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It is the treasure-house of the mind, wherein the monuments thereof are kept and preserved. Plato makes it the mother of the Muses. Aristotle sets it in one degree further, making experience the mother of arts, memory the parent of experience. Philosophers place it in the rear of the head; and it seems the mine of memory lies there, because there men naturally dig for it, scratching it when they ałe at a loss. This again is two-fold; one, the simple retention of things; the other, a regaining them when forgotten.
Artificial memory is rather a trick than an art, and more for the gain of the teacher than profit of the learners. Like the tossing of a pike, which is no part of the postures and motions thereof, and is rather for ostentation than use, to show the strength and nimbleness of the arm, and is often used by wandering soldiers, as an introduction to beg. Understand it of the artificial rules which at this day are delivered by memory mountebanks ; for sure an art thereof may be made, (wherein as yet the world is defective,) and that no more destructive to natural memory than spectacles are to eyes, which girls in Holland wear from twelve years of age. But till this be found out, let us observe these plain rules.
First, soundly infix in thy mind what thou desirest to remember. What wonder is it if agitation of business jog that out of thy head which was there rather tacked than fastened ? It is best knocking in the nail over night, and clinching it the next morning.
Overburden not thy memory to make so faithful a servant a slave. Remember, Atlas was weary. Have as much reason as a camel, to rise when thou hast thy full load. Memory, like a purse, if it be over full that it cannot shut, all will drop out of it; take heed of a gluttonous curiosity to feed on many things, lest the greediness of the appetite of thy memory spoil the digestion thereof.
Marshal thy notions into a handsome method. One will carry twice more weight trussed and packed up in bundles, than when it lies untoward, flapping and hanging about his shoulders. Things orderly fardled up under heads are most portable.
Adventure not all thy learning in one bottom, bùt divide it betwixt thy memory and thy note-books. He that with Bias carries all his learning about him in his head, will utterly be beggared, and bankrupt, if a violent disease, a merciless thief, should rob and strip him. I know some have a common-place against commonplace-books, and yet perchance will privately make use of what They publicly declaim against. A common-place-book contains many notions in garrison, whence the owner may draw out an army into the field on competent warning:
RORERT HERRICK. 1591-1662. One of the most exquisite of the early English lyric poets, was Robert Herrick. But little is known of his life. His father was a goldsmith of London, and he was born in that city in 1591. He studied at Cambridge, and took orders in the established church, and obtained a place to preach in, in Devonshire, which he lost at the commencement of the civil wars. At the Restoration he was re-appointed to his vicarage, but died soon afterwards, in 1662.
Abating some of the impurities of Herrick, we can fully join with an able critic in the Retrospective Review' in pronouncing him one of the best of English lyric poets. “ He is the most joyous and gladsome of bards; sing. ing like the grasshopper, as if he would never grow old. He is as fresh as the Spring, as blithe as the Summer, and as ripe as the Autumn. ... His poems resemble a luxuriant meadow, full of king-cups and wild flowers, or a July firmament, sparkling with a myriad of stars. His fancy fed upon all the fair and sweet things of nature: it is redolent of roses and jessamine; it is as light and airy as the thistle down, or the bubbles which laughing boys blow into the air, where they float in a waving line of beauty."
You haste away so soon;
Will go with you along!!
We have as short a spring,
Ne'er to be found again.
TO PRIMROSES, FILLED WITH MORNING DEW.
Speak grief in you,
Who were but born
Teemd her refreshing dew?
That mars a flower;
1 Vol. v. page 156. Read also, remarks in “Drake's Literary Houra."
Nor felt th' unkind
Or warp'd, as we,
Who think it strange to see
The reason why
Ye droop, and weep.
Or childish lullaby?
Or brought a kiss
By your tears shed,
Would have this lecture read, « That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth."
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,
And go at last.
An hour or lialf's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
And lose you quite.
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
Into the grave.
HOW THE HEART'S-EASE FIRST CAME.
Frolic virgins once these were,
THE CAPTIVE BEE, OR THE LITTLE FILCHER.
As Julia once a slumbering lay,
THE NIGHT PIECE.-TO JULIA.
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow
But on, on thy way,
Not making a stay,
The stars of the night
Will lend thee their light,
And, when I shall meet
Thy silvery feet
Ask me why I send you here
Ask me why this flower does show
UPON A CHILD THAT DIED.
EPITAPH UPON A CHILD.
UPON A MAID.
Here she lies, in beds of spice,
CATHERINE PHILIPS. 1631-1664, Mrs. CATHERINE Pailips was the daughter of John Fowler, a London merchant, and married, when quite young, James Philips, a gentleman of Cardiganshire. Her devotion to the Muses showed itself at a very early age, and she wrote under the fictitious name of Orinda. She continued to write after her marriage; though this did not prevent her from discharging, in a most exemplary manner, the duties of domestic life. Her poems, which had been dispersed among her friends in manuscript, were first printed with. out her knowledge or consent. She was very much esteemed by her con