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03 sier "Fatal effects of luxury and ease!
We drink our poison, and we eat disease ; Ruggidive , 9960 Is
Indulge our senses at our reason's cost,
Till sense is pain, and reason hurt, or lost.
2 Not so, O Temperance bland! when rul'd by thee, 1996 -Vicozoi The brute's obedient, and the man is free. iso sasa, i
285 Soft are his slumbers, balmy is his rest, fascino 03 etal. His veins not boiling from the midnight feast. folidorite . 0904 Touch'd by Aurora's rosy hand, he wakes bainsat on 10:9109 Peaceful and calm, and with the world partakes his sysilec te The joyful dawnings of returning day,
For which their grateful thanks the whole creation pay, 1937 All but the human brute : 'tis he alone, wo wo
BIVOODI Whose works of darkness fly the rising sun. 191191 sidste 9700 90 Tis to thy rules, O Temperance ! that we owe sidstalis Pagifts All pleasures, which from health and strength can flows ades Wolv & bs Vigour of body, purity of mind, 399astai yedio 90. 189m 9x1 Unclouded reason, sentiments refin'd,
o t 5 Feters Unmixt, untainted joys, without remorse,
Th’intemperate sinner's never failing curse: il touted am k: Our fair philosopher may have added, that intemperance, or any neglect of health, will often give remorse to delicate consciences that do not otherwise deserve it: nay, even deserved remorse (so to *speak) may be done away with, according to Plato, by due attention to health and exercise. Nor will the humanity of true virtue quarrel with him for saying it; since under no system of opinion has the frailty and ill education of mankind been denied some' last resource under the most grievous of its errors, change and better conduct being always supposed. And that is the wisest mode of correcting guilt and its conséquences, which leaves us in the fittest way for being cheerful and useful. I ' . '.***.* ?"" **
Mary Leapor, “ daughter of the gardener of Judge Blencow," and said to have been some time cook-maid in a gentleman's family," was a born gentlewoman, and writes very pretty verses. Mr Dyce has given us an eclogue of hers, entitled the Month of August, in which Sylvanus, a courtier, attempts in vain to lure away Phillis, a country maid, from her cottage and her rustic love. It contains some pleasing natural images, which we are 'tempted to quote; but in thinking of filling out our Companions' pockets with plums and country delicacies, a base and unusual fear comes over us of being thought unmannerly. $ Mrs Lætitia Pilkington, well known for her departures from the ordinary modes of her sex, which were not in the style of Mrs Oldfield, tells us, that : 9.S. " Lying is an occupation,
Used by all who mean to rise,” &c. .. . Poor soul! We fear she practised a good deal of it to very little purpose. She had a foolish husband, and was beset by very untoward circumstances, to which she evidently fell a worse prey than she would have us think. But the weakest of women are so un
equally treated by the existing modes of society, that we hate to think anything unhandsome of them
Not so of my Lady Mary Wortley Montagú;' who was at once so clever, so bold, so well off, and so full of sense of every sort but the sense of delicacy, that she provokes us out of our philosophy. A want of sentiment was the ultimate ruin of her ; for ruin it was, and a frightful one, for a woman of her beauty and talents to become the painted Jezebel and the mockery of all the young men who visited Florence. Walpole has given a revolting picture of her in this her melancholy state of old gaiety; and we must believe him, in spite of our dislike of his cynical way of drawing it. Her admirable letters are well known, and her introduction of inoculation into this country; so clever was she, and so fitted to be more than an ornament to society, in everything but this one deficiency. Among other instances of her capital good sense, she had a view with regard to the improvement of marriages, which bespoke real philosophical reflection, and would at any rate have managed matters better than they are at present. Her opinion was (and the practice is said to have been tried in one part of the world, and found successful) that marriages should be limited to the term of seven years, and renewed or not at will, as the parties found themselves disposed. They who think that everybody would be for parting, forget what they are so well aware of in all other circumstances, to wit, the power of habit; - not to mention all the other and more cordial reasons, which certainly would not continue to influence people the less, when they were more generously encouraged. We do not say that Lady Mary's plan would be the best. We only say it is better than the present one. But nothing is more observable or more edifying, whenever this subject is broached, than the extraordinary compliments which the advocates of the present system pay their own cause, in thinking that they should all be in such haste to get rid of their obligations. Not having any such feelings in our own case, we the less scruple to speak out..
