immorality, ‘that evil, as well moral as natural, is the solid basis, the life and support of all trades and employments without exception; that there we must look for the true origin of all arts and sciences; and that the moment evil ceases, the society must be spoiled, if not dissolved.' These are the principal doctrines which with more than fanatic zeal you recommend to your readers; and if lewd stories, profane observations, loose jests, and haughty assertions might pass for arguments, few people would be able to dispute with you.

I shall begin with your definition of man. 'As for my part, say you, without any compliment to the courteous reader or myself, I believe man (besides skin, flesh, bones, &c. that are obvious to the eye) to be a compound of various passions, that all of them as they are provoked and come uppermost, govern him by turns whether he will or no.' Surely this definition is too general, because it seems to suit a wolf or a bear as exactly as your self or a Grecian philosopher. You say 'you believe man to be,' &c.; now I cannot understand to what part of you this believing faculty is to be ascribed; for your definition of mán makes him incapable of believing anything, unless believing can be said to be a passion, or some faculty of skin or bones. But supposing such a belief as yours, because of its blindness, might justly be called a passion, yet surely there are greater things conceived by some men than can be ascribed to mere passions, or skin and flesh. That reach of thought and strong penetration which has carried Sir Isaac Newton through such regions of science must truly be owing to some higher principle. Or will you say that all his demonstrations are only so many blind sallies of passion? If man had nothing but instincts and passions, he could not dispute about them; for to dispute is no more an instinct or a passion than it is a leg or an arm. If therefore you would prove yourself to be no more than a brute or an animal, how much of your life you need alter I cannot tell, but you must at least forbear writing against virtue, for no mere animal ever hated it. But however, since you desire to be thought only skin and flesh, and a compound of passions, I will forget your better part, as much as you have done, and consider you in your own way. You tell us, that the moral virtues are the political offspring, which flattery begot upon pride.' You therefore, who are an advocate for moral vices, should by the rule of contraries be supposed to be acted by humility; but that being (as I think) not of the number of the passions, you have no claim to be guided by it. The prevailing passions, which you say have the sole government of man in their turns, are pride, shame, fear, lust, and anger; you have appropriated the moral virtues to pride, so that your own conduct must be ascribed either to fear, shame, anger, or lust, or else to a beautiful union and concurrence of them all. I doubt not but you are already angry that I consider you only as an animal that acts as anger, or lust, or any other passion moves it, although it is your own assertion that you are no better. But to proceed, 'Sagacious moralists, say you, draw men like angels, in hopes that the pride at least of some will put them upon copying after the beautiful originals which they are represented to be.' I am loth to charge you with sagacity, because I would not accuse you falsely; but if this remark is well made, I can help you to another full as just; viz. 'that sagacious advocates for immorality draw men like brutes,

in hopes that the depravity at least of some will put them upon copying after the base originals, which they are represented to be.' The province you have chosen for yourself is to deliver man from the sagacity of moralists, the encroachments of virtue, and to replace him in the rights and privileges of brutality; to recall him from the giddy heights of rational dignity and angelic likeness to go to grass or wallow in the mire. Had the excellence of man's nature been only a false insinuation of crafty politicians, the very falseness of the thing had made some men at peace with it; but this doctrine coming from heaven, its being a principle of religion and a foundation of solid virtue, has rouzed up all this zeal against it.

There are two collected editions of Law's works-that of 1762 and that by Moreton (1893 et seq.). See Walton's Materials for a Complete Biography (1848), Overton's William Law, Nonjurer and Mystic (1881), and Dr A. Whyte's Characters of William Law (1892),

Thomas Parnell (1679–1718), one of a brilliant circle of wits, was born and educated in Dublin, his father, a native of Congleton in Cheshire, having estates in Ireland. He took holy orders in 1700, and in 1706 was appointed Archdeacon of Clogher, to which office was afterwards added, through the influence of Swift, the vicarage of Finglass, estimated by Goldsmith (extravagantly) at £400 a year. Parnell, like Swift, disliked Ireland, and seems to have considered his situation there a cheerless and irksome banishment; but, as permanent residence at their livings was not then required from the Irish clergy, he lived for the most part in London. He little guessed that by-and-by the fame of Parnell the poet would be obscured by that of his brother's descendant, Parnell the uncrowned king of Ireland, and that Parnellite and anti-Parnellite would be watchwords not in poetry but politics. His grief for the loss of his young wife (five years after their marriage in 1706) preyed upon his spirits-which had always been unequaland drove him into intemperance, though he was an accomplished scholar and a delightful companion. He died at Chester on his way back to Ireland, and there was buried. His Life was written by Goldsmith, who was proud of his distinguished countryman, and reputed him the last of the great school that had modelled itself upon the ancients. Parnell's works are miscellaneous in charactertranslations, songs, hymns, epistles, eclogues, tales in verse, and various kinds of occasional poems. The Bookworm is a satirical joke; Chloris appearing in a Looking-glass is a trifle. On Bishop Burnet being set on Fire in his Closet is meant to be as unpleasant as possible to the prophet of the northern nation. A series of Scripture characters -Mosės, David, Solomon, Deborah, Habakkuk even, and others—are celebrated at great length in rhyming couplets. The Batrachomuomachia is the principal translation. In the song quoted below there is more of Irish vivacity than of eighteenthcentury didacticism, and we seem to hear a comrade of Tommy Moore singing. But Parnell's bestknown piece is The Hermit. Pope pronounced it to be 'very good;' and a certain picturesque

