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aspiring temper, and the views of high preferment which were some at least of the causes of his treasonable conduct, is but too true; and we grieve to think we may apply Pope's severe but (considering the person designated) affecting lines on Addison to him:

"Who would not laugh, if such a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he ?"

On the other hand, when we read the last of his letters in England, written from his prison in the Tower, just before his trial, contemplating its result, and bidding, like Wolsey, "farewell to all his greatness," both the language and the topics are so touching, that we more than ever grieve at such a termination to the career of such a man. "A little time," he says to Pope, "will separate you and me for ever; but in what part of the world so ever I am, I will live mindful of your sincere kindness to me. Give my faithful service to Dr. Arbuthnot; let him know my defence will be such that neither my friends need blush for me, nor will my enemies have great occasion of triumph, though sure of the victory.”

These topics we expect, as what may belong to any public man about to undergo a reverse of fortune; but we feel the tenderness of our interest for the amiable private man revive, when we read: "You and I have spent many hours together upon much pleasanter subjects; and that I may preserve the old custom, I shall not part with you now till I have closed this letter with three lines of Milton, which

you will, I know, readily, and not without some degree of concern, apply to your ever affectionate

'Some natural tears he dropt, but wip'd them soon;
The world was all before him, where to choose

His place of rest, and Providence his guide.'"

I wish that the last years of this highly cultivated man admitted of panegyric consistently with truth. But they do not; for, though the soothing love of letters and his attachment to the Protestant religion never abandoned him, it is only due to truth to say, that, in the first moment of his banishment, he fully confirmed all that had been said of his guilt, by entering, and continuing almost to the end of his life, in the service of a Roman Catholic pretender; in which, mockery as it was, the bent of his mind showed itself in every variety of intrigue and struggle for power which had characterised him at home. He adds therefore, spite of his fine mind, one more to the many examples of the unhappiness caused by vicious ambition.

No. V.

COWLEY.

"In a deep vision's intellectual scene,
Beneath a bower for sorrow made,
Th' uncomfortable shade

Of the black yew's unlucky green,
Mixt with the mourning willow's careful grey,
Where reverend Cam cuts out his famous way,
The melancholy Cowley lay."

The Complaint.

As the operations, as well as visions, of vicious ambition are boundless, as the whole world in all ages is full of them, and there is no passion so creative of crime, and therefore of interest, we might (especially if we dived into antiquity, or passed into foreign history) greatly extend the subject that has engrossed us, till Memory had her fill. As it is, we look wistfully at the weaknesses of Cicero, the secret unhappiness of Charles V., Richelieu, and Cromwell, to which we might add Napoleon and other great names; but as we are nothing but idle dreamers, and write only for our dreaming countrymen, to amuse the passing hour, we think it best to confine ourselves to our home, and with regard to the mortifications and self-deceptions of the passion when not properly regulated, think enough has been done: "Ambition's debt is paid."

As, however, we have taken such large draughts of

bitterness, let us now sip a little honey, and touch upon a few of those characters founded, some in real philosophy and real moderation, some in gentler wishes and a more genuine dignity of character, with full as much benefit to others, and far more happiness to themselves, than the names we have been investigating. There is, indeed, a repose, after the stormy lives we have been reviewing, in watching the effects, to use Cowley's soothing language, "of that quiet which is the companion of obscurity;" or, still more poetically, in contemplating the sequestered vale wherein travellers keep "the noiseless tenor of their way." This calms the soul; and, though it adds little to our energies, yet is not the less, if it is not more, productive of the happiness of content, the only happiness of a wise and good man. Hence the constant and never-varying delight which all, whether of the sound or unsound ambitious, always take in those pictures of tranquil moderation, and even of the obscurity above mentioned, which so abound in the poets and philosophers, real or pretended. In fact, those who are least qualified to enjoy them, from the tumult in which they pass their lives, are generally, from that very circumstance, the loudest in their praise; and the "O rus!" and the "Beatus ille!" seem most peculiar to those (especially when they are disappointed) who live in the midst of struggle. We have seen how self-deceiving these have often been. Nor is the deception confined to unsuccessful statesmen; there are pseudo-philosophers, and insincere theorists on this subject, as well as every other. It

has been said indeed, and truly, of Cowley, that "we love the language of his heart;" yet, from what we know of his life, we do not believe even him to be free from self-deceit, when he says so prettily, but at the same time so falsely:

"If ever I more riches did desire,

Than cleanliness and quiet do require;
If e'er ambition did my fancy cheat

With

any wish so mean, as to be great; Continue, Heav'n, still from me to remove The humble blessings of the life I love."

That he might love an humble life is very possible, but that it is meanness to wish to be great is not truc.

Nevertheless, he is the poet of retirement and simple life, and, therefore, of nature; and hence all who are tired or vexed with the world, who are disappointed in their ambition, or have failed in their pursuit of riches, love him. Hence, too, he is a book for the closet, and we readily beguile ourselves with his rhapsodies in praise of the farm, and the garden, and obscurity; Aglaus, Abdolonymus, and Diocletian; Aglaus, who, though he lived unknown, was pronounced by the oracle as the happiest of men; Abdolonymus, who unwillingly exchanged his garden for a throne; and Diocletian, who willingly exchanged his throne for a garden.

As to obscurity, he thinks it the pleasantest condition of life, for "What a brave privilege is it," says he, "to be free from all contentions, from all envyings, or being envied; from receiving and paying all kinds of ceremonies! It was the case of Æneas and Achates,

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