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But Crusca still has merit, and may claim
No humble station in the ranks of fame ;
He taught us first the language to refine,
To crowd with beauties every sparkling line,
Old phrases with new meanings to dispense,
Amuse the fancy, and confound the sense!
O, void of reason! Is it thus you praise

A linsey-woolsey song, framed with such ease,
Such vacancy of thought, that every line

No, mewl thou still: and, while thy d-s join

Might tempt e'en Vaughan to whisper, "This is Their melancholy symphonies to thine,
My righteous verse shall labour to restore


Vaughan! well remember'd.

He, good man, The well earned fame it robb'd them of before:
Edwin, whatever elegies of wo

Drop from the gentle mouths of Vaughan and Co.,
To this or that, henceforth no more confined,
Shall, like a surname, take in all the kind.

Right! cry the brethren. When the heaven

complains That I affix'd his name to Edwin's strains:

into plain Mr.—" has honoured Mr. Tasker's poetical and other productions with high and distinguished marks of her approbation."-Gazetteer, Jan. 16.

Why this is the very song of Prodicus, ή χειρ την χειpa krize for the rest, I trust my readers will readily subscribe to the praises which these most "competent and disinterested judges" have reciprocally lavished upon each other. But allons!

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'Tis just-for what three kindred souls have done,
Is most unfairly charged, I ween, on one.
Pardon, my learned friend! With watery eyes,
Thy growing fame to truth I sacrifice;
To many a sonnet call thy claims in doubt,
And," at one entrance, shut thy glory out."
Yet mewl thou still. Shall my lord's dormouse die,
And low in dust without a requiem lie?

The force of folly can no farther go! *Edwin's strains.-If the reader will turn to the conclusion of the Baviad, he will find a delicious Extratov on a tame mouse, by this gentleman. As it seemed to give universal satisfaction, I embrace the opportunity of

born muse

Shames her descent, and, for low, earthly views,
Hums o'er a beetle's bier the doleful stave,
Or sits chief mourner at a May-bug's grave,
Satire should scourge her from the vile employ,
And bring her back to friendship, love, and joy.
But spare Cesario,* Carlos,† Adelaide,‡
The truest poetess! the truest maid!

laying before the public another effusion of the same exquisite pen.

It will be found, I flatter myself, not less beautiful than the former; and fully prove that the author, though ostensibly devoted to elegy, can, on a proper occasion, assume an air of gayety, and be "profound" with ease, and instructive with elegance.

Εδουιν προλογίζει.

"On the circumstance of a mastiff's running furiously (sad dog!) toward two young ladies, and, upon coming up to them, becoming instantly gentle (good dog !) and tractable."

Tantum ad narrandum argumentum est benignitas! "When Orpheus took his lyre to hell,

To fetch his rib away,

On that same thing he pleased so well,
That devils learn'd to play.

"Besides, in books it may be read,
That whilst he swept the lute,
Grim Cerberus hung his savage head,
And lay astoundly mute.

"But here we can with justice say,
That nature rivals art;

He sang a mastiff's rage away,

You look'd one through the heart." Fecit Edwin. *Cesario. In the Baviad are a few stanzas of a most delectable ode to an owl. They were ascribed to Arno; nor was I conscious of any mistake, till I received a polite note from that gentleman, assuring me that he was not only not the author of them, but (horresco referens) that he thought them "execrable." Mr. Bell, on the other hand, affirms them to be "admirable."

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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 fortune! 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."

Adelaide.-And who is Adelaide ? O seri studiorum! "Not to know her, argues yourselves unknown." Hear Mr. Bell, the Longinus of newspaper writers.

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."


"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.

I See note |, ib.


"Arno! where steals thy dulcet lay,

Soft as the evening's minstrel note,
Say, does it deck the rising day,

Or on the noontide breezes float?"

Mrs. Robinson (for we may as well drop the name of Julia) has been guilty of a trifling larceny here; having taken from the Baviad, without any acknowledgment, a delicious couplet, which I flattered myself would never have been seen out of that poem; but so it is, that, like Pope,

"Write whate'er I will,

Some rising genius sins up to it still."

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, 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."


A Daniel come to judgment, yea, a Daniel! This is induced himself to the World by the following

truth the reason; and when Mr. Vaughan and his coadjutors condescend to humble themselves to my understanding, I will endeavour to profit by their eloquent strictures.

"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.

This has nettled me a little, and possibly injured the great poetess in my opinion; for I have been robbed so often of late, that I begin to think with the old economist

Οὗτος αοιδων λωστος ἧς εξ εμεν οισεται ουδεν.

For the rest, this "elegant invocation" called forth a specimen of Arno's fine powers in the following dulcct lays.

"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 λεύκους αλας-

Says 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

"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.


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

And is thy active folly adding more

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

*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

Forbear, forbear:-What though thou canst not his example! and, indeed, am even now composing" one

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:


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


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.

And chased the oppressive doubts which round me

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,

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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" an 1 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,

More bless'd than me, thus shall ye live
Your little day; and, when ye die,
Sweet flowers! the grateful muse shall give
A verse; the sorrowing maid, a sigh.

While I, alas! no distant date,

Mix with the dust from whence I came, Without a friend to weep my fate,

Without a stone to tell my name.


First of May. 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.


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 deploreBut 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

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,

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,t

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

And you, too, whole Menander, &c.-0 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.-ΣwaηoaνTWY Kodorov, εσύνται κύκνοι. But this is better illustrated in a most elegant fable of Lessing, to which I despair of doing justice in a translation.

(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

The mischief, in its progress, to arrest,
And exorcise the soil of such a pest.

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

Reams of outrageous sonnets, thick as snow,

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

"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





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


"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

1I 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.

"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.

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

Sing then, said he to the silent songstress, one lovely this note (which I have left in its original state) has given him some slight evening in the spring, sing then, sweet nightingale! Alas! sand the nightingale, the frogs croak so loud, that I have lost all desire to sing: dost thou not hear them? I do,

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

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'

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