very short of what they might attain unto in their several degrees, by a neglect of their understandings. A few rules of logic are thought to be sufficient in this case for those who pretend to the highest improvement ; whereas I think there are a great many natural defects in the under- standing capable of amendment, which are overlooked and wholly neglected. And it is easy to perceive that men are guilty of a great many faults in the ex- ercise and improvement of this faculty of the mind, which hinder them in their progress, and keep them in ignorance and error all their lives. Some of them I shall take notice of, and endeavor to point out proper remedies for, in the following discourse. "Besides the want of determined ideas, and of sagacity and exercise in finding out and laying in order intermediate ideas, there are three m.iscarriages that men are guilty of in reference to their reason, whereby this faculty is hindered in them from that service it might do and was designed for. And he that reflects upon the actions and discourses of man- kind, will find their defects in this kind very fre- quent and very observable. " I. The first is of those who seldom reason at all, but do and think according to the example of others, whether parents, neighbors, ministers, or who else they are pleased to make choice of to have an implicit faith in, for the saving of themselves the pains and trouble of thinking and examining for themselves. '' 2. The second is of those who put passion in the place of reason, and being resolved that shall govern their actions and arguments, neither use their own, nor hearken to other people's reason, any further than it suits their humor, interest, or party; and these one may observe, commonly content themselves with words which have no distinct ideas to them, though, in other matters, that they come with an unbiased indifferency to, they want not abilities to talk and hear reason, where they have no secret inclination that hinders them from being untractable to it. " 3. The third sort is of those who readily and sincerely follow reason, but for want of having that — II — which one may call large, sound, round-about sense, have not a full view of all that relates to the question, and may be of moment to decide it. We are all short-sighted, and very often see but one side of a matter ; our views are not extended to all that has a connection with it. From this defect, I think, no man is free. We see but in part and we know but in part, and therefore it is no wonder we conclude not right from our partial views. This might instruct the proudest esteemer of his own parts how useful it is to talk and consult with others, even such as came short with him in capacity, quickness, and penetra- tion ; for since no one sees all, and we generally have different prospects of the same thing, according to our different, as I may say, positions to it, it is not in- congruous to think, nor beneath any man to try, whether another may not have notions of things which have escaped him, and which his reason would make use of if they came into his mind. " The faculty of reasoning seldom or never de- ceives those who trust to it ; its consequences from what.it builds on are evident and certain; but that which it oftenest, if not only, misleads us in, is, that the principles from which we conclude, the ground upon which we bottom our reasoning, are but a part; something is left out which should go into the reckon- ing to make it just and exact." 12 *' PLEASURE AND PAIN. " The infinitely wise Author of our being, having given us the power over several parts of our bodies, to move or keep them at rpst, as we think fit; and, also, by the motions of them, to move ourselves and contiguous bodies, in which consist all the actions of our body; having also given a power to our mind, in several instances, to choose amongst its ideas which it will think on, and to pursue the inquiry of this or that subject with consideration and attention; to ex- cite us to these actions of thinking and motion that we are capable of, has been pleased to join to several thoughts and several sensations a perception of de- light. If this were wholly separated from all our outward sensations and inward thoughts, we should have no reason to prefer one thought or action to another, negligence to attention, or motion to rest. And so we should neither stir our bodies nor employ our minds; but let our thoughts — if I may so call it — run adrift, without any direction or design; and suffer the ideas of our minds, like unregarded shadows, to make their appearances there, as it happened, without attending to them. In which state man, however furnished with the faculties of understanding and will, would be a very idle, inactive creature, and pass his time only in a lazy, lethargic dream. It has there- fore pleased our wise Creator to annex several ob- jects, and the ideas w^hich we receive from them, as also to several of our thoughts, a concomitant pleas- — 13 — ure, and that in several objects to several degrees, that those faculties which He had endowed us with might not remain wholly idle and unemployed by us. '^ Pain has the same efficacy and use to set us on work that pleasure has, we being as ready to employ our faculties to avoid that, as to pursue this; only this is worth our consideration, ' that pain is often pro- duced by the same objects and ideas that produce pleasure in us.' This, their near conjunction, which makes us often feel pain in the sensations where we expected pleasure, gives us new occasion of admiring the wisdom and goodness of our Maker, who, design- ing the preservation of our being, has annexed pain to the application of many things to our bodies, to warn us of the harm that they will do, and as advices to withdraw from them. But He, not designing our preservation barely, but the preservation of every part and organ in its perfection, hath, in many cases, an- nexed pain to those very ideas which delight us. Thus heat, that is very agreeable to us in one degree, by a little greater increase of it proves no ordinary torment; and the most pleasant of all sensible objects, light itself, if there be too much of it, if increased beyond a due proportion to our eyes, causes a very painful sensation; which is wisely and favorably so ordered by nature, that when any object does, by the vehemency of its operation, disorder the instruments of sensation, whose structures cannot but be very nice and delicate, we might by the pain be warned to — 14 — withdraw before the organ be quite put out of order, and so be unfitted for its proper function for the future. The consideration of those objects which produce it may well persuade us that this is the end or use of pain. For, though great light be insuffer- able to our eyes, yet the highest degree of darkness does not at all disease them; because that causing no disorderly motion in it, leaves that curious organ un- harmed in its natural state. But yet excess of cold, as well as heat, pains us, because it is equally destruc- tive to that temper which is necessary