Lorenzo, Reuben, spare: far be the thought
Of interest, far from them. Unbribed, unbought,

"Soothing those fond dreams of pleasure,
Pictured in the glowing breast,
Lavish of her sweetest treasure,

Anxious fear is charm'd to rest:
"Fearless o'er the whiten'd billows,
Proudly rise, sweet bird of night,
Safely through the bending willows,

Gently wing thy aery flight.”—Cesario. Though I flatter myself that I have good sense and taste enough to see and admire the peculiar beauties of this ode, yet a regard for truth obliges me to declare that they are not original. They are taken (with improvements, I confess) from a most beautiful "Song by a person of quality," in Pope's Miscellanies. This, though it detracts a little from Cesario's inventive powers, still leaves him the praise (no mean one) of having gone beyond that great poet, in what he probably considered as the ne plus ultra of ingenuity.

Venimus ad summum fortunæ ! Mr. Greathead equals Shakspeare, Mrs. Robinson surpasses Milton, and Cesario outdoes Pope in that very performance which he vainly imagined so complete as to take away all desire of imitating, all possibility of excelling it!

"O favour'd clime! O happy age!"

+ Carlos. I have nothing of this gentleman (a most pertinacious scribbler in the Oracle) but the following "sonnet ;" luckily, however, it is so ineffably stupid, that it will more than satisfy any readers but Mr. Bell's. "ON A LADY'S PORTRAIT.

"Oft hath the poet hail'd the breath of morn,

That wakens nature with the voice of spring,
And oft, when purple summer feeds the lawn,
Hath fancy touch'd him with her procreant wing;
Full frequent has he bless'd the golden beam

Which yellow autumn glowing spreads around,
And though pale winter press'd a paly gleam,

Fresh in his breast was young description found." I can copy no more-Job himself would lose all patience here. Instead, therefore, of the remainder of this incomprehensible trash, I will give the reader a string of judicious observations by Mr. T. Vaughan: "Bruyere says, he will allow that good writers are scarce enough, but adds, and justly, that good critics are equally so: which reminds our correspondent also of what the Abbé Trublet writes, speaking of professed critics, where he says, if they were obliged to examine authors impartiallythere would be fewer writers in this way. Was this to be the liberal practice adopted by our modern critics, we should not see a Baviad-falling upon men and things that are much above his capacity, and seemingly for no other reason than because they are so."

They pour" from their big breast's prolific zone A proud, poetic fervour, only known

age," who, from her flippant nonsense, appears to be Mrs. Piozzi, were it not for the sake of remarking, that, whatever be the merit of "drawing out the fine powers of Arno," (which, it seems, this ungrateful country has not yet rewarded with a statue,) she must be content to share it with Julia. Hear her invocation-but first hear Mr. Bell. "A most elegant compliment, which for generous esteem has been seldom equalled, any more than the muse which inspired it.”

"JULIA TO ARNO.

"Write whate'er I will,

Some rising genius sins up to it still."

This has nettled me a little, and possibly injured the often of late, that I begin to think with the old economist great poetess in my opinion; for I have been robbed so Ούτος αοιδων λωστος ός εξ εμευ οισεται ουδεν. For the rest, this "elegant invocation" called forth a specimen of Arno's fine powers in the following dulcet lays.

ARNO TO JULIA.

"Sure some dire star inimical to man,

Guides to his heart the desolating fire, Fills with contention only his brief span, And rouses him to murderous desire. "There are who sagely scan the tortured world, And tell us war is but necessity, That millions by the Great Dispenser hurl'd, Must suffer by the scourge, and cease to be." Euge, Poeta !

§ Lorenzo.

Και πως εγω Σθενελου φαγοιμ' αν ρημα τι,

Εις οξος εμβαπτόμενον, η λευκούς αλαςSays a hungry wight in an old comedy. But I know of no seasoning whatever, capable of making the insipid garbage of this modern Sthenelus palatable; I shall therefore spare myself the disgust of producing it.

|| Reuben, whom I take to be Mr. Greathead in disguise, (it being this gentleman's fate, like Hercules of old, to

assume the merit of all unappropriated prodigies,) intro

"ADDRESS TO ANNA MATILDA.

