is satirized: the procession to the place of assemblage; the sermon heard; the adjournment to a tavern, and the junketing which followed, being the subject matter, the writer evidently regarding a place of public worship as an incongruous locality for such an assemblage. It is thus summed up in the opening lines:

O Muse renown'd for story-telling,
Fair Clio, leave thy airy dwelling.

Now while the streams like marble stand,
Hell fast by winter's icy hand;

Now while the hills are cloth'd in snow;
Now while the keen north-west winds blow;
From the bleak fields and chilling air
Unto the warmer hearth repair:
Where friends in cheerful circle met、

In social conversation sit.

Cone, goddess, and our ears regale
With a diverting Christmas tale.
O come, and in thy verse declare

Who were the men, and what they were,
And what their names, and what their fame,
And what the cause for which they came
To house of God from house of ale,
And how the parson told his tale:
How they return'd, in manner odd,
To house of ale from house of God.

Another of his poems is, A Mournful Lamentation for the Death of Mr. Old Tenor, written after a change in the currency. He was also a contributor with Byles, and others, to "A Collection of Poems, by several hands," published at Boston, in 1744. An Elegy on the long-expected death of Old Janus (the New England Weekly Courant) is no doubt from the pen of one of the two wits, whose productions it is not always easy to distinguish, and whose talents were combined in a wit combat which excited much merriment at the time. It arose from the desire of Governor Belcher to secure the good company of Dr. Byles in a visit by sea to some Indian tribes on the eastern coast of the province. Byles declined his invitation, and the Governor set sail from Boston, alone, on a Saturday, dropping anchor before the castle in the bay, for Sunday. Here he persuaded the chaplain to exchange pulpits with the eloquent Doctor, whom he invited on board in the afternoon, to tea. On leaving the cabin at the conclusion of the repast, he found himself, to his surprise, at sea, with a fair wind, the anchor having been weighed while he was talking over the cheering cup. Return was out of the question, and the Doctor, whose good-natured countenance seems to indicate that he could take as well as give a joke, no doubt made himself contented and agreeable. On the following Sunday, in preparing for divine service, it was found that there was no hymn-book on board, and to meet the emergency, Byles composed a few verses. On

their return Green wrote an account of this impromptu, with a parody upon it, to which Byles responded, by a poem and parody in return. The whole will be found at the conclusion of this article.

Green's satire was universally directed against arbitrary power, and in favor of freedom. He frequently parodied the addresses of Governor Belcher, who, it is supposed, stood in some awe of his pen. In 1774, after the withdrawal of the charter of Massachusetts by the British Parlia

ment, the councillors of the province were appointed by the crown, instead of as heretofore being chosen by popular election. One of these appointments was tendered to Green, but immediately declined by him. He did not, however, take any active part on the popular side, the quiet, retiring habit of his mind, combining with the infirmities of his advanced years, as an inducement to repose. In 1775 he sailed for England, where he passed the remainder of his life in a secluded but not inhospitable retirement. He died in 1780. A humorous epitaph written on Green by one of his friends, in 1743, indicates the popular appreciation of his talents:

Siste Viator, here lies one,

Whose life was whim, whose soul was pun,
And if you go too near his hearse,
He'll joke you, both in prose and verse.

HYMN WRITTEN DURING A VOYAGE,

Great God thy works our wonder raise;
To thee our swelling notes belong;
While skies and winds, and rocks and seas,
Around shall echo to our song.

Thy power produced this mighty frame,
Aloud to thee the tempests roar,
Or softer breezes tune thy name
Gently along the shelly shore.

Round thee the scaly nation roves,

Thy opening hands their joys bestow, Through all the blushing coral groves,

These silent gay retreats below.

See the broad sun forsake the skies,

Glow on the waves and downward glide, Anon heaven opens all its eyes,

And star-beains tremble o'er the tide. Each various scene, or day or night, Lord! points to thee our nourish'd soul; Thy glories fix our whole delight; So the touch'd needle courts the pole.

