This Italy was moved--nor did the chief

Æneas in his mind less tumult feel.

On every side his anxious thought he turns,

Restless, unfix'd, not knowing what to choose.

And as a cistern that in brim of brass

Confines the crystal flood, if chance the sun

Smite on it, or the moon's resplendent orb,

The quivering light now flashes on the walls,

Now leaps uncertain to the vaulted roof:

Such were the wavering motions of his mind.

'Twas night--and weary nature sunk to rest.

The birds, the bleating flocks, were heard no more.

At length, on the cold ground, beneath the damp

And dewy vault, fast by the river's brink,

The father of his country sought repose.

When lo! among the spreading poplar boughs,

Forth from his pleasant stream, propitious rose

The god of Tiber: clear transparent gauze

Infolds his loins, his brows with reeds are crown'd:

And these his gracious words to soothe his care:

"Heaven-born, who bring'st our kindred home again,

Rescued, and givest eternity to Troy,

Long have Laurentum and the Latian plains

Expected thee; behold thy fix'd abode.

Fear not the threats of war, the storm is past,

The gods appeased. For proof that what thou hear'st

Is no vain forgery or delusive dream,

Beneath the grove that borders my green bank,

A milk-white swine, with thirty milk-white young,

Shall greet thy wondering eyes. Mark well the place;

For 'tis thy place of rest, there end thy toils:

There, twice ten years elapsed, fair Alba's walls

Shall rise, fair Alba, by Ascanius' hand.

Thus shall it be--now listen, while I teach

The means to accomplish these events at hand.

The Arcadians here, a race from Pallas sprung,

Following Evander's standard and his fate,

High on these mountains, a well chosen spot,

Have built a city, for their grandsire's sake

Named Pallanteum. These perpetual war

Wage with the Latians: join'd in faithful league

And arms confederate, add them to your camp.

Myself between my winding banks will speed

Your well oar'd barks to stem the opposing tide.

Rise, goddess born, arise; and with the first

Declining stars seek Juno in thy prayer,

And vanquish all her wrath with suppliant vows.

When conquest crowns thee, then remember me.

I am the Tiber, whose cærulean stream

Heaven favours; I with copious flood divide

These grassy banks, and cleave the fruitful meads.

My mansion, this--and lofty cities crown

My fountain head."--He spoke and sought the deep,

And plunged his form beneath the closing flood.

Æneas at the morning dawn awoke,

And, rising, with uplifted eye beheld

The orient sun, then dipp'd his palms, and scoop'd

The brimming stream, and thus address'd the skies:

"Ye nymphs, Laurentian nymphs, who feed the source

Of many a stream, and thou, with thy blest flood,

O Tiber, hear, accept me, and afford,

At length afford, a shelter from my woes.

Where'er in secret cavern under ground

Thy waters sleep, where'er they spring to light,

Since thou hast pity for a wretch like me,

My offerings and my vows shall wait thee still:

Great horned Father of Hesperian floods,

Be gracious now, and ratify thy word."

He said, and chose two galleys from his fleet,

Fits them with oars, and clothes the crew in arms.

When lo! astonishing and pleasing sight,

The milk-white dam, with her unspotted brood,

Lay stretch'd upon the bank, beneath the grove.

To thee, the pious Prince, Juno, to thee

Devotes them all, all on thine altar bleed.

That live-long night old Tiber smooth'd his flood,

And so restrain'd it that it seem'd to stand

Motionless as a pool, or silent lake,

That not a billow might resist their oars.

With cheerful sound of exhortation soon

Their voyage they begin; the pitchy keel

Slides through the gentle deep, the quiet stream

Admires the unwonted burden that it bears,

Well polish'd arms, and vessels painted gay.

Beneath the shade of various trees, between

The umbrageous branches of the spreading groves,

They cut their liquid way, nor day nor night

They slack their course, unwinding as they go

The long meanders of the peaceful tide.

The glowing sun was in meridian height,

When from afar they saw the humble walls,

And the few scatter'd cottages, which now

The Roman power has equall'd with the clouds;

But such was then Evander's scant domain.

They steer to shore, and hasten to the town.

It chanced the Arcadian monarch on that day,

Before the walls, beneath a shady grove,

Was celebrating high, in solemn feast,

Alcides and his tutelary gods.

Pallas, his son, was there, and there the chief

Of all his youth; with these, a worthy tribe,

His poor but venerable senate, burnt

Sweet incense, and their altars smoked with blood.

Soon as they saw the towering masts approach,

Sliding between the trees, while the crew rest

Upon their silent oars, amazed they rose,

Not without fear, and all forsook the feast.

But Pallas undismay'd, his javelin seized,

Rush'd to the bank, and from a rising ground

Forbade them to disturb the sacred rites.

"Ye stranger youth! What prompts you to explore

This untried way? and whither do ye steer?

Whence, and who are ye? Bring ye peace or war?"

Æneas from his lofty deck holds forth

The peaceful olive branch, and thus replies:

"Trojans and enemies to the Latian state,

Whom they with unprovoked hostilities

Have driven away, thou seest. We seek Evander--

Say this--and say beside, the Trojan chiefs

Are come, and seek his friendship and his aid."

Pallas with wonder heard that awful name,

And "Whosoe'er thou art," he cried, "come forth:

Bear thine own tidings to my father's ear,

And be a welcome guest beneath our roof."

He said, and press'd the stranger to his breast:

Then led him from the river to the grove,

Where, courteous, thus Æneas greets the king:

"Best of the Grecian race, to whom I bow

(So wills my fortune) suppliant, and stretch forth

In sign of amity this peaceful branch,

I fear'd thee not, although I knew thee well

A Grecian leader, born in Arcady,

And kinsman of the Atridæ. Me my virtue,

That means no wrong to thee--the Oracles,

Our kindred families allied of old,

And thy renown diffused through every land,

Have all conspired to bind in friendship to thee,

And send me not unwilling to thy shores.

Dardanus, author of the Trojan state,

(So say the Greeks,) was fair Electra's son;

Electra boasted Atlas for her sire,

Whose shoulders high sustain the ethereal orbs.

Your sire is Mercury, whom Maia bore,

Sweet Maia, on Cyllene's hoary top.

Her, if we credit aught tradition old,

Atlas of yore, the self-same Atlas, claim'd

His daughter. Thus united close in blood,

Thy race and ours one common sire confess.

With these credentials fraught, I would not send

Ambassadors with artful phrase to sound

And win thee by degrees--but came myself--

Me, therefore, me thou seest; my life the stake:

'Tis I, Æneas, who implore thine aid.

Should Daunia, that now aims the blow at thee,

Prevail to conquer us, nought then, they think,

Will hinder, but Hesperia must be theirs,

All theirs, from the upper to the nether sea.

Take then our friendship, and return us thine.

We too have courage, we have noble minds,

And youth well tried, and exercised in arms."

Thus spoke Æneas--He with fix'd regard

Survey'd him speaking, features, form, and mien.

Then briefly thus--"Thou noblest of thy name,

How gladly do I take thee to my heart,

How gladly thus confess thee for a friend!

In thee I trace Anchises; his thy speech,

Thy voice, thy countenance. For I well remember

Many a day since, when Priam journey'd forth

To Salamis, to see the land where dwelt

Hesione, his sister, he push'd on

E'en to Arcadia's frozen bounds. 'Twas then

The bloom of youth was glowing on my cheek;

Much I admired the Trojan chiefs, and much

Their king, the son of great Laomedon.

But most Anchises, towering o'er them all.

A youthful longing seized me to accost

The hero, and embrace him; I drew near,

And gladly led him to the walls of Pheneus.

Departing, he distinguish'd me with gifts,

A costly quiver stored with Lycian darts,

A robe inwove with gold, with gold imboss'd

Two bridles, those which Pallas uses now.

The friendly league thou hast solicited

I give thee, therefore, and to-morrow all

My chosen youth shall wait on your return.

Meanwhile, since thus in friendship ye are come,

Rejoice with us, and join to celebrate

These annual rites, which may not be delay'd,

And be at once familiar at our board."

He said, and bade replace the feast removed;

Himself upon a grassy bank disposed

The crew; but for Æneas order'd forth

A couch spread with a lion's tawny shag,

And bade him share the honours of his throne.

The appointed youth with glad alacrity

Assist the labouring priest to load the board

With roasted entrails of the slaughter'd beeves,

Well kneaded bread and mantling bowls. Well pleased,

Æneas and the Trojan youth regale

On the huge length of a well pastured chine.

Hunger appeased, and tables all despatch'd,

Thus spake Evander: "Superstition here,

In this old solemn feasting, has no part.

No, Trojan friend, from utmost danger saved,

In gratitude this worship we renew.

Behold that rock which nods above the vale,

Those bulks of broken stone dispersed around,

How desolate the shatter'd cave appears,

And what a ruin spreads the incumber'd plain.

Within this pile, but far within, was once

The den of Cacus; dire his hateful form

That shunn'd the day, half monster and half man.

Blood newly shed stream'd ever on the ground

Smoking, and many a visage pale and wan

Nail'd at his gate, hung hideous to the sight.

Vulcan begot the brute: vast was his size,

And from his throat he belch'd his father's fires.

But the day came that brought us what we wish'd,

The assistance and the presence of a God.

Flush'd with his victory, and the spoils he won

From triple-form'd Geryon lately slain,

The great avenger, Hercules, appear'd.

Hither he drove his stately bulls, and pour'd

His herds along the vale. But the sly thief

Cacus, that nothing might escape his hand

Of villainy or fraud, drove from the stalls

Four of the lordliest of his bulls, and four

The fairest of his heifers; by the tail

He dragg'd them to his den, that, there conceal'd,

No footsteps might betray the dark abode.

And now, his herd with provender sufficed,

Alcides would be gone: they as they went

Still bellowing loud, made the deep echoing woods

And distant hills resound: when, hark! one ox,

Imprison'd close within the vast recess,

Lows in return, and frustrates all his hope.

Then fury seized Alcides, and his breast

With indignation heaved: grasping his club

Of knotted oak, swift to the mountain top

He ran, he flew. Then first was Cacus seen

To tremble, and his eyes bespoke his fears.

Swift as an eastern blast, he sought his den,

And dread, increasing, winged him as he went.

