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I roam from flower to flower ;
I change at ev'ry hour;
On painted wing I fly;
I bask in ev'ry eye:
Who jilteth me, I care not;
Who frowns on me, I fear not;
I frown and jilt in turn,
All constancy I spurn.
True love is but a fable;
I'll laugh while I am able;
Cajolery a trade is
To please great lords and ladies.
My joy is in illusion ;
'Tis truth that breeds confusion :
All waking is but sadness;
A dream's delicious madness.
Then let me dream away my life,

Nor seek a friend, still less a wife.” It must be confessed, his sternness of purpose must have much evaporated, to have contented itself, during a whole fortnight, with this jeu d'esprit, and so faint an allusion to the particular wrongs of the minister and his mistress. But the truth must be told: he had, in the enchantment of the park and the forest, and under the influence of the fine weather, and perhaps Sarah's fine eyes, become an absolute Tityrus, certainly not a Timon. This, I suppose, will last till he

goes abroad, as he now meditates; or till, in the Dog-days, in order to cool himself, he throws himself again upon Piccadilly and St. James's Street.


No. IV.



“ That churchman bears a bounteous mind, indeed!"


My present dream will be very different from the last, and I by no means flatter myself that it will be favourably, or even kindly, received. Certainly not by the bigots, of whom, I am sorry to think, with all their learning, there is too plentiful a crop in these kingdoms. By bigots, 1 mean not those of any particular church or sect, but generally those, of whatever persuasion, Roman Catholic or Protestant, Methodist or Church of England, who are intolerant of any set of persons who do not think as they do. These hate one another with such cordial fervour, that the odium theologicum has ever been proverbial. Why this should be peculiar to the professors of the mildest and most merciful religion that ever was known, the Founder of which was the Divine Author of Peace, the Lover of Concord, and the Preacher of Good Will to all mankind; why this should be, I am not going to inquire. It is sufficient that, as a dreamer over passing scenes, I have seen with sincere concern our unhappy nation, not content with the violence and injustice of its political quarrels, split even still more into virulent dissensions in the Church. This, I hoped, had at least subsided during the last hundred years, and that the days of Warburton, Hoadley, Waterland, and Berriman would not be revived, particularly in our universities. Those days indeed, with all their violence, were almost better, or had a better excuse, than the present. For in that time the whole gospel church was attacked by the Goths and Vandals of infidelity, and no wonder that even peaceable professors of very different creeds made common cause in its defence. In the present time the theologians seem warring, not against a natural enemy, but, inost unnaturally, against one another: nor is this odium theologicum now confined to Oxford or London, but, strange to say, has extended to remote towns and even villages; and it is an interesting account which I lately received of the enormities of a very distant parish indeed, attended, however, with not unamusing topics, that has induced me to allude to a subject which otherwise might not be thought most fitted for this undertaking. The story delineates the character of a parish priest; a character which, when the person to whom it belongs is active and sincere in fulfilling his duty, and liberal in his notions of it, from being imbued with the true spirit of that gospel to which he has consecrated his life, is, if not the most illustrious, among the most useful and amiable, that adorn human kind. The reverse of this is he whose piety is ascetic, and whose zeal consists in preaching hatred towards those brethren who do not think as he does himself, of what he holds to be alone the truths of religion.

These remarks are, as I observed, prompted by a letter I lately received from a friend, a man who, like


myself, is fond of making excursions with a view to indulge his taste for grand or beautiful scenery, old churches and castles, and at the same time to gratify a curiosity which he has respecting what he calls primitive and unenlightened manners. 'Tis thus he writes:

Whitby, Sept. 12. My fondness for Gothic antiquities has led me to this holy ground, upon which I could learnedly expatiate, but that in my way to it I met with such a diversion of thought, that, for the present, I postpone my impressions of a most venerable locality, for the sake of a moral picture, which, as a brother dreamer, I think you will not be sorry to peruse.

It was evening when, having left Scarborough, I was proceeding to Whitby, which I hoped to reach by sunset, and might have done so had I kept the high road, though none of the best; as my horse was stout, and my chaise light. I was stopt, however, by a considerable hill, and as I knew I was close to the sea, though it was not there visible, I was struck with the thought of what a noble prospect I might have if I ascended the height before me. The pleasure of a tour is, as you know, to have no impediment to one's wishes, be they what they may, from being forced to consult others. It is, therefore, that I always travel alone; not from sulkiness, but because a companion, even an agreeable one, is too often in the way, and stops the current of silent thought, which, you know better than any body, is the first enjoyment of a contemplative man. I had no sooner, therefore, con

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ceived my design, than I resolved to execute it, and began to climb the steep. The road, to be sure, was rough, and, from its many zigzags to ease the acclivity, so much longer than I expected, that the sun was gone down when I reached the summit, so that when I might have been near Whitby by the main road, I was now ten miles off. This, and the dreariness of the fells, which I saw all around me, with no guide but the sheep-tracks (above a score in number, and so like one another that you could not choose), made me repent for once of my love of prospects. Nor was I consoled (though the very thing I came for) by the magnificent sight of old Ocean, who, groaning from his inmost bed, heaved “his tempestuous billows to the sky.” The truth is, that the wastes and moors, which spread on all sides, without a thatch or distant smoke for the eye to rest upon, put me out of humour with this seemingly uninhabited region, and I began to fear, or rather feel certain of, being benighted if I proceeded in a terra incognita promising little hospitality from the natives, if even there were any. The shelter of the wood in “Comus," I thought, would be somewhat better than this desolation, which left me totally without the hope allowed to the benighted brothers in that exquisite scene of darkness and abandonment; and as the solitariness increased, and the twilight grew darker, I found myself with the younger one exclaiming:

“ Might we but hear
The folded flocks penn'd in their watched cotes,
Or sound of past'ral reed with oaten stops,
Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock
Count the night-watches to his feathery dames."

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