principle as phraseology. But of course I do not presume to decide when the doctors disagree; nevertheless, I cannot help thinking there is a good deal of truth in M. Sismondi's "Nouvelle Principe." Certainly, if the mere acquisition of wealth were the summum bonum of public felicity, we cannot do better than continue the restrictive system of the last thirty years, which has at least been attended with that advantage. This, however, would bring back the science of economy to the goal from which it started.

Such, then, is the melancholy result of the pursuit of truth and refinement; the tide of knowledge returns to its source, instead of advancing to maturity. Our poets and fine writers abandon the classic models of literature for the prolixities and ladinage of the old writers; metaphysicians return to the exploded doctrine of innate ideas; economists to restrictions on public industry: and a system of morals, mild, merciful, and just, is thrown aside for the maxims of outlaws and savages!-I wonder what the world will come to at last. To me it seems that man is that sort of animal, that were he by a miracle to attain perfection, he would, from mere thirst of novelty, return to his former state of misery and infirmity. He "never is but only to be blest ;" and this seems the only state of which he is capable.

In contemplating these intellectual revulsions, I cannot help congratulating myself that I have remained nearly stationary on the threshold of science. Without the fatigue of inquiry, I have the satisfaction of finding myself on a level with those who have extended their researches to the higher regions of intellect: instead of the adventurers making new discoveries, they reap only disappointment; and, after disagreeing among themselves, return to a few simple truths obvious to all the world. What ought we to infer from this? Clearly, I think, the vanity of abstruse inquiries; that they lead to no useful result-that they only tend to perplex and mislead-and that all the truths useful or attainable by man lie near the surface, and it is folly to dig much lower.

Ought we then, it may be said, to be satisfied with our present knowledge, and not aim at a higher state of improvement ? By no means: let us improve as much as possible, only do not let us toil after imaginary benefits. A good deal of misery attends difficult researches. If one man masters a knotty subject, another must not be below the average state of information. Thus is a tax as burthensome as corvée imposed on time and industry. And to what does it all tend? Our movements are as clearly circular as the paths of the planets. For a time we advance; but if we proceed beyond a certain point, it only brings us to the place from which we started. It is curious enough to observe these mutations in the social orbit-how industry begets wealth, wealth indolence and luxury, which again render industry necessary;-how public

virtue leads to national greatness; how that begets power and corruption, which again calls forth public virtue; how private morals lead to excess of population, which begets licentiousness, and licentiousness again brings private morals into repute. Thus good every where leads to evil; evil to good; and society, like the vegetable world, passes from infancy to maturity-then decays, and that decay is the germ of a new series of revolutions. It is all very laughable: it is lamentable too, but it is true. Our lot is fixed, and we may as well complain that we were not made angels and demigods as that we are not capable of indefinite improvement. There is, however, no doubt, a certain limit in which man may enjoy a maximum of happiness: to attain that limit, and adhere to it, is the only true philosophy;-to pass it, or come short of it, equally leads to evil. This limit I fancy is as little to be found in the higher geometry, the differential calculus, or the researches of metaphysicians, as in the illumination of the Hottentot, or the Esquimaux probably it may be found in the midway.

Sincerely desiring the happiness of mankind, I would fain hope we are approaching the happy medium betwixt excess of refinement and barbarism. One indeed can hardly suppose that we shall not be benefited, though not perfected, by experiencing the mischief of the two extremes. Already I think we may reckon on some points being gained, which cannot fail to be permanently beneficial. Of this description are religious toleration, the freedom of the press, and the invention of machinery. The first must be fatal to superstition, the second to political oppression, and the last will lessen the number of the working classes-the most unhappy part of the community.

When society has obtained all the improvements of which it is capable, the following probably will be the most important changes: Having learned to be more careful of health, mankind will be longer lived. Affairs of love, I apprehend, will be quite as numerous and ardent as at the present time, though not so romantic. Pleasures, simple and durable, will be in more request than vicious indulgence. Ambition, and those violent passions which now desolate the world, will be less destructive. Poverty will be considered a great evil, though the thirst after riches will have abated. The gastronomic art will be esteemed the most important of sciences. Farces and operas will be in more request than tragedies; novels and romances than the abstract sciences. Magazines and Reviews, and rambling Essays like mine, will be highly prized. Natural philosophy, the fine arts, and all pursuits which gratify the senses or have certain results, will be zealously cultivated. Men will be less dogmatical, less pugnacious. Nature and all her works will continue objects of devout admiration, and we shall no longer be vexed with inquiries which experience has proved to be vain and nugatory. Voyages of discovery, however, like Captain

Parry's, will be considered very important, and the results far more interesting, than the issue of any campaign, naval or military. In fine, men will be "merry and wise." There will be less want, less contention, less toil, more enjoyment; but, after all, there will be left enough of the old leaven to prevent society becoming either stagnant or incurious. Though there will be less war, I apprehend there will still be some duelling, and I have no hope that such places as the Old Bailey can be entirely dispensed

with.