Drawn up in iron slings above the gate,

A rock was hung enormous. Such his haste,

He burst the chains, and dropp'd it at the door,

Then grappled it with iron work within

Of bolts and bars by Vulcan's art contrived.

Scarce was he fast, when, panting for revenge,

Came Hercules; he gnash'd his teeth with rage,

And quick as lightning glanced his eyes around

In quest of entrance. Fiery red and stung

With indignation, thrice he wheeled his course

About the mountain; thrice, but thrice in vain,

He strove to force the quarry at the gate,

And thrice sat down o'erwearied in the vale.

There stood a pointed rock, abrupt and rude,

That high o'erlook'd the rest, close at the back

Of the fell monster's den, where birds obscene

Of ominous note resorted, choughs and daws.

This, as it lean'd obliquely to the left,

Threatening the stream below, he from the right

Push'd with his utmost strength, and to and fro

He shook the mass, loosening its lowest base;

Then shoved it from its seat; down fell the pile;

Sky thunder'd at the fall; the banks give way,

The affrighted stream flows upward to his source.

Behold the kennel of the brute exposed,

The gloomy vault laid open. So, if chance

Earth yawning to the centre should disclose

The mansions, the pale mansions of the dead,

Loathed by the gods, such would the gulf appear,

And the ghosts tremble at the sight of day.

The monster braying with unusual din

Within his hollow lair, and sore amazed

To see such sudden inroads of the light,

Alcides press'd him close with what at hand

Lay readiest, stumps of trees, and fragments huge

Of millstone size. He, (for escape was none,)

Wondrous to tell! forth from his gorge discharged

A smoky cloud that darken'd all the den;

Wreath after wreath he vomited amain,

The smothering vapour mix'd with fiery sparks.

No sight could penetrate the veil obscure.

The hero, more provoked, endured not this,

But with a headlong leap he rush'd to where

The thickest cloud enveloped his abode.

There grasp'd he Cacus, spite of all his fires,

Till, crush'd within his arms, the monster shows

His bloodless throat, now dry with panting hard,

And his press'd eyeballs start. Soon he tears down

The barricade of rock, the dark abyss

Lies open; and the imprison'd bulls, the theft

He had with oaths denied, are brought to light;

By the heels the miscreant carcass is dragg'd forth,

His face, his eyes, all terrible, his breast

Beset with bristles, and his sooty jaws

Are view'd with wonder never to be cloy'd.

Hence the celebrity thou seest, and hence

This festal day Potitius first enjoin'd

Posterity: these solemn rites he first,

With those who bear the great Pinarian name,

To Hercules devoted; in the grove

This altar built, deem'd sacred in the highest

By us, and sacred ever to be deem'd.

Come, then, my friends, and bind your youthful brows

In praise of such deliverance, and hold forth

The brimming cup; your deities and ours

Are now the same, then drink and freely too."

So saying, he twisted round his reverend locks

A variegated poplar wreath, and fill'd

His right hand with a consecrated bowl.

At once all pour libations on the board,

All offer prayer. And now, the radiant sphere

Of day descending, eventide drew near.

When first Potitius with the priests advanced,

Begirt with skins, and torches in their hands.

High piled with meats of savoury taste, they ranged

The chargers, and renew'd the grateful feast.

Then came the Salii, crown'd with poplar too,

Circling the blazing altars; here the youth

Advanced, a choir harmonious, there were heard

The reverend seers responsive; praise they sung,

Much praise in honour of Alcides' deeds;

How first with infant gripe two serpents huge

He strangled, sent from Juno; next they sung,

How Troja and OEchalia he destroy'd,

Fair cities both, and many a toilsome task

Beneath Eurystheus (so his stepdame will'd)

Achieved victorious. Thou, the cloud-born pair,

Hylæus fierce and Pholus, monstrous twins,

Thou slew'st the minotaur, the plague of Crete,

And the vast lion of the Nemean rock,

Thee hell, and Cerberus, hell's porter, fear'd,

Stretch'd in his den upon his half-gnaw'd bones.

Thee no abhorred form, not e'en the vast

Typhoeus could appal, though clad in arms.

Hail, true-born son of Jove, among the gods

At length enroll'd, nor least illustrious thou,

Haste thee propitious, and approve our songs.

Thus hymn'd the chorus; above all they sing

The cave of Cacus, and the flames he breathed.

The whole grove echoes, and the hills rebound.

The rites perform'd, all hasten to the town.

The king, bending with age, held as he went

Æneas and his Pallas by the hand,

With much variety of pleasing talk

Shortening the way. Æneas, with a smile,

Looks round him, charm'd with the delightful scene

And many a question asks, and much he learns

Of heroes far renown'd in ancient times.

Then spake Evander. These extensive groves,

Were once inhabited by fauns and nymphs,

Produced beneath their shades, and a rude race

Of men, the progeny uncouth of elms

And knotted oaks. They no refinement knew

Of laws or manners civilized, to yoke

The steer, with forecast provident to store

The hoarded grain, or manage what they had,

But browsed like beasts upon the leafy boughs,

Or fed voracious on their hunted prey.

An exile from Olympus, and expell'd

His native realm by thunder-bearing Jove,

First Saturn came. He from the mountains drew

This herd of men untractable and fierce,

And gave them laws: and call'd his hiding-place,

This growth of forests, Latium. Such the peace

His land possess'd, the golden age was then,

So famed in story; till by slow degrees

Far other times, and of far different hue,

Succeeded, thirst of gold and thirst of blood.

Then came Ausonian bands, and armed hosts

From Sicily, and Latium often changed

Her master and her name. At length arose

Kings, of whom Tybris of gigantic form

Was chief; and we Italians since have call'd

The river by his name; thus Albula

(So was the country call'd in ancient days)

Was quite forgot. Me from my native land

An exile, through the dangerous ocean driven,

Resistless fortune and relentless fate

Placed where thou seest me. Phoebus, and

The nymph Carmentis, with maternal care

Attendant on my wanderings, fix'd me here.

[Ten lines omitted.]

He said, and show'd him the Tarpeian rock,

And the rude spot where now the Capitol

Stands all magnificent and bright with gold,

Then overgrown with thorns. And yet e'en then

The swains beheld that sacred scene with awe;

The grove, the rock, inspired religious fear.

This grove, he said, that crowns the lofty top

Of this fair hill, some deity, we know,

Inhabits, but what deity we doubt.

The Arcadians speak of Jupiter himself,

That they have often seen him, shaking here

His gloomy Ægis, while the thunder storms

Came rolling all around him. Turn thine eyes,

Behold that ruin; those dismantled walls,

Where once two towns, Janiculum ----,

By Janus this, and that by Saturn built,

Saturnia. Such discourse brought them beneath

The roof of poor Evander; thence they saw,

Where now the proud and stately forum stands,

The grazing herds wide scatter'd o'er the field.

Soon as he enter'd--Hercules, he said,

Victorious Hercules, on his threshold trod,

These walls contain'd him, humble as they are.

Dare to despise magnificence, my friend,

Prove thy divine descent by worth divine,

Nor view with haughty scorn this mean abode.

So saying, he led Æneas by the hand,

And placed him on a cushion stuff'd with leaves,

Spread with the skin of a Lybistian bear.

[The Episode of Venus and Vulcan omitted.]

While thus in Lemnos Vulcan was employ'd,

Awaken'd by the gentle dawn of day,

And the shrill song of birds beneath the eaves

Of his low mansion, old Evander rose.

His tunic, and the sandals on his feet,

And his good sword well girded to his side,

A panther's skin dependent from his left,

And over his right shoulder thrown aslant,

Thus was he clad. Two mastiffs follow'd him,

His whole retinue and his nightly guard.

OVID, TRIST. BOOK V. ELEG. XII.

Scribis, ut oblectem.

You bid me write to amuse the tedious hours,

And save from withering my poetic powers;

Hard is the task, my friend, for verse should flow

From the free mind, not fetter'd down by woe;

Restless amidst unceasing tempests tost,

Whoe'er has cause for sorrow, I have most.

Would you bid Priam laugh, his sons all slain,

Or childless Niobe from tears refrain,

Join the gay dance, and lead the festive train?

Does grief or study most befit the mind

To this remote, this barbarous nook confined?

Could you impart to my unshaken breast

The fortitude by Socrates possess'd,

Soon would it sink beneath such woes as mine,

For what is human strength to wrath divine?

Wise as he was, and Heaven pronounced him so,

My sufferings would have laid that wisdom low.

Could I forget my country, thee and all,

And e'en the offence to which I owe my fall,

Yet fear alone would freeze the poet's vein,

While hostile troops swarm o'er the dreary plain.

Add that the fatal rust of long disuse

Unfits me for the service of the muse.

Thistles and weeds are all we can expect

From the best soil impoverish'd by neglect;

Unexercised, and to his stall confined,

The fleetest racer would be left behind;

The best built bark that cleaves the watery way,

Laid useless by, would moulder and decay--

No hope remains that time shall me restore

Mean as I was, to what I was before.

Think how a series of desponding cares

Benumbs the genius and its force impairs.

How oft, as now, on this devoted sheet,

My verse, constrain'd to move with measured feet,

Reluctant and laborious limps along,

And proves itself a wretched exile's song.

What is it tunes the most melodious lays?

'Tis emulation and the thirst of praise,

A noble thirst, and not unknown to me,

While smoothly wafted on a calmer sea.

But can a wretch like Ovid pant for fame?

No, rather let the world forget my name.

Is it because that world approved my strain,

You prompt me to the same pursuit again?

No, let the Nine the ungrateful truth excuse,

I charge my hopeless ruin on the muse,

And, like Perillus, meet my just desert,

The victim of my own pernicious art;

Fool that I was to be so warn'd in vain,

And, shipwreck'd once, to tempt the deep again.

Ill fares the bard in this unletter'd land,

None to consult, and none to understand.

The purest verse has no admirers here,

Their own rude language only suits their ear.

Rude as it is, at length familiar grown,

I learn it, and almost unlearn my own--

Yet to say truth, e'en here the muse disdains

Confinement, and attempts her former strains,

But finds the strong desire is not the power,

And what her taste condemns the flames devour.

A part, perhaps, like this, escapes the doom,

And though unworthy, finds a friend at Rome;

But oh the cruel art, that could undo

Its votary thus! would that could perish too!

