in 1720.* He was introduced to Pope at an early period of his life; and, in return for the abundant adulation which he offered to that poet, was rewarded with his encouragement, and even his occasional assistance in versification. Yet, | admirer as he was of Pope, his manner leans more to the imitation of Dryden. In 1727 he published, by subscription, a volume of poems, which he dedicated to the Earl of Peterborough, who, as the author acknowledges, was the first patron of his muse. In the preface it is boasted, that the poems had been chiefly written under the age of nineteen. As he must have been several years turned of twenty, when he made this boast, it exposes either his sense or veracity to some suspicion. He either concealed what improvements he had made in the poems, or showed a bad judgment in not having improved them.

His next publications, in 1730 and 1735, were an " Essay on Satire," and another on " Reason," to both of which Pope is supposed to have contributed many lines. Two sermons, which he printed, were so popular as to run through five editions. He therefore rose, with some degree of clerical reputation, to be principal of St. Mary Hall, Oxford; and was so much esteemed, that Lord Lyttelton recommended him to the Earl of Chesterfield, as the most proper tutor and travelling companion to his son. Harte had, indeed, every requisite for the preceptorship of Mr. Stanhope, that a Grævius or Gronovius could have possessed; but none of those for which we should have supposed his father to have been most anxious. He was profoundly learned, but ignorant of the world, and awkward in his person and address. His pupil and he, however, after having travelled together for four years, parted with mutual regret; and Lord Chesterfield showed his regard for Harte by procuring for him a canonry of Windsor.

During his connection with Lord Peterborough, that nobleman had frequently recommended to him to write the life of Gustavus Adolphus. For this historical work he collected, during his travels, much authentic and original information. It employed him for many years, and was published in 1759; but either from a vicious taste, or from his having studied the idioms of foreign languages till he had forgotten those of his own, he wrote his history in a style so obscure and uncouth, that its merits, as a work of research, were overlooked, and its reception from the public was cold and mortifying. Lord Chesterfield, in speaking of its being translated into German, piously wishes that its author had translated it

[* This according to Mr. Croker's showing, (Boswell, vol. i. p. 377) is not the case. The Walter Harte who took his degree of A.M. at Pembroke College, Oxford, in 1720, was not the poet; for he was of St. Mary's Hall, and made A.M. on the 21st January 1730. This one fact removes Mr. Campbell's after difficulties.]

† Boswell Ly Croker, vol. iv. p. 449.]

Harte's Life of Gustavus Adolphus, Mr. Chalmers tells us, was a very unfortunate publication. Hume's House of Tudor came out the same week, and Robertson's

into English; as it was full of Germanisms, Latinisms, and all isms but Anglicisms." All the time, poor Harte thought he was writing a style less laboured and ornate than that of his cotemporaries; and when George Hawkins, the bookseller, objected to some of his most violent phrases, he used to say, "George, that is what we call writing." This infatuation is the more surprising, that his Sermons, already mentioned, are marked by no such affectation of manner; and he published in 1764 Essays on Husbandry," which are said to be remarkable for their elegance and perspicuity.

Dr. Johnson, according to Boswell, said, "that Harte was excessively vain: that he left London on the day his Life of Gustavus' was published, to avoid the great praise he was to receive; but Robertson's History of Scotland' having come out the same day, he was ashamed to return to the scene of his mortification." This sarcastic anecdote comes in the suspicious company of a blunder as to dates, for Robertson's "History of Scotland" was published a month after [before?] Harte's "Life of Gustavus;" and it is besides rather an odd proof of a man's vanity, that he should have run away from expected compli

ments.

