Where, known to all his kindred train, Love, and his sister fair, the Soul, Twin-born, from heaven together came: When dying seasons lose their name; JOHN ARBUTHNOT. Died 1735. JOHN ARBUTHNOT, the son of a clergyman of the Episcopal church of Scot. land, was born at Arbuthnot, near Montrose, not long after the Restoration. Having at a proper age entered the University of Aberdeen, he applied himself with diligence to his studies. After taking his doctor's degree in medi cine, he resolved to push his fortunes in London. He began by teaching mathematics as a means of subsistence; and in 1697 he published “An Examination of Dr. Woodward's Account of the Deluge." This was considered a very learned performance, in the then infancy of geology; and his practice increasing with his profession, he became known to the most celebrated men of his day, and was, in 1704, elected a fellow of the Royal Society. The intimate friend and associate of Pope, Swift, Gay, Addison, Parnell, and other leading minds of that bright period of English literature, he was inferior to neither in learning or in wit, while in the versatility of his powers he was decidedly pre-eminent. In 1714 the celebrated "Scriblerus Club" was formed, consisting of test of the greatest wits and statesmen of the times. In this brilliant collection of learning and genius, no one was better qualified than Dr. Arbuthnot, both in point of wit and erudition, to promote the object of the society, which was “to ridicule all the false tastes in learning under the character of a man of capacity enough, that had dipped into every art and science, but injudiciously in each." One of the productions of this club was the "Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus," written conjointly by Pope, Swift, and Arbuthnot, though the latter doubtless wrote the greater part of it. It is a severe satire upon the follies of mankind; and for keen wit, cutting sarcasm, and genuine humor, has not, perhaps, its superior in the language; but disfigured, as it occasionally is, by a coarseness and vulgarity which the manners of the age readily tolerated. iv is now but little read. Dr. Arbuthnot died on the 27th February, 1735. As a wit and a scholar the character in which he is best known to us, he may be justly ranked among the most eminent men of an age distinguished by a high cultivation of intel lect and an almost exuberant display of wit and genius. His good morals,' Pope used to say, "were equal to any man's, but his wit and humor superion to all mankind." "He has more wit than we all have," said Dean Swift te a lady, "and his humanity is equal to his wit." In addition to these brilliant qualities, the higher praise of benevolence and goodness is most deservedly due to him. His warmth of heart and cheerfulness of temper rendered him much beloved by his family and friends, towards whom he displayed the most constant affection and attachment.! 1 Read an arti le in Retrospective Review, vili 285. Among the miscellaneous writings of Dr. Arbuthnot there is a short poem, which, notwithstanding its faults in metre, and occasional harshness," may fairly be ranked as one of the noblest philosophical poems in the language. It is marked by a conciseness and strength in the argument, a grandeur of thought, a force and propriety of language, a fine discrimination, and a vigorous grasp of mind, together with sound principles and pious sentiments, that are not often combined within the same limits." KNOW YOURSELF. What am I? how produced? and for what end? Who warm'd th' unthinking clod with heavenly fire: 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, I trace the blazing comet's fiery trail, And weigh the whirling planets in a scale: 1" The Friend," i. 202. Calls off from heavenly truth this reasoning me, The towering lark thus from her lofty strain Around me, lo, the thinking, thoughtless crew, "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: I Through doubtful paths, enjoys the morning rays; Unskill'd my two-fold nature to divide, One nursed my pleasure, and one nursed my pride: What thou once wert, art now, and still may be, Faultless thou dropt from his unerring skill, And thought to grow a god by doing ill: Curb'd, or deferr'd, or balk'd, or gratified, In what thou want'st, and what thou hast possess'a ELIZABETH ROWE. 1674-1737. ELIZABETH RowE, distinguished for her piety, literature, and poetical talents, was the daughter of Mr. Walter Singer, a clergyman of Ilchester She early evinced a very decided taste for reading and poetry, and in her twenty-second year she published a volume of " Poems on Several Occasions, by Philomela." In 1710 she married Mr. Thomas Rowe, a gentleman of considerable literary attainments, who was some years her junior, but who, to ner great grief, died of consumption but a few years after their marriage, at the early age of twenty-eight. After his death she retired to Frome, in the neighborhood of which she possessed a paternal estate, and there composed her once celebrated work, "Letters from the Dead to the Living." She died in 1737. "The poems of Mrs. Rowe," says Southey, "show much spirit and cultiva tion, and are chiefly characterized by their devotion. They are at times a little more enthusiastic than is allowable even for poetry, and are sometimes distorted by metaphysics, but generally their beauties prevail over their faults." DESPAIR. Oh! lead me to some solitary gloom, Where no enlivening beams nor cheerful echoes come; Remote, and unfrequented but by me; Here, to my fatal sorrows let me give The short remaining hours I have to live. Then, with a sullen, deep-fetch'd groan expire, And to the grave's dark solitude retire. A HYMN, In imitation of Canticles, v. 6, 7. Ye pure inhabitants of light, I charge you to instruct me where My absent Lord to find. I've search'd the pleasant vales and plains. And climb'd the hills around; But no glad tidings of my love Among the swains have found. I've oft invoked him in the shades, By every stream and rock; The rocks, the streams, and echoing shades, |