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE IX.

Vides, ut altá stet nive candidum

Soracte; . . . . .

Seest thou yon mountain laden with deep snow,

The groves beneath their fleecy burden bow,

The streams, congeal'd, forget to flow,

Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile

Of fuel on the hearth;

Broach the best cask, and make old winter smile

With seasonable mirth.

This be our part--let Heaven dispose the rest;

If Jove command, the winds shall sleep,

That now wage war upon the foamy deep,

And gentle gales spring from the balmy west.

E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may,

When to-morrow's pass'd away,

We at least shall have to say,

We have lived another day;

Your auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er,

Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no more.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XXXVIII.

Persicos odi, puer, apparatus.

Boy, I hate their empty shows,

Persian garlands I detest,

Bring not me the late-blown rose,

Lingering after all the rest.

Plainer myrtle pleases me,

Thus outstretch'd beneath my vine;

Myrtle more becoming thee,

Waiting with thy master's wine.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XXXVIII.

Boy! I detest all Persian fopperies,

Fillet-bound garlands are to me disgusting;

Task not thyself with any search, I charge thee,

Where latest roses linger.

Bring me alone (for thou wilt find that readily)

Plain myrtle. Myrtle neither will disparage

Thee occupied to serve me, or me drinking

Beneath my vine's cool shelter.

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE X.

Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach,

So shalt thou live beyond the reach

Of adverse fortune's power;

Not always tempt the distant deep,

Nor always timorously creep

Along the treacherous shore.

He that holds fast the golden mean,

And lives contentedly between

The little and the great,

Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,

Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,

Imbittering all his state.

The tallest pines feel most the power

Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tower

Comes heaviest to the ground;

The bolts that spare the mountain's side

His cloudcapt eminence divide,

And spread the ruin round.

The well-inform'd philosopher,

Rejoices with a wholesome fear,

And hopes in spite of pain;

If Winter bellow from the north,

Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth,

And Nature laughs again.

What if thine heaven be overcast,

The dark appearance will not last;

Expect a brighter sky.

The God that strings the silver bow

Awakes sometimes the muses too,

And lays his arrows by.

If hindrances obstruct thy way,

Thy magnanimity display,

And let thy strength be seen:

But O! if Fortune fill thy sail

With more than a propitious gale,

Take half thy canvas in.

A REFLECTION ON THE FOREGOING ODE.

And is this all? Can Reason do no more

Than bid me shun the deep, and dread the shore?

Sweet moralist! afloat on life's rough sea,

The Christian has an art unknown to thee:

He holds no parley with unmanly fears;

Where Duty bids he confidently steers,

Faces a thousand dangers at her call,

And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all.

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE XVI.

Otium Divos rogat in patenti.

Ease is the weary merchant's prayer,

Who ploughs by night the Ægean flood,

When neither moon nor stars appear,

Or faintly glimmer through the cloud.

For ease the Mede with quiver graced,

For ease the Thracian hero sighs,

Delightful ease all pant to taste,

A blessing which no treasure buys.

For neither gold can lull to rest,

Nor all a Consul's guard beat off

The tumults of a troubled breast,

The cares that haunt a gilded roof.

Happy the man whose table shows

A few clean ounces of old plate,

No fear intrudes on his repose,

No sordid wishes to be great.

Poor short-lived things, what plans we lay

Ah, why forsake our native home?

To distant climates speed away;

For self sticks close where'er we roam.

Care follows hard, and soon o'ertakes

The well-rigg'd ship, the warlike steed;

Her destined quarry ne'er forsakes--

Not the wind flies with half her speed.

From anxious fears of future ill

Guard well the cheerful, happy now;

Gild e'en your sorrows with a smile,

No blessing is unmix'd below.

Thy neighing steeds and lowing herds,

Thy numerous flocks around thee graze,

And the best purple Tyre affords

Thy robe magnificent displays.

On me indulgent Heaven bestow'd

A rural mansion, neat and small;

This lyre;--and as for yonder crowd,

The happiness to hate them all.

THE FIFTH SATIRE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

A HUMOROUS DESCRIPTION OF THE AUTHOR'S JOURNEY FROM ROME TO

BRUNDUSIUM.

'Twas a long journey lay before us,

When I and honest Heliodorus,

Who far in point of rhetoric

Surpasses every living Greek,

Each leaving our respective home,

Together sallied forth from Rome.

First at Aricia we alight,

And there refresh, and pass the night,

Our entertainment rather coarse

Than sumptuous, but I've met with worse.

Thence o'er the causeway soft and fair

To Appii Forum we repair.

But as this road is well supplied

(Temptation strong!) on either side

With inns commodious, snug, and warm,

We split the journey, and perform

In two days' time what's often done

By brisker travellers in one.

Here, rather choosing not to sup

Than with bad water mix my cup,

After a warm debate in spite

Of a provoking appetite,

I sturdily resolved at last

To balk it, and pronounce a fast,

And in a moody humour wait,

While my less dainty comrades bait.

Now o'er the spangled hemisphere

Diffused the starry train appear,

When there arose a desperate brawl;

The slaves and bargemen, one and all,

Rending their throats (have mercy on us!)

As if they were resolved to stun us.

"Steer the barge this way to the shore;

I tell you we'll admit no more;

Plague! will you never be content?"

Thus a whole hour at least is spent,

While they receive the several fares,

And kick the mule into his gears.

Happy, these difficulties past,

Could we have fallen asleep at last!

But, what with humming, croaking, biting,

Gnats, frogs, and all their plagues uniting,

These tuneful natives of the lake

Conspired to keep us broad awake.

Besides, to make the concert full,

Two maudlin wights, exceeding dull,

The bargeman and a passenger,

Each in his turn, essay'd an air

In honour of his absent fair.

At length the passenger, opprest

With wine, left off, and snored the rest.

The weary bargeman too gave o'er,

And, hearing his companion snore,

Seized the occasion, fix'd the barge,

Turn'd out his mule to graze at large,

And slept forgetful of his charge.

And now the sun o'er eastern hill

Discover'd that our barge stood still;

When one, whose anger vex'd him sore,

With malice fraught, leaps quick on shore;

Plucks up a stake, with many a thwack

Assails the mule and driver's back.

Then slowly moving on with pain,

At ten Feronia's stream we gain,

And in her pure and glassy wave

Our hands and faces gladly lave.

Climbing three miles, fair Anxur's height

We reach, with stony quarries white.

While here, as was agreed, we wait,

Till, charged with business of the state,

Mæcenas and Cocceius come,

The messengers of peace from Rome.

My eyes, by watery humours blear

And sore, I with black balsam smear.

At length they join us, and with them

Our worthy friend Fonteius came;

A man of such complete desert,

Antony loved him at his heart.

At Fundi we refused to bait,

And laugh'd at vain Aufidius' state,

A prætor now, a scribe before,

The purple-border'd robe he wore,

His slave the smoking censer bore.

Tired, at Muræna's we repose,

At Formia sup at Capito's.

With smiles the rising morn we greet,

At Sinuessa pleased to meet

With Plotius, Varius, and the bard

Whom Mantua first with wonder heard.

The world no purer spirits knows;

For none my heart more warmly glows.

O! what embraces we bestow'd,

And with what joy our breasts o'erflow'd!

Sure, while my sense is sound and clear,

Long as I live, I shall prefer

A gay, good-natured, easy friend

To every blessing Heaven can send.

At a small village, the next night,

Near the Vulturnus we alight;

Where, as employ'd on state affairs,

We were supplied by the purveyors,

Frankly at once, and without hire,

With food for man and horse, and fire.

Capua next day betimes we reach,

Where Virgil and myself, who each

Labour'd with different maladies,

His such a stomach, mine such eyes,

As would not bear strong exercise,

In drowsy mood to sleep resort;

Mæcenas to the tennis-court.

Next at Cocceius' farm we're treated,

Above the Caudian tavern seated;

His kind and hospitable board

With choice of wholesome food was stored.

Now, O ye Nine, inspire my lays!

To nobler themes my fancy raise!

Two combatants, who scorn to yield

The noisy, tongue-disputed field,

Sarmentus and Cicirrus, claim

A poet's tribute to their fame;

Cicirrus of true Oscian breed,

Sarmentus, who was never freed,

But ran away. We don't defame him;

His lady lives, and still may claim him.

Thus dignified, in harder fray

These champions their keen wit display,

And first Sarmentus led the way.

"Thy locks," quoth he, "so rough and coarse,

Look like the mane of some wild horse."

We laugh; Cicirrus undismay'd--

"Have at you!"--cries, and shakes his head.

"'Tis well," Sarmentus says, "you've lost

That horn your forehead once could boast;

Since, maim'd and mangled as you are,

You seem to butt." A hideous scar

Improved, 'tis true, with double grace

The native horrors of his face.

Well, after much jocosely said

Of his grim front, so fiery red,

(For carbuncles had blotch'd it o'er

As usual on Campania's shore,)

"Give us," he cried, "since you're so big,

A sample of the Cyclop's jig!

Your shanks methinks no buskins ask,

Nor does your phiz require a mask."

To this Cicirrus: "In return

Of you, sir, now I fain would learn,

When 'twas, no longer deem'd a slave,

Your chains you to the Lares gave?

For though a scrivener's right you claim,

Your lady's title is the same.

But what could make you run away,

Since, pigmy as you are, each day

A single pound of bread would quite

O'erpower your puny appetite?"

Thus joked the champions, while we laugh'd,

And many a cheerful bumper quaff'd.

To Beneventum next we steer;

Where our good host by over care

In roasting thrushes lean as mice

Had almost fallen a sacrifice.

The kitchen soon was all on fire,

And to the roof the flames aspire;

There might you see each man and master

Striving, amidst this sad disaster,

To save the supper. Then they came

With speed enough to quench the flame.

From hence we first at distance see

The Apulian hills, well known to me,

Parch'd by the sultry western blast;

And which we never should have past,

Had not Trivicius by the way

Received us at the close of day.

But each was forced at entering here

To pay the tribute of a tear,

For more of smoke than fire was seen--

The hearth was piled with logs so green.

From hence in chaises we were carried

Miles twenty-four, and gladly tarried

At a small town, whose name my verse

(So barbarous is it) can't rehearse.