The failure of his historical work is alleged to have mortified him so deeply, as to have affected his health. All the evidence of this, however, is deduced from some expressions in his letters, in which he complains of frequent indisposition. His biographers, first of all take it for granted, that a man of threescore could not possibly be indisposed from any other cause than from reading harsh reviews of his "Life of Gustavus;" and then, very consistently, show the folly of his being grieved at the fate of his history, by proving that his work was reviewed, on the whole, rather in a friendly and laudatory manner. Harte. however, was so far from being a martyr, either to the justice or injustice of criticism, that he prepared a second edition of the "Life of Gusta. vus" for the press; and announced, in a note, that he had finished the "History of the thirty Years War in Germany." His servant Dore, afterward an innkeeper at Bath, got possession of his MSS. and this work is supposed to be irrecoverably lost. In the mean time, he was struck with a palsy in 1766, which attacked him again in 1769, and put a period to his life five years after. At the time of his death he was vicar of St. Austel and Blazy in Cornwall. His poetry is little read; and I am aware of hazarding the appearance of no great elegance of taste, in professing myself amused and in

History of Scotland only a month before; and after perusing these, poor Harte's style could not certainly be endured. Mr. Chalmers perhaps may require to be told that industry in collecting, examining, and arranging the materials of history, and fidelity in using them, are the first qualities of an historian: that in those qualities Harte has not been surpassed; that in the opinion of military men Harte's is the best military history in our language, and that it is rising and will continue to rise in repute."-SOUTHEY, Quar. Rev. vol. xi. p. 497.]

terested by several parts of it, particularly by his "Amaranth." In spite of pedantry and grotesqueness, he appears, in numerous passages, to have condensed the reflection and information of no ordinary mind. If the reader dislikes his

story of "Eulogius," I have only to inform him, that I have taken some pains to prevent its being more prolix than is absolutely necessary, by the mechanical reduction of its superfluities.

EULOGIUS: OR, THE CHARITABLE MASON.

FROM THE GREEK OF PAULUS SYLLOGUS.

In ancient times scarce talk'd of, and less known, When pious Justin fill'd the eastern throne, In a small dorp, till then for nothing famed, And by the neighbouring swains Thebaïs named, Eulogius lived: an humble mason he; In nothing rich but virtuous poverty. From noise and riot he devoutly kept, Sigh'd with the sick, and with the mourner wept; Half his earn'd pittance to poor neighbours went; They had his alms and he had his content. Still from his little he could something spare To feed the hungry, and to clothe the bare, He gave, whilst aught he had, and knew no bounds;

The poor man's drachms stood for rich men's pounds;

He learnt with patience, and with meekness taught, His life was but the comment of his thought.

On the south aspect of a sloping hill,
Whose skirts meandering Penus washes still,
Our pious labourer pass'd his youthful days
In peace and charity, in prayer and praise.
No theatres of oaks around him rise,
Whose roots earth's centre touch, whose head
the skies;

No stately larch-tree there expands a shade
O'er half a rood of Larrisséan glade :
No lofty poplars catch the murmuring breeze,
Which loitering whispers on the cloud-capp'd trees;
Such imagery of greatness ill became

A nameless dwelling, and an unknown name!
Instead of forest-monarchs, and their train,
The unambitious rose bedeck'd the plain;
On skirting heights thick stood the clustering vine,
And here and there the sweet-leaved eglantine;
One lilac only, with a statelier grace,
Presumed to claim the oak's and cedar's place,
And, looking round him with a monarch's care,
Spread his exalted boughs to wave in air.

This spot, for dwelling fit, Eulogius chose,
And in a month a decent homestall rose,
Something between a cottage and a cell-
Yet virtue here could sleep, and peace could dwell.
From living stone (but not of Parian rocks,)
He chipp'd his pavement, and he squared his
blocks:

And then, without the aid of neighbours' art,
Perform'd the carpenter's and glazier's part.
The site was neither granted him nor giv'n;
"Twas nature's; and the ground-rent due to
heav'n.

Wife he had none: nor had he love to spare;
An aged mother wanted all his care.

They thank'd their Maker for a pittance sent,
Supp'd on a turnip, slept upon content.

Four rooms, above, below, this mansion graced,
With white-wash deck'd, and river-sand o'ercast:
The first, (forgive my verse if too diffuse,)
Perform'd the kitchen's and the parlour's use;
The second, better bolted and immured,
From wolves his out-door family secured:
(For he had twice three kids, besides their dams;
A cow, a spaniel, and two fav'rite lambs:)
A third, with herbs perfumed, and rushes spread,
Held, for his mother's use, a feather'd bed:
Two moss-mattresses in the fourth were shown;
One for himself, for friends and pilgrims one.

