During the reign of James II. a very ludicrous poem was printed. It fills a thick quarto, has neither plan, connexion, nor moral, neither measure nor rhyme, nor can the smallest conjecture be formed as to its meaning. Yet none can dip into it (for probably none ever read it through) without convincing himself that the author ("R. D." in the title-page, supposed to be a Dr. Dixon) is a good classical scholar, a master of several languages, and possessed of an uncommon degree of historical, geographical, and astronomical science. The book is very little known. Two or three specimens of its contents are annexed. Oportet imperatorem mori stantem, Εισ Βασιλευς, εισ Κοίρανος ἔστα, "De mortuis nil nisi bonum !" Gavelkind," de hæreditate dividendâ," Take your congé, make your leg, At the North Pole 'twill be made to appear, The celebrated Latin epigram on the miracle at the marriage in Cana, which has been ascribed to Dryden, is said to be written by Crashaw (a Latin poet of the last century), in an anonymous collection of letters published by Bell and Etherington in the year 1773, where the whole is thus quoted :— Unde rubor vestris, et non sua purpura Quæ rosa mirantes tam nova mutat aquas? The use of the word "Nympha" for water has been censured here, as well as in the beautiful fragment of Mr. Gray, and "Lympha" proposed to be substituted for it, which seems to spoil the whole beauty of the line. The use of nympha for water is justified by many classical passages, and particularly one in a Greek epigram on Bacchus, of which this is the literal trauslation :"He delights in mingling with three nymphs, making the fourth himself;" which alludes to the custom of the ancients mixing three parts water with one of wine; a proof that their wine must have been nearly as strong as our spirits. If there is a fault in this epigram, it is the profaneness of the allusion on so sacred a subject. The last line is sometimes written, Vidit et erubuit Nympha pudica Deum. Which gives a better accentual cadence. The following lines, translated from a Greek epigram in the Anthologie, were Like friars and nuns, are shut up in cloy- written on the window of an inn: sters, Till turn'd by tyrannous roysters. Tell me, or you shall be suspended, A dream put Aristotle out of breath, A meteor, he said, 'twixt life and death. *Paphos may now two goddesses adore. There is some humour in the following French lines, which likewise were written on the window of an inn at Wickham, in Hampshire. Le monde des sots est tout remplis, Which may be thus paraphrased: The original epigram, written by Ruphinus, is, Τέσσαρες οι Χάριτες, Παρίσι δέως και δέκα Μουσαι Δερκυλίς ἐν πάσαις, Μούσα, Χαρις, Πολιτ He that's determined ne'er to see an ass, Must bar his doors, and break his lookingglass, Without entering into the controversy about the superior excellence of rhyme or blank verse, the want of a sufficient mark to the boundary of the line is certainly a defect in the latter, that often occasions one verse to run into another, and which from the cesure and final Adonic can hardly ever happen in Latin hexameters. This will he best illustrated by a quotation from Milton. -The happy seat But wherefore should thy plaintive breath, My heart thy love will ne'er forego, Of some new race, called man, about this Yes, Damon!-constant by thy side, time To be created like to us, tho' less In power and excellence, but favour'd man, About this time to be created like To us, tho' less in power and excellence, But favour'd more of him who rules above. The celebrated song of Dr. Percy, which begins, "Dear Nancy, wilt thou go with me," appears to have a defect in the concluding verse. It is very natural, and even amiable, for the indigent lover to place all the inconveniences of his situation before the eyes of his mistress, but there seems a want of pro: priety in asking her how she could bear his death, which must happen let his rank in life have been the most exalted. It seems as if that painful question would have better suited a consumptive, than a poor, lover. It may be alleged, however, that the same objection might be made to that elegy of Tibullus, from which the subject of the song is taken, as well as to Ham mond's imitation of it. The lady, one may suppose, in the present case, might make something like this answer to her admirer's discouraging picture of futurity. Yes, Damon, yes, with thee I'll go Thro' every hardship life displays; With thee I'll tread December's snow, Or brave the dog-star's fiercest blaze. Distressful want and perils keen, With thee I'll unrepining share, Nor e'er regret the courtly scene, Where I was fairest of the fair, Thy faithful Nancy would remain, Unmov'd my Damon's death to hear, Let no young bard ever despair of arriving at the summit of Parnassus, be his beginnings ever so humble. The great Jonathan Swift, Dean of St. Patrick's, made his "debat" in the literary world, by one of the most wretched odes that ever disgraced Grub-street. Stiff, uncouth, awkward as to sense, and as to measure, (evon allowing for the alcaic irregularity,) insufferable. The subsequent extracts will prove what has been said above. "The first of plants after the thunder, storm, and rain, And thence with joyful, nimble wing, Who by that, vainly talks of baffling death, And hopes to lessen life by a transfusion of breath. And seem almost transform'd to water, flame, and air, So will you answer all phænomenas there." If any thing could add to the dis grace of writing such a poem, it is the folly of having addressed it, with a very silly introductory letter, to the writers of the Athenian oracle, a set of people, whose conceit in offering to answer all questions, ignorance in giv ing solutions, and credulity in listening to grossest falsehoods, are at a perpetual strife which shall be most noticed. Swift must have been, by the date of this ode, twenty-four years of age when he produced this choice morceau. An attempt to translate the sublime passage in the tragedy of “Athalie," Celui