to the preser- vation of life, and the exercise of the several functions of the body, and which consists in a moderate degree of warmth, or, if you please, a motion of the insensible parts of our bodies, confined within certain bounds. Beyond all this we may find another reason why God hath scattered up and down several degrees of pleas- ure and pain in all the things that environ and affect us, and blended them together in almost all that our thoughts and senses have to do with; that we, finding imperfection, dissatisfaction, and want of complete happiness in all the enjoyments which the creatures can afford us, might be led to seek it in the enjoy- ment of Him ' with whom there is fullness of joy and at whose right hand are pleasures for evermore.' " "history. " The stories of Alexander and C^sar, further than they instruct us in the art ot living well and fur- — 15 — nish us with observations of wisdom and prudence, are not one jot to be preferred to the history of Robin Hood or the Seven Wise Masters. I do not deny but history is very useful and very instructive to human life; but if it be studied only for the reputation of be- ing a historian it is a very empty thing; and he that can tell all the particulars of Herodotus and Plu- tarch, Curtius and Livy, without making any other use of them, may be an ignorant man with a good memory and with all his pains hath only filled his head with Christmas tales. And, which is worse, the greatest part of the history being made up of wars and conquests, and their style, especially the Romans, speaking of valour as the chief, if not the only, virtue, we are in danger to be misled by the general current and business of history; and, looking on Alexander and Caesar, and such like heroes, as the highest in- stances of human greatness, because they each of them caused the death of several hundred thousand men, and the ruin of a much greater number, overran a great part of the earth and killed the inhabitants to possess themselves of their countries — we are apt to make butchery and rapine the chief marks and very essence of human greatness. And if civil history be a great dealer of it, and to many readers thus useless, curious and difficult inquirings in antiquity are much more so; and the exact dimensions of the Colossus, or figure of the Capitol, the ceremonies of the Greek and Roman marriages, or who it was that first coined — i6 — money; these, I confess, set a man well off in the world, especially amongst the learned, but set him very little on in his way. * * * j shall only add one word, and then conclude; and that is, that where- as in the beginning I cut off history from our study as a useless part, as certainly it is where it is read only as a tale that is told; here, on the other side, I recommend it to one who hath well settled in his mind the principles of morality, and knows how to make a judgment on the actions of men, as one of the most useful studies he can apply himself to. There he shall see a picture of the world and the nature of mankind and so learn to think of men as they are. There he shall see the rise of opmions and find from what slight and sometimes shameful occa- sions some of them have taken their rise, which yet afterwards have had great authority and passed almost for sacred in the world and borne down all before them. There also one may learn great and useful instructions of prudence and be warned against the cheats and rogueries of the world with many more advantages which I shall not here enu- merate." Sir Thomas Browne (1605-1682).— Sir Thomas Browne was an eccentric but highly intellectual gen- tleman who devoted his life to the practice of medi- cine and to the cultivation of literature as a pastime. Among his admirers were Samuel Johnson. Coleridge, — 17 — and other great literary luminaries. Dr. Browne was a zealous lover of the Latin language, and his writings abound with words which are Latin, but which are given English terminations. He traveled over Ireland and a large part of the continent of Europe, and after taking his medical degree at Ley- den he commenced the practice of his profession at Norwich. In 1642 his " Religio Medici" — The Re- ligion of a Physician — a work which at once placed him among the most philosophical writers of his time, appeared. His next work was " Pseudodoxia Epi- demica " — A Treatise on Vulgar Errors. The object of this book was to dispel many of the superstitions then currently believed by the people. An enumera- tion of the absurd beliefs which the author undertook to eradicate would be very interesting to us in the dawn of the twentieth century, but we have room for only a few. It was in Dr. Browne's time commonly believed that a crystal " was ice strongly congealed;" that diamonds could be softened and dissolved by the blood of a goat; that elephants have no joints; that storks live only in free states. Dr. Browne was without question one of the great masters in the literary history of Great Britain; he was devoted to the practice of medicine, and con- tinued in it until the conclusion of his long life. I subjoin some extracts from his works, which cannot fail to be read with pleasure: — i8 ■— "OBLIVION. *• What song the Sirens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, though puzzling questions, are not beyond all conjec- ture. What time the persons of these ossuaries entered the famous nations of the dead and slept with princes and counsellors might admit a wide solu- tion. But who were the proprietaries of these bones, or what bodies these ashes made up, were a question above antiquarianism; not to be resolved by man, not easily perhaps by spirits except we consult the pro- vincial guardians of tutelary observators. Had they made as good provision for their names as they have done for their relics, they had not so grossly erred in the art of perpetuation. But to subsist in bones, and be put pyramidally extant, is a fallacy in duration. Vain ashes, which, in the oblivion of names, persons, times, and sexes, have found unto themselves a fruit- less continuation, and only arise unto late posterity as emblems of mortal vanities, antidotes against pride, vainglory, and maddening vices. Pagan vainglories, which thought the world might last forever, had encouragement for ambition, and, finding no Atropos unto the immortality of their names, were never damped with the necessity of oblivion. Even old ambitions had the advantage of ours in the attempts of their vainglories, who, acting early and before the probable meridian of time, have by this time found — 19 — great accomplishment of their designs, whereby the ancient heroes have already outlasted their monu- ments and mechanical preservations. But in this lat- ter scene of time we cannot, expect such mummies unto our memories, when ambition may fear the prophecy of Elias: (i) and Charles V can never hope to live within two Methuselahs of Hector. (2) "And therefore restless inquietude for the diutur- nity of our memories unto present considerations, seems a vanity almost out of date and superannuated piece