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We had not gor

t gone far, when Sir Roger. popping out his head, called the coachman down from his box, and upon presenting himself at the window, asked him if he smoked. As I was considering what this would end in, he bid him stop by the way at any wood tobacconist's, and take in a rol of their best Virginia. Nothing material happened in the remaining part of our journey, till we were set down at the west end of the abbey.

As we went up the body of the church, the knight pointed at the trophies upon one of the new monuments, and cried out: 'A bruve inun, I warrant him!' Passing afterwards by Sir Cloudesley Shovel, he flung his head that way, and cried : Sir Cloudesley Shovel ! a very gallant man !' As we stood before Busby's tomb, the knight uttered himself again after the same manner : Dr. Bushy! a great man ! he whipped my grandfather, a very great man! I should have gone to him myself, if I had not been a blockhead; a very great man !'

We were immediately conducted in o the little chapel on the right hand. Sir Roger, plantin' himself at our historian's elbow, was very attentive to everything he said, particularly to the account he gave us of the lord who had cut off the king of Morocco's head. Among several other figures, he was very well pleased to see the statesman Cecil upon his knees; and concluding them all to be great men, wus conducted to the figure which represents that martyr to good housewifery who died by the prick of a needle. Upon our interpreter's telling us that she was a maid of houour to Queen Elizabeth, the kuight was very inquisitive into her name and family; and after having regar led her finger for some time. I wonder,' says he, that Sir Richard Biker has said nothing of her in his " Chronicle."

We were then couveyed to the two coronation chairs, where my old friend, after havive heard that the stone underneath the most ancient of them, which was brought from Scotland, was called Jacob's pillar, sat himself down in the chair; and looking like the figure of an old Gothic king, asked our interpreter, 'what anthority they had to say that Jacob had ever been in Scotland ?' The fellow, instead of returning him an answer, told him that he hoped his honour would pay his forfeit.' I could ohserve Sir Roger a little ruild upon being thus trepanned: but our guide not insisting upon his demand, the knight soon recovered his good-humour, and whispered in my eir, that if Will Wimble were with us, and saw those two chairs, it would go hard, but he would gita tobucco-stopper out of one or t' other of them

Sir Roger, in the next place, laid his hand upon Edward III.'s sword, and leaning upon the pummel of it. gave us the whole history of the Black Prince; concluding, that iu Sir Richard Baker's opinion, Edward III. was one of the greatest princes that ever sat upon the English throne.

We were then shewn Edward the Confessor's tomb; upon which Sir Roger acquainted us, that he was the first who touched for the evil: and afterwards Henry IV.'s; npon which he shook his head, and told us there was fine reading in the

IV.'s; . poof that reign.pointed to tha

Our conductor then pointed to that monument where there is a figure of one of our English kings without an head; and upon giving us to know that the lieud, which was of beaten silver, hud been stole away several years since; 'Some Whig, I'll warrant you, says Sir Roger: "you ought to lock up your kings better; they will carry off the body too, if you do not take care,

The glorious names of Henry V. and Queen Elizabeth gave the knight great opportugities of shining, and of doing justice to Sir Richard Baker, who,' as our knight observed with some surprise, had a great many kings in him, whose monuments he had not seen in the abbey.'

For my own part, I could not but be pleased to see the knight shew such an honest passion for the glory of his country, and such a respectful gratitude to the memory of its princes.

I must not oinit, that the benevolence of my good old friend, which flows out towards every one he converses with, made him very kind to our interpreter, whom he looked

w as an extraordinary man; for which reason he shook him by the hand at parting, telling him that he should be very glad to see him at his lodgings in Nor folk Buildings, and talk over these matters with him more at leisure:

Genealogy of Humour. It is indeed much easier to describe what is not humour, than what is; and very difficult to define it otherwise than us Cowley has done wit, by negatives. Were !

to give my own notions of it, I would deliver them after Plato's manner, in a kind of allegory, and by supposing Humour to be a person, deduce to him all his qualifications, according to the following genealogy: Truth was the founder of the family, and the father of Good Sense. Good Sense was the father of Wit, who married a lady of collateral line called Mirth, by whom he has issue Humour. Humour there fore, being the youngest of the illustrious family, and descended froin parents of such different dispositions, is very various and mequal in his temper; sometimes you see him putting on grave looks and a solemu nabit, sometimes airy in his behaviour and fantastic in his dress ; insomuch that at different times he appears as serious as a judge and as jocular as a Merry Andrew. But as he has a great deal of the mother in his constitution, whatever mood he is in, he never fails to make his company laugh.