qui met un frein à la fureur des flots, Ile, whose commands the stormy billows rein, The wicked's wily councils can restrain; M. Boileau D'Espreaux used to ridicule M. Dacier for thinking the Nasidienus of Horace a miserly rich man. He looked upon it (and probably rightly), that the poet meant to describe a person of an exceeding bad taste in choice of dishes, but who nevertheless fancied himself a connoisseur, and thought that by counteracting the general ideas of his countrymen, in point of entertainment, he should establish his own reputation for delicacy of discernment. There is, indeed, nothing in Nasidienus's conduct which points out the miser, and his rea sons for disliking hard drinkers militate strongly against that charge. Horace does not hint that he feared for his wines, but only lest hard drinking should encourage his guests to be sarcastical on their host, or that the taste of the wine should blunt the edge of their palates, and render them less sensible of the dainties he had provided for them. Simony are a to ned to O many advantages are attached to surprising that a large portion of the inhabitants of every civilized nation should be devoted to it. It is, in truth, the most refined, the most dignified, pursuit in which a human being can engage, yielding a never-failing supply of instruction and delight. Reading, I mean the reading of proper books, while it strengthens and enlarges the understanding by a perpetual communication of new objects, new views, and new ideas, conduces, at the same time, to the improvement and elevation of the mind, by curbing every ́ base and turbulent passion, and creating a disgust for sordid and sensual gratifications. It is both a social and a solitary pleasure. It makes us happy in ourselves, and agreeable to others. We may share it in the domestic circle, or at a public assembly; we may enjoy it when retired and alone. Other pleasures are liable to be damped or frustrated by the intervention of various occurrences; but reading is an amusement which is subject to no interrupting contingency, sickness excepted. It is not necessarily connected with local circumstances, or with any particular season of the year, or hour of the day; but may be enjoyed* in every situation, in town as well as in country, abroad as well as at home, in winter as well as in summer, by night as well as by day. Iufancy excepted, it is adapted to every age, and is one of the greatest comforts of advanced years. No situation, however lonely, is intolerable to a person who is fond of reading, and has access to books. Musæus, whose house is situated in a bleak and sequestered spot, has more than once, during the winter-season, been cut off from all communication with his neigtbours, by heavy falls of snow. But although thus circumstanced, he never found his situation irksome. His resource was in a well-furnished library. Occupied in reading, he was regardless of the dreary scene without, and was insersible to the sound of the keen northwind which beat rudely against his dwe!ling. Like a rock in the ocean, the jarring elements disturbed him not. By means of literature, many eminent characters have been enabled to pass years of exile in comfort, and even to divest imprisonment of all its horrors. It was in literature that Cicero found relief during his secession from public life; and it was from this source that Ovid drew consolation in banishment, and Boethius in a prison. The same may be said of Galileo, Sir Walter Raleigh, and the humorous Cervantes. Another, and that no inconsiderable, it frequently proves a source of the most advantage attached to literature is, that exalted and indissoluble friendship. Such was that which subsisted in ancient times between Socrates and Xenophon, Aristotle and Theophrastus, Cicero and Atticus, Maecenas and Horace, Tacitus * Cicero pro Archiâ. and the Younger Pliny; and in modern times, between Shaftsbury and Locke, Addison and Tickell, Gray and Mason, Johusou and Garrick. Man without a taste for books, is degraded, uncivilized man. He may be distinguished by dress, and an observance of the usual forms and ceremonies of society, from man in his savage state; but if we look to the mind, how little is the difference between them! In the present improved state of society, in this country at least, a certain degree of literary cultivation is indispensable. One cannot be on a proper footing in the better circles, without it. A gentleman, who had acquired a large fortune in the West Indies, but whose progress in literature had not kept pace with his advancement in wealth, being asked by a young lady who reads most of the publications of the day, whether he did not admire "Roderick" and "The Siege of Corinth," replied, that being but just come to town, he had not been at the theatres, and consequently had not seen either of those pieces." Oh, Sir," rejoined the Lady, "these are not plays, they are poems: I thought every body read Mr. Southey's and Lord Byron's productions."-While the gentleman was betraying some degree of confusion, one of the company, a clergyman, turned away the attention, by remarking, that, "with due deference to the lady, he thought the gentleman had done very well in not reading the last-mentioned poem, which (but more particularly its companion) had better never have been written-Lord Byron," he continued, "possesses the power of making what is shocking and unnatural to be read with interest, and perhaps with delight. Hurried on by his glowing language, we lose sight of the criminality of his characters, and are worked into sympathetic feelings for their sufferings. But this is poetical talent taking a wrong direction - Mr. Southey writes with a purer pen." On the breaking-up of the party, I walked home with the Rev. Mr. who lamented the rage that existed for "The New School of Poetry." The rising generation, he was sure, would be much injured by it, particularly the class of female readers; who, as it appeared to him, were rapidly losing all relish for poetry