of folly. We cannot hope to live so long in our names as some have done in their persons ; one face of Janus holds no proportion unto the other. It is too late to be ambitious. The great mutations of the earth are acted or time may be too short for our designs. To extend our memories by monuments, whose death we daily pray for, and whose duration we cannot hope without injury to our expectations, in the advent of the last day, were a contradiction to our "beliefs. We, whose generations are ordained in this setting apart of time, are providentially taken off from such imaginations ; and being necessitated to €ye the remaining particle of futurity, are naturally constituted unto thoughts of the next world and can- not excusably decline the consideration of that dura- tion which marketh pyramid pillars of snow and all that is past a moment. " Circles and right lines limit and close all bodies, and the mortal right-lined circle (3) must close and — ■ 20 shut up all. There is no antidote against the opium of time, which temporally considereth all things. Our fathers find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us now we may be buried in our survivors. Gravestones tell truth scarce forty years. Genera- tions pass while some trees stand and old families last not three oaks. To be read by bare inscriptions like many in Gruter, (4) to hope for eternity by enigmati- cal epithets or first letters of our names, to be studied by antiquaries who we were, and have new names given us, like many of the mummies, are cold conso- lations to the students of perpetuity even by ever- lasting languages. " To be content that times to come should only know there was such a man, not caring whether they knew more of him, was a frigid ambition in Cardau; disparaging his horoscopal inclination and judgment of himself, who cares to subsist like Hippocrates' pa- tients, or Achilles' horses in Homer, under naked nominations, without deserts and noble acts, which are the balsams of our memories, the entelechia and soul of our subsistences. To be nameless in worthy deeds exceeds an infamous history. The Canaanitish woman lives more happily without a name than Herodias with one. And who had not rather been a good thief, than Pilate ? " But the iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy and deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit or perpetuity ; who can but pity the founders of the Pyramids. Herostratus lives that burnt the temple of Diana ; he is almost lost that built it ; time has spared the epitaph of Adrian's horse ; confounded that of himself. In vain we compute our felicities by the advantage of our good names, since bad have equal durations ; and Ther- sites is like to live as long as Agamemnon without the favour of the everlasting register. Who knows whether the best of men be known ; or whether there be not more remarkable persons forgot than any that stand remembered in the known accounts of time. Without the favour of the everlasting register, the first man had been as unknown as the last, and Methuselah's long life had been his only chronicle. "Oblivion is not to be hired: the greatest part must be content to be as though they had not been; to be found in the register of God not in the record of man. Twenty-seven names make up the first story of the Flood; and the recorded names ever since con- tain not one living century. The number of the dead long exceedeth all that shall live. The night of time far surpasseth the day, and who knows when was the equinox. Every hour adds unto that current arith- metic which scarce stands one moment. And since death must be the Lucina of life; and even pagans could doubt whether thus to live were to die; since our longest sun sets at right declension and makes but winter arches, and therefore it cannot be long before we lie down in darkness and have our light in ashes; since the brother of death daily haunts us with dying mementos, and time, that grows old in itself, bids us hope no long duration; diuturnity is a dream and folly of expectation. " Darkness and light divide the course of time, and oblivion shares with memory a great part even of our living beings; we slightly remember our felicities, and the smartest strokes of affliction leave but short smart upon us. Sense endureth no extremities and sorrows destroy us or themselves. To weep into stones are fables. Afflictions induce callosities; miseries are slippery, or fall off like snow upon us, which, notwithstanding, is no unhappy stupidity. To be ignorant of evils to come and forgetful of evils past, is a micrciful provision in nature, whereby we digest the mixture of our few and evil days; and our delivered senses are not relapsing into cutting remem- brances, our sorrows are not kept raw by the edge of repetitions. A great part of antiquity contented their hopes of subsistence with a transmigration of their soul — a good way to continue their memories, while, having the advantage of plural successions, they could not but act something remarkable in such variety of beings; and, enjoying the fame of their passed selves, make accumulation of glory unto their last duration. Others, rather than be lost in the uncomfortable night of nothing, were content to recede into the common being, and make one particle of the public soul of all things, which was no more — 23 — than to return into their unknown and divine original again. Egyptian ingenuity was more unsatisfied, contriving their bodies into sweet consistencies to attend the return of their souls. But all was vanity, feeding the mind and folly. The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth. Mummy is become merchandise; Miz- raim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams. * * * There is nothing strictly immortal but immortality. Whatever hath no beginning may be confident of no end, which is the peculiar of that necessary essence that cannot destroy itself, and the highest strain of omnipotency to be so powerfully constituted as not to suffer even from the power of itself; all others have a dependent being, and within the reach of destruction. But the sufficiency of Christian immortality frustrates all earthly glory, and the quality of either state after death makes a folly of posthumous memory. God, who can only destroy our souls and hath assured our resurrection, either of our bodies or names, hath directly promised no duration; wherein there is so much of chance that the boldest expect- ants have found unhappy frustration, and to hold long subsistence seems but a scape in oblivion. But man is a noble animal, splendid in ashes and pompous in the grave, solemnizing nativities and deaths with equal lustre, nor omittmg ceremonies of bravery in the infamy of his nature. * * * — 24 — Pyramids, arches, obelisks were but the irregularities of vainglory, and wild enormities of ancient magnan- imity. But the most magnanimous resolution rests in the Christian religion, which trampleth upon pride and sits on the neck of ambition, humbly pursuing that infallible perpetuity unto which all others must diminish