In David's Psalms an oversight
Byles found one morning at his tea,
Alas! that he should never write
A proper psalm to sing at sea.
Thus ruminating on his seat,
Ambitious thoughts at length prevail'd
The bard determined to complete

*

The part wherein the prophet fail'd.
He sat awhile and stroke his muse,
Then taking up his tuneful pen,
Wrote a few stanzas for the use
Of his seafaring brethren.

The task perform'd, the bard content,
Well chosen was each flowing word;
On a short voyage himself he went,
To hear it read and sung on board.
Most serious Christians do aver,
(Their credit sure we may rely on,)
In former times that after prayer,
They used to sing a song of Zion.
Our modern parson having pray'd,

Unless loud fame our faith beguiles, Sat down, took out his book and said, 'Let's sing a psalm of Mather Byles."

Byles's favorite cat, so named by his friends.

With vast amazement we survey
The wonders of the deep,

Where mackerel swim, and porpoise play,
And crabs and lobsters creep.

Fish of all kinds inhabit here,

And throng the dark abode.
Here haddock, hake, and flounders are,
And eels, and perch, and cod.
From raging winds and tempests free,
So smoothly as we pass,

The shining surface seems to be

A piece of Bristol glass.

But when the winds and tempests risc,
And foaming billows swell,
The vessel mounts above the skies,
And lower sinks than hell.

Our heads the tottering motion feel,
And quickly we become

Giddy as new-dropp'd calves, and reel
Like Indians drunk with rum.
What praises then are due that we
Thus far have safely got,
Amarescoggin tribe to see,

And tribe of Penobscot.

PARODY BY MATHER BYLES.

In Byles's works an oversight
Green spy'd, as once he smok'd his chunk;
Alas! that Byles should never write

A song to sing, when folks are drunk.

Thus in the chimney on his block,
Ambition fir'd the 'stiller's pate;
He summon'd all his little stock,
The poet's volume to complete.

Long paus'd the lout, and scratch'd his skull,
Then took his chalk [he own'd no pen,]
And scrawl'd some doggrel, for the whole
Of his flip-drinking brethren.

The task perform'd-not to content -

Ill chosen was each Grub-street word;
Strait to the tavern club he went,

To hear it bellow'd round the board.
Unknown delights his ears explore,
Inur'd to midnight caterwauls,
To hear his hoarse companions roar,
The horrid thing his dulness scrawls.
The club, if fame we may rely on,

Conven'd, to hear the drunken catch,
At the three-horse-shoes, or red lion-
Tipling began the night's debauch.
The little 'stiller took the pint

Full fraught with flip and songs obscene, And, after a long stutt'ring, meant To sing a song of Josy Green. Soon as with stam'ring tongue, to read The drunken ballad, he began, The club from clam'ring strait recede, To hear him roar the thing alone.

SONG.

With vast amazement we survey
The can so broad, so deep,

Where punch succeeds to strong sangree,
Both to delightful flip.

Drink of all smacks, inhabit here,

And throng the dark abode;
Here's rum, and sugar, and small beer,
In a continual flood.

From cruel thoughts and conscience free,
From dram to dram we pass:
Our cheeks, like apples, ruddy be;
Our eyeballs look like glass.

At once, like furies up we rise,
Our raging passions swell;
We hurl the bottle to the skies,
But why, we cannot tell.
Our brains a tott'ring motion feel,
And quickly we become

Sick, as with negro steaks,* and reel
Like Indians drunk with rum.
Thus lost in deep tranquillity,
We sit, supine and sot,

Till we two moons distinctly see—
Come give us t'other pot.