of a moral cast, and for that which is descriptive of natural scenery, and of life exhibited in its most amiable form-as is done in the sweetly-chaste compositions of Thomson, Goldsmith, Beattie, and Cowper." The Romans, after the conquest of Greece, acquired a taste for literature: and in the Augustan age, the higher orders of society had persons to read to them at their private entertainments, as mentioned by Cornelius Nepos, in his life of Atticus. I have heard of an accomplished foreign Princess, who is in the habit of having reading-parties two or three times a week. At these meetings, sometimes a gentleman, sometimes a lady of the court, reads out a piece of poetry or prose, which last consists of history or travels. This is continued for an hour or more; and the remainder of the evening is filled up with music. Much as we object to foreign manners in general, we should not dislike to see our ladies of elevated station setting an example of this laudable fashion. THE HIVE. No. XXIV. THOUGHTS ON THE SIMILARITY OF MANNERS AMONG PEOPLE OF FASHION. EOPLE of fashion are by far too An uniform in their humours to exert themselves variously and agreeably at the same time in a general company. Their business being the same, their sentiments cannot widely differ. insipid similarity of manners reigns throughout the fashionable circle; and it is downright affectation to pretend to find out characters amongst those who compose it, when they are making this kind of exhibition. The universal prevalence of card-playing, therefore, is not to be wondered at: it is the politest excuse which could have been invented to keep out of sight their incapacity, or give as much pleasure by their conversation as they received from their cards. PHILOSOPHICAL DELIBERATION. In a cold winter's evening, a phi-. losopher, in company with some gentlemen and ladies, was taking a walk, a frost succeeding a thaw had ren-, dered it dangerous walking, and the. philosopher, in turning a corner, met with a sudden fall in the presence of the ladies, which occasioned a general laugh. The philosopher, without the least alteration of countenance, kept his seat; and after looking round him with the most admirable composure, expressively exclaimed, with the poet, "Oh world, thy slippery turns!" OF FREEDOM. Whatever our poverty, there is something in the faintest smile of freedom. Such is the nature of our mind, that we can reconcile a blow when we possess power to resent it. When cruelty strikes, and expects submission from the negro, it is but taking a scoundrellike advantage: if it is any thing that makes revenge one of the properties of the slave-it is this. WINTER. Must, O Winter! these fields, these enamelled meads, that boast their variegated hue, yield to thy rigid, unrelenting hand? Must all those umbrageous aspiring oaks, these gay trees around, be stript of all their beauteous verdant foliage, and be left desolate and bare to all the raging winds? Ah! thy rigid approach hastens ; nought can retard it. How all nature saddens! Both herb, tree, and flower, languishly droop their heads. Now no more the fluctuating air bears through the groves the soft melli fluous warblings of the plumy people, nor any more is the listening ear rap turously pleased with their notes: they all have fled thy frigid withering hand, to visit milder climes, where other groves their sweetest influence own. See! Now gloominess over-spreads the north sky, and direful Boreas beats vehemently against the craggy hill, and the dim leaves descend in whirling eddies to the brown earth; and often rain or hail comes ratling down, or oft the fleecy snow doth softly fall. Now, when all nature yields nought to the eye but a barren prospect far and wide, the groves and forests, bereaved of their leafy honours, invite not the mind to roam.-Now is the time, whilst leisure doth allow, to indulge sweet contemplation by the sparkling flame, and to read o'er what poets suug, and what the acts of ancient days. Now frosts and snows cover the earth, and the rivers, rivulets, and ponds, full trimming, swelled by the autumnal rains, forget to flow, fast bound in iey chains: hail, sportful time, long wished for by the youthful crowd, whose chief delight it is on your transparent surfaces to fly along. How desolate and forlorn do all things appear, so rendered by thy power, O Winter! But soon thy reign will be over, and one unbounded all-prolific spring once more spread verdure over this wide world. DETACHED THOUGHT1. Our virtues and vices, in a great measure, arise from constitution, or the texture of our frame; a certain degree of quickness or vivacity, which is generally to be met with in a fine genius, may frequently exclude certain phlegmatic virtues, such as prudence, temperance, economy, sedulity, &c. Nay, courage too, which, as far as it is constitutional, is no very heroic quality, may likewise be deficient; but that same quickness which excludes these, certainly opens a door to every other virtue. All the soft, the liberal, the generous, the delicate feelings of honour and humanity, strike more forcibly upon a lively sensation, than on a dull one-It requires the stroke of a flint to elicit fire from steel. What security is the best sense or caprices of human nature? philosophy against the weaknesses and It is a very difficult thing to impose upon enough to make them impose upon a person of sense; but it is easy themselves. Passion is a vast improvement to slow and phlegmatic natures. Lové not only renders us happy, but wise; for the flame in the heart sends up d blaze that enlivens the mind.-Would not this make a shining figure among the faux brilliants? It might rank well enough with many French sentiments that I have heard commended. A man of parts may excel in any thing-Why not in virtue? - Why not rise above a dunce in that noblest of sciences, as in the meaner arts? Rochefaucault says very justly, that a weak person can never rise to virtue; for though ever so well disposed, he has not stuff enough. |