☛ summum bonum" in human felicity; a philosophy drily and pedantically supported by Mr. Harris, in his "Treatise on Happiness," but illuminated with all the most brilliant hues of sensibility and fancy, and above all so admirably blended with that first of charms which arises from a union of the intellectual and material world, by Dr. Beattie, in the Minstrel. It ought not to prevent a due regard to the duties required, for "that which before us lies in daily life;" nor, by producing a feverish state of excitement which corrodes the vital organs, and seems to have ruined the health and mental peace of Shenstone, and Tasso, and Collins, take away from us altogether the substantial enjoyment of our own independent energies. But I envy the man who can transmit his sen timents and his feelings to posterity, though it be but by a few exquisite lines either of prose or verse. There are some strains of poetry that twine themselves about our hearts, and blend themselves with all our joys and sorrows. Whenever the south winds blow, who does not call to mind the pathetic and deeply-affecting address of Smythe, "found in a bower facing the south?" It is erroneous to súppose that fine rural scenery is to be enjoyed only amid the pride and freshness of vernal and summer magnificence. Wherever this auspicious wind breathes over the dusky forests of winter, and the heavy clouds darken on the mountains, it awakes the sleeping lyre of the poet. Then the beautiful delineations contained in many parts of the RUMINATOR'S ESSAYS, especially one which, if I remember right, is entitled on the "Beneficence of Providence," and the little poem already mentioned, rush on my remembrance. The passion for posthumous fame naturally suggests the immortality of the soul. Every one, probably has, at some time or another, felt what Lord Byron has so admirably expressed; the confused and melancholy doubts and oppressive sense of difficulty and mystery which overpower the mind when it endeavours to imagine a state of renovated existence, after the absolute extinction of what is now termed the soul, which is altogether dependant on the bodily senses. But is not every object by which we are surrounded, every thing that relates to ourselves, and to the whole animated world, but to which habit prevents us from attaching the idea of mystery, equally a source, when duly considered, of doubt and of difficulty? What is it that we are able to comprehend regarding the generation and existence of all animated nature? Are we not tempted even to ask "what is man? What are ideas? What is language? And is not this very sense of mystery a species of proof that all must be right? When we contemplate the boundless and inscrutable wonders of the earth which we inhabit, and look on high and behold the sun and the moon, and other worlds without number, rolling in the immensities of space, amid the oceans of eternity, it is impossible not to despise the reasonings both of natural and metaphysical philosophers, and not to perceive a rising gleam of hope and of assurance that there is a future state, where "all shall yet be well;" a thought which is so beautifully expressed by Dr. Beattie in the Minstrel, that I cannot refrain from quoting the whole passage! "A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy Brightened one moment Edwin's starting tear, Nor be thy generous indignation checked, Nor checked the tender tear to misery given; From guilt's contagious power shall that protect, This soften, and refine the soul for Heaven. But dreadful is their doom, whom doubt has driven To censure fate, and pious hope forego: Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven, Perfection, beauty, life they never know, But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe, Shall he, whose birth, maturity and age If but a momentary shower descend? Or shall frail man Heav'n's dread decree gainsay, Wide, through unnumbered worlds, and ages without end!. One part, one little part, we dimly scan Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream,' Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan, If but that little part incongruous seem. Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem; Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise. Oh then renounce that impious self esteem, That aims to trace the secrets of the skies, For thou art but of dust, be humble and be wise." This in reality is as far as it is necessary for us to go, and as far as any sound mind can go in such inquiries. More fanciful and abstruse meditations only serve to abstract us from the substantial enjoyment of the blessings which this life affords, and from the performance of those duties to which every human being is directed, both by the precepts of philosophy and the dictates of his own conscience, H. F.A. No XC. On Mary Queen of Scots. Dux fœmina facti. THERE are two subjects, which for a long period excited the zeal and exercised the ingenuity of our Caledonian neighbours; the authenticity of the poems ascribed to their bard Ossian, and the innocence of their queen Mary. Nationality, within certain limits a venial, is under many circumstances a laudable feeling, and, with this implied circumscription, Cicero not less accurately than eloquently pronounced, Cari sunt parentes, cari liberi, propinqui, familiares; sed omnes omnium caritates Patria una complexa est. But when it goes to the gross and shameless extent of vindicating every thing, however indefensible, merely because it is of compatriot origin, it totally forfeits its title to both these characters. Upon the former of these topics Dr. Johnson harshly observed, "a Scotchman must be a very sturdy moralist, who does not love Scotland better than truth." It was the bitter remark of a bigotted and ungrateful visitor, whose toryism (if not his |