Ned Softly. Ned Softly is a very pretty poet, and a great admirer of easy lines. Waller is his favourite; and as that admirable writer has the best and worst verses of any among our great English poets, Ned Softly has got all the bad ones without book, which ha repeats upon occasion, to shew his reading, and garnish his conversation. Ned is indeed a true English reader, incapable of relishing the great and masterly strokes of this art; but wonderfully pleased with the little Gothic ornaments of epigrammatical conceits, turns, points, and quibbles, which are so frequent in the most admired of our English poets, and practised by those who want genius and strength to represent, after the manner of the ancients, simplicity in its natural beauty and perfection. .

Finding myself unavoidably engaged in such a conversation, I was resolved to turn my pain into a pleasure, and to divert myself as well as I could with so very odd a fellow. You must understand,' says Ned, that the sonnet I am going to read to you was written upon a lady, who shewed me some verses of her own making, and is perhaps the best poet of our age. But you shall hear it.' Upon which he began to read as follows:

'TO Mira, on her incomparable poems.
When dressed in laurel wreaths you shine,

And tune your soft inelodious notes,
You seem a sister of the Nine,

Or Phæbus' self in petticoats.
I fancy, when your song you sing

(Your song you sing with so much art).
Your pen was plucked from Cupid's wing:

For ah! it wounds me like his dart.'

"Why,' says I, this is a little nosegay of conceits, a very lamp of salt: every verse hath something in it that piques; and then the dart in the last line is certainly as pretty a sting in the tail of an epigram (for so I think you critics call it), as ever entered into the thought of a poet.'

• Dear Mr. Bickerstaff,' says he, shaking me by the band, everybody knows you to be a jurge of these things : and to tell you truly. I read over Roscoinmon's translation of Horace's “ Art of Poetry” three several times, before I sat down to write the sonnet which I have shewn you. But you shall hear it again, and pray observe every line of it, for not one of them shall pass without your approbation.

When dressed in laurel wreaths you shine, "That is,' says he, 'when yon have your garland on; when you were writing Verses.'

To'which I replied: 'I know your meaning; a metaphor!' • The same,' said he, and went on:

'And tune yonr soft melodious notes. Pray, obscrve the gliding of that verse; there is scarce a consonant in it: I took care to make it run upon l gaids. Give me your opinion of it.'

• Truly,' said I, “I think it as good as the former.'

rom the air of learning which

given to this first stanno

budden into the

"I am very glad to hear you say so,' says he ; .but mind the next.'

You sccm a sister of the Nine. . That is,' says he, “you seem a sister of the Musck; for if you look into ancient authors, yoll will find it was their opiniou that there were nine of them.' • I remember it very well,' suid I; but pray proceed.'

"Or Phæbus' scif in petticoats.' Phæbus,' says he, é was the god of poetry. These few instances, Mr, Bickerstaff, chew a gentleman's reading. Thien to take off from the air of learning which Phebus and the Muses have given to this first stanza, you may observe how it falls all of & suddeu into the familiar iu petticoats?

Or Phæbus' self in petticoats.' "Let us now,' says I, enter upon the second stanza. I find the first line is still a contivuation of the metaphor.'

•I fancy, when your song you sing. "It is very right.' says hc; but pray observe the turn of words in those two lines. I was a whole hour in adjusting of them, and have still a doubt upon me, whether in the second line it should be, "Your sovg you sing ;" or, “ You sivg your song." You shall hear them both :

I fancy, when your song you sing
(Your song you sing with so much art);
I fancy, when your song you sing,

You sing your song with su much art.' Truly,' said I, the turn is so natural cither way that you have made me almost giddy with it.'

Dear sir," said he, grasping me by the hand, you have a great deal of patience ; but pray what do you think of the next verse ?