"ADELAIDE.

"He who is here addressed by the first lyric writer in the kingdom, must himself endeavour to repay a debt so highly honourable, if it can be done by verse! This lady shall have the praise which ought to be given by the country, that of first discovering and drawing out the fine powers of Arno and Della Crusca."

"O thou, whom late I watch'd, while o'er thee hung
The orb whose glories I so oft have sung,
Beheld thee while a shower of beam
Made night a lovelier morning seem," &c
We might here dismiss this "first lyric writer of the

§ See note §, next col. || See note II, ib.

"To thee a stranger dares address his theme,
To thee, proud mistress of Apollo's lyre,
One ray emitted from thy golden gleam,
Prompted by love, would set the world on fire!
"Adorn then love in fancy-tinctured vest,

Chameleon like, anon of various hue,
By Penseroso and Allegro dress'd,

Such genius claim'd when she Idalia drew."—
Anna Matilda, what could she less! found
"This resuscitating praise

Breathe life upon her dying lays," like "the daisy which spreads her bloom to the moist evening!" and accordingly produced a matchless "adornment of love," to the great contentment of the gentle Reuben.

"But, bard polite, how hard the task Which with such elegance you ask!" Who would have imagined that these lines, the simple See note T, 1st col. 179. p.

To souls like theirs ;" as Anna's youth inspires,
As Laura's graces kindle fierce desires,

As Henriet-For heaven's sake, not so fast.
I too, my masters, ere my teeth were cast,
Had learn'd, by rote, to rave of Delia's charms,
To die, of transports found in Chloe's arms,
Coy Daphne with obstreperous plaints to woo,
And curse the cruelty of-God knows who.
When Phoebus, (not the power that bade thee write,
For he, dear Dapper! was a lying sprite,)
One morn, when dreams are true, approach'd my side,
And, frowning on my tuneful lumber, cried,
"Lo! every corner with soft sonnets cramm'd,
And high-born odes, works damn'd, or to be
damn'd!'

And is thy active folly adding more

To this most worthless, most superfluous store?
O impotence of toil! thou mightst as well
Give sense to Este, or modesty to Bell.

And chased the oppressive doubts which round me clung,

And fired my breast, and loosen'd all my tongue.
E'en then (admire, John Bell! my simple ways)
No heaven and hell danced madly through my lays,
No oaths, no execrations; all was plain :
Yet, trust me, while thy " ever-jingling train"
Chime their sonorous woes with frigid art,
And shock the reason, and revolt the heart,
My hopes and fears, in nature's language dress'd,
Awaken'd love in many a gentle breast.

How oft, O Dart! what time the faithful pair Walk'd forth, the fragrant hour of eve to share, On thy romantic banks have my wild strains,* Not yet forgot amid my native plains,

Mr. Parsons is extremely angry at my " ostentatious intrusion" of the "Otium Divos" into the notes on this poem. What could I do? I ever disliked publishing my little modicums on loose pages-but I shall grow wiser by

claim

The sacred honours of a POET's name,

Due to the few alone, whom I inspire
With lofty rapture, with ethereal fire!
Yet mayst thou arrogate the humble praise
Of reason's bard, if, in thy future lays,

Plain sense and truth, and surely these are thine,
Correct thy wanderings, and thy flights confine."
Here ceased the god and vanish'd. Forth I sprang,
While in my ear the voice divine yet rang,
Seized every rag and scrap, approach'd the fire,
And saw whole Albums in the blaze expire.

Then shame ensued, and vain regret, t' have spent
So many hours (hours which I yet lament)
In thriftless industry; and year on year
Inglorious roll'd, while diffidence and fear
Repress'd my voice-unheard till Anna came,
What! throbb'st thou YET, my bosom, at the name?

tribute of gratitude to genius, should nearly occasion " a perdition of souls ?" Yet so it was. They unfortunately roused the jealousy of Della Crusca "on the sportive banks of the Rhone." One luckless evening

"When twilight on the western edge

Had twined his hoary hair with sabling sedge," as he was "weeping" (for, like Master Stephen, these good creatures think it necessary to be always melancholy) at the tomb of Laura, he started, as well he might, at the accursed name of Reuben.