Know it you may by many a sign,

Water is dearer far than wine;

There bread is deem'd such dainty fare,

That every prudent traveller

His wallet loads with many a crust;

For at Canusium you might just

As well attempt to gnaw a stone

As think to get a morsel down:

That too with scanty streams is fed;

Its founder was brave Diomed.

Good Varius (ah, that friends must part!)

Here left us all with aching heart.

At Rubi we arrived that day,

Well jaded by the length of way,

And sure poor mortals ne'er were wetter:

Next day no weather could be better;

No roads so bad; we scarce could crawl

Along to fishy Barium's wall.

The Egnatians next, who by the rules

Of common sense are knaves or fools,

Made all our sides with laughter heave,

Since we with them must needs believe

That incense in their temples burns,

And without fire to ashes turns.

To circumcision's bigots tell

Such tales! for me, I know full well

That in high heaven, unmoved by care,

The gods eternal quiet share:

Nor can I deem their spleen the cause,

While fickle Nature breaks her laws.

Brundusium last we reach: and there

Stop short the muse and traveller.

1759.

THE NINTH SATIRE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

DESCRIPTION OF AN IMPERTINENT. ADAPTED TO THE PRESENT TIMES, 1759.

Sauntering along the street one day,

On trifles musing by the way--

Up steps a free familiar wight,

(I scarcely knew the man by sight.)

"Carlos," he cried, "your hand, my dear;

Gad, I rejoice to meet you here!

Pray Heaven I see you well?" "So, so;

E'en well enough as times now go:

The same good wishes, sir, to you."

Finding he still pursued me close--

"Sir, you have business I suppose."

"My business, sir, is quickly done,

'Tis but to make my merit known.

Sir, I have read"--"O learned sir,

You and your learning I revere."

Then sweating with anxiety,

And sadly longing to get free,

Gods, how I scamper'd, scuffled for't,

Ran, halted, ran again, stopp'd short,

Beckon'd my boy, and pull'd him near,

And whisper'd nothing in his ear.

Teased with his loose unjointed chat--

"What street is this? What house is that?"

O Harlow, how I envied thee

Thy unabash'd effrontery,

Who darest a foe with freedom blame,

And call a coxcomb by his name!

When I return'd him answer none,

Obligingly the fool ran on,

"I see you're dismally distress'd,

Would give the world to be released.

But by your leave, Sir, I shall still

Stick to your skirts, do what you will.

Pray which way does your journey tend?"

"O, 'tis a tedious way, my friend;

Across the Thames, the Lord knows where,

I would not trouble you so far."

"Well, I'm at leisure to attend you."

"Are you?" thought I, "the Deil befriend you."

No ass with double panniers rack'd,

Oppress'd, o'erladen, broken-back'd,

E'er look'd a thousandth part so dull

As I, nor half so like a fool.

"Sir, I know little of myself,

(Proceeds the pert conceited elf)

If Gray or Mason you will deem

Than me more worthy your esteem.

Poems I write by folios

As fast as other men write prose;

Then I can sing so loud, so clear,

That Beard cannot with me compare.

In dancing too I all surpass,

Not Cooke can move with such a grace."

Here I made shift with much ado

To interpose a word or two.--

"Have you no parents, sir, no friends,

Whose welfare on your own depends?"

"Parents, relations, say you? No.

They're all disposed of long ago."--

"Happy to be no more perplex'd!

My fate too threatens, I go next.

Despatch me, sir, 'tis now too late,

Alas! to struggle with my fate!

Well, I'm convinced my time is come--

When young, a gipsy told my doom.

The beldame shook her palsied head,

As she perused my palm, and said:

"Of poison, pestilence, and war,

Gout, stone, defluxion, or catarrh,

You have no reason to beware.

Beware the coxcomb's idle prate;

Chiefly, my son, beware of that.

Be sure, when you behold him, fly

Out of all earshot, or you die."

To Rufus' Hall we now draw near

Where he was summoned to appear,

Refute the charge the plaintiff brought,

Or suffer judgment by default.

"For Heaven's sake, if you love me, wait

One moment! I'll be with you straight."

Glad of a plausible pretence--

"Sir, I must beg you to dispense

With my attendance in the court.

My legs will surely suffer for't."

"Nay, prithee, Carlos, stop awhile!"

"Faith, sir, in law I have no skill.

Besides, I have no time to spare,

I must be going you know where."

"Well, I protest I'm doubtful now

Whether to leave my suit or you!"

"Me without scruple!" I reply,

"Me by all means, sir!"--"No, not I.

Allons, Monsieur!" 'Twere vain, you know,

To strive with a victorious foe.

So I reluctantly obey,

And follow where he leads the way.

"You and Newcastle are so close,

Still hand and glove, sir--I suppose."

"Newcastle, let me tell you, sir,

Has not his equal every where."

"Well. There indeed your fortune's made:

Faith, sir, you understand your trade.

Would you but give me your good word:

Just introduce me to my lord,

I should serve charmingly by way

Of second fiddle, as they say:

What think you, sir? 'twere a good jest.

'Slife, we should quickly scout the rest."

"Sir, you mistake the matter far,

We have no second fiddles there--

Richer than I some folks may be;

More learned, but it hurts not me.

Friends though he has of different kind,

Each has his proper place assign'd."

"Strange matters these alleged by you!"

"Strange they may be, but they are true."

"Well then, I vow, 'tis mighty clever,

Now I long ten times more than ever

To be advanced extremely near

One of his shining character.

Have but the will--there wants no more,

'Tis plain enough you have the power.

His easy temper (that's the worst)

He knows, and is so shy at first."--

"But such a cavalier as you--

Lord, sir, you'll quickly bring him to!"

"Well; if I fail in my design,

Sir, it shall be no fault of mine.

If by the saucy servile tribe

Denied, what think you of a bribe?

Shut out to-day, not die with sorrow,

But try my luck again to-morrow;

Never attempt to visit him

But at the most convenient time;

Attend him on each levee day,

And there my humble duty pay--

Labour, like this, our want supplies;

And they must stoop who mean to rise."

While thus he wittingly harangued,

For which you'll guess I wish'd him hang'd,

Campley, a friend of mine, came by--

Who knew his humour more than I;

We stop, salute, and--"Why so fast,

Friend Carlos? Whither all this haste?"--

Fired at the thought of a reprieve,

I pinch him, pull him, twitch his sleeve,

Nod, beckon, bite my lips, wink, pout,

Do every thing but speak plain out:

While he, sad dog, from the beginning

Determined to mistake my meaning,

Instead of pitying my curse,

By jeering made it ten times worse.

"Campley, what secret (pray!) was that

You wanted to communicate?"

"I recollect. But 'tis no matter.

Carlos, we'll talk of that hereafter.

E'en let the secret rest. 'Twill tell

Another time, sir, just as well."

Was ever such a dismal day?

Unlucky cur, he steals away,

And leaves me, half bereft of life,

At mercy of the butcher's knife;

When sudden, shouting from afar,

See his antagonist appear!

The bailiff seized him quick as thought,

"Ho, Mr. Scoundrel! Are you caught?

Sir, you are witness to the arrest."

"Ay, marry, sir, I'll do my best."

The mob huzzas. Away they trudge,

Culprit and all, before the judge.

Meanwhile I luckily enough

(Thanks to Apollo) got clear off.

TRANSLATION OF AN EPIGRAM FROM HOMER.[922]

[922] No title is prefixed to this piece, but it appears to be a

translation of one of the Επιγραμματα of Homer called Ο Καμινος,

or The Furnace. Herodotus, or whoever was the author of the Life

of Homer ascribed to him, observes, "certain potters, while

they were busied in baking their ware, seeing Homer at a small

distance, and having heard much said of his wisdom, called to

him, and promised him a present of their commodity, and of such

other things as they could afford, if he would sing to them, when

he sang as follows."

Pay me my price, potters! and I will sing.

Attend, O Pallas! and with lifted arm

Protect their oven; let the cups and all

The sacred vessels blacken well, and, baked

With good success, yield them both fair renown

And profit, whether in the market sold

Or streets, and let no strife ensue between us.

But, oh ye potters! if with shameless front

Ye falsify your promise, then I leave

No mischief uninvoked to avenge the wrong.

Come, Syntrips, Smaragus, Sabactes, come,

And Asbetus, nor let your direst dread,

Omodamus, delay! Fire seize your house,

May neither house nor vestibule escape,

May ye lament to see confusion mar

And mingle the whole labour of your hands,

And may a sound fill all your oven, such

As of a horse grinding his provender,

While all your pots and flagons bounce within.

Come hither, also, daughter of the sun,

Circe the sorceress, and with thy drugs

Poison themselves, and all that they have made!

Come, also, Chiron, with thy numerous troop

Of centaurs, as well those who died beneath

The club of Hercules, as who escaped,

And stamp their crockery to dust; down fall

Their chimney; let them see it with their eyes,

And howl to see the ruin of their art,

While I rejoice; and if a potter stoop

To peep into his furnace, may the fire

Flash in his face and scorch it, that all men

Observe, thenceforth, equity and good faith.

Oct. 1790.

COWPER'S LATIN POEMS.

MONTES GLACIALES, IN OCEANO GERMANICO NATANTES.

En, quæ prodigia, ex oris allata remotis,

Oras adveniunt pavefacta per æquora nostras!

Non equidem priscæ sæclum rediisse videtur

Pyrrhæ, cum Proteus pecus altos visere montes

Et sylvas, egit. Sed tempora vix leviora

Adsunt, evulsi quando radicitus alti

In mare descendunt montes, fluctusque pererrant.

Quid vero hoc monstri est magis et mirabile visu?

Splendentes video, ceu pulchro ex ære vel auro

Conflatos, rutilisque accinctos undique gemmis,

Baccâ cærulea, et flammas imitante pyropo.

Ex oriente adsunt, ubi gazas optima tellus

Parturit omnigenas, quibus æva per omnia sumptu

Ingenti finxere sibi diademata reges?

Vix hoc crediderim. Non fallunt talia acutos

Mercatorum oculos: prius et quam littora Gangis

Liquissent, avidis gratissima præda fuissent.

Ortos unde putemus? An illos Ves'vius atrox

Protulit, ignivomisve ejecit faucibus Ætna?

