wards the conclusion; yet it is an unfinished work, nor does it clearly appear what the author intended to make of it. The personages of the story are so contemptible, that no one cares what is to become of them. It must also be confessed, that the diction and imagery are not free from coarseness and vulgarity. Butler has been famous for his double rhymes, which often, from their oddity, heighten the ludicrousness of the matter; yet they are frequently halting and imperfect, and the style and versification in general are careless and slovenly. In these respects he is much inferior to Swift, who, with more ease and true familiarity, has also, in his best pieces, an air of good company which Butler

wants.

I shall direct your attention to one more poet of the witty class, who deserves a distinguished place among original writers, though making a small figure in the collection from the bulk of his productions. This is GREEN, a modern author, principally

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pally known by his admirable poem on "The Spleen." His purpose in this work was to suggest the most effectual preservatives against a foe to human happiness, which was a great object of dread half a century ago under the name he has adopted, and is not less formidable at present under those of low spirits and weak nerves. Like a skilful physician, he enumerates the causes of this mental disease, and the most potent antidotes to their influence; and he offers a remedy for a fit of the spleen in his poem itself, made up of a most agreeable compound of shrewd observation, lively description, and rational philosophy, seasoned with wit and fancy. Butler himself has not in the same compass more striking assemblages of remote ideas. Green is particu larly happy in allusion, or the application of known facts, or passages from authors, in a new sense. Thus, recommending exercise as a cure for the spleen, he says,

Fling but a stone, the Giant dics.

News

News he calls "the manna of a day;" and speaking of the power of beauty over old-age, which "blood long congealed liquefies;" he adds, alluding to the pretended miracle of St. Januarius's head,

True miracle, and fairly done

By heads which are ador'd when on.

His metaphors are often exceedingly apt and striking. He gives Spleen a magiclantern, with which she throws frightful figures over the scene of life. The precise religionists, he says,

samples of heart-chested grace

Expose in show-glass of the face.

Poems are "the hop-grounds of the brain;" and scruple is the "spasm of the mind." These images sometimes shoot into short allegories, very ingeniously supported; of which the comparison of law to a forest, and the voyage of life with which the piece concludes, are examples. The latter is a common idea; but I am acquainted

with no instance in which it is wrought up with so many well-adapted particulars.

The philosophy of Green is not of the exalted kind which has been adopted by some of the moral poets whose works have come before you, but which perhaps has rather adorned their verse than directed their conduct. His is a refined decent epicurism, not however devoid of generous principles. He seems to have despaired of rendering the world wiser or better, but to have aimed at rendering himself so. He has sketched the plan of life he desired to lead, in a wish, that, of all the poetical castle-building I ever met with, appears to me the most reasonable. I doubt not, however, that in practice, the want of steady employment would be found to deduct greatly from the imaginary felicity; and that all the other sources of pleasure which he so agreeably describes would prove inadequate to repel the intrusions of spleen." As his system is exclusively calculated for our sex, I find nothing in it of the pre

ceptive

ceptive kind to recommend to you, except that you should endeavour, with him, to become one of those votaries of Contentment,

By happy alchemy of mind,

Who turn to pleasure all they find.

Green's other pieces are all worth your perusal. "The Sparrow and Diamond” is a lively picture of the struggle between avarice and tenderness in a female breast. TheSeeker," and the poem "On Barclay's Apology," may half tempt you to turn quaker, for which sect the author had a manifest partiality. The "Grotto" must be at least twice read before it is fully comprehended; but it will repay that labour. It is as witty and poetical as his "Spleen," though strangely desultory.

Green ranks among the minor poets; but I confess I would sacrifice many writers of whole tomes in the collection rather than part with him.

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