solemnity marks what Mr Gosse has called 'the apex and chef d'œuvre of Augustan poetry in England'-the subject an old and often-handled moral apologue or fable, apparently of Oriental origin. The Night-piece on Death was indirectlystrange as it may appear-preferred by Goldsmith to Gray's Elegy.

From 'A Night-piece on Death.'
How deep yon azure dyes the sky,
Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie;
While through their ranks, in silver pride,
The nether crescent seems to glide.

The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire:
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the silent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass, with melancholy state,
By all the solemn heaps of fate,
And think, as softly sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,
'Time was like thee they life possest,
And time shall be that thou shalt rest.'

Those graves with bending osier bound,
That nameless heave the crumbled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought disclose
Where toil and poverty repose.

The flat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chisel's slender help to fame
(Which ere our set of friends decay,
Their frequent steps may wear away),
A middle race of mortals own,
Men half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones;
These all the poor remains of state,
Adorn the rich, or praise the great,
Who, while on earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give.
The Hermit.

Far in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age a reverend Hermit grew;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well;
Remote from men, with God he passed the days,
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.
A life so sacred, such serene repose,
Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose;
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey.
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway;
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast,
And all the tenor of his soul is lost.
So when a smooth expanse receives imprest
Calm nature's image on its watery breast,
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,
And skies beneath with answering colours glow;

But if a stone the gentle sea divide,
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side,
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun,
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.
To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight,
To find if books, or swains, report it right
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew,
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew),
He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore,
And fixed the scallop in his hat before;
Then, with the rising sun, a journey went,
Sedate to think, and watching each event.

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass,
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass;
But when the southern sun had warmed the day,
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way;
His raiment decent, his complexion fair,
And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair;
Then near approaching, Father, hail !' he cried,
And hail, my son!' the reverend sire replied.
Words followed words, from question answer flowed,
And talk of various kind deceived the road;
Till each with other pleased, and loth to part,
While in their age they differ, join in heart.
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound,
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.

Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray;
Nature in silence bid the world repose,
When near the road a stately palace rose.

There by the moon through ranks of trees they pass,
Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides of grass.

It chanced the noble master of the dome

Still made his house the wandering stranger's home;
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise,
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease.
The pair arrive; the liveried servants wait;
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate;
The table groans with costly piles of food,
And all is more than hospitably good.
Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown,
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down.
At length 'tis morn, and, at the dawn of day,
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play ;
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep,
And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep.
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call,
An early banquet decked the splendid hall;
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced,
Which the kind master forced the guests to taste.
Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch they go;
And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe;
His cup was vanished; for in secret guise,
The younger guest purloined the glittering prize.
As one who spies a serpent in his way,
Glistening and basking in the summer ray,
Disordered stops to shun the danger near,
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear;
So seemed the sire, when, far upon the road,
The shining spoil his wily partner shewed.

He stopped with silence, walked with trembling heart,
And much he wished, but durst not ask to part;
Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard
That generous actions meet a base reward.
While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds,
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds;

A sound in air presaged approaching rain,
And beasts to covert scud across the plain.
Warned by the signs, the wandering pair retreat
To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat.
'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground,
And strong, and large, and unimproved around;
Its owner's temper, timorous and severe,
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there.
As near the miser's heavy doors they drew,
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ;
The nimble lightning, mixed with showers, began,
And o'er their heads loud rolling thunder ran;
Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain,
Driven by the wind, and battered by the rain.
At length some pity warmed the master's breast
('Twas then his threshold first received a guest),
Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care,
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair;
One frugal faggot lights the naked walls,
And Nature's fervour through their limbs recalls;
Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine,
Each hardly granted, served them both to dine;
And when the tempest first appeared to cease,
A ready warning bid them part in peace.
With still remark, the pondering hermit viewed,
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude;
And why should such, within himself he cried,
Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside?
But what new marks of wonder soon take place
In every settling feature of his face,
When, from his vest, the young companion bore
That cup the generous landlord owned before,
And paid profusely with the precious bowl,
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul !
But now the clouds in airy tumult fly;

The sun emerging opes an azure sky;