Luce micant propria, Phoebive, per aëra purum

Nunc stimulantis equos, argentea tela retorquent?

Phoebi luce micant. Ventis et fluctibus altis

Appulsi, et rapidis subter currentibus undis,

Tandem non fallunt oculos. Capita alta videre est

Multa onerata nive et canis conspersa pruinis.

Cætera sunt glacies. Procul hinc, ubi Bruma fere omnes

Contristat menses, portenta hæc horrida nobis

Illa strui voluit. Quoties de culmine summo

Clivorum fluerent in littora prona, solutæ

Sole, nives, propero tendentes in mare cursu,

Illa gelu fixit. Paulatim attollere sese

Mirum coepit opus; glacieque ab origine rerum

In glaciem aggesta sublimes vertice tandem

Æquavit montes, non crescere nescia moles.

Sic immensa diu stetit, æternumque stetisset

Congeries, hominum neque vi neque mobilis arte,

Littora ni tandem declivia deseruisset,

Pondere victa suo. Dilabitur. Omnia circum

Antra et saxa gemunt, subito concussa fragore,

Dum ruit in pelagum, tanquam studiosa natandi,

Ingens tota strues. Sic Delos dicitur olim,

Insula, in Ægæo fluitasse erratica ponto.

Sed non ex glacie Delos; neque torpida Delum

Bruma inter rupes genuit nudum sterilemque.

Sed vestita herbis erat illa, ornataque nunquam

Decidua lauro; et Delum dilexit Apollo.

At vos, errones horrendi, et caligine digni

Cimmeria, Deus idem odit. Natalia vestra,

Nubibus involvens frontem, non ille tueri

Sustinuit. Patrium vos ergo requirite coelum!

Ite! Redite! Timete moras; ni leniter austro

Spirante, et nitidas Phoebo jaculante sagittas

Hostili vobis, pereatis gurgite misti!

March 11, 1799.

ON THE ICE ISLANDS SEEN FLOATING IN THE GERMAN OCEAN.

What portents, from what distant region, ride,

Unseen till now in ours, the astonish'd tide?

In ages past, old Proteus, with his droves

Of sea-calves, sought the mountains and the groves.

But now, descending whence of late they stood,

Themselves the mountains seem to rove the flood.

Dire times were they, full charged with human woes;

And these, scarce less calamitous than those.

What view we now? More wondrous still! Behold!

Like burnish'd brass they shine, or beaten gold;

And all around the pearl's pure splendour show,

And all around the ruby's fiery glow.

Come they from India, where the burning earth,

All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth;

And where the costly gems, that beam around

The brows of mightiest potentates, are found?

No. Never such a countless dazzling store

Had left unseen the Ganges' peopled shore.

Rapacious hands, and ever watchful eyes,

Should sooner far have mark'd and seized the prize.

Whence sprang they then? Ejected have they come

From Vesuvius', or from Ætna's burning womb?

Thus shine they self-illumed, or but display

The borrow'd splendours of a cloudless day?

With borrow'd beams they shine. The gales that breathe

Now landward, and the current's force beneath,

Have borne them nearer: and the nearer sight,

Advantaged more, contemplates them aright.

Their lofty summits crested high they show,

With mingled sleet, and long-incumbent snow.

The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe,

Bleak winter well nigh saddens all the year,

Their infant growth began. He bade arise

Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes.

Oft as dissolved by transient suns, the snow

Left the tall cliff, to join the flood below;

He caught, and curdled with a freezing blast

The current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste.

By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile,

And long successive ages roll'd the while;

Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim'd to stand,

Tall as its rival mountains on the land.

Thus stood, and, unremovable by skill

Or force of man, had stood the structure still,

But that, though firmly fix'd, supplanted yet

By pressure of its own enormous weight,

It left the shelving beach--and, with a sound

That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around,

Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave,

As if instinct with strong desire to lave,

Down went the ponderous mass. So bards of old

How Delos swam the Ægean deep have told.

But not of ice was Delos. Delos bore

Herb, fruit, and flower. She, crown'd with laurel, wore,

E'en under wintry skies, a summer smile;

And Delos was Apollo's favourite isle.

But, horrid wanderers of the deep, to you

He deems Cimmerian darkness only due.

Your hated birth he deign'd not to survey,

But, scornful, turn'd his glorious eyes away.

Hence, seek your home, nor longer rashly dare

The darts of Phoebus and a softer air;

Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast,

In no congenial gulf for ever lost!

March 19, 1799.

MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION TO WILLIAM NORTHCOT.

Hic sepultus est

Inter suorum lacrymas

GULIELMUS NORTHCOT,

GULIELMI et MARIÆ filius

Unicus, unice dilectus,

Qui floris ritu succisus est semihiantis,

Aprilis die septimo,

1780. Æt. 10.

Care, vale! Sed non æternum, care, valeto!

Namque iterum tecum, sim modo dignus, ero.

Tum nihil amplexus poterit divellere nostros,

Nec tu marcesces, nec lacrymabor ego.

TRANSLATION.

Farewell! "But not for ever," Hope replies,

Trace but his steps and meet him in the skies!

There nothing shall renew our parting pain,

Thou shalt not wither, nor I weep again.

IN SEDITIONEM HORRENDAM,

CORRUPTELIS GALLICIS, UT FERTUR, LONDINI NUPER EXORTAM.

Perfida, crudelis, victa et lymphata furore,

Non armis, laurum Gallia fraude petit.

Venalem pretio plebem conducit, et urit

Undique privatas patriciasque domos.

Nequicquam conata sua, foedissima sperat

Posse tamen nostra nos superare manu.

Gallia, vana struis! Precibus nunc utere! Vinces,

Nam mites timidis, supplicibusque sumus.

TRANSLATION.

False, cruel, disappointed, stung to the heart,

France quits the warrior's for the assassin's part,

To dirty hands a dirty bribe conveys,

Bids the low street and lofty palace blaze.

Her sons too weak to vanquish us alone,

She hires the worst and basest of our own.

Kneel, France! a suppliant conquers us with ease,

We always spare a coward on his knees.

MOTTO ON A CLOCK.

WITH A TRANSLATION BY HAYLEY.

Quæ lenta accedit, quam velox præterit hora!

Ut capias, patiens esto, sed esto vigil!

Slow comes the hour; its passing speed how great!

Waiting to seize it--vigilantly wait!

A SIMILE LATINIZED.

Sors adversa gerit stimulum, sed tendit et alas:

Pungit api similis, sed velut ista fugit.

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED.

_To the March in Scipio._

Toll for the brave!

The brave that are no more

All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave,

Whose courage well was tried,

Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds,

And she was overset;

Down went the Royal George,

With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;

His last sea-fight is fought;

His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;

No tempest gave the shock;

She sprang no fatal leak;

She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath;

His fingers held the pen,

When Kempenfelt went down

With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes!

And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again,

Full charged with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the wave no more.

Sept. 1782.

IN SUBMERSIONEM NAVIGII, CUI GEORGIUS REGALE NOMEN INDITUM.

Plangimus fortes. Periêre fortes,

Patrium propter periêre littus

Bis quatèr centum; subitò sub alto

Æquore mersi.

Navis, innitens lateri, jacebat,

Malus ad summas trepidabat undas,

Cùm levis, funes quatiens, ad imum

Depulit aura.

Plangimus fortes. Nimis, heu, caducam

Fortibus vitam voluêre parcæ,

Nec sinunt ultrà tibi nos recentes

Nectere laurus,

Magne, qui nomen, licèt incanorum,

Traditum ex multis atavis tulisti!

At tuos olim memorabit ævum

Omne triumphos.

Non hyems illos furibunda mersit,

Non mari in clauso scopuli latentes,

Fissa non rimis abies, nec atrox

Abstulit ensis.

Navitæ sed turn nimium jocosi

Voce fallebant hilari laborem,

Et quiescebat, calamoque dextram im-

pleverat heros.

Vos, quibus cordi est grave opus piumque,

Humidum ex alto spolium levate,

Et putrescentes sub aquis amicos

Reddite amicis!

Hi quidem (sic dîs placuit) fuêre:

Sed ratis, nondum putris, ire possit

Rursus in bellum, Britonumque nomen

Tollere ad astra.

IN BREVITATEM VITÆ SPATII HOMINIBUS CONCESSI.

BY DR. JORTIN.

Hei mihi! lege ratâ sol occidit atque resurgit,

Lunaque mutatæ reparat dispendia formæ,

Astraque, purpurei telis extincta diei,

Rursus nocte vigent. Humiles telluris alumni.

Graminis herba virens, et florum picta propago,

Quos crudelis hyems lethali tabe peredit,

Cum Zephyri vox blanda vocat, rediitque sereni

Temperies anni, foecundo è cespite surgunt.

Nos domini rerum, nos, magna et pulchra minati,

Cum breve ver vitæ robustaque transiit ætas,

Deficimus; nec nos ordo revolubilis auras

Reddit in æthereas, tumuli neque claustra resolvit.

ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE.

TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGOING.

Suns that set, and moons that wane,

Rise and are restored again;

Stars, that orient day subdues,

Night at her return renews.

Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birth

Of the genial womb of earth,

Suffer but a transient death

From the winter's cruel breath.

Zephyr speaks; serener skies

Warm the glebe, and they arise.

We, alas! earth's haughty kings,

We, that promise mighty things,

Losing soon life's happy prime,

Droop, and fade, in little time.

Spring returns, but not our bloom;

Still 'tis winter in the tomb.

Jan. 1784.

THE LILY AND THE ROSE.

The nymph must lose her female friend,

If more admired than she--

But where will fierce contention end,

If flowers can disagree?

Within the garden's peaceful scene

Appear'd two lovely foes,

Aspiring to the rank of queen,

The Lily and the Rose.

The Rose soon redden'd into rage,

And, swelling with disdain,

Appeal'd to many a poet's page

To prove her right to reign.

The Lily's height bespoke command,

A fair imperial flower;

She seem'd design'd for Flora's hand

The sceptre of her power.

This civil bickering and debate

The goddess chanced to hear,

And flew to save, ere yet too late

The pride of the parterre.

Yours is, she said, the nobler hue,

And yours the statelier mien;

And, till a third surpasses you,

Let each be deem'd a queen.