"Hark! (quoth he,)

What cruel sounds are these

Which float upon the languid breeze,
Which fill my soul with jealous fear?
Ha! Reuben is the name I hear.
For him my faithless Anna," &c.

It pains me to add, that the cold-blooded Bell has destroyed this beautiful fancy-scene with one stroke of his clownish pen. In a note on the above verses, Album, p. 134, he officiously informs us that Della Crusca knew nothing of his rival, till he read"-detested word!" his sonnet in the Oracle." O Bell! Bell! is it thus thou humblest the strains of the sublime? Surely we may say of thee, what was not ill said of one of thy sisters, Sed tu insulsa male et molesta vives, Per quam non licet esse negligentem.

¶ They pour, &c.

"I love so well

Thy soul's deep tone, thy thought's high swell, Thy proud, poetic fervour, known

But in thy breast's prolific zone."—Della Crusca.

riddle, two rebusses, and one acrostic to a babe at nurse," which will be set forth with all convenient speed. Meanwhile I am tempted to offend once more, and subjoin the only three of my "wild strains" that now live in my recollection. I can assure Mr. Parsons that they were written on the occasions they profess to beand the last of them at a time when I had no idea of surviving to provoke his indignation:

66

-Sed Cynaræ breves
Annos fata dederunt, me
Servatura diu.

TO A TUFT OF EARLY VIOLETS.

Sweet flowers! that, from your humble beds,
Thus prematurely dare to rise,
And trust your unprotected heads
To cold Aquarius' watery skies;
Retire, retire! These tepid airs

Are not the genial brood of May;
That sun with light malignant glares,
And flatters only to betray.
Stern winter's reign is not yet past-

Lo! while your buds prepare to blow,
On icy pinions comes the blast,
And nips your root, and lays you low.
Alas, for such ungentle doom!

But I will shield you; and supply
A kindlier soil on which to bloom,
A nobler bed on which to die.
Come then-ere yet the morning ray
Has drunk the dew that gems your crest,
And drawn your balmiest sweets away;
O
come, and grace my Anna's breast.
Ye droop, fond flowers! but, did ye know
What worth, what goodness there reside,
Your cups with liveliest tints would glow,
And spread their leaves with conscious pride.
For there has liberal nature join'd
Her riches to the stores of art,
And added to the vigorous mind

The soft, the sympathizing heart.
Come then-ere yet the morning ray

Has drunk the dew that gems your crest,
And drawn your balmiest sweets away;
O come, and grace my Anna's breast.
O! I should think,-that fragrant bed
Might I but hope with you to share,-
Years of anxiety repaid,

By one short hour of transport there.

1 See "one epigram, two sonnets, and one ode to a boy at school, by W. Parsons, Esq." The "one ode" was expressly written to show the folly and absurdity of Gray's ode to Eton College, which the "boy at school" was very properly called to attest. What the "one epigram" and the "two son nets" were written for nobody knows.

While THOU hast sweetly gurgled down the vale,
Fill'd up the pause of love's delightful tale!
While, ever as she read, the conscious maid,
By faltering voice and downcast looks betray'd,
Would blushing on her lover's neck recline,
And with her finger-point the tenderest line.
But these are past: and, mark me, Laura! time,
Which made what then was venial, now a crime,
To more befitting cares my thoughts confined,
And drove, with youth, its follies from my mind,

Though clouds obscured the morning hour,
And keen and eager blew the blast,

And drizzling fell the cheerless shower,
As, doubtful, to the skiff we pass'd;
All soon, propitious to our prayer,
Gave promise of a brighter day:
The clouds dispersed in purer air,
The blast in zephyrs died away.
So have we, love, a day enjoy'd,

On which we both,-and yet, who knows ?— May dwell with pleasure unalloy'd

And dread no thorn beneath the rose.
How pleasant, from that dome-crown'd hill
To view the varied scene below,
Woods, ships, and spires, and, lovelier still,
The circling Thames' majestic flow!
How sweet, as indolently laid,

We overhung that long-drawn dale,
To watch the checker'd light and shade
That glanced upon the shifting sail!
And when the shadow's rapid growth
Proclaim'd the noontide hour expired,
And, though unwearied, 'nothing loath,'
We to our simple meal retired;
The sportive wile, the blameless jest,
The careless mind's spontaneous flow,
Gave to that simple meal a zest