A fresher green the smelling leaves display,
And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day:

The weather courts them from their poor retreat,
And the glad master bolts the weary gate.
While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought
With all the travail of uncertain thought :
His partner's acts without their cause appear;
'Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness here:
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes,
Lost and confounded with the various shows,
Now night's dim shades again involve the sky;
Again the wanderers want a place to lie;
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh.
The soil improved around, the mansion neat,
And neither poorly low, nor idly great;
It seemed to speak its master's turn of mind,
Content, and not for praise, but virtue, kind.
Hither the walkers turn their weary feet,
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet.
Their greeting fair, bestowed with modest guise,
The courteous master hears, and thus replies :
'Without a vain, without a grudging heart,
To him who gives us all, I yield a part;
From him you come, for him accept it here,
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer!'
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread,
Then talked of virtue till the time of bed;
When the grave household round his hall repair,
Warned by a bell, and close the hour with prayer.
At length the world, renewed by calm repose,

Was strong for toil, the dappled morn arose.
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept
Near a closed cradle where an infant slept,
And writhed his neck: the landlord's little pride,
O strange return! grew black, and gasped, and died!
Horror of horrors! what! his only son!

How looked our hermit when the fact was done!
Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart.
Confused, and struck with silence at the deed,
He flies, but trembling, fails to fly with speed.
His steps the youth pursues: the country lay
Perplexed with roads; a servant shewed the way:
A river crossed the path; the passage o'er
Was nice to find; the servant trod before :
Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied,
And deep the waves beneath them bending glide.
The youth, who seemed to watch a time to sin,
Approached the careless guide, and thrust him in ;
Plunging he falls, and rising, lifts his head,
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead.

While sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes,
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries :
'Detested wretch !'-but scarce his speech began,
When the strange partner seemed no longer man.
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ;
His robe turned white, and flowed upon his feet;
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair;
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air;
And wings, whose colours glittered on the day,
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display.
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight,
And moves in all the majesty of light.
Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew,
Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do;
Surprise, in secret chains, his words suspends,
And in a calm, his settling temper ends;
But silence here the beauteous angel broke-
The voice of music ravished as he spoke :
'Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknownL
In sweet memorial rise before the throne:
These charms success in our bright region find,
And force an angel down, to calm thy mind;
For this commissioned, I forsook the sky:
Nay, cease to kneel-thy fellow-servant I.
Then know the truth of government divine,
And let these scruples be no longer thine.
The Maker justly claims that world he made;
In this the right of Providence is laid;
Its sacred majesty through all depends
On using second means to work his ends:
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye,
The power exerts his attributes on high;

Your action uses, nor controls your will,
And bids the doubting sons of men be still.
What strange events can strike with more surprise,
Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes?
Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just,
And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust.
The great vain man, who fared on costly food,
Whose life was too luxurious to be good;
Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine,
And forced his guests to morning draughts of wine,
Has with the cup the graceless custom lost,
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost.
The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door

Ne'er moved in pity to the wandering poor;
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind
That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind.
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl,
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul.
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead,
With heaping coals of fire upon its head ;

In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow,
And, loose from dross, the silver runs below.
Long had our pious friend in virtue trod,

But now the child half-weaned his heart from God;
Child of his age, for him he lived in pain,
And measured back his steps to earth again.

To what excesses had this dotage run!

But God to save the father took the son.
To all but thee, in fits he seemed to go,
And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow.
The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust,
Now owns in tears the punishment was just.
But how had all his fortunes felt a wrack
Had that false servant sped in safety back!
This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal,
And what a fund of charity would fail!
Thus Heaven instructs thy mind: this trial o'er,
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more.'

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew,
The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew ;
Thus looked Elisha when, to mount on high,
His master took the chariot of the sky;
The fiery pomp ascending left the view;
The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too.

The bending Hermit here a prayer begun :
'Lord, as in heaven, on earth thy will be done.'
Then gladly turning, sought his ancient place,
And passed a life of piety and peace.

time with Pope. Addison and the Whigs were rumoured to have pronounced it the better version of the two, while the Tories ranged under the banner of Pope; and hence originally came about the famous quarrel between Pope and Addison. Gay told Pope that Steele said Addison had called Tickell's work the best translation that ever was in any language. Pope professed to believe Tickell's translation as really by Addison, designed to eclipse his, and wrote the satire on 'Atticus;' and so sputtered on the feud, which was never quenched. Addison continued his patronage of Tickell; when made Secretary of State in 1717, he appointed his friend Under-Secretary, and further left him the charge of publishing his works. Tickell seems to have held himself at liberty to make occasional alterations in Addison's words; and to his edition -long the standard one-of Addison's collected works he prefixed an elegy on his friendly patron, which was justly reckoned his best poem and one of the best things of the kind. He wrote a number of addresses, epistles, odes, and occasional poems. His ballad of Colin and Lucy was Both rendered into Latin by Vincent Bourne. Gray and Goldsmith pronounced Colin and Lucy one of the best ballads in the language; though Gray thought Tickell a poor, short-winded imitator of Addison,' with but three or four notes. of his own, sweet but tiresomely repeated. In 1722 Tickell published a poem, chiefly allegorical, entitled Kensington Gardens; but having been in 1724 appointed secretary to the Lords-Justices of Ireland, he seems to have abandoned the Muses. He died at Bath in 1740, and was buried at Glasnevin near Dublin, where he had his home. The memorial tablet in Glasnevin Church records that his highest honour was that of having been the friend of Addison.' The elegy and Colin and Lucy would have served to perpetuate his name; even Pope admitted that he was an 'honest man.'