Thus soothed and reconciled, each seeks

The fairest British fair;

The seat of empire is her cheeks,

They reign united there.

IDEM LATINE REDDITUM.

Heu inimicitias quoties parit æmula forma,

Quam raro pulchræ pulchra placere potest!

Sed fines ultra solitos discordia tendit,

Cum flores ipsos bilis et ira movent.

Hortus ubi dulces præbet tacitosque recessus,

Se rapit in partes gens animosa duas;

Hic sibi regales Amaryllis candida cultus,

Illic purpureo vindicat ore Rosa.

Ira Rosam et meritis quæsita superbia tangunt,

Multaque ferventi vix cohibenda sinu,

Dum sibi fautorum ciet undique nomina vatum,

Jusque suum, multo carmine fulta, probat.

Altior emicat illa, et celso vertice nutat,

Ceu flores inter non habitura parem,

Fastiditque alios, et nata videtur in usus

Imperii, sceptrum, Flora quod ipsa gerat.

Nec Dea non sensit civilis murmura rixæ,

Cui curæ est pictas pandere ruris opes.

Deliciasque suas nunquam non prompta tueri,

Dum licet et locus est, ut tueatur, adest.

Et tibi forma datur procerior omnibus, inquit,

Et tibi, principibus qui solet esse, color,

Et donec vincat quædam formosior ambas,

Et tibi reginæ nomen, et esto tibi.

His ubi sedatus furor est, petit utraque nympham,

Qualem inter Veneres Anglia sola parit;

Hanc penes imperium est, nihil optant amplius, hujus

Regnant in nitidis, et sine lite, genis.

THE POPLAR FIELD.

The poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade,

And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;

The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,

Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years had elapsed since I last took a view

Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew;

And now in the grass behold they are laid,

And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat,

Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,

And the scene where his melody charm'd me before

Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,

And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,

With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,

Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

'Tis a sight to engage me, if any thing can,

To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;

Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see,

Have a being less durable even than he.[923]

[923] Cowper afterwards altered this last stanza in the following

manner:--

The change both my heart and my fancy employs,

I reflect on the frailty of man, and his joys;

Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see,

Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.

IDEM LATINE REDDITUM.

Populeæ cecidit gratissima copia silvæ,

Conticuêre susurri, omnisque evanuit umbra.

Nullæ jam levibus se miscent frondibus auræ,

Et nulla in fluvio ramorum ludit imago.

Hei mihi! bis senos dum luctu torqueor annos,

His cogor silvis suetoque carere recessu,

Cum serò rediens, stratasque in gramine cernens,

Insedi arboribus, sub queîs errare solebam.

Ah ubi nunc merulæ cantus? Felicior illum

Silva tegit, duræ nondum permissa bipenni;

Scilicet exustos colles camposque patentes

Odit, et indignans et non rediturus abivit.

Sed qui succisas doleo succidar et ipse,

Et priùs huic parilis, quàm creverit altera silva,

Flebor, et, exequiis parvis donatus, habebo

Defixum lapidem tumulique cubantis acervum.

Tam subitò periisse videns tam digna manere,

Agnosco humanas sortes et tristia fata--

Sit licèt ipse brevis, voluerique simillimus umbræ!

Est homini brevior citiùsque obitura voluptas.

VOTUM.

O matutini rores, auræque salubres,

O nemora, et lætæ rivis felicibus herbæ,

Graminei colles, et amoenæ in vallibus umbræ!

Fata modò dederint quas olim in rure paterno

Delicias, procul arte, procul formidine novi,

Quam vellem ignotus, quod mens mea semper avebat,

Ante larem proprium placidam expectare senectam.

Tum demùm, exactis non infeliciter annis,

Sortiri tacitum lapidem, aut sub cespite condi!

TRANSLATION OF PRIOR'S CHLOE AND EUPHELIA.

Mercator, vigiles oculos ut fallere possit,

Nomine sub ficto trans mare mittit opes;

Lenè sonat liquidumque meis Euphelia chordis,

Sed solam exoptant te, mea vota, Chlöe.

Ad speculum ornabat nitidos Euphelia crines,

Cum dixit, mea lux, heus, cane, sume lyram.

Namque lyram juxtà positam cum carmine vidit,

Suave quidem carmen dulcisonamque lyram.

Fila lyræ vocemque paro, suspiria surgunt,

Et miscent numeris murmura moesta meis,

Dumque tuæ memoro laudes, Euphelia, formæ,

Tota anima intereà pendet ab ore Chlöes.

Subrubet illa pudore, et contrahit altera frontem,

Me torquet mea mens conscia, psallo, tremo;

Atque Cupidineâ dixit Dea cincta coronâ,

Heu! fallendi artem quam didicere parum.

VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF DR. LLOYD.

SPOKEN AT THE WESTMINSTER ELECTION NEXT AFTER HIS DECEASE.

Our good old friend is gone; gone to his rest,

Whose social converse was itself a feast.

O ye of riper years, who recollect

How once ye loved, and eyed him with respect,

Both in the firmness of his better day,

While yet he ruled you with a father's sway,

And when, impair'd by time, and glad to rest,

Yet still with looks in mild complacence drest,

He took his annual seat, and mingled here

His sprightly vein with yours--now drop a tear!

In morals blameless, as in manners meek,

He knew no wish that he might blush to speak,

But, happy in whatever state below,

And richer than the rich in being so,

Obtain'd the hearts of all, and such a meed

At length from one[924] as made him rich indeed.

Hence then, ye titles, hence, not wanted here!

Go! garnish merit in a higher sphere,

The brows of those, whose more exalted lot

He could congratulate, but envied not!

Light lie the turf, good senior, on thy breast;

And tranquil, as thy mind was, be thy rest.

Though, living, thou hadst more desert than fame,

And not a stone now chronicles thy name!

[924] He was usher and under-master of Westminster near fifty years,

and retired from his occupation when he was near seventy, with a

handsome pension from the king.

Abiit senex. Periit senex amabilis,

Quo non fuit jucundior.

Lugete vos, ætas quibus maturior

Senem colendum præstitit;

Seu quando, viribus valentioribus

Firmoque fretus pectore,

Florentiori vos juventute excolens

Curâ fovebat patriâ;

Seu quando, fractus, jamque donatus rude

Vultu sed usque blandulo,

Miscere gaudebat suas facetias

His annuis leporibus.

Vixit probus, purâque simplex indole,

Blandisque comis moribus,

Et dives æquâ mente, charus omnibus,

Unius auctus munere.

Ite, tituli! Meritis beatioribus

Aptate laudes debitas!

Nec invidebat ille, si quibus favens

Fortuna plus arriserat.

Placide senex, levi quiescas cespite,

Etsi superbum nec vivo tibi

Decus sit inditum, nec mortuo

Lapis notatus nomine!

As Cowper's Version of Homer is not included in this Edition of his

Works, it seems necessary to assign the reasons which have led to

the omission.

Distinguished as this Version unquestionably is, beyond any

preceding attempt, for its fidelity and close adherence to the

Grecian Bard, as well as for other excellences which have already

been specified, it has still failed in securing an adequate

reception from the British public. In the religious portion of the

community it is well known that a very general sentiment of regret

exists that the author of the Task, whose muse was capable of such

high moral flights, should have consumed so many years in this

laborious enterprise. Under these circumstances, its re-publication

here, appeared to be undesirable, especially as it would have added

_one-third to the cost_ of the present Edition, and as editions of

Cowper's Homer are already before the public, and accessible to all

who attach an interest to this portion of the Poet's Works.

THREE PAPERS, BY COWPER,

INSERTED IN THE CONNOISSEUR.

"During Cowper's visit to Eartham, he kindly pointed out to me,"

Hayley observes, "three of his papers in the last volume of the

'Connoisseur.'--I inscribed them with his name at the time; and

imagine that the readers of his Life may be gratified in seeing

them inserted here. I find other numbers of that work ascribed to

him, but the three following I print as his, on his own explicit

authority. Number 119, Thursday, May 6, 1756--Number 134, Thursday,

August 19,--Number 138, Thursday, Sept. 16."

No. CXIX.

Plenus rimarum sum, huc et illuc perfluo.

TER.

Leaky at bottom; if those chinks you stop,

In vain--the secret will run o'er at top.

There is no mark of our confidence taken more kindly by a friend

than the entrusting him with a secret, nor any which he is so likely

to abuse. Confidants in general are like crazy firelocks, which

are no sooner charged and cocked than the spring gives way, and

the report immediately follows. Happy to have been thought worthy

the confidence of one friend, they are impatient to manifest their

importance to another; till, between them and their friend and their

friend's friend, the whole matter is presently known _to all our

friends round the Wrekin_. The secret catches as it were by contact,

and like electrical matter breaks forth from every link in the

chain, almost at the same instant. Thus the whole Exchange may be

thrown into a buzz to-morrow, by what was whispered in the middle

of Marlborough Downs this morning; and in a week's time the streets

may ring with the intrigue of a woman of fashion, bellowed out from

the foul mouths of the hawkers, though at present it is known to no

creature living but her gallant and her waiting maid.

As the talent of secresy is of so great importance to society,

and the necessary commerce between individuals cannot be securely

carried on without it, that this deplorable weakness should be so

general is much to be lamented. You may as well pour water into a

funnel or sieve, and expect it to be retained there, as commit any

of your concerns to so slippery a companion. It is remarkable that,

in those men who have thus lost the faculty of retention, the desire

of being communicative is always most prevalent where it is least

justified. If they are entrusted with a matter of no great moment,

affairs of more consequence will perhaps in a few hours shuffle it

entirely out of their thoughts; but if any thing be delivered to

them with an earnestness, a low voice, and the gesture of a man

in terror for the consequence of its being known; if the door is

bolted, and every precaution taken to prevent surprise, however they

may promise secresy, and however they may intend it, the weight upon

their minds will be so extremely oppressive, that it will certainly

put their tongues in motion.