Dr. Byles's cat, alluded to in the piece just quoted, received the compliment of an elegy at her decease, which is stated, in an early manuscript copy in the Philadelphia library, to be written by Joseph Green. The excellence of the lines will, perhaps, embalm grimalkin in a more than Egyptian perpetuity, and give her claim to rank, at a humble distance, with the great ones of her race: "Tyb our cat," of Gammer Gurton's Needle. the sportive companion of Montaigne in his tower,† and the grimalkin who so demurely graces the top of the great arm-chair of the famous Dr. Syntax. Our copy is taken from the London Magazine of November, 1733, where it is introduced by a request for its insertion by a subscriber, and is accompanied by the psalin and parodies already quoted.

THE POET'S LAMENTATION FOR THE LOSS OF HIS CAT, WHICH

Oppress'd with grief in heavy strains I mourn
The partner of my studies from me torn.
How shall I sing? what numbers shall I chuse ?
For in my fav'rite cat I've lost my muse.
No more I feel my mind with raptures fir'd,
I want those airs that Puss so oft inspir'd;
No crowding thoughts my ready fancy fill,
Nor words run fluent from my easy quill;
Yet shall my verse deplore her cruel fate,
And celebrate the virtues of my cat.

In acts obscene she never took delight;
No caterwauls disturb'd our sleep by night;
Chaste as a virgin, free from every stain,
And neighb'ring cats mew'd for her love in vain.
She never thirsted for the chickens' blood;
Her teeth she only used to chew her food;
Harmless as satires which her master writes,
A foe to scratching, and unused to bites,
She in the study was my constant mate;
There we together many evenings sat.
Whene'er I felt my tow'ring fancy fail,

I stroked her head, her ears, her back, and tail;

And as I stroked improv'd my dying song
From the sweet notes of her melodious tongue:
Her purrs and mews so evenly kept time,
She purr'd in metre, and she mew'd in rhyme.
But when my dulness has too stubborn prov'd,
Nor could by Puss's music be remov'd,
Oft to the well-known volumes have I gone,
And stole a line from Pope or Addison.

Ofttimes when lost amidst poetic heat,
She leaping on my knee has took her seat;
There saw the throes that rock'd my lab'ring brain,
And lick'd and claw'd me to myself again.

Then, friends, indulge my grief, and let me mourn,
My cat is gone, ah! never to return.
Now in my study, all the tedious night,
Alone I sit, and unassisted write;

Look often round (O greatest cause of pain),
And view the num'rous labors of my brain;
Those quires of words array'd in pompous rhyme,
Which braved the jaws of all-devouring time,
Now undefended and unwatch'd by cats,
Are doom'd a victim to the teeth of rats.

Green, like Byles, and almost all men of true humor, could pass from gay to grave with grace and feeling. The Eclogue Sacred to the Memory of the Rev. Jonathan Mayhew,* which is attributed to him, amply meets the requirements of its occasion. It is fully described in the prefatory argument.

"Fidelio and Duleius, young men of a liberal education, who maintained a great esteem and affectionate regard for the deceased, were separated from each other for several years. Fidelio, after a long absence, pays an early visit to Duleius, his friend and former companion, whom he finds in his bower, employed in study and contemplation. Their meeting begins with mutual tokens of love and affection; after which they enter into a discourse expressing the beautiful appearance of the summer season, and their admiration of the works of Providence; representing, at the same time, the beautiful but shortlived state of the flowers; from whence Fidelio takes occasion to draw a similitude typical of the frailty and uncertainty of human life; he observes the stalk of a vine which has been lately struck by thunder. This providential event reminds Fidelio of the afflictive dispensation of the law of God in the death of a late useful and worthy pastor, which he reveals to his companion. They, greatly dejected, bewail the loss of so trusty, useful, and worthy a man, but mutually console each other, by representing the consummate happiness which saints enjoy upon their admission to the mansions of immortal felicity. They conclude with an ode, expressing a due submission to the will of Heaven."

We quote this conclusion.

ODE.

Parent of all! thou source of light! Whose will seraphic powers obey, The heavenly Nine, as one unite, And thee their vow'd obeisance pay.