Which richer tables may not know.-
The babe that, on the mother's breast,
Has toy'd and wanton'd for a while,
And, sinking to unconscious rest,

Looks up to catch a parting smile,
Feels less assured than thou, dear maid
When, ere thy ruby lips could part,
(As close to mine thy cheek was laid,)
Thine eyes had open'd all thy heart.
Then, then I mark'd the chasten'd joy
That lightly o'er thy features stole,
From vows repaid, (my sweet employ,)
From truth, from innocence of soul:
While every word dropp'd on my ear,
So soft, (and yet it seems to thrill,)
So sweet, that 'twas a heaven to hear,
And e'en thy pause had music still.-
And O! how like a fairy dream,

To gaze in silence on the tide,
While soft and warm the sunny gleam
Slept on the glassy surface wide!
And many a thought of fancy bred,
Wild, soothing, tender, undefined,
Play'd lightly round the heart, and shed
Delicious languor o'er the mind.

Since this, while Merry and his nurslings die,
Thrill'd by the liquid peril of an eye;*
Gasp at a recollection, and drop down
At the long streamy lightning of a frown;
I soothe, as humour prompts, my idle vein,
In frolic verse, that cannot hope to gain
Admission to the Album, or be seen
In L's Review, or Urban's Magazine.

O, for thy spirit, Pope! Yet why, my lays, Which wake no envy, and invite no praise,

So hours like moments wing'd their flight,
Till now the boatman, on the shore,
Impatient of the waning light,
Recall'd us by the dashing oar.

Well, Anna,-many days like this
I cannot, must not hope to share;
For I have found an hour of bliss
Still follow'd by an age of care
Yet oft, when memory intervenes

But you, dear maid, be happy still,
Nor e'er regret, 'mid fairer scenes,

The day we pass'd on Greenwich Hill.

THE GRAVE OF ANNA.

I wish I was where Anna lies,
For I am sick of lingering here;
And every hour affection cries,

Go, and partake her humble bier.

I wish I could! For when she died,
I lost my all; and life has proved,
Since that sad hour, a dreary void,

A waste unlovely and unloved.-
But who, when I am turn'd to clay,
Shall duly to her grave repair,

And pluck the ragged moss away,

And weeds that have no business there?"

And who, with pious hand, shall bring

The flowers she cherish'd, snow-drops cold,

And violets that unheeded spring,

To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould ?
And who, while memory loves to dwell
Upon her name for ever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,
And pour the bitter, bitter tear?

I did it: and, would fate allow,

Should visit still, should still deplore-
But health and strength have left me now,
And I, alas! can weep no more.
Take then, sweet maid, this simple strain,
The last I offer at thy shrine;
Thy grave must then undeck'd remain,
And all thy memory fade with mine.
And can thy soft, persuasive look,

Thy voice, that might with music vie,
Thy air, that every gazer took,
Thy matchless eloquence of eye;
Thy spirits, frolicsome as good,

Thy courage, by no ills dismay'd,
Thy patience, by no wrongs subdued,

Thy gay good-humour-Can they 'fade ?'
Perhaps but sorrow dims my eye:

Cold turf, which I no more must view,
Dear name, which I no more must sigh,

A long, a last, a sad adieu!

* Thrill'd, &c.

"Bid the streamy lightnings fly

In liquid peril from thy eye."-Della Crusca.

"Ne'er shalt thou know to sigh,

Or on a soft idea die,

Ne'er on a recollection grasp

Thy arms."-Ohe ! jam satis est.-Anna Matilda.

Half creeping and half flying, yet suffice
To stagger impudence and ruffle vice.
An hour may come, so I delight to dream,
When slowly wandering by the sacred stream,
Majestic Thames! I leave the world behind,
And give to fancy all th' enraptured mind:
An hour may come, when I shall strike the lyre
To nobler themes; then, then the chords inspire
With thy own harmony, most sweet, most strong,
And guide my hand through all the maze of song!
Till then, enough for me, in such rude strains
As mother-wit can give, and those small pains
A vacant hour allows, to range the town,
And hunt the clamorous brood of folly down;
Force every head, in Este's despite, to wear
The cap and bells by nature planted there;
Muffle the rattle, seize the slavering sholes,
And drive them, scourged and whimpering, to their
holes.

