twenty, (and the executions seven,) had diminished under his administration (a period of seven years) to between fifteen and sixteen, unaccompanied by any execution whatever. This small experiment," he adds, "has been made without any diminution of the security of the lives and properties of men. Two hundred thousand men have heen governed for some years without a capital punishment, and without any increase of crimes." And, as to reformation by kind treatment, employment, and cleanliness, we have only to remind our readers of the decisive experiment made in Newgate by Mrs FRY, and of the history of the Philadelphia Prison, the Maison de Force at Ghent, the jails of Ilchester, Bury, and others. As to the remaining branches of our subject, we must delay their examina➡ tion to a future opportunity. 1 But now comes the cream and the zest of my story ; Do but think of the pleasure and think of the glory; Enjoy it yourself, and let all my friends know it I have seen- I have spoken to Southey the Poet! I got into his garden I cannot tell how, And, meeting the owner, of course made a bow, And began an excuse; but so civil was he, That he ushered me into his parlour to tea. He saw I was awe-struck, and so for my sake He descended to talk of the weather and lake; And then, (for he has a perception of fun,) Only think of it, Conrad, he let off a pun. And now I've no doubt you would wish me to trace, As well as I can, his figure and face. teel; But look at his head and his face, and you know it At once, without doubt, Mister Southey's a poet; [We are obliged to break off here somewhat abruptly, for our friend Mr Kempferhausen gets into his altitudes in describing the literary and political character of his idol, and we feel ourselves inadequate to construe his brilliant periods into any thing like intelligible English, Upon the whole, however, he proves very satisfactorily, that Mr Southey's political sentiments are quite the same now as when he canonized Martin the Regicide; and that, though their Agrarian views happen to coincide, yet that he is a much better poet than Mr Spence the philanthropist.] ON THE POEMS OF THE MOST DESERVEDLY ADMIRED MRS KATHARINE PHILIPS, THE MATCHLESS ORINDA. once more It gives us great pleasure when we find in the compositions of authors long forgotten, any thing worthy of being recovered, and brought into the view of the world. We feel as if we were making a new acquaintance among the worthies of past times, and seem at the same time to be performing a duty to the dead, which is particularly soothing and gratifying. We cannot well turn over the volumes of those who have at any time possessed a share of reputation, without lighting upon something good; and, although they may have been much overrated in their day, it seldom happens that their estimation has been quite unfounded. "The matchless Orinda" was a theme of praise for Cowley, and several other contemporary poets; it was quité accidentally that we happened to look into her poems, but we had not gone far without perceiving that she was a person who ought not to be left in oblivion. We do not recollect any earlier name among the poetesses of England, and, with the single exception of Miss Baillie, she perhaps ought yet to stand at their head. We have, indeed, a pleasure in tracing some resemblance in her genius to that of our illustrious countrywoman. There is nothing, it is true, in her poetry, of that close inspection of the human heart, that ter rific exhibition of passion, or that inventive faculty which have enabled a woman, in our time, to surpass in the drama the efforts of any male competitor. If Mrs Philips had those high powers, she has not put them forth; and it is rather in the sober intelligence, and moral character of her poetry, that we at all compare her to Miss Baillie, than in any of the higher qualities of genius. In these respects, however, her composi tions are very remarkable, and it is singular to see how well the unaffected eercise of these endowments has preserv ed her from the false taste of her age. She seems to have been an uncommonly amiable and high-minded woman, and the time in which she lived, the beginning of Charles Second's reign, when every loyal spirit that had mourned over the fate of his father, and had clung to the ruins of church and state, was once more visited by the glow of hopes restored, suited well the character of her soul, and gives to her poetry a moral su blimity which is sometimes of an higher order than that of genius itself. Her life is interesting,-she was marWales, had one child, who died beried, lived mostly in retirement in the world at the early age of 31. fore her, and was herself taken from Her total unconcern about fame, and the evident proof that her poems were merely the result of her occasional feelings and reflections, without any tional interest, and we really think farther view, give to them an addiit is edifying for our modern versifiers, their effusions, to be informed of the who are commonly so eager to print real pain and uneasiness which she suffered, on being written to by a friend that her poems had been collected, and surreptitiously published. ginations rifled and exposed to play the mountebanks, and dance upon the ropes, to entertain all the rabble-to undergo all the raillery of the wits, and all the severity of the wise, and to be the sport of some that can, and some that cannot read a verse. This is a most cruel accident, and hath made so proportionate an impression upon me, that really it hath cost me a sharp fit of sickness since I heard it, and I believe would be more fatal, but that I know what a champion I have in you, and that I am sure your credit in the world will gain me a belief from all that are knowing and civil, that I am so innocent of that wretched artifice of a secret consent, of which I am, I fear, suspected, that whoever would have brought me those copies corrected and amended, and a thousand pounds to have bought my permission for their being printed, should not have obtained it." She afterwards adds, "I am so far from expecting applause for any thing I scribble, that I can hardly expect pardon, and sometimes I think that employment so far above my reach, and unfit for my sex, that I am going to resolve against it for ever; and could I have