all learning was in manuscripts, and some little officer, like our author, did keep the keys of the library; when the clergy needed no more knowledge than to read the Liturgy; and the laity no more clerkship than to save them from hanging. But now, since printing came into the world, such is the mischief, that a man cannot write a book, but presently he is answered! Could the press at once be conjured to obey only an Imprimatur, our author might not disdain, perhaps, to be one of its most zealous patrons. There have been ways found out to banish ministers, to fine not only the people, but even the grounds and fields where they assembled in conventicles. But no art yet could prevent these seditious meetings of letters. Two or three brawny fellows in a corner, with mere ink and elbow-grease, do more harm than a hundred systematical divines, with their sweaty preaching. And, which is a strange thing, the very sponges, which one would think should rather deface and blot out the whole book, and were anciently used for that purpose, are now become the instruments to make things legible. Their ugly printing-letters, that look but like so many rotten teeth,-how oft have they been pulled out by the public tooth-drawers! And yet these rascally operators of the press have got a trick to fasten them again in a few minutes, that they grow as firm a set, and as biting and talkative as ever. O Printing! how hast thou disturbed the peace of mankind! That lead, when moulded into bullets, is not so mortal, as when founded into letters. There was a mistake, sure, in the story of Cadmus; and the serpent's teeth, which he sowed, were nothing else but the letters which he invented. The first essay that was made towards this art was in single characters upon iron, wherewith of old they stigmatized slaves and remarkable offenders; and it was of good use sometimes to brand a schismatic. But a bulky Dutchman diverted it quite from its first institution, and contrived those innumerable syntagmes of alphabets. One would have thought, in reason, that a Dutchman at least might have contented himself only with the wine-press.

The following is a cutting

PARODY ON THE SPEECHES OF CHARLES II.

My lords and gentlemen,

I told you, at our last meeting, the Winter was the fittest time for business, and truly I thought so, till my lord-treasurer assured me the Spring was the best season for salads and subsidies. I hope, therefore, that April will not prove so unnatural a month, as

1 How unspeakably important is it, considering the mighty influence of the press, that it should be, in all its departments, the guardian of morals-the handmaid of virtue: and yet, how many publishers seem utterly reckless of the character of the books they publish, provided they "will sell:" and how few are the editors of our newspapers who do not appear to consider the triumphs of party deramount to the triumphs of truth and justice.

not to afford some kind showers on my parched exchequer, which
gapes for want of them. Some of you, perhaps, will think it dan-
gerous to make me too rich; but I do not fear it; for I promise
you faithfully, whatever you give me I will always want; and
although in other things my word may be thought a slender au-
thority, yet in that, you may rely on me, I will never break it.
My lords and gentlemen,

I can bear my straits with patience; but my lord-treasurer does protest to me, that the revenue, as it now stands, will not serve him and me too. One of us must pinch for it, if you do not help me. I must speak freely to you; I am under bad circumstances. Here is my lord-treasurer can tell, that all the money designed for next Summer's guards must of necessity be applied to the next year's cradles and swaddling clothes. What shall we do for ships then? I hint this only to you, it being your business, not mine. I know, by experience, I can live without ships. I lived ten years abroad without, and never had my health better in my life; but how you will be without, I leave to yourselves to judge, and therefore hint this only by the bye: I do not insist upon it. There is another thing I must press more earnestly, and that is this: it seems a good part of my revenue will expire in two or three years, except you will be pleased to continue it. I have to say for it; pray, why did you give me so much as you have done, unless you resolve to give on as fast as I call for it? The nation hates you already for giving so much, and I will hate you too, if you do not give me more. So that, if you stick not to me, you must not have a friend in England. On the other hand, if you will give me the revenue I desire, I shall be able to do those things for your religion and liberty, that I have had long in my thoughts, but cannot effect them without a little more money to carry me through. Therefore look to't, and take notice, that if you do not make me rich enough to undo you, it shall lie at your doors. For my part, I wash my hands on it.

If you desire more instances of my zeal, I have them for you. For example, I have converted my sons from popery, and I may say, without vanity, it was my own work. "Twould do one's heart good to hear how prettily George can read already in the psalter. They are all fine children, God bless 'em, and so like me in their understandings!

I must now acquaint you, that, by my lord-treasurer's advice, I have made a considerable retrenchment upon my expenses in can dles and charcoal, and do not intend to stop, but will, with your help, look into the late embezzlements of my dripping-pans and kitchen-stuff.

The friendship between Milton and Marvell is one of the most interesting subjects in the biography of two of the most noble characters of England.

After the Restoration he contrived various ways to shield Milton from the rage of the reigning powers. As a member of parliament he made a consider. able party for lin; and it is probable that his humor contrived the premature and mock funeral of Milton, which is reported, for a time, to have duped his enemies into the belief of his real death; and to this manly friendship, in con junction with the influence of the poet Davenant, is the world probably in debted for Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained, subsequently completed and published. One of Marvell's sarcastic replies to Parker was attributed to Milton; to which Marvell replies by telling his antagonist that "he had not seen John Milton for two years before he composed his book;" and then he thus speaks of

MILTON.