Burgoyne, perhaps, unchill'd by creeping age,
May yet arise and vindicate the stage;
The reign of nature and of sense restore,
And be whatever Terence was before.
And you, too, whole Menander !† who combine
With his pure language, and his flowing line,
The soul of comedy, may steal an hour
From the foul chase of still escaping power;
The poet and the sage again unite,
And sweetly blend instruction with delight.

And yet Elfrida's bard, though time has shed The snow of age too deeply round his head, Feels the kind warmth, the fervour which inspired His youthful breast, still glow uncheck'd, untired: And yet though, like the bird of eve, his song "Fit audience finds not" in the giddy throng, The notes, though artful, wild, though numerous, chaste,

Fill with delight the sober ear of taste.

But these, and more, I could with honour name, Too proud to stoop, like me, to vulgar game, Subjects more worthy of their daring choose, And leave at large th' abortions of the muse. Proud of their privilege, the innumerous spawn, From bogs and fens, the mire of Pindus, drawn, New vigour feel, new confidence assume, And swarm, like Pharaoh's frogs, in every room. Sick of th' eternal croaks, which, ever near, Beat like the death-watch on my tortured ear; And sure, too sure, that many a genuine child Of truth and nature check'd his wood-notes wild,‡

Burgoyne. See note *, 2d col. p. 174.

And you, too, whole Menander, &c.-O spem fallacem! Our Menander has since "stolen an hour" (it would be injustice to suppose it more) from public pursuits, and prostituted it to the reproduction of a German sooterkin.

Check'd his wood-notes wild.-EtwaŋσαVтWV koλoLWV, ACOVTAL KUKVOL. But this is better illustrated in a most elegant fable of Lessing, to which I despair of doing jus

tice in a translation.

"Du zürnest, Liebling der Musen," &c. &c. Thou art troubled, darling of the Muses, thou art troubled at the clamorous swarms of insects which infest Parnassus. O hear from me what once the nightingale heard from the shepherd.

(Dear to the feeling heart,) in doubt to win The vacant wanderer 'mid the unceasing din Of this hoarse rout; I seized at length the wand; Resolved, though small my skill, though weak my hand,

The mischief, in its progress, to arrest,

And exorcise the soil of such a pest.

HENCE! IN THE NAME-I scarce had spoke, when lo !

Reams of outrageous sonnets, thick as snow,

indeed, replied the shepherd; but thy silence alone is the cause of it. cause

There's comfort yet!"

*Reams of outrageous sonnets.-Of these I have collected a very reasonable quantity, which I purpose to prefix to some future edition of the Mæviad, under the classic head of

INSIGNIUM VIRORUM

ALIQUOT TESTIMONIA

QUI

BAV: ET MEV: INCLYTISS: AUCTORIS

MEMINERUNT.

Meanwhile 1 shall present the reader with the first two which occur, as a specimen of the collection.

SONNET I.

"To the anonymous author of the Baviad, occasioned by his scurrilous and most unmerited attack on Mr. Weston.

"Demon of darkness! whosoe'er thou art,

That darest assume the brighter angel's form,
And o'er the peaceful vale impel the storm,
With many a sigh to rend the honest heart,
Force from th' unconscious eye the tear to start,
And with just pride th' indignant bosom warm;
Avaunt! to where unnumber'd spirits swarm,
Foul and malignant as thyself, depart.
Genius of Pope, descend, ye servile crew

Of imitators vile, intrude not!!! I appeal
To thee, and thee alone, from outrage base;

Tell me, though fair the forms his fancy drew, Shouldst thou the secrets of his heart reveal, Would fame his memory crown, or cover with disgrace? J. M.-Gent. Mag. Aug. 1792. This poor driveller, who is stupid enough to be Weston's admirer, and malignant enough to be his friend, I take to be one Morley; whom I now and then observe, in the

II was right. Mr. Morley, who, I understand, is a clergyman, and who, like Mr. Parsons, exults in the idea of having first attacked me, has since published a "Tale," the wit, or rather dulness of which, if I recollect right, consists in my being disappointed of a living.