their diameters and be poorly seen in angles of contingency. Pious spirits, who passed their days in raptures of futurity, made little more of this world than the world that was before it, while they lay obscure in the chaos of pre-ordination and night of their fore-beings. And if any have been so happy as truly to understand Christian annihilation, ecstacies, evolution, liquefaction, transformation, the kiss of the spouse, gustation of God, and ingression into the divine shadow, they have already had a handsome anticipation of heaven; the glory of the world is surely over and the earth in ashes unto them. " To subsist in lasting monuments, to live in their productions, to exist in their names, and pre- dicament of chimeras was large satisfaction unto old expectations and made one part of their elysiums. But all this is nothing in the metaphysics of true be- lief. To live indeed is to be again ourselves, which, being not only a hope, but an evidence in noble be- lievers, 'tis all one to lie in St. Innocent's church-yard as in the sands of Egypt; ready to be anything in .the ecstasy of being ever and as content with six foot as the moles of Adrianus." — 25 — "of mmself. " For my life it is a miracle of thirty years, which to relate were not a history, but a piece of poetry, and would sound to common ears like a fable. For the world, I count it not an inn, but an hospital, and a place not to live in but to die in. 7'he world that I regard is myself; it is the microcosm of my own frame that I can cast mine eye on — for the other, I use it but like my globe and turn it round sometimes for my recreation. * * * The earth is a point not only in respect of the heavens above us, but of that heavenly and celestial part within us. That mass of flesh that circumscribes me, limits not my mind. That surface that tells the heavens it hath an end, cannot persuade me I have any. * * * Whilst I study to find how I am a microcosm, or a little world, I find myself something more than the great. There is surely a piece of divinity "in us — something that was before the heavens, and owes no homage ■unto the sun. Nature tells me I am the image of God as well as the Scripture. He that understands not thus much hath not his introduction or first lesson, and hath yet to begin the alphabet of man." Dr. Walter Charleton (1619-1707). — Phys- ician to Charles II, and for several terms President of the College of Physicians of London, and a friend of the greatest wits of his time, and writer of great — 26 — forcefulness and versatility, was Dr. Walter Charleton. Not only did he contribute to medical literature, but he wrote considerably on theology, physics, zoology, and antiquities. He also translated Epicurus' " Morals." He enjoyed great prosperity as a physician, and was honored by the profession as one of its most capable and representative members. Chambers says : " The work, however, which seems to deserve more particu- larly our attention in this place is 'A Brief Discourse Concerning the Different Wits of Men,' published by Dr. Charleton in 1675. I^ ^s interesting both on ac- count of lively and accurate sketches it contains, and because the author attributes the variety of talent which is found among men to difference of form, size, and qualities of their brains." I quote two extracts from this work. "the ready and nimble wit. " Such as are endowed wherewith have a certain extemporary acuteness of conceit, accompanied with a quick delivery of their thoughts, so as they can at pleasure entertain their auditors with facetious pass- ages and fluent discourses even upon slight occasions; but being generally impatient of second thoughts and deliberations, they seem fitter for pleasant colloquies and drollery than for counsel and design; like fly- boats, good only in fair weather and shallow waters, and then, too, more for pleasure than traffic. If they be, as for the most part they are, narrow in the — 27 — hold, and destitute of ballast sufficient to counter- poise their large sails, they reel with every blast of argument, and are often driven upon the sands of a 'nonplus;' but where favoured with the breath of common applause, they sail smoothly and proudly, and, like the city pageants, discharge whole volleys of squibs and crackers, and skirmish most furiously. But take them from their familiar and private con- versation into grave and severe assemblies, whence all extemporary flashes of wit, all fantastic allusions, all personal reflections, are excluded, and there en- gage them in an encounter with solid wisdom, not in light skirmishes, but a pitched field of long and seri- ous debate concerning any important question, and then you shall soon discover their weakness, contemn that barrenness of understanding which is incapable of struggling with the difficulties of apodictical knowledge, and the deduction of truth from a long series of reasons. Again, if those very concise say- ings and lucky repartees, wherein they are so happy, and which at first hearing were entertained with so much of pleasure and admiration, be written down, and brought to a strict examination of their pertin- ency, coherence, and verity, how shallow, how frothy, how forced will they be found ! how much will they lose of that applause, which their tickling of the ear and present flight through the imagination had gained ! In the greatest part, therefore, of such men, you ought to expect no deep or continued river of — 28 - wit, but only a few plashes, and those, too, not altogether free from mud and putrefaction." " THE SLOW BUT SURE WIT. " Some heads there are of a certain close and re- served constitution, which makes them at first sight to promise as little of the virtue wherein they are en- dowed, as the former appear to be above the imper- fections to which they are subject. Somewhat slow they are, indeed, of both conception and expression; yet no whit the less provided with solid prudence. When they are engaged to speak, their tongue doth not readily interpret the dictates of their mind, so that their language comes, as it were, drop-ping from their lips, even where they are encouraged by familiar, or provoked by the smartness of jests, which sudden and nimble wits have newly darted at them. Costive they are also in invention; so that when they would deliver somewhat solid and remarkable, they are long in seeking what is fit, and as long in deter- mining in what manner and words to utter it. But after a little consideration, they penetrate deeply into the substance of things and marrow of business and conceive proper and emphatic words by which to ex- press their sentiments. Barren they are not, but a little heavy and retentive. Their gifts lie deep and concealed; but being furnished with notions, not airy and umbratil ones borrowed from the pedantism of the schools, but true and useful — and if they have — 29 — been manured with good learning, and the habit of exercising their pen— oftentimes they produce many excellent conceptions to be transmitted to posterity. Having, however, an aspect very like to narrow and dull capacities, at first sight most men take them to be really such, and strangers look upon them with the eyes of neglect and contempt. Hence it comes, that excellent parts remaining unknown, often want the favour and patronage of great persons, whereby they might be redeemed from obscurity, and raised to employments answerable to their faculties, and crowned with honours proportionate to their merits. The best course, therefore, for these to over- come that eclipse which prejudice usually brings upon them, is to contend against their own modesty, and either by frequent converse with noble and discerning spirits, to enlarge the windows of their minds, and dispel those clouds of reservedness that darken the lustre of their faculties; or by writing on some new and useful subject, to lay open their talent, so that the world may be convinced of their intrinsic value." Sir Samuel Garth (1670-1718).