recovered those fugitive papers that have escaped my hands, I had long since made a sacrifice of them all. The truth is, I have an incorrigible inclination to that folly of rhyming, and intending the effects of that humour only for my own amusement in a retired life, I did not so much resist it as a wiser woman would have done, but some of my dearest friends, having found my ballads, (for they deserve no better name,) they made me so much believe they did not dislike them, that I was betrayed to permit some copies for their divertisement, but this, with so little concern for them, that I have lost most of the originals, and that I suppose to be the cause of my present misfortune," &c. In this manner Mrs Philips's poems were first published in a very disfigured and mutilated state. She then agreed to print a correct edition, but was seized with the small-pox, and died before the publication. We think our readers will be obliged to us for a few quotations from this neglected volume, which appeared soon after the lamented death of its author. Mrs Philips's poetry is remarkable for smoothness of versification, the frequent weight of matter condensed in her diction, and general good taste and simplicity. The volume opens with a number of loyal poems on the return of the royal family, addressed to them separately. There is very considerable merit in one on the death of the young Duke of Gloucester, the King s brother, which happened soon after the Restoration. All parties do agree As in admiring, so lamenting thee, Thou wert the universal favourite. So much a darling or a miracle. Thou had'st a heart more noble than thy Which by the afflictive changes thou did'st know, Thou had'st but too much cause and time For when fate did thy infancy expose As did even them amaze if not convince. Whom neither laws, nor oaths, nor shame, Although his soul was than his look more By his ill-favoured clemency confest, He called that travel which was banish ment. Those made thy temper, these thy judg- Whether we view thy courage or thy If to foil nature and ambition claims throne Till thy great brother had regained his own, he Could not at once have mist his crown and thee. But as commissioned angels make no stay, So thy part done, not thy restored state, The future splendour which did for thee wait, Not that thy prince and country must mourn for Such a support and such a counsellor Could longer keep thee from that bliss, whence thou Look'st down with pity on earth's monarchs now; Where thy capacious soul may quench her thirst, And younger brothers may inherit first. There are weak lines in the above pas- She was by nature and her parent's care Justly to mix obedience, love, and care, A native honour, which she stamp'd and taught, &c. She was so pious, that when she did die She scarce changed place, I'm sure not company. Her zeal was primitive and practick too; She did believe and pray, and read, and do, &c. Her alms I may admire, but not relate, But her own works shall praise her in the gate. Her life was chequered with afflictive years, And even her comfort seasoned in her Was a fresh widow every son she lost, &c. Thus from all other women she had skill To draw their good, but nothing of their ill. And since she knew the mad tumultuous world, Saw crowns reversed, temples to ruin hurl'd, She in retirement chose to shine and burn As a bright lamp shut in some Roman urn. We shall give only one other poem of this kind," An Epitaph on my Honoured Mother-in-Law Mrs Phi lips of Portheynon, in Cardiganshire." We think it remarkably well expressed, and almost a model for epitaph composition. Reader stay, it is but just, Thou dost not tread on common dust, The Matchless Orinda seems to have had many female friends, to whom she gives names, according to the custom of the day, of the same pedantic kind with that which she assumed for herself. There is an elegant little poem quite in a different style from the preceding ones, on Lucasia, Rosania, and Orinda, parting at a fountain, July 1663. Here, here are our enjoyments done, The kind and mournful nymph which here Lest we should doubt her innocence, Our love being clearer far than she. A greater coldness can express ;) But Time, that has both wings and feet, This is a string of conceits, it is true, but it is infinitely more elegant and in better taste than many of the compositions of the great Cowley himself. We are tempted to transcribe one stanza of his in praise of our authoress, as a most exquisite piece of nonsense, and certainly affording a strong contrast to the good sense of her own poetry. Women, as if the body were the whole, The fair and fruitful field, And 'tis a strange increase that it doth yield. A secret joy unspeakably does move breast. With no less pleasure thou, methinks, shouldst see This thy no less immortal progeny; So easily they from thee come, In the unexhausted and unfathom'd womb, That, like the Holland Countess, thou mightst bear A child for every day of all the fertile year. There is something much better in a poem of the same author on Orinda's death. We shall close our article with one stanza from it; premising, however, that we can still produce many other good quotations from our poetess, if our readers have any wish to see them. But wit's like a luxuriant vine, It lies deform'd and rotting on the ground. Force their impetuous way, OF THE PRINCESS ELEONORA. D. In last Number, we promised some notices respecting the Princess Eleonora, (second, or, according to others, fourth,) daughter of James the First of Scotland, and the Lady Jane Seymour, daughter to the Duke of Somerset.-In Scotland, every thing must be interesting that relates to the offspring of a Prince, the most accomplished and amiable gentleman of his own time, or perhaps of any other, and a Lady, whom the readers of the exquisite poem of "The King's Quair" must ever hold in mind,-so graceful so fair, so sweet, 66 so very womanly;" "On whom to rest his eyen, so much gude And in their birth thou no one touch dost It did his woful heart;" find Of the ancient curse to womankind; Thou bringst not forth with pain, and whose well-merited affection, in the last fatal scene of his life, shewed It neither travel is, nor labour of thy that he had not been misled in his brain. first fond anticipations, by the warm th |