Here follow a few of the introductory lines, which for poetry and pleasantry can only be exceeded by those of Mr. Parsons,

"What if a little once I did abuse thee?

Worse than thou hadst deserved I could not use thee:
For when I spied thy satyr's cloven foot,

"Tis very true I took thee for a brute;

And, marking more attentively thy manners,

I since have wish'd thy hide were at the tanner's.

But if a man thou art, as some suppose,

O how my fingers itch to pull thy nose!
As pleased as Punch, I'd hold it in my gripe,

Till Parkinson had stuff'd thee for a snipe!!!"

It is rather singular that this still-born lump of insipidity should be introduced to the bookseller under the auspices of Dr. Parr. If that respectable name was not abused on the occasion, I can only say that politics, like misery, "bring a man acquainted with strange bedfellows!"

For the rest, I will present Mr. Morley with a couple of lines, which, if he will get them construed, and seriously reflect upon, before he next puts pen to paper, may be of more service to him than all the instruction, and all the encouragement the Doctor, apparently, ever gave him.

Cur ego laborem notus esse tam prave,
Cum stare gratis cum silentio possim !

I find, from a letter which my publisher has received from Dr. Parr, that

degree of uneasiness.

It is satisfactory to me to reflect that this uneasiness is founded on a misapprehension. When I remarked on the "singularity of Mr. Morley's 'Tale'

Flew round my head; yet, in my cause secure, "Pour on," I cried, " pour on, I will endure."

What shall I shrink, because the noble train, Whose judgment I impugn, whose taste arraign, Alive, and trembling for their favourite's fate, Pursue my verse with unrelenting hate?

No save me from their PRAISE, and I can sit
Calm, unconcern'd, the butt of Andrews' wit
And Topham's sense; perversely gay can smile,.
While Este, the zany, in his motley style,
Calls barbarous names; while Bell and Boaden rave,
And Vaughan, a brother blockhead's verse to save,
Toils day by day my character to draw,
And heaps upon me every thing-but law.
But do I then (abjuring every ainı)
All censure slight, and all applause disclaim?
Not so where judgment holds the rod, I bow
My humbled neck, awed by her angry brow;

Where taste and sense approve, I feel a joy
Dear to my heart, and mix'd with no alloy.
I write not to the modish herd: my days,
Spent in the tranquil shades of letter'd ease,
Ask no admiring stare from those I meet,
No loud" that's HE!" to make their passage sweet:
Pleased to steal softly by, unmark'd, unknown,
I leave the world to Holcroft, Pratt,* and Vaughan.
Of these enough. Yet may the few I love
(For who would sing in vain ?) my verse approve ;
Chief THOU, my friend! who from my earliest years,
Hast shared my joys, and more than shared my cares.
Sure, if our fates hang on some hidden power,
And take their colour from the natal hour,
Then, IRELAND !t the same planet on us rose,
Such the strong sympathies our lives disclose !

*PRATT. This gentleman lately put in practice a very notable scheme. Having scribbled himself fairly out of

SONNET II.

"To the execrable Baviad.

"Monster of turpitude! who seem'st inclined

Through me to pierce with thy impregnate dart,
The fine-spun nerve of each full-bosom'd mind,1
And rock in apathy-the sensive heart,
Tremble! for lo! my Oracle-so famed-
Shall ring each morn in thy accursed ear
A griding pang! So-when the Grecian Mare
Enter'd the town, old Pyramus exclaim'd,

I see! I see and hurl'd his lightning spear,
While Capaneus drew back his head-for fear,
And godlike Alexander-gazing round,
Unconscious of his victories-to come,
Approach'd the monarch, and with sobs profound,
Explain'd th' impending wrath o'er Ilium's royal

dome."

J. Bell.

being introduced under the auspices of Dr. Parr," I merely alluded to a conversation which Mr. Morley himself was said to have had with his bookseller; -and I then suspected (what I now find, from the Doctor's letter, to be the case) that this respectable name (Dr. Parr's) was abused, i. e. introduced upon the occasion" without his consent, or even knowledge."