John Milton was, and is, a man of as great learning and sharpness of wit as any man. It was his misfortune, living in a tumul tuous time, to be tossed on the wrong side; and he wrote, flagrante bello, certain dangerous treatises. At his majesty's happy return, John Milton did partake, even as you did yourself, for all your buffing, of his regal clemency, and has ever since expiated himself in a retired silence. It was after that, I well remember it, that being one day at his house, I there first met you, and accidentally. What discourse you there used, he is too generous to remember. But he never having in the least provoked you, for you to insult thus over his old age, to traduce him who was born and hath lived much more ingenuously and liberally than yourself; to have done all this, and lay, at last, my simple book to his charge, without ever taking care to inform yourself better, which you had so easy opportunity to do; it is inhumanly and inhospi tably done, and will, I hope, be a warning to all others, as it is to me, to avoid (I will not say such a Judas, but) a man that creeps into all companies, to jeer, trepan, and betray them.

Marvell's poetical productions are few, but they display a fancy lively, tender, and elegant; "there is much in them that comes from the heart, warm, pure, and affectionate."

THE EMIGRANTS.

Where the remote Bermudas ride,
In th' ocean's bosom unespied,
From a small boat that row'd along,
The listening winds received this song.

What should we do, but sing His praise
That led us through the watery maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,

And yet far kinder than our own!

Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks

That lift the deep upon their backs.

He lands us on a grassy stage,

Safe from the storms and prelates' rage.
He gave us this eternal spring,
Which here enamels every thing;

And sends the fowls to us in cara,
On daily visits through the air.
He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night.
He makes the figs our mouths to meet;
And throws the melons at our feet.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound his name.
Oh! let our voice his praise exalt,
Till it arrive at heaven's vault;
Which then, perhaps, rebounding, may
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay!

Thus sung they in the English boat
A holy and a cheerful note,

And all the way, to guide their chime,

With falling oars they kept the time.

THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN.

The wanton troopers riding by
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men! they cannot thrive

Who kill'd thee. Thou ne'er didst alive

Them any harm; alas! nor could
Thy death yet do them any good.
I'm sure I never wish'd them ill;
Nor do I for all this; nor will:
But, if my simple prayers may yet
Prevail with heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears,
Rather than fail. But, O my fears!
Heaven's king

It cannot die so.

Keeps register of every thing,

And nothing may we use in vain:

E'en beasts must be with justice slain.

But I am sure, for aught that I
Could in so short a time espy,
Thy love was far more better than
The love of false and cruel man.
With sweetest milk and sugar first
I it at my own fingers nursed;
And as it grew, so every day

It wax'd more white and sweet than they

It had so sweet a breath! And oft

I blush'd to see its foot more soft

And white, shall I say than my hand?
Nay, any lady's of the land.

It is a wondrous thing how fleet
"Twas on those little silver feet.
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race;
And when't had left me far away,
"Twould stay, and run again, and stay,

For it was nimbler much than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.
I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness,
And all the spring-time of the year
It only loved to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft where it should lie;
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes;
For in the flaxen lilies' shade
It like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed
Until its lips e'en seem'd to bleed;
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill;
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold.

Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.

OWEN FELLTHAM. Died 1678.

Or the personal history of Owen Felltham we know but very little. Even the accomplished editor of his works,' after many years of unwearied search, was not able to find any thing satisfactory relative to his life. He remarks: "There are few English writers, perhaps none, who enjoyed any consider able celebrity in the ages in which they lived, of whom less is known, than of the author of the Resolves;' and what is particularly remarkable, though this production of his pen has passed through no less than twelve editions, I do not find the name of Owen Felltham to have been made the subject of an article in any of our printed biographical collections."

The chief work of Felltham is, his "Resolves, Divine, Moral, and Politi cal," consisting of two "Centuries," as he calls them, that is, of two parts containing each one hundred Essays or "Resolves." They consist of a series of essays on subjects corrected with religion, morality, and the conduct of life; and they appear to have been termed " Resolves," because, at the con clusion of each essay, the author generally forms resolutions for his own con duct drawn from his own precepts. In this direct, personal application, they differ from the "Essays" of Lord Bacon, to which they otherwise bear a fre quent resemblance in manner, and still more in matter. The style of Felltham is not always equal; but is generally strong, harmonious, and well

1 "Resolves, Divine, Moral, and Political." A new edition, &c., by James Cumming, Esq. London, 1806. 8vo. Read, also, an excellent article in the Retrospective Review, x. 343, the writer of which concludes with these remarks: "We lay aside the 'Resolves,' as we part from our dearest friends, In the hope of frequently returning to them. We recommend the whole of them to the perusal of our readers. They will find therein more solid maxims, as much piety, and far better writing, than La most of the pulpit lectures now current among us."