— One of the most scholarly gentlemen of the eighteenth century, and a physician of great distinction, was Sir Samuel Garth— the author of '' The Dispensary," a poem em- bodying the keenest satire, and a production which is replete with all that makes poetry ornate. He was physician-in-ordinary to the king, and held many _ 30 — honorable positions. He was the friend and crony of all the literary gentlemen of his time. There was much trouble in his day between the apothecaries and the physicians. The apothecaries wished to practice medicine as well as prepare prescriptions (a thing which in this day is not entirely unknown [!!!]), and a bitter war waged for a long time between the apothecaries and physicians. The most effective weapon brought into this war was Dr. Garth's poem, ^' The Dispensary." The apothecaries were for the time defeated, but later the House of Commons decided they had a right to practice medicine. Garth's life was not a long one, and it was said he welcomed death as a dear friend who had brought the sweet boon of rest. He lived in an age noted for its dissoluteness, and it is said he was not free from the vices and follies then prevalent in fashionable life. I quote an extract from " The Dispensary," which will give the reader an idea of the style of his versification and beauty of his thoughts and the keen- ness of his satire. I give also another quotation from him, ''On Death." EXTRACT FROM ''THE DISPENSARY." Speak, goddess! since 'tis thou that best canst tell How ancient leagues to modern discord fell; ' And why physicians were so cautious grown Of others' lives, and lavish of their own; How by a journey to the Elysian plain — 31 — Peace triumphed, and old time returned again. Not far from that most celebrated place Where angry Justice shews her awful face; Where little villains must submit to fate That great ones may enjoy the world in state; There stands a dome, majestic to the sight, And sumptuous arches bear its oval height; A golden globe, placed high with artful skill. Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill; This pile was, by the pious patron's aim, Raised for a use as noble as its frame; Not did the learned society decline The propagation of that great design; In all her mazes. Nature's face they viewed. And, as she disappeared, their search pursued. Wrapt in the shade of night the goddess lies. Yet to the learned unveils her dark disguise, But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes. Now she unfolds the faint and dawning strife Of infant atoms kindling into life; How ductile matter new meanders takes. And slender trains of twisting fibres makes; And how the viscous seeks a closer tone. By .just degrees to harden into bone; While the more loose flow from the vital urn, And in full tides of purple streams return; How lambent flames from life's bright lamps arise, And dart in emanations through the eyes; How from each sluice a gentle torrent pours To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers; Whence their mechanic powers the spirits claim; How great their force, how delicate their frame; How the same nerves are fashioned to sustain The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain; ' — 32 — Why bilious juice a golden light puts on, And floods of chyle in silver currents run; How the dim speck of entity began To extend its recent form and stretch to man; — Why Envy oft transforms with wan disguise, And why gay Mirth sits smiling in the eyes; — Whence Milo's vigour at the Olympics shewn, Whence tropes to Finch, or impudence to Sloane; How matter, by the varied shape of pores, Or idiots frames, or solemn senators. Hence 'tis we wait the wondrous cause to find, How body acts upon impassive mind; How fumes of wine the thinking part can fire, Past hopes revive, and present joys inspire; Why our complexions oft our souls declare, And how the passions in the features are; How touch and harmony arise between Corporeal figure and a form unseen; How quick their faculties the limbs fulfil, And act at every summons of the will; With mighty truths, mysterious to descry, Which in the womb of distant causes lie. But now no grand inquiries are descried; Mean faction reigns where knowledge should preside; Feuds are increased, and learning laid aside; Thus synods oft concern for faith conceal. And for important nothings shew a zeal: The drooping sciences neglected pine, And Paean's beams with fading lustre shine. No readers here with hectic looks are found, Nor eyes in rheum, through midnight watching drowned. The lonely edifice in sweats complains That nothing there but sullen silence reigns. This place, so fit for undisturbed repose. — 33 — The god of Sloth for his asylum chose; Upon a couch of down in these abodes, Supine with folded arms, he thoughtless nods; Indulging dreams his godhead lull to ease. With murmurs of soft rills, and whispering trees: The poppy and each numbing plant dispense Their drowsy virtue and dull indolence; No passions interrupt his easy reign. No problems puzzle his lethargic brain; But dark oblivion guards his peaceful bed. And lazy fogs hang lingering o'er his head. ON DEATH. 'Tis to the vulgar death too harsh appears; The ill we feel is only in our fears. To die, is landing on some silent shore. Where billows never break, nor tempests roar; Ere well we feel the friendly stroke, 'tis o'er. The wise through thought the insults of death defy; The fools through blessed insensibility. 