From the Elegy on Addison.

Can I forget the dismal night that gave
My soul's best part for ever to the grave?
How silent did his old companions tread,
By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead,
Through breathing statues, then unheeded things,
Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings!
What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire;
The pealing organ, and the pausing choir;
The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid :
And the last words, that dust to dust conveyed!
While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend,
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend.
Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu;
And sleep in peace next thy loved Montague.
To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine,
A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine ;
Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan,
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.
If e'er from me thy loved memorial part,
May shame afflict this alienated heart;
Of thee forgetful if I form a song,

My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue, My griefs be doubled from thy image free, And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee!

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,
Sad luxury to vulgar minds unknown,
Along the walls where speaking marbles shew
What worthies form the hallowed mould below;
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held;
In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled;
Chiefs graced with scars and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots who for sacred freedom stood;
Just men by whom impartial laws were given;
And saints who taught and led the way to heaven;
Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest,
Since their foundation came a nobler guest;
Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed
A fairer spirit or more welcome shade.

In what new region to the just assigned,
What new employments please th' unbodied mind?
A winged virtue, through th' ethereal sky
From world to world unwearied does he fly?
Or curious trace the long laborious maze

Of heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze?
Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell
How Michael battled, and the dragon fell;
Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow
In hymns of love, not ill essayed below?
Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind,
A task well suited to thy gentle mind?
Oh if sometimes thy spotless form descend,
To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend!
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain distresses or when pleasure charms,
In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart :
Led through the paths thy virtue trod before,
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.
That awful form which, so the heavens decree,
Must still be loved and still deplored by me,
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,
Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes.
If business calls or crowded courts invite,

Th' unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight;

If in the stage I seek to soothe my care,

I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there;

If pensive to the rural shades I rove,

His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove;
'Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong,
Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song:
There patient shewed us the wise course to steer,
A candid censor, and a friend severe;
There taught us how to live, and (oh! too high
The price for knowledge) taught us how to die.
Thou hill whose brow the antique structures grace,
Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,
Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower appears,
O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears?
How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair,
Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air!
How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze!
His image thy forsaken bowers restore;
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more ;
No more the summer in thy glooms allayed,
Thy evening breezes, and thy noonday shade.

(To the Earl of Warwick on the Death of Mr Addison.')

Colin and Lucy.

Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace,
Nor e'er did Liffey's limpid stream
Reflect so sweet a face;

Till luckless love and pining care

Impaired her rosy hue,

Her coral lips and damask cheeks,
And eyes of glossy blue.

Oh! have you seen a lily pale

When beating rains descend?
So drooped the slow-consuming maid,
Her life now near its end.
By Lucy warned, of flattering swains
Take heed, ye easy fair!
Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjured swains, beware.

Three times all in the dead of night
A bell was heard to ring,
And shrieking, at her window thrice
The raven flapped his wing.
Too well the love-lorn maiden knew
The solemn boding sound,
And thus in dying words bespoke
The virgins weeping round :

'I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says I must not stay;

I see a hand you cannot see,
Which beckons me away.
By a false heart and broken vows
In early youth I die.
Was I to blame because his bride
Was thrice as rich as I?

'Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,
Vows due to me alone;

Nor thou, fond maid! receive his kiss,
Nor think him all thy own.
To-morrow in the church to wed,

Impatient both prepare ;

But know, fond maid, and know, false man, That Lucy will be there.

'Then bear my corpse, my comrades, bear, This bridegroom blithe to meet ;

He in his wedding trim so gay,

I in my winding-sheet.'

She spoke, she died, her corse was borne
The bridegroom blithe to meet ;

He in his wedding trim so gay,
She in her winding-sheet.

Then what were perjured Colin's thoughts?
How were these nuptials kept?
The bridesmen flocked round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.
Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,

At once his bosom swell;
The damps of death bedewed his brow;
He shook, he groaned, he fell.

From the vain bride, ah, bride no more!
The varying crimson fled,
When stretched before her rival's corse
She saw her husband dead.