If my words conveyed the idea (which I now apprehend they may) that Dr. Parr himself had recommended the "Tale," it was far from my intention, and I am sorry for it. Indeed, I am sorry that his name was mentioned at all in the Mæviad. It is totally out of its place; and I can only regret, that a juster estimation both of Doctor Parr and of Mr. Morley had not changed my "suspicion" of the latter into certainty, and induced me to attribute his recommendatory story to vanity, and something else not altogether so venial. In conclusion: though Dr. Parr gives up Mr. Morley's poetry, yet he seems to think I have undervalued his other attainments" his Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, and his vigorous and elegant prose."-Of all these I knew nothing. When "there is no occasion for such vanity, I doubt not but Mr. Morley will take care to let them appear;" meanwhile, I must be content to judge him from what I know-his sonnets and his tale. It is but fair to add, however, that the sound and salutary advice which Dr. Parr gave this poor addle-headed man (to say nothing of the tenderness with which he speaks of him) does no less honour to his friendship, than the reprobation of his poetry does to his taste.

1 Quere, full-bottomed.-Printer's Devil.

2 Grecian Mare.-This has been hitherto, inaccurately enough, named the Trojan horse; and, indeed, I myself had nearly fallen into the unscholarlike error, when my learned friend Greathead convinced me (from Pope's emendations of Virgil, under the fantastic name of Scriblerius) that the animal in question was a mare-She being there said to be fœta armis, armed with a foetus. Let us hear no more, therefore, of the Trojan horse.

The patronymic Trojan is still more absurd. Homer expressly declares the mare to have been produced by Pallas-Palladis arte: now Pallas was a Grecian goddess, as is sufficiently manifest from her name, which is derived from aλAw, vibro.-J. Bell.

3 Godlike; that is Ososing from 010, God, and tins, like. Vide Hom, Translators in general (I except a late one) are too inattentive to the compound epithets of this great poet. But why does Homer call Alexander godlike, when he appears, from Curtius Quintius's tedious gazette in verse, to have had one shoulder higher than the other? My friend Vaughan thinks it was purely to pay his court to him, in hopes of getting into his will, or rather into his mistress's. It may be so; but 'tis strange the absurdity was never noticed before.-J. Bell.

a few months-to provoke the inquiries of Mr. Lane's indefatigable readers.

Mark the ingratitude of the creatures! No inquiries were made, and Mr. Pratt was forgotten before he had crossed the channel. Ibi omnis effusus labor.-But what! "The mouse that is content with one poor hole Can never be a mouse of any soul."

Baffled in this expedient, he had recourse to another, and, while we were dreaming of nothing less, came before us in the following paragraph:

"A few days since died, at Basle in Switzerland, the ingenious Mr. Pratt. His loss will be severely felt by the literary world, as he joined to the accomplishments of the gentleman the erudition of the scholar."

This was inserted in the London papers for several days successively. The country papers, too, "yelled out like syllables of dolour." At length, while our eyes were yet wet for the irreparable loss we had sustained, came a second paragraph:

"As no event of late has caused a more general sorrow than the supposed death of the ingenious Mr. Pratt, we are happy to have it in our power to assure his numerous admirers, that he is as well as they can wish, and (what they will be delighted to hear) busied in preparing his TRAVELS for the press."

"Laud we the gods!"

+ Here, on account of its connexion with the person mentioned in the text, I shall take the liberty-extremum hunc mihi concede-of inserting the following "imitation," addressed to him several years since. It was never printed, nor, as far as I know, seen by any one but himself; and I transcribe it for the press with mingled sensations of gratitude and delight, at the favourable change of circumstances which we have both experienced since it was written.

TO THE

REV. JOHN IRELAND.1

IMITATION OF HORACE. LIB. II. ODE 16.
Otium Divos rogat, &c.
When howling winds, and lowering skies,
The light, untimber'd bark surprise

Near Orkney's boisterous seas;
The trembling crew forget to swear,
And bend the knees unused to prayer,
To ask a little ease.

For ease the Turk, ferocious, prays,
For ease the barbarous Russe-for ease,
Which Palk could ne'er obtain;
Which Bedford lack'd amid his store,
And liberal Clive, with mines of ore,
Oft bade for-but in vain.

1 Now prebendary of Westminster.