No flesh from market-towns our peasant sought:
He rear'd his frugal meat, but never bought:
A kid sometimes for festivals he slew;
The choicer part was his sick neighbours' due:
Two bacon-flitches made his Sunday's cheer;
Some the poor had, and some out-lived the year:
For roots and herbage, (raised at hours to spare,)
With humble milk, composed his usual fare.
(The poor man then was rich, and lived with
glee;

Each barley-head untax'd, and daylight free :)
All had a part in all the rest could spare,
The common water, and the common air.

Meanwhile God's blessings made Eulogius
thrive,

The happiest, most contented man alive.
His conscience cheer'd him with a life well spent,
His prudence a superfluous something lent,
Which made the poor who took, and poor who

gave, content.

Alternate were his labours and his rest,
For ever blessing, and for ever blest.

Eusebius, hermit of a neighb'ring cell,
His brother Christian mark'd, and knew him well:
With zeal unenvying, and with transport fired,
Beheld him, praised him, loved him, and admired.
"Then hear me, gracious Heaven, and grant my

prayer;

Make yonder man the fav'rite of thy care:
Nourish the plant with thy celestial dew,
Like manna, let it fall, and still be new:
Expand the blossoms of his gen'rous mind,
Till the rich odour reaches half mankind.
Then may his soul its free-born range enjoy,
Give deed to will, and every power employ."
The hermit's prayer permitted, not approved;
Soon in a higher sphere Eulogius moved.

One day, in turning some uncultured ground,
(In hopes a freestone quarry might be found,)
His mattock met resistance, and behold
A casket burst, with di'monds fill'd, and gold.
He cramm'd his pockets with the precious store,
And every night review'd it o'er and o'er;

Till a gay conscious pride, unknown as yet, Touch'd a vain heart, and taught it to forget: And what still more his stagg'ring virtue tried, His mother, tut'ress of that virtue, died.

A neigb'ring matron, not unknown to fame, (Historians give her Teraminta's name,) The parent of the needy and distress'd, [blest: With large demesnes and well saved treasure (For, like th' Egyptian prince, she hoarded store To feed at periodic dearths the poor:) This matron, whiten'd with good works and age, Approach'd the sabbath of her pilgrimage; Her spirit to himself th' Almighty drew;Breath'd on th' alembic, and exhaled the dew. In souls prepared, the passage is a breath From time t' eternity, from life to death. But first, to make the poor her future care, She left the good Eulogius for her heir.

Who but Eulogius now exults for joy? New thoughts, new hopes, new views his mind employ.

Pride push'd forth buds at every branching shoot,
And virtue shrunk almost beneath the root.
High raised on Fortune's hill, new Alps he spies,
O'ershoots the valley which beneath him lies,
Forgets the depths between, and travels with his
The tempter saw the danger in a trice, [eyes.
(For the man slidder'd upon Fortune's ice :)
And, having found a corpse, half dead, half warm,
Revived it, and assumed a courtier's form;
Swift to Thebaïs urged his airy flight;
And measured half the globe in half a night.
Libanius-like, he play'd the sophist's part,
And by soft marches stole upon the heart:
Maintain'd that station gave new birth to sense,
And call'd forth manners, courage, eloquence:
Then touch'd with sprightly dashes here and there,
(Correctly strong, yet seeming void of care,)
The master-topic, which may most men move,
The charms of beauty and the joys of love!
Eulogius falter'd at the first alarms,
And soon the 'wakened passions buzz'd to arms;
Nature the clam'rous bell of discord rung,
And vices from dark caverns swift upsprung.
So, when hell's monarch did his summons make,
The slumb'ring demons started from the lake.
And now, the treasure found, and matron's
store,

Sought other objects than the tatter'd poor;
Part to humiliated Apicius went,
A part to gaming confessors was lent,
And part, oh virtuous Thais, paid thy rent.
Poor folks have leisure hours to fast and pray;
Our rich man's business lay another way:
No farther intercourse with heaven had he,
But left good works to men of low degree:
Warm as himself pronounced each ragged man,
And bade distress to prosper as it can:
Till, grown obdurate by mere dint of time,
He deem'd all poor men rogues, and want a crime,
Fame, not contented with her broad highway,
Delights, for change, through private paths to

stray;

A famous Greek rhetorician in the fourth century, whose orations are still extant.