Your pen was plucked from Cupid's wing.' "Think !' says I, “I think you have made Cupid look like a little goose."

* That was my meaning,' says lie: 'I think the ridicule is well enough hit off. But We now come to the last, which sums up the whole matter:

For ah! it wourds me like his dart. Pray how do you like that "Ah," Doth it not make a pretty figure in that place? "Ah"" It looks as if I felt the dart, and cried out at being pricked with it.

Or

For ah! it wounds me like his dart.

*My friend Dick Easy,' continued he, assured me he would rather have written that Ab!" than to have been the author of the Æneid." He indeerl objected, that I made Mira's pen like a quill in one of the lines, and like a dart in the other. But as to that'--

*Oh! as to that,' says I, it is but supposing Cupid to be like a porcupine, and his anills and darts will be the same thing.' He was going to embrace me for the hint ; but half a dozen critics coming into the room, whose faces he did not like, he conveyed the sonnet into his pocket, and whispered me in the ear, he would shew it me again as soon as his man had written it over fuir.

Tie Works of Creation. I wag yesterday about sunset walking in the open fields, until the night insensibly fell upon me. I at first amused myself with all the richness and variety of colour's which appeared in the western parts of heaven. In proportion as they faded away and went out, several stars and planets appeared one after auother, until the whole

firmament was in a glow. The blueness of the ether was exceedingly heightened and enlivered by the season of the year, and by the rays of all those luminaries that passed through it. The galaxy appeared in its most beautiful white. To complete the scene, the full moon ios at length in that clouded majesty which Milton takes notice of, and opened to the eye a new picture of nature, which was more finely shaded, and disposed among softer lights, than that which' the sun had before discovered to us.

As I was surveying the moon walking in her brightness, and taking her progress among the constellations, a thought rose in me which I believe very often perplexes and disturbs men of serious and contemplative natures. David himself fell into it in that reflection: When I consider the heavens the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained, what is man that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou regardest him?' In the same manuer, when I considered that infinite host of stars, or, to speak more philosophically, of suns, which were then shining upon me, with those innumerable sets of planets or worlds which were moving round their respective suns-when I still enlarged the idea, and supposed another heaven of suns and worlds rising still above this which we discovered, and these still enlightened by a superior firin::ment of luminaries, which are planted at so great a distance, that they may appear to the inhabitants of the former as the stars do to us-in short, while I pursued this thought, I could not but reflect on that little insignificant figure which I myself bore amidst the immensity of God's works.

Were the sun which enlightens this part of the creation, with all the host of planetary worlds that move about him, utterly extinguished and annihilated, they would not be missed more than a grain of sand upon the sea-shore. The space they possess is 80 exceedingly little in comparisou of the whole, that it would scarce make a blank iu the creation. The cbasın would be imperceptible to an eye that could take in the whole compass of nature, and pass from one end of the creation to the other; as it is possible there may be such a sense in onrselves hereafter, or in creatures which are at present more exalted than ourselves. We see many stars by the help of glasses which we do not discover with our naked eyes; and the finer our telescopes are, the more still are our discoveries. Huygenius carries this thought so far, that he does not think it impossible there may be stars whose light has not yet travelled down to us since their first creation. There is no question but the universe has certain bounds set to it; but when we coursider that it is the work of infinite power prompted by infinite goodness, with an infinite space to exert itself in, how can our imagination set any bounds to it?

To return, therefore, to my first thought; I could not but look upon myself with secret horror as a being that was not worth the smallest regard of one who had so great a work under his care and superintendency. I was afraid of being overlooked amidst the immensity of nature, and lost among that intinite variety of creatures which in all probability swarm through all these immeasurable regions of matter.