This breach of trust, so universal amongst us, is perhaps, in great

measure owing to our education. The first lesson our little masters

and misses are taught is to become blabs and tell-tales: they are

bribed to divulge the petty intrigues of the family below stairs

to papa and mamma in the parlour, and a doll or hobby-horse is

generally the encouragement of a propensity, which could scarcely

be atoned for by a whipping. As soon as children can lisp out the

little intelligence they have picked up in the hall or the kitchen,

they are admired for their wit; if the butler has been caught

kissing the housekeeper in his pantry, or the footman detected in

romping with the chamber-maid, away flies little Tommy or Betsy with

the news; the parents are lost in admiration of the pretty rogue's

understanding, and reward such uncommon ingenuity with a kiss or a

sugar-plum.

Nor does an inclination to secresy meet with less encouragement at

school. The gouvernantes at the boarding-school teach miss to be a

good girl, and tell them every thing she knows: thus, if any young

lady is unfortunately discovered eating a green apple in a corner:

if she is heard to pronounce a naughty word, or is caught picking

the letters out of another miss's sampler; away runs the chit

who is so happy as to get the start of the rest, screams out her

information as she goes; and the prudent matron chucks her under the

chin, and tells her that she is a good girl and every body will love

her.

The management of our young gentlemen is equally absurd; in most of

our schools, if a lad is discovered in a scrape, the impeachment

of an accomplice, as at the Old Bailey, is made the condition of a

pardon. I remember a boy, engaged in robbing an orchard, who was

unfortunately taken prisoner in an apple-tree, and conducted, under

the strong guard of the farmer and his dairy-maid to the master's

house. Upon his absolute refusal to discover his associates, the

pedagogue undertook to lash him out of his fidelity; but, finding it

impossible to scourge the secret out of him, he at last gave him up

for an obstinate villain, and sent him to his father, who told him

he was ruined, and was going to disinherit him for not betraying his

school-fellows.

I must own I am not fond of thus drubbing our youths into treachery;

and am much pleased with the request of Ulysses, when he went

to Troy, who begged of those who were to have the care of young

Telemachus, that they would above all things teach him to be just,

sincere, faithful, and to keep a secret.

Every man's experience must have furnished him with instances of

confidants who are not to be relied on, and friends who are not to

be trusted; but few perhaps have thought it a character so well

worth their attention, as to have marked out the different degrees

into which it may be divided, and the different methods by which

secrets are communicated.

Ned Trusty is a tell-tale of a very singular kind. Having some

sense of his duty, he hesitates a little at the breach of it. If he

engages never to utter a syllable, he most punctually performs his

promise; but then he has the knack of insinuating by a nod, and a

shrug well-timed, or a seasonable leer, as much as others can convey

in express terms. It is difficult, in short, to determine whether

he is more to be admired for his resolution in not mentioning, or

his ingenuity in disclosing, a secret. He is also excellent at a

doubtful phrase, as Hamlet calls it, or ambiguous giving out, and

his conversation consists chiefly of such broken inuendoes as--"well

I know--or I could--and if I would--or, if I list to speak--or there

be, and if there might," &c.

Here he generally stops; and leaves it to his hearers to draw proper

inferences from these piecemeal premises. With due encouragement

however he may be prevailed on to slip the padlock from his lips,

and immediately overwhelms you with a torrent of secret history,

which rushes forth with more violence for having been so long

confined.

Poor Meanwell, though he never fails to transgress, is rather to be

pitied than condemned. To trust him with a secret is to spoil his

appetite, to break his rest, and to deprive him for a time of every

earthly enjoyment. Like a man who travels with his whole fortune in

his pocket, he is terrified if you approach him, and immediately

suspects that you come with a felonious intention to rob him of his

charge. If he ventures abroad, it is to walk in some unfrequented

place, where he is least in danger of an attack. At home, he shuts

himself up from his family, paces to and fro his chamber, and has no

relief but from muttering over to himself what he longs to publish

to the world; and would gladly submit to the office of town-crier,

for the liberty of proclaiming it in the market-place. At length,

however, weary of his burden, and resolved to bear it no longer, he

consigns it to the custody of the first friend he meets, and returns

to his wife with a cheerful aspect, and wonderfully altered for the

better.

Careless is perhaps equally undesigning, though not equally

excusable. Entrust him with an affair of the utmost importance, on

the concealment of which your fortune and happiness depend, he hears

you with a kind of half attention, whistles a favourite air, and

accompanies it with the drumming of his fingers upon the table. As

soon as your narration is ended, or perhaps in the middle of it, he

asks your opinion of his swordknot--condemns his tailor for having

dressed him in a snuff-coloured coat instead of a pompadour, and

leaves you in haste to attend an auction, where, as if he meant

to dispose of his intelligence to the best bidder, he divulges it

with a voice as loud as an auctioneer's; and, when you tax him with

having played you false, he is heartily sorry for it, but never knew

that it was to be a secret.

To these I might add the character of the open and unreserved, who

thinks it a breach of friendship to conceal any thing from his

intimates; and the impertinent, who, having by dint of observation

made himself master of your secret, imagines he may lawfully publish

the knowledge it cost him so much labour to obtain, and considers

that privilege as the reward due to his industry. But I shall leave

these, with many other characters which my reader's own experience

may suggest to him, and conclude with prescribing, as a short remedy

for this evil, that no man may betray the counsel of his friend--let

every man keep his own.

No. CXXXIV.

Delicta majorum immeritus lues,

Romane, donec templa refeceris

Ædesque labentes Deorum, et

Foeda nigro simulacra fumo.--HOR.

The tott'ring tow'r and mould'ring wall repair,

And fill with decency the house of pray'r;

Quick to the needy curate bring relief,

And deck the parish-church without a brief.

MR. VILLAGE TO MR. TOWN.

Dear Cousin,--The country at present, no less than the metropolis,

abounding with politicians of every kind, I begin to despair of

picking up any intelligence that might possibly be entertaining

to your readers. However, I have lately visited some of the most

distant parts of the kingdom with a clergyman of my acquaintance:

I shall not trouble you with an account of the improvements that

have been made in the seats we saw, according to the modern taste,

but proceed to give you some reflections which occurred to us in

observing several country churches, and the behaviour of their

congregations.

The ruinous condition of some of these edifices gave me great

offence; and I could not help wishing that the honest vicar,

instead of indulging his genius for improvements, by enclosing

his gooseberry-bushes with a Chinese rail, and converting half an

acre of his glebe land into a bowling-green, would have applied

part of his income to the more laudable purpose of sheltering his

parishioners from the weather during their attendance on divine

service. It is no uncommon thing to see the parsonage-house well

thatched, and in exceeding good repair, while the church, perhaps,

has scarce any other roof than the ivy that grows over it. The noise

of owls, bats, and magpies, makes the principal part of the church

music in many of these ancient edifices; and the walls, like a large

map, seem to be portioned out into capes, seas, and promontories, by

the various colours by which the damps have stained them. Sometimes,

the foundation being too weak to support the steeple any longer, it

has been found expedient to pull down that part of the building, and

to hang the bells under a wooden shed on the ground beside it. This

is the case in a parish in Norfolk, through which I lately passed,

and where the clerk and the sexton, like the two figures of St.

Dunstan's, serve the bells in the capacity of clappers, by striking

them alternately with a hammer.

In other churches, I have observed that nothing unseemly or ruinous

is to be found, except in the clergyman, and the appendages of

his person. The 'squire of the parish, or his ancestors, perhaps

to testify their devotion and leave a lasting monument of their

magnificence, have adorned the altar-piece with the richest crimson

velvet, embroidered with vine-leaves and ears of wheat; and have

dressed up the pulpit with the same splendour and expense; while the

gentleman who fills it, is exalted in the midst of all this finery,

with a surplice as dirty as a farmer's frock, and a periwig that

seems to have transferred its faculty of curling to the band which

appears in full buckle beneath it.

But if I was concerned to see several distressed pastors, as well

as many of our country churches in a tottering condition, I was

more offended with the indecency of worship in others. I could wish

that the clergy would inform their congregations, that there is no

occasion to scream themselves hoarse in making their responses; that

the town-crier is not the only person qualified to pray with true

devotion; and that he who bawls the loudest, may nevertheless be

the wickedest fellow in the parish. The old women too in the aisle

might be told, that their time would be better employed in attending

to the sermon, than in fumbling over their tattered Testaments

till they have found the text; by which time the discourse is near

drawing to a conclusion: while a word or two of instruction might

not be thrown away upon the younger part of the congregation, to

teach them that making posies in summer-time, and cracking nuts in

autumn, is no part of the religious ceremony.

The good old practice of psalm-singing is indeed wonderfully

improved in many country churches, since the days of Sternhold

and Hopkins; and there is scarce a parish clerk who has so little

taste as not to pick his staves out of the new version. This has

occasioned great complaints in some places, where the clerk has been

forced to bawl by himself, because the rest of the congregation

cannot find the psalm at the end of their prayer books; while others

are highly disgusted at the innovation, and stick as obstinately to

the old version as to the old style.

The tunes themselves have also been new set to jiggish measures, and

the sober drawl, which used to accompany the two first staves of the

hundredth psalm, with the 'Gloria Patri,' is now split into as many

quavers as an Italian air. For this purpose there is in every county

an itinerant band of vocal musicians, who make it their business to

go round to all the churches in their turns, and, after a prelude

with a pitch-pipe, astonish the audience with hymns set to the new

Winchester measure, and anthems of their own composing.

As these new-fashioned psalmodists are necessarily made up of young

men and maids, we may naturally suppose that there is a perfect

concord and symphony between them; and, indeed, I have known it

happen, that these sweet singers have more than once been brought

into disgrace by too close a unison between the thorough-base and

the treble.

It is a difficult matter to decide which is looked upon as the

greatest man in a country church, the parson or his clerk. The

latter is most certainly held in the higher veneration, where the

former happens to be only a poor curate, who rides post every

sabbath from village to village, and mounts and dismounts at the

church door. The clerk's office is not only to tag the prayers

with an amen, or usher in the sermon with a stave, but he is also

the universal father to give away the brides, and the standing

god-father to all the new-born bantlings. But in many places there

is still a greater man belonging to the church than either the

parson or the clerk himself. The person I mean is the 'squire;

who, like the king, may be styled the head of the church in his

own parish. If the benefice be in his own gift, the vicar is his

creature, and of consequence entirely at his devotion: or, if the

care of the church be left to a curate, the Sunday fees, roast beef

and plum-pudding, and the liberty to shoot in the manor, will bring

him as much under the 'squire's command as his dogs and horses.