. We must conclude our present attentions to Mr Dyce's book (which seduces us into so much gossip) with the whole of the ballad entitled The Lover, addressed by Lady Mary to Mr Congreve. One is curious to know what Congreve said to it. The first four stanzas are a little too much like a town-lady and intriguante; but pleasant and well-written. The two last come unexpectedly to the reader of the book, in turning over the leaf, and are a great improvement upon the sentiment. But a lady, who “ so long has lived chaste," hardly ought to know, so much about “champagne and a chicken.”
- THE LOVER.
TO MR CONGR E V E.
Take, Congreve, at once the inside of my breast., The
This stupid indifference so often you blame, Dan
That we live but few years, and yet fewer are young.
For I would have the pow'r, though not give the pain:
Then rarely approach, and respectfully bow,
se And we meet with champagne and a chicken at last,
Forgetting or seorning the airs of the crowd, SA
And he may be rude, and yet I may forgive. .."* “And that my delight may be solidly fix'd,
Let the friend and the loyer be handsomely mix'd, **
In whose tender bosom my soul may confide, *** Whose kindness can soothe me, whose counsel can guide. D.
From such a dear lover as here I describe, "
No danger should fright me, no millions should bribe' ;
But till this astonishing creature I know, ana i . sales As I long have liv'd chaste, I will keep myself so. A “I never will share with the wanton coquet, Or be caught by a vain affectation of wit.
*** The toasters and songsters may try all their art, . But never shall enter the pass of my heart...
I loath the lewd rake, the drest fopling despise ; se
Before such pursuers the nice virgin flies;
25 (TO BE CONTINUED.)
LONDON: Published by Hunt and CLARKE, York street, Covent garden: and sold by all
Booksellers and Newsvenders in town and country.--Price 4d.
No. XXIV. WEDNESDAY, JUNE 18, 1828.
« Something alone yet not alone, to be wished, and only to be found, in a friend."-SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE.
Redi, a celebrated naturalist and wit-poet of Italy, was physician to the Grand Dukes of Tuscany in the times of Charles and James the Second. He was a great experimentalist, and overthrew the doctrine of equivocal generation : but our business at present is with his poem of Bacco in Toscana, which he wrote on the Tuscan wines, and which is one of the most popular pieces of wit in Italy. Some years ago, Mr Mathias, the celebrated Italian scholar, published an edition of this in London. We no sooner saw it, than we longed to decanter it into English; but circumstances prevented us, till we happened to pay a visit to the poet's own country, when we proceeded to indulge ourselves accordingly, and dispatched the version home. It is said however that Italian wines will not keep in their exportation; and our transfusion certainly did not hold good. The bottle fell broken from the wine-press. To drop our metaphor, the translation of the Bacco in Toscana did not succeed. It would perhaps have been unreasonable to expect that it should, considering the nature of the subject, the English having no cognizance of Italian wines, and not caring for what they never tasted. Furthermore, whether the poem was calculated to succeed
or not, our own version may not have been the one to make it do so. But we confess we are willing to discover some further reason for a non-success so entire, as to enable us to venture the present summary of the poem with the reader, in default of being well enough to do better. And this reason, we think, may be two-fold;. first, a newness and inaptitude to his work on the part of the publisher, who had been used to greater tasks; and second, the extraordinary fact of its being published with upwards of fifty mistakes of the press, and many of those of the most extraordinary and confounding description. We blame nobody for these accidents. The private circumstances under which the publication took place, partook of the extraordinary nature of the rest; the publisher, as well as the author, was occupied with many cares ; the author was in another country; and the appearance of the work, after being delayed a year, could be hardly said to have been one after all. Of the extent to which the mistakes were carried, the reader may judge by the following specimens. “ Plebeian home,” at p. 6 of the book, ought to be “ plebeian Rome.” An old stony giggiano (a reverend mystery at p. 15) should be “ And old stony Giggiano” (a place so called.) A line (“ And much agrees with---"). where an unseasonable hiccup cuts it short (for the worst of it is, that in a poem of this kind, people suppose şuch mistakes a part of the joke) ought to be
“And much agrees with me.” Mr Lamb, in the notes, at p.59, is made to say that Bacchus's true Indian conquest " warms the West," instead of “was from the West.” At p. 96, it is observed, that “ the French began to speak with admiration of Milton, partly because Voltaire wanted them to like epics of all sorts, for the sake of puzzling opinion, and introducing the steanade." This is the Henriade! And at p. 139, where there is an endeavour to shew that a novelist is not likely to be a great poet, from a want of a turn for concentration, Boccaccio in his style is said to be “ over close and succinct," instead of “never close and succinct.” We do not wish to lay any more stress on these matters than our present purpose requires, and can join very heartily in laughing at them. We wish we had