M.

ADDRESS TO THE ORANGE TREE AT VERSAILLES, CALLED
THE GREAT BOURBON, WHICH IS ABOVE FOUR HUNDRED
YEARS OLD.

WHEN France with civil wars was torn,
And heads, as well as crowns, were shorn
From royal shoulders,

One Bourbon, in unalter'd plight,
Hath still maintain'd its regal right,
And held its court-a goodly sight
To all beholders.

Thou, leafy monarch, thou alone,
Hath sat uninjur'd on thy throne,
Seeing the war range;
And when the great Nassaus were sent
Crownless away, (a sad event!)
Thou didst uphold and represent
The House of Orange.

To tell what changes thou hast seen,
Each grand monarque, and king, and queen,
Of French extraction;

Might puzzle those who don't conceive
French history, so I believe
Comparing thee with ours will give
More satisfaction.

Westminster-hall, whose oaken roof,
The papers say, (but that's no proof)
Is nearly rotten;

Existed but in stones and trees

When thou wert waving in the breeze,
And blossoms, (what a treat for bees!)
By scores hadst gotten.

Chaucer, so old a bard that time
Has antiquated every chime,

And from his tomb outworn each rhyme
Within the Abbey;

And Gower, an older poet, whom
The Borough Church enshrines, (his tomb
Though once restor'd, has lost its bloom,
And got quite shabby,)

Liv'd in thy time-the first perchance
Was beating monks*, when thou in France
By monks wert beaten,

Who shook beneath this very tree,
Their reverend beards, with glutton glee,
As each downfalling luxury

Was caught and eaten.

Perchance, when Henry gain'd the fight
Of Agincourt, some Gaulish Knight,
(His bleeding steed in woeful plight,
With smoking haunches,)

Laid down his helmet, at thy root,
And as he pluck'd the grateful fruit,
Suffer'd his poor exhausted brute
To crop thy branches.

Thou wert of portly size and look,
When first the Turks besieged and took
Constantinople;

And eagles in thy boughs might perch,
When leaving Bullen in the lurch,
Another Henry changed his church,
And used the Pope ill.

What numerous namesakes hast thou seen
Lounging beneath thy shady green,
With monks as lazy;

Louis Quatorze has press'd that ground,
With his six mistresses around,

A sample of the old and sound
Legitimacy.

And when despotic freaks and vices
Brought on th' inevitable crisis

Of revolution,

Thou heard'st the mobs' infuriate shriek,
Who came their victim Queen to seek,
On guiltless heads the wrath to wreak
Of retribution.

O! of what follies, vice, and crime,
Hast thou, in thy eventful time,
Been made beholder!

* There is a tradition, (though not authenticated) that Chaucer was fined for beating a friar in Fleet Street.

POPE tells us, that the sovereign beauties who grace and govern the empire of fashion, when to our dull senses they seem to end their career,

"In sylphs aloft repair,

And sport and flutter in the fields of air."

If any of the Belindas, or other "light coquettes" of the poet's days, should still, unfolding their "insect wings" to the sun, or more correctly, perhaps, to the brilliant chandelier, hover over the scenes of their past glories, and contemplate the vicissitudes and revolutions which have occurred in theirs, as in most other empires, they must be as deeply impressed with astonishment as "airy substance" well can be. Their surprise, and it is to be apprehended, their disapprobation may naturally be excited by the many, petty, every-day changes, which take place so gradually, that those who witness, scarcely notice them, until their attention is roused by some casual reference to the manners and customs painted in old plays, the Spectator, or the exquisite poem itself which has already been quoted. Amongst the instances of the mutability of human affairs, that have passed under the observation of beings, to whom the past and present are equally familiar, may be enumerated, the desertion of the Mall in St. James's Park for the Ring in Hyde Park; of the Ring for the road leading to Kensington; and latterly, for that between Piccadilly and Cumberland Gate; of the side-box of the national Theatre for the Italian Opera; subsequently of the Coffee-room of the Opera House for a sort of lobby, technically called the Crush-room, followed by the utter degradation of its once fashionable pit; the exchange of the mask, which heretofore