For this reason the bell is often kept tolling, and the people

waiting in the churchyard an hour longer than the usual time; nor

must the service begin till the 'squire has strutted up the aisle

and seated himself in the great pew in the chancel. The length of

the sermon is also measured by the will of the 'squire, as formerly

by the hourglass, and I know one parish where the preacher has

always the complaisance to conclude his discourse, however abruptly,

the minute that the 'squire gives the signal by rising up after his

nap.

In a village church, the 'squire's lady, or the vicar's wife, are

perhaps the only females that are stared at for their finery; but in

the large cities and towns, where the newest fashions are brought

down weekly by the stage-coach or wagon, all the wives and daughters

of the most topping tradesmen vie with each other every Sunday in

the elegance of their apparel. I could even trace their gradations

in their dress according to the opulence, the extent, and the

distance of the place from London. I was at a church in a populous

city in the north, where the mace-bearer cleared the way for Mrs.

Mayoress, who came sideling after him in an enormous fan-hoop,

of a pattern which had never been seen before in those parts. At

another church in a corporation town, I saw several _Négligées_ with

furbelowed aprons, which had long disputed the prize of superiority;

but these were most wofully eclipsed by a burgess's daughter just

come from London, who appeared in a _Trollope_ or _Slammerkin_ with

treble ruffles to the cuffs, pinked and gimped, and the sides of

the petticoat drawn up in festoons. In some lesser borough towns,

the contest I found lay between three or four black and green

bibs and aprons; at one, a grocer's wife attracted our eyes by a

new-fashioned cap called a _Joan_, and at another, they were wholly

taken up by a mercer's daughter in a nun's hood.

I need not say any thing of the behaviour of the congregation in

these more polite places of religious resort; as the same genteel

ceremonies are practised there as at the most fashionable churches

in town. The ladies, immediately on their entrance, breathe a pious

ejaculation through their fan-sticks, and the beaux very gravely

address themselves to the haberdashers' bills, glewed upon the

lining of their hats. This pious duty is no sooner performed, than

the exercise of bowing and courtseying succeeds: the locking and

unlocking of the pews drowns the reader's voice at the beginning

of the service; and the rustling of silks, added to the whispering

and tittering of so much good company, renders him totally

unintelligible to the very end of it.

I am, dear cousin, yours, &c.

No. CXXXVIII.

Servatâ semper lege et ratione loquendi.--JUV.

Your talk to decency and reason suit,

Nor prate like fools, or gabble like a brute!

In the comedy of "The Frenchman in London," which, we are told, was

acted at Paris with universal applause for several nights together,

there is a character of a rough Englishman, who is represented as

quite unskilled in the graces of conversation, and his dialogue

consists almost entirely of a repetition of the common salutation

of--"How do you do?--How do you do?" Our nation has, indeed,

been generally supposed to be of a sullen and uncommunicative

disposition; while, on the other hand, the loquacious French have

been allowed to possess the art of conversing beyond all other

people. The Englishman requires to be wound up frequently, and stops

very soon; but the Frenchman runs on in a continued alarum. Yet it

must be acknowledged, that, as the English consist of very different

humours, their manner of discourse admits of great variety; but

the whole French nation converse alike, and there is no difference

in their address between a marquis and a valet-de-chambre. We may

frequently see a couple of French barbers accosting each other in

the street, and paying their compliments with the same volubility

of speech, the same grimace and action, as two courtiers in the

Tuileries.

I shall not attempt to lay down any particular rules for

conversation, but rather point out such faults in discourse and

behaviour as render the company of half mankind rather tedious than

amusing. It is in vain, indeed, to look for conversation, where we

might expect to find it in the greatest perfection, among persons of

fashion; there it is almost annihilated by universal card-playing;

insomuch that I have heard it given as a reason why it is impossible

for our present writers to succeed in the dialogue of genteel

comedy, that our people of quality scarce ever meet but to game. All

their discourse turns upon the odd trick and the four honours, and

it is no less a maxim with the votaries of whist than with those of

Bacchus, that talking spoils company.

Every one endeavours to make himself as agreeable to society as he

can; but it often happens, that those who most aim at shining in

conversation overshoot their mark. Though a man succeeds, he should

not (as is frequently the case) engross the whole talk to himself;

for that destroys the very essence of conversation, which is talking

together. We should try to keep up conversation like a ball bandied

to and fro from one to another, rather than seize it ourselves, and

drive it before us like a football. We should likewise be cautious

to adapt the matter of our discourse to our company, and not talk

Greek before ladies, or of the last new furbelow to a meeting of

country justices.

But nothing throws a more ridiculous air over our conversations

than certain peculiarities, easily acquired, but very difficultly

conquered and discarded. In order to display these absurdities in

a truer light, it is my present purpose to enumerate such of them

as are most commonly to be met with; and first to take notice of

those buffoons in society, the attitudinarians and face-makers.

These accompany every word with a peculiar grimace or gesture; they

assent with a shrug, and contradict with a twisting of the neck; are

angry with a wry mouth, and pleased in a caper or a minuet step.

They may be considered as speaking harlequins, and their rules

of eloquence are taken from the posture-master. These should be

condemned to converse only in dumb show with their own person in the

looking-glass; as well as the smirkers and smilers, who so prettily

set off their faces, together with their words, by a je-ne-sçai-quoi

between a grin and a dimple. With these we may likewise rank the

affected tribe of mimics, who are constantly taking off the peculiar

tone of voice or gesture of their acquaintance; though they are such

wretched imitators, that (like bad painters) they are frequently

forced to write the name under the picture, before we can discover

any likeness.

Next to these, whose elocution is absorbed in action, and who

converse chiefly with their arms and legs, we may consider the

professed speakers. And first, the emphatical; who squeeze, and

press, and ram down every syllable with excessive vehemence and

energy. These orators are remarkable for their distinct elocution

and force of expression; they dwell on the important particles _of_

and _the_, and the significant conjunctive _and_, which they seem to

hawk up with much difficulty out of their own throats, and to cram

them with no less pain into the ears of their auditors.

These should be suffered only to syringe, as it were, the ears

of a deaf man, through a hearing-trumpet; though I must confess,

that I am equally offended with whisperers or low speakers, who

seem to fancy all their acquaintance deaf, and come up so close

to you, that they may be said to measure noses with you, and

frequently overcome you with the exhalations of a powerful breath.

I would have these oracular gentry obliged to talk at a distance

through a speaking-trumpet, or apply their lips to the walls of

a whispering-gallery. The wits who will not condescend to utter

any thing but a bon-mot, and the whistlers or tune-hummers, who

never articulate at all, may be joined very agreeably together in

concert; and to these tinkling cymbals I would also add the sounding

brass--the bawler, who inquires after your health with the bellowing

of a town-crier.

The tattlers, whose pliable pipes are admirably adapted to the "soft

parts of conversation," and sweetly "prattling out of fashion,"

make very pretty music from a beautiful face and a female tongue;

but from a rough manly voice and coarse features, mere nonsense is

as harsh and dissonant as a jig from a hurdy-gurdy. The swearers

I have spoken of in a former paper; but the half-swearers, who

split, and mince, and fritter their oaths into _Gad's but_, _ad's

fish_, and _demme_, the Gothic humbuggers, and those who "nick-name

God's creatures," and call a man a cabbage, a crab, a queer cub,

an odd fish, and an unaccountable _muskin_, should never come into

company without an interpreter. But I will not tire my reader's

patience by pointing out all the pests of conversation; nor dwell

particularly on the sensibles, who pronounce dogmatically on the

most trivial points, and speak in sentences;--the wonderers, who are

always wondering what o'clock it is, or wondering whether it will

rain or no, or wondering when the moon changes; the phraseologists,

who explain a thing by _all that_, or enter into particulars with

_this_, _that_, and _t'other_; and lastly, the silent men, who

seem afraid of opening their mouths lest they should catch cold,

and literally observe the precept of the gospel, by letting their

conversation be only yea, yea, and nay, nay.

The rational intercourse kept up by conversation is one of our

principal distinctions from brutes. We should, therefore, endeavour

to turn this peculiar talent to our advantage, and consider the

organs of speech as the instruments of understanding. We should be

very careful not to use them as the weapons of vice, or tools of

folly, and do our utmost to unlearn any trivial or ridiculous habits

which tend to lessen the value of such an inestimable prerogative.

It is indeed imagined by some philosophers, that even birds and

beasts (though without the power of articulation) perfectly

understand one another by the sounds they utter; and that dogs and

cats, &c., have each a particular language to themselves, like

different nations. Thus it may be supposed that the nightingales of

Italy have as fine an ear for their own native wood notes, as any

signor or signora for an Italian air; that the boars of Westphalia

gruntle as expressively through the nose as the inhabitants in

High German; and that the frogs in the dykes of Holland croak as

intelligibly as the natives jabber their Low Dutch. However this may

be, we may consider those whose tongues hardly seem to be under

the influence of reason, and do not keep up the proper conversation

of human creatures, as imitating the language of different animals:

thus, for instance, the affinity between chatterers and monkeys, and

praters and parrots, is too obvious not to occur at once: grunters

and growlers may be justly compared to hogs; snarlers are curs;

and the _spitfire passionate_ are a sort of wild cats, that will

not bear stroking, but will pur when they are pleased. Complainers

are screech-owls; and story-tellers, always repeating the same

dull note, are cuckoos. Poets that prick up their ears at their

own hideous braying are no better than asses; critics in general

are venomous serpents that delight in hissing; and some of them,

who have got by heart a few technical terms, without knowing their

meaning, are no other than magpies. I myself, who have crowed to the

whole town for near three years past, may perhaps put my readers in

mind of a dunghill cock; but as I must acquaint them that they will

hear the last of me on this day fortnight, I hope they will then

consider me as a swan, who is supposed to sing sweetly in his dying

moments.

73, CHEAPSIDE, LONDON,

JANUARY, 1847.

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Transcriber's note:

Page 90: TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.[110] The footnote marker was

added by the transcriber.

Minor typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected

without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have

been retained as printed.

Mismatched quotes are not fixed if it's not sufficiently clear where

the missing quote should be placed.

The cover for the eBook version of this book was created by the

transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Works of William Cowper, by William Cowper