An Eclogue Sacred to the Memory of the Rev. Dr. Jonathan Mayhew, who departed this life July 9, anno salutis bumanæ 1766, ætatis 46.

The wise, the just, the pious, and the brave, Live in their deaths, and flourish in the grave, Grain hid in earth repays the peasant's care, And evening suns but rise to set more fair. Boston: printed by Thomas and John Fleet.

Permit us, Lord, to consecrate
Our first ripe fruits of early days,
To thee, whose care to us is great,
Whose love demands our constant praise.

Thy sovereign wisdom form'd the plan,
Almighty power, which none control;
Then rais'd this noble structure, man,
And gave him an immortal soul.

All earthly beings here who move,
Experience thy paternal care,
And feel the influence of thy love,
Which sweetens life from year to year.

Thou hast the keys of life and death,
The springs of future joys and bliss;
And when thou lock'st our door of breath,
Frail life and all its motions cease.

Our morn of years which smile in bloom,
And those arriv'd at eve of age,
Must bow beneath thy sovereign doom,
And quit this frail, this mortal stage.
In all we see thy sovereign sway,
Thy wisdom guides the ruling sun;
Submissive, we thy power obey,
In all we own "thy will is done."
O may our thoughts superior rise,
To things of sense which here we crave;
May we with care that int'rest prize,
Which lies so far beyond the grave.
Conduct us safe through each event,
And changing scene of life below;
Till we arrive where days are spent
In joys which can no changes know.

Lord, in thy service us employ,
And when we've served thee here on earth
Receive us hence to realms of joy,
To join with those of heavenly birth.
May we from angels learn to sing,
The songs of high seraphic strain;
Then mount aloft on cherubs' wings,
And soar to worlds that cease from pain.
With angels, seraphs, saints above,
May we thy glorious praise display
And sing of thy redeeming love,
Through the revolves of endless day.

JOHN CALLENDER.

JOHN CALLENDER, the first historian of Rhode Island, was born in Boston in the year 1706. He entered Harvard at the age of thirteen, and graduated in 1723. In 1727 he was licensed to

I Calle oder

preach by the first Baptist Church in Boston, of which his uncle, Elisha Callender, was pastor, having succeeded Ellis Callender, the grandfather of the subject of this sketch, in the same office. In August, 1728, he accepted a call to the Baptist church in Swansey, Massachusetts, where he remained until February, 1730. He was next after settled over the first Baptist church at Newport, where he continued until his death, after a lingering illness, January 26, 1748. Soon after his removal to Newport he became a member of a literary and philosophical society established in the place, at the instigation, it is supposed, of Dean Berkeley, in 1730, afterwards incorporated in 1747, with the title, in consequence of the dona

tion of five hundred pounds sterling by Abraham Redwood, of "the Company of the Redwood Library."

In 1739 Mr. Callender published An Historical Discourse on the civil and religious affairs of the Colony of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, in New England, in America, from the first settlement, 1638, to the end of the first century. It was delivered on the twenty-fourth of March, 1738, the first centennial anniversary of the cession of Aquedneck or Rhode Island by the sachems Cannonicus and Miantunnomu, "unto Mr. Coddington and his friends united unto him." It occupies one hundred and twenty octavo pages in the reprint by the Rhode Island Historical Society, and contains a concise and temperate statement of the difficulties with the Massachusetts colonists which led to the formation of the settlement, its early struggles, its part in King Philip's war, and of its social and ecclesiastical affairs. He dwells with just satisfaction on the liberal principles of the colony.