And, wand'ring to the hermit's distant cell,
Vouchsafed Eulogius' history to tell.

At night a dream confirm'd the hermit more;
He 'spied his friend on beds of roses laid:
Round him a crowd of threat'ning furies stands,
With instruments of vengeance in their hands.
He waked aghast: he tore his hair,
And rent his sackcloth garments in despair;
Walk'd to Constantinople, and inquired
Of all he met; at length the house desired
By chance he found, but no admission gain'd;
A Thracian slave the porter's place maintain ́d,
(Sworn foe to thread-bare suppliants,) and with
pride

His master's presence, nay, his name denied.

There walk'd Eusebius at the dawn of light, There walk'd at noon, and there he walk'd at night. In vain. At length, by Providence's care, He found the door unclosed, nor servants near. He enter'd, and through several rooms of state Pass'd gently; in the last Eulogius sat. Old man, good morrow, the gay courtier cried; God give you grace, my son, the sire replied: And then, in terms as moving and as strong, As clear as ever fell from angel's tongue, Besought, reproved, exhorted, and condemn'd: Eulogius knew him, and, though known, contemn'd.

The hermit then assumed a bolder tone; His rage was kindled, and his patience gone. Without respect to titles or to place,

I call thee (adds he) miscreant to thy face. My prayers drew down heaven's bounty on thy head,

My late request, all-gracious Power, forgive! And that yon miscreant may repent, and live, Give him that poverty which suits him best, And leave disgrace and grief to work the rest.”

So pray'd the hermit, and with reason pray'd.Some plants the sunshine ask, and some the shade. At night the nure-trees spread, but check their bloom

At morn, and lose their verdure and perfume.
The virtues of most men will only blow,
Like coy auriculas, in Alpine snow:
Transplant them to the equinoctial line,
Their vigour sickens and their tints decline.
Meanwhile Eulogius, unabash'd and gay,
Pursued his courtly track without dismay :
Remorse was hoodwink'd, conscience charm'd
away;

Reason the felon of herself was made,

And nature's substance hid by nature's shade! Our fine man, now completed, quickly found Congenial friends in Asiatic ground.

The advent'rous pilot in a single year
Learn'd his state cock-boat dext'rously to steer.
By other arts he learns the knack to thrive;
The most obsequious parasite alive :
Chameleon of the court, and country too;
Pays Cæsar's tax, but gives the mob their due;
And makes it, in his conscience, the same thing
To crown a tribune, or behead a king.

On less important days, he pass'd his time
In virtuoso-ship, and crambo-rhyme:
In gaming, jobbing, fiddling, painting, drinking,
And every art of using time, but thinking.
He gives the dinners of each upstart man,
As costly, and luxurious, as he can;
Then weds an heiress of suburbian mold,
Ugly as apes, but well endow'd with gold;
There fortune gave him his full doze of strife,
A scolding woman, and a jealous wife!

T' increase this load, some sycophant report
Destroy'd his int'rest and good grace at court.
At this one stroke the man look'd dead in law:
His flatt'rers scamper, and his friends withdraw.
And now (to shorten my disastrous tale)
Storms of affronts pour'd in as thick as hail.
Each scheme for safety mischievously sped,
And the drawn sword hung o'er him by a thread.
Child he had none. His wife with sorrow died;
Few women can survive the loss of pride.

The Demon having tempted Eulogius to engage in rebel-
lion against his Prince, he is cast into prison.
Here, were it not too long, I might declare
The motives and successes of the war;
The prowess of the knights, their martial deeds,
Their swords, their shields, their surcoats, and
Till Belisarius at a single blow [their steeds;
Suppress'd the faction and repell'd the foe.
By a quick death the traitors he relieved;
Condemn'd, if taken; famish'd, if reprieved.

Now see Eulogius (who had all betray'd
Whate'er he knew) in loathsome dungeon laid:
A pris'ner, first of war, and then of state:
Rebel and traitor ask a double fate!
But good Justinian, whose exalted mind,
(In spite of what Pirasmus urged,) inclined
To mercy, soon the forfeit-life forgave,
And freed it from the shackles of a slave.
Then spoke with mild, but in majestic strain,
Repent, and haste thee to Larissa's plain,
Or wander through the world, another Cain.
Thy lands and goods shall be the poor man's lot,
Or feed the orphans you've so long forgot.