In order to recover myself from this mortifying thought, I considered that it took its rise from those narro:y conceptions which we are apt to entertain of the divine nature. We ourselves cannot attend to many different objects at the same time. If we are careful to inspect some things, we must of course neglect others. This imperfection which we observe in ourselves is an imperfection that cleaves in some degree to creatures of the highest capacities, as they are creatures; that is, beings of finite and limited natures. The presence of every created being is confined to a certain measure of space, and consequently his observation is stinted to a certain number of objects. The sphere in which we move, and act, and understand, is of a wider circumference to one creature than another, according as we rise one above. another in the scale of existence. But the widest of these our spheres has its circumference. When, therefore, we reflect on the divine nature, we are so used and accustomed to this imperfect on in ourselves, that we cannot forbear in some measure ascribing it to Him in whom there is no shadow of imperfection. Our reason indeed assures us that his attributes are infinite; but the poorness of our cenceptions is such, that it cannot forbear setting bounds to everything it contemplates, until our reason comes again to our succour, and throws down all those little prejudices which rise in us unawares, and are natural to the mund of man.

We shall, therefore, utterly extinguish this melancholy thought of our being over looked by our Maker, in the multiplicity of his works and the infinity of those ob

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jects among which he seems to be incessantly employed, if we consider, in the first place, that he is omnipresent: and, in the second, that he is omniscient.

If we consider him in his omnipresence, bis being passes through, actuates, and supports the whole frame of nature. His creation, and every part of it, is full of him. There is nothing he has made that is either so distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, which he does not essentially inhabit. His substance is within the substance of every being, whether material or immaterial, and as intimately present to it as that being is 10 itself. It would be an imperfection in him were he able to remove out of one place into another. or to withdraw himself from anything he has created, or from any part of that space which is diffused and spread abroad to infinity. In short, to speak of him in the language of the old philosopher, he is & being whose centre is everywhere, and his circumference nowhere.

In the second place, he is omniscient as well as omnipresent. His omniscience, indeed, necessarily and naturally flows from his omnipresence: he cannot but be conscious of every motion that arises in the whole material world, which he thus essentially pervades; and of every thought that is stirring in the intellectual world, to every part of which he is thus intimately united. Several moralists have considered the creation as the temple of God, which he has built with his own hands, and which is filled with his presence.' Others have considered infinite space as the receptacle, or rather the habitation, of the Almighty. But the noblest and most exalted way of considering this infinite space is that of Sir Isaac Newton, who calls it the sensorium of the Godhead. Brutes and men have their sensoriola, or little sensoriums, by which they apprehend the presence and perceive the actions of a few objects that lie contiguous to them. Their knowledge and observation turn within a very parrow circle. But as God Almighty cannot but perceive and know everything in which he resides, infinite space gives room to infinite knowledge, and is, as it were, an organ to omniscience.

Were the soul separate from the body, and with one glance of thought should start beyond the bounds of the creation-should it for millions of years continue its progress through infinite space with the same activity-it would still find itself withiu the embrace of its Creator, and encompassed round with the immensity of the Godhead. While we are in body, he is not less present with us because he is concealed from 11s. "Oh that I knew where I might find him!' says Job. “Behold I go forward, but he is not there, and backward, but I cannot perceive him: on the left hand where he does work, but I cannot behold him : he hideth himself on the right hand that I cannot see him.' In short, reason as well as revelation assures us that he cannot be absent from us, notwithstanding he is undiscovered by us.

In this consideration of God Almighty's omnipresence and omniscience, every ancomfortable thought vanishes. He cannot but regard everything that has being, especially such of his creatures who fear they are not regarded by him. He is privy to all their thoughts, and to that anxiety of heart in particular which is apt to trouble them on this occasion : for as it is impossible he should overlook any of his creatures, so we may be confident that he regards with an eye of mercy those who endeavour to recommend themselves to his notice, and in an unfeigned humility of heart think themselves upworthy that he should be mindful of them,

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EUSTACE BUDGELL. EUSTACE BUDGELL (1685-1737) was a relation of Addison-his mother being Addison's cousin-german He was educated at Christ Church, Oxford. He accompanied Addison to Ireland as clerk, and afterwards rose to be Under-Secretary of State, and a distinguished member of the Irish Parliament. Thirty-seven numbers of the Spectator are ascribed to Budgell; and though Dr. Jolinson says that these were either written by Addison, or so much improved by him that they were made in a manner his own, there seems to be no sufficient authority for the assertion. It is true that the style ana humour resemble those of Addison; but as the two writers were

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