I do not know there was ever before, since the world came into the Church, such an instance, as the settlement of this Colony and Island. In other States, the civil magistrate had for ever a public driving in the particular schemes of faith, and modes of worship; at least, by negative discouragements, by annexing the rewards of honor and profit to his own opinions; and generally, the subject was bound by penal laws, to believe that set of doctrines, and to worship God in that manner, the magistrate pleased to prescribe. Christian magistrates would unaccountably assume to themselves the same authority in religious affairs, which any of the Kings of Judah, or Israel, exercised, either by usurpation, or by the immediate will and inspiration of God, and a great deal more too. As if the becoming Christian gave the magistrate any new right or authority over his subjects, or over the Church of Christ; and as if that because they submitted personally to the authority and government of Christ in his word, that therefore they might clothe themselves with his authority; or rather, take his sceptre out of his hand, and lord it over God's heritage. It is lamentable that pagans and infidels allow more liberty to Christians, than they were wont to allow to one another. It is evident, the civil magistrate, as such, can have no authority to decree articles of faith, and to determine modes of worship, and to interpret the laws of Christ for his subjects, but what must belong to all magistrates; but no magistrate can have more authority over conscience, than what is necessary to preserve the public peace, and that can be only to prevent one sect from oppressing another, and to keep the peace between them. Nothing can be more evidently proved, than "the right of private judgment for every man, in the affairs of his own salvation,” and that both from the plainest principles of reason, and the plainest declarations of the scripture. This is the foundation of the Reformation, of the Christian religion, of all religion, which necessarily implies choice and judgment. But I need not labor a point, that has been so often demonstrated so many ways. Indeed, as every man believes his own opinions the best, because the truest, and ought charitably to wish all others of the same opinion, it must seem reasonable the magistrate should have a public leading in religious affairs, but as he almost for ever exceeds the due bounds, and as error prevails ten times more

* Deed of Conveyance.

than truth in the world, the interest of truth and the right of private judgment seem better secured, by a universal toleration that shall suppress all profaneness and immorality, and preserve every party in the free and undisturbed liberty of their consciences, while they continue quiet and dutiful subjects to the State.

Callender published a sermon in the same year at the ordination of Mr. Jeremiah Condy, to the care of the Baptist Church in Boston, in 1741, on the advantages of early religion, before a society of young men at Newport, and in 1745 on the death of his friend the Rev. Mr. Clap. He also formed a collection of papers relative to the history of the Baptists in America.

Callender was married February 15, 1730, to Elizabeth Hardin of Swansey, Massachusetts. He is described as of medium stature, with regular features, a fair complexion, and agreeable man

ners.

The Centennial Discourse was reprinted in 1838, a century after its first publication, by the Rhode Island Historical Society, with a large number of valuable notes by the Vice-President of the association, the Rev. Romeo Elton, D.D., of Brown University. It contains a memoir, which has formed the chief authority of the present article.

JANE TURELL.

JANE, the only daughter of the Rev. Benjamin Colman, of Boston, was born in that city, Febru ary 25, 1708. She early displayed precocious mental power, as before her second year she could speak distinctly, say her letters, and tell stories out of the Scriptures, to the satisfaction of Gov. Dudley, and others around the table,* and two years later could repeat the greater part of the Assembly's Catechism, many of the psalms, long passages of poetry, reading with fluency and commenting in a pertinent manner on what she read. At the age of eleven she composed the following

HYMN.

I fear the great Eternal One above;
The God of Grace, the God of love:
He to whom Seraphims Hallelujah sing,
And Angels do their Songs and Praises bring
Happy the Soul that does in Heaven rest,
Where with his Saviour he is ever blest;
With heavenly joys and rapture is possest,
No thoughts but of his God inspire his breast.
Happy are they that walk in Wisdom's ways,
That tread her path, and shine in all her rays.

Her poetical attempts were encouraged by her father, who frequently addressed rhymed letters to her, and says: "I grew by degrees into such an opinion of her good taste, that when she put me upon translating a psalm or two, I was ready to excuse myself, and if I had not fear'd to displease her, should have denied her request." He "talked into her all he could, in the most free and endearing manner," and led her to the study of the best models of composition, advantages of which she availed herself with such avidity that she spent entire nights in reading, and before the

Turell's Memoir.