Forsaken, helpless, recognised by none, Proscribed Eulogius left the unprosp'rous town: For succour at a thousand doors he knock'd; Each heart was harden'd, and each door was lock'd.

A pilgrim's staff he bore, of humble thorn;
Pervious to winds his coat, and sadly torn:
Shoes he had none: a beggar gave a pair,
Who saw feet poorer than his own, and bare.
He drank the stream, on dewberries he fed,
And wildings harsh supplied the place of bread;
Thus homeward urged his solitary way;
(Four years he had been absent to a day.)

Fame through Thebaïs his arrival spread,
Half his old friends reproach'd him, and half fled:
Of help and common countenance bereft,
No creature own'd him, but a dog he left.
Compunction touch'd his soul, and, wiser made
By bitter suff'rings he resumed his trade:
Thank'd Heaven for want of power and want of
pelf,

That he had lost the world and found himself.
Conscience and charity revived their part,
And true humility enrich'd the heart,
While grace celestial, with enlivening ray
Beam'd forth, to gild the evening of his day.
His neighbours mark'd the change, and each man

Scipio sought virtue in his prime,
And, having early gain'd the prize,
Stole from th' ungrateful world in time,
Contented to be low and wise?

He served the state with zeal and force,
And then with dignity retired;
Dismounting from th' unruly horse,
To rule himself, as sense required,
Without a sigh, he pow'r resign'd.-

All, all from thee,
Supremely gracious Deity,
Corrector of the mind!

When Diocletian sought repose,

Cloy'd and fatigued with nauseous pow'r,
He left his empire to his foes,

For fools t' admire, and rogues devour:
Rich in his poverty, he bought
Retirement's innocence and health,
With his own hands the monarch wrought,
And changed a throne for Ceres' wealth.
Toil soothed his cares, his blood refined-
And all from thee,
Supremely gracious Deity,
Composer of the mind!

He, who had ruled the world, exchanged
His sceptre for the peasant's spade,
Postponing (as through groves he ranged,)
Court splendour to the rural shade.
Child of his hand, th' engrafted thorn
More than the victor laurel pleased:

Heart's-ease, and meadow-sweet adorn
The brow, from civic garlands eased.
Fortune, however poor, was kind-
All, all from thee,

Supremely gracious Deity,
Corrector of the mind!

Thus Charles, with justice styled the great
For valour, piety, and laws,
Resign'd two empires to retreat,

And from a throne to shades withdraws;
In vain (to sooth a monarch's pride,)
His yoke the willing Persian bore:

In vain the Saracen complied,

And fierce Northumbrians stain'd with gore.
One Gallic farm his cares confined;
And all from thee,

Supremely gracious Deity,
Composer of the mind!

Observant of th' almighty will, Prescient in faith, and pleased with toil, Abram Chaldea left, to till

The moss-grown Haram's flinty soil;
Hydras of thorns absorb'd his gain,
The commonwealth of weeds rebell'd,
But labour tamed th' ungrateful plain,
And famine was by art repell'd;
Patience made churlish nature kind.-
All, all from thee,

Supremely gracious Deity,
Corrector of the mind!

VERSES,

Copied from the window of an obscure lodging-house in the neighbourhood of London.

STRANGER! Whoe'er thou art, whose restless mind,

Like me within these walls is cribb'd, confined;
Learn how each want that heaves our mutual sigh
A woman's soft solicitudes supply.
From her white breast retreat all rude alarms,
Or fly the magic circle of her arms;
While souls exchanged alternate grace acquire,
And passions catch from passions glorious fire:

What though to deck this roof no arts combine,
Such forms as rival every fair but mine;
No nodding plumes, our humble couch above,
Proclaim each triumph of unbounded love;
No silver lamp with sculptured Cupids gay,
O'er yielding beauty pours its midnight ray;
Yet Fanny's charms could Time's slow flight
beguile,

Soothe every care, and make each dungeon smile:

In her, what kings, what saints have wish'd, is given,

Her heart is empire, and her love is heaven.