'Tis what the guilty fear, the pious crave; Sought by the wretch and vanquished by the brave. It eases lovers, sets the captive free; And, though a tyrant, offers liberty. Sir Richard Blackmore (1658-1729). — Dr. Blackmore is not only a specimen of the literary man and physician, but an example of how one who possesses merit may, if he has not the friendship of those in power, be considered inferior. Those who hon- estly look into the matter must acknowledge that Dr. Blackmore was a true poet. Of course now his works are little read, and the subjects upon which he 3 GGG — 34 — wrote now claim but little attention, yet one has only to look for the fire of poetry to find it in his produc- tions. , He enjoyed greater popularity than any other physician of his particular day, and was knighted by William III., and made a censor of the College of Physicians. In 1695 there appeared under his name an epic entitled " Prince Arthur," which he wrote while riding in his carriage, going from the house of one patient to another. He was eminent for his piety, and is described by those of his contemporaries that did not hate him as in every respect a most lovable man. Dr. Johnson includes him in his edition of the British Poets. I quote an extract from *' Creation," one of his chief works, which will give the reader some idea of his poetry: THE SCHEME OF CREATION. You ask us why the soil the thistle breeds; Why its spontaneous birth are thorns and weeds; Why for the harvest it the harrow needs? The Author might a nobler world have made, In brighter dress the hills and vales arrayed, And all its face in flowery scenes displayed: The glebe untilled might plenteous crops have borne, And brought forth spicy groves instead of thorn: Rich fruit and flowers without the gardener's pains Might every hill have crowned, have honoured all the plains: This Nature might have boasted, had the Mind — 35 — Who formed the spacious universe designed That man, from labour free, as well as grief, Should pass in lazy luxury his life. But He his creature gave a fertile soil. Fertile, but not without the owner's toil, That some reward his industry should crown, And that his food in part might be his own. But while insulting you arraign the land. Ask why it wants the plough, or labourer's hand, Kind to the marble rocks you ne'er complain That they, without the sculptor's skill and pain, No perfect statue yield, no basse relieve. Or finished column for the palace give. Yet from the hills unlaboured figures came, Man might have ease enjoyed, though never fame. You may the world of more defect upbraid. That other works by Nature are unmade: That she did never, at her own expense, A palace rear, and in magnificence Out-rival art, to grace the stately rooms; That she no castle builds, no lofty domes. Had Nature's hand these various works prepared, What thoughtful care, what labour had been spared I But then no realm would one great master shew. No Phidias Greece, and Rcme no Angelo. With equal reason, too, you might demand Why boats and ships require the artist's hand; Why generous Nature did not these provide, To pass the standing lake or flowing tide. You say the hills, which high in air arise, Harbour in clouds, and mingle with the skies, That earth's dishonour and encumbering load. Of many spacious regions man defraud; For beasts and birds of prey a desolate abode. - 36 - But can the objector no convenience find In mountains, hills, and rocks, which gird and bind The mighty frame, that else would be disjoined ! Do not those heaps the raging tide restrain, And for the dome afford the marble vein ? Do not the rivers from the mountains flow, And bring down riches to the vale below ? See how the torrent rolls the golden sand From the mighty ridges to the flatter land ! The lofty lines abound with endless store Of mineral treasure and metallic ore. Dr. John Arbuthnot (1667-17 35) was declared by Swift, and his contemporaries generally, to have been the most intellectual and humane man in the world. He was the intimate friend of Pope, Gay, Prior, Swift, and engaged with them in several liter- ary enterprises. He was the chief contributor to Martinus Scriblerus, and the author of "The His- tory of John Bull." He displayed his talents in other works, and was truly a poet. His " Know Yourself " is esteemed by the best judges to be the most philosophical poem in the English language. He was a member of the Royal Society, fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, and physician to Queen Anne. He attained the greatest eminence in his pro- fession, and was the greatest example of his times of a union of the literary man and physician. His med- ical productions exhibit the greatest profundity of research and observation. Shaw says: " He seems to have fully deserved the admiration lavished upon — 37 — him by all his friends, as an accomplished scholar, an able and benevolent physician, and a wit of singular brilliancy and fertility." The object of Martinus Scriblerus was to ridicule the false tastes then preva- lent. It is thought by many that object lessons were first suggested by this passage in Scriblerus: " The old gentleman so contrived it, to make everything contribute to the improvement of his knowledge, even to his very dress. He invented him a geograph- ical suit of clothes, which might give him hints of that science and likewise some knowledge of the com- merce of different nations. He had a French hat with an African feather, Holland shirts and Flanders lace, English cloth lined with Indian silk; his gloves were Italian, and his shoes were Spanish. He was made to observe this, and daily catechised thereupon, which his father was wont to call traveling at home." He never gave him a fig or an orange but he obliged him to give an account from what country it came. Presenting my readers with Dr. Arbuthnot's poem, ^' Know Yourself," will make it impossible to give more than a short specimen of his prose composition. " USEFULNESS OF MATHEMATICAL LEARNING. " The advantages which accrue to the mind by mathematical studies consist chiefly in these things: I St, In accustoming it to attention; 2nd, in giving it a habit of close and demonstrative reasoning; 3rd, in freeing it from prejudice, credulity, and superstition. -38- " First, the mathematics make the mind attentive to the objects which it considers. This they do by entertaining it with a great variety of truths, which are delightful and evident, but not obvious. Truth is the same thing to the understanding as music to the ear and beauty to the eye. The pursuit of it does really as much gratify a natural faculty implanted in us by our wise Creator as the pleasing of our senses; only in the former case, as the object and faculty are more spiritual, the delight is the more pure and free from the regret, turpitude, lassitude, and intemper- ance that commonly attend sensual pleasures. The most part of other sciences consisting only of proba- ble reasonings, the mind has not where to fix, and, wanting sufficient principles to pursue his researches upon, gives them over as impossible. Again, as in mathematical investigations truth may be found, so it is not always obvious. This spurs the mind, and makes it diligent and attentive. " The second advantage which the mind reaps from mathematical knowledge is a habit of clear, de- monstrative, and methodical reasoning. We are con- trived by nature to learn by imitation more than by precept; and I believe in that respect reasoning is much like other inferior arts — as dancing, singing, etc. — acquired by practice. By accustoming ourselves to reason closely about quantity, we acquire a habit of doing so in other things. Logical precepts are more useful, nay, they are absolutely necessary, for a — 39 — rule of formal arguing in public disputations, and confounding an obstinate and perverse adversary and exposing him to the audience or readers. But, in the search of truth, an imitation of the method of the geometers will carry a man further than all the dia- lectical rules. Their analysis is the proper model we ought to form ourselves upon, and imitate in the reg- ular disposition and progress of our inquiries; and even he who is ignorant of the nature of mathemati- cal analysis uses a method somewhat analogous to it. " Thirdly, mathematical analysis adds vigour to the mind, frees it from prejudice, credulity, and super- stition. This it does in two ways: ist. By accustom- ing us to examine, and not to take things upon trust; 2nd, by giving us a clear and extensive knowledge of the system of the world, which, as it creates in us the most profound reverence of the almighty and wise Creator, so it frees us from the mean and narrow thoughts which ignorance and superstition are apt to beget. * * * The mathematics are friends to religion, inasmuch as they charm the passions, restrain the impetuosity of the imagination, and purge the mind from error 'and prejudice. Vice is error, con- fusion, and false reasoning; all truth is more or less opposed to it. Besides, mathematical studies may serve for a pleasant entertainment for those hours which young men are apt to throw away upon their vices; the delightfulness of them being such as to make solitude not only easy, but desirable." — 40 — KNOW YOURSELF. What am I ? how produced ? and for what end ? Whence drew I being? to what period tend? Am I the abandon'd orphan of blind chance? Dropt by wild atoms in disorder'd dance? Or from an endless chain of causes wrought? And of unthinking substance born with thought : By motion which began without a cause, Supremely wise, without design or laws ? Am I but what I seem, mere flesh and blood ; A branching channel, with a mazy flood? The purple stream that through my vessels glides. Dull and unconscious flows like common tides : The pipes through which the circling juices stray. Are not that thinking I, no more than they : This frame compacted with transcendent skill, Of moving joints obedient to my will. Nursed from the fruitful glebe, like yonder tree. Waxes and wastes ; I call it mine, not me : New matter still the mouldering mass sustains, The mansion changed, the tenant still remains : And from the fleeting stream, repair'd by food. Distinct, as is the swimmer from the flood. What am I then? Sure, of a nobler birth. By parents' right I own, as mother, earth ; But claim superior lineage by my Sire, Who warm'd th' unthinking clod with heavenly fire Essence divine, with lifeless clay allay'd, By double nature, double instinct sway'd ; With look erect, I dart *my longing eye, Seem wing'd to part, and gain my native sky ; I strive to mount, but strive, alas ! in vain, Tied to this massy globe with magic chain. Now with swift thought I range from pole to pole. _ 41 — View worlds around their flaming centers roll : What steady powers their endless motions guide, Through the same trackless paths of boundless void! I trace the blazing comet's fiery trail, And weigh the whirling planets in a scale : These godlike thoughts, while eager I pursue Some glittering trifle offered to my view, A gnat, an insect of the meanest kind. Erase the new-born image from my mind; Some beastly wants, craving importunate, Vile as the grinning mastiff at my gate. Calls off from heavenly truth this reasoning me, And tells me, I'm a brute as much as he. If on sublimer wings of love and praise, My soul above the starry vault I raise. Lured by some vain conceit, or shameful lust, I flag, I drop, and flutter in the dust. The towering lark thus from her lofty strain Stoops to an emmet, or a barley grain. By adverse gusts of jarring instincts tost, I rove to one, now to the other coast ; To bliss unknown my lofty soul aspires, My lot unequal to my vast desires. As 'mongst the hinds a child of royal birth Finds his high pedigree by conscious worth ; So man, amongst his fellow brutes exposed. Sees he's a king, but 'tis a kind deposed : Pity him, beasts! you by no law confined. Are barr'd from devious paths by being blind ; Whilst man, though opening views of various ways. Confounded by the aid of knowledge strays ; Too weak to choose, yet choosing still in haste. One moment gives the pleasure and distaste ; Bilk'd by past minutes, while the present cloy, — 42 — The flattering future still must give the joy. Not happy, but amused upon the road, And (like you) thoughtless of his last abode, Whether next sun his being shall restrain To endless nothing, happiness, or pain. Around me, lo, the thinking, thoughtless crew, (Bewildered each) their different paths pursue ; Of them I ask the way ; the first replies. Thou art a god ; and sends me to the skies. Down on the turf (the next) thou two-legg'd beast, There fix thy lot, thy bliss, and endless rest. Between these wide extremes the length is such, I find I know too little or too much. "Almighty Power, by whose most wise command. Helpless, forlorn, uncertain here I stand; Take this faint glimmering of thyself away, Or break into my soul with perfect day !" This said, expanded lay the sacred text. The balm, the light, the guide of souls perplex'd: Thus the benighted traveller that strays Through doubtful paths, enjoys the morning rays; The nightly mist, and thick descending dew, Parting, unfold the fields, and vaulted blue. "O Truth divine ! enlighten'd by thy ray, I grope and guess no more, but see my way; Thou clear'dst the secret of my high descent. And told me what those mystic tokens meant; Marks of my birth, which I had worn in vain. Too hard for worldly sages to explain. Zeno's were vain, vain Epicurus' schemes, Their systems false, delusive were their dreams; Unskill'd my two-fold nature to divide, One nursed my pleasure, and one nursed my pride. Those jarring truths which human art beguile, Thy sacred page thus bids me reconcile." — 43 — Offspring of God, no less thy pedigree, What thou once wert, art now, and still may be, Thy God alone can tell, alone decree; Faultless thou dropt from His unerring skill, With the bare power to sin, since free of will: Yet charge not with thy guilt His bounteous love, For who has power to walk, has power to rove: Who acts by force impell'd, can naught deserve; And wisdom short of infinite may swerve. Borne on thy nevv-imp'd wings, thou took'st thy flight. Left thy Creator, and the realms of light; Disdain'd his gentle precept to fulfil; And thought to grow a god by doing ill: Though by foul guilt thy heavenly form defaced, In nature chang'd, from happy mansions chased, Thou still retain'st some sparks of heavenly fire. Too faint to mount, yet restless to aspire; Angel enough to seek thy bliss again, And brute enough to make thy search in vain. , The creatures now withdraw their kindly use, Some fly thee, some torment, and some seduce; Repast ill suited to such diflPerent guests. For what thy sense desires, thy soul distastes; Thy lust, thy curiosity, thy pride, Curb'd, or deferr'd. or balk'd, or gratified, Rage on, and make thee equally unbless'd, In what thou vvant'st, and what thou hast possess'd In vain thou hopest for bliss on this poor clod. Return, and seek thy Father, and thy God: Yet think not to regain thy native sky. Borne on wings of vain philosophy; Mysterious passage ! hid from human eyes; Soaring you'll sink, and sinking you will rise: Let humble thoughts thy wary footsteps guide, Regain by meekness what you lost by pride. — 44 — Mark Akenside (17 21-17 70). — One of the most amiable and most moral poets of the i8th century- was Mark Akenside. He was born of humble par- entage, his father being a butcher. In early life he received an injury which rendered him a cripple for life. He received his medical education at Leyden, taking the degree of M.D. there in 1774. His " Pleasures of Imagination " is one of the most ornate productions in our language. His many poems are of high order, and have had great admirers from their first appearance to the present moment. He prac- ticed medicine with varying success, and was a medi- cal writer also of celebrity, having contributed to the current medical literature of his time. The life of Akenside was one which will be read with great inter- est by ^1 lovers of poetry. PATRIOTISM. Mind, mind alone — bear witness, earth and heaven! — The living fountains in itself contains Of beauteous and sublime; here hand in hand Sit paramount the Graces; here enthroned, Celestial Venus, with divinest airs, Invites the soul to never-fading joy. Look, then, abroad through nature, to the range Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres. Wheeling unshaken through the void immense; And speak, O man! does this capacious scene With half that kindling majesty dilate Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose Refulgent from the stroke of Caesar's fate, — 45 — Amid the crowd of patriots; and his arm Aloft extending, like eternal Jove When guilt brings down the thunder, called aloud On Tully's name, and shook his crimson steel. And bid the father of his country, hail! For lo! the tyrant prostrate on the dust, And Rome again is free! Is aught so fair In all the dewy landscapes of the spring, In the bright eyes of Hesper, or the morn, And Nature's fairest forms, is aught so fair As virtue's friendship? As the candid blush Of him who strives with fortune to be just ? The graceful tear that streams for others' woes. Or the mild majesty of private life. Where Peace, with ever-blooming olive, crowns The gate; where Honour's liberal hands effuse Unenvied treasures, and the snowy wings Of Innocence and Love protect the scene. INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUxMENT TO SHAKESPEARE. O youth and virgins: O declining eld. O pale misfortune's slaves: O ye who dwell Unknown with humble quiet: ye who wait In courts, or fill the golden seat of kings: O sons of sport and pleasure: O thou wretch That weep'st for jealous love, or the sore wounds Of conscious guilt, or death's rapacious hand. Which left thee void of hope: O ye who roam In exile, ye who through the embattled field Seek bright renown, or who for noblier palms Contend, the leaders of a public cause. Approach: behold this marble. Know ye not The features ? Hath not oft his faithful tongue Told you the fashion of your own estate, - 46 - The secrets of your bosom? Here then round His monument with reverence while ye stand, Say to each other: 'This was Shakespeare's form; Who walked in every path of human life, Felt every passion; and to all mankind Doth now, will ever that experience yield Which his own genius only could acquire.' INSCRIPTION FOR A STATUE OF CHAUCER AT WOODSTOCK. Such was old Chaucer: such the placid mien Of him who first with harmony informed The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt For many a cheerful day. These ancient walls Have often heard him, while his legends blithe "He sang; of love or knighthood, or the wiles Of homely life; through each estate and age, The fashions and follies of the world With cunning hand portraying. Though perchance From Blenheim's towers, O stranger, thou art come Glowing with Churchill's trophies; yet in vain Dost thou applaud them, if thy breast be cold To him, this other hero; who in times Dark and untaught, began with charming verse To tame the rudeness of his native land. Tobias George Smollett (1721-1771). — The im- mortal author of " Roderick Random " and " Peregrine Pickle," and busy litterateur, Dr. Smollett, was one of the most indefatigable workers in the whole realm of English literary men. He translated " Don Quixote," ^' Gil Bias," and other works into English. He en- — 47 — countered many adventures in his life, having to strive against poverty and an imperious temper. He prac- ticed medicine with indifferent success, yet it afforded him ''a staff," and it is to be believed he loved the medical profession and that his studies had done much to enlarge his scope of observation and to store his mind with useful knowledge. I shall make no quotation from his prose productions, but refer my readers to " Roderick Random," which has for a cen- tury been recognized as one of the greatest English novels. I quote below some of his verses: ODE TO INDEPENDENCE. Strophe. Thy spirit, Independence, let me share, Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye; Thy steps I follow, with my bosom bare, Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky ! Deep in the frozen regions of the north, A goddess violated brought thee forth. Immortal Liberty, whose look sublime Hath bleached the tyrant's cheek in every varying clime, What time the iron-hearted Gaul, With frantic superstition for his guide, Armed with the dagger and the pall, The sons of Woden to the field defied: The ruthless hag, by Weser's flood. In Heaven's name urged the infernal blow; And red the stream began to flow: The vanquished were baptised with blood ! - 48 - Antistrophe. The Saxon Prince in horror fled From altars stained with human gore, And Liberty his routed legions led In safety to the bleak Norwegian shore. There in a cave asleep she lay, Lulled by the hoarse-resounding main, When a bold savage passed that way. Impelled by destiny, his name Disdain. Of ample front the portly chief appeared: The hunted bear supplied a shaggy vest; The drifted snow hung on his yellow beard, And his broad shoulders braved the furious blast. He stopt; he gazed; his bosom glowed. And deeply felt the impression of her charms: He seized the advantage Fate allowed, And straight compressed her in his vigorous arms. Strophe. The curlew screamed, the tritons blew Their shells to celebrate the ravished rite; Old Time exulted as he flew; And Independence saw the light. The light he saw 'in Albion's happy plains. Where under cover of a flowering thorn, While Philomel renewed her warbled strains. The auspicious fruit of stolen embrace was born. The mountain Dryads seized with joy The smiling infant to their charge consigned; The Doric muse caressed the favourite boy; The hermit Wisdom stored his opening mind. — 49 — As rollinj^ years matured his aj