are in the power of the like accidents; and the fniall-pox has occafioned many a poor lady the lofs of her beauty and her Lover at the fame time.

But after all thefe fpurious Enamb ratos, there are fome few, whofe paffion is fincere and well-founded. True, genuine Love, is always built upon esteem: not that I would mean, that a man can reafon and argue himself into Love; but that a conftant intercourfe with an amiable woman will lead him into a contemplation of her excellent qualities, which will infenfibly win his heart, before he is himself aware of it, and beget all those hopes, fears, and other extravagancies, which are the natural attendants on a true paffion. Love has been described ten thousand times: but that I may be fure that the little picture I would draw of it is taken from nature, I will conclude this paper with the ftory of honeft Will Eafy and his amiable wife. Will Eafy and Mifs

- became very early acquainted; and, from being familiarly intimate with the whole family, Will might be almost faid to live there. He dined and fupped with them perpetually in town, and spent great part of the fummer with them at their feat in the country. Will and the lady were both univerfally allowed to have sense, and their frequent converfations together gave them undoubted proofs of the goodness of each other's difpofition. They delighted in the company, and admired the perfec

tions, of each other, and gave a thoufand little indications of a growing paffion, not unoblerved by others, even while it was yet unknown and unfufpected by themselves. However, after fome time, Will, by mutual agreement, demanded the lady of her father in marriage. But, alas! the courfe of true Love never yet run fmooth :* the ill-judged ambition of a parent induced the father, out of mere love to his daughter, to refuse her hand to the only man in the world with whom the could live happily, becaufe he imagined that he might, in the Smithfield phrase, do better for her. But Love, grounded on just principles, is not cafily fhaken; and, as it appeared that their mutual paffion had taken too deep root ever to be extirpated, the father at laft, reluctantly, half confented to their union. They enjoy a genteel competency; and Will, by his integrity and abilities, is an honour to a learned profeffion, and a bleffing to his wife; whofe greatest praife is, that her virtues deferve fuch an husband. She is pleafed with having left drofs to dutcheffes;' he confiders her happiness as his main intereft; and their example every day gives fresh conviction to the father, that where two perfons of ftrong fenfe and good hearts conceive a reciprocal affection for each other, their paffion is genuine and lafting, and their union is perhaps the trueft state of happiness under the fun.

N

OTHING has given me a more fenfible pleafure, in the courfe of this undertaking, than the having been occafionally honoured with the corre fpondence of feveral ingenious gentlemen of both our Univerfities. My paper of to day gives me unufual fatisfaction on this account; and I cannot help looking on it with a great deal of pleafure, as a fort of a little Cambridge Mifcellany. The reader will fee it is com

posed of two poems, which I have lately received from a correfpondent in that learned Univerfity. Thefe little pieces, unless my regard for the writer makes me partial to them, contain many beau ties, and are written with that elegant peculiarity of file and manner, which plainly fpeak them to come from the fame hand, that has already obliged the public with fome other pieces of poetry published in this paper.

ΤΟ

TO MR. TOWN.

TRIN. COLL. CAN. JUN. 6.

OUR Effay on the Abuse of Words was very well received here; but more especially that part of it which contained the modern definition of the word Rained. You must know, Sir, that in the language of our old Dons, every young man is ruined, who is not an arrant Tycho Brahe, or Erra Pater. Yet it is remarkable, that, though the fervants of the Mufes meet with more than ordinary difcouragement at this place, Cambridge has produced many celebrated poets; witnels Spenfer, Milton, Cowley, Dryden, &c, not to men. tion fome admired writers of the prefent times. I myself, Sir, am grievously fufpected of being better acquainted with Homer and Virgil than Euclid or Saunderfon; and am univerfally agreed to be ruined, for having concerned myself with Hexameter and Pentameter more than Diameter. The equity of this decifion I fhall not difpute; but content mylelf at prefent with fubmitting to the public, by means of your paper, a few lines on the import of another favourite ward, occafioned by the Effay abovementioned.

But fearing that fo fhort a piece will not be fufficient to eke out a whole paper, I have fubjoined to it another little poem, not originally defigned for the public view, but written as a familiar epiltle to a friend. The whole is nothing more than the natural refult of many letters and converfations that had pared between us on the prefent ftate of poetry in thefe kingdoms; in which I flattered myfelf, that I was justifiable in my remarks on the barrennefs of in-. vention in most modern compofitions, as well as in regard to the cause of it.. We are now, indeed, all become fuch exact Critics, that there are fcarce any tolerable Poets: what I mean by exact critics is, that we are grown, (I speak in general) by the help of Addifon and Pope, better judges of compofition than heretofore. We get an early knowledge of what chafte writing is; and even school-boys are checked in the luxiancy of their genius, and not fuffered to run riot in their imaginations. I muft own I cannot help looking on it as a bad omen to poetry, that there is now2 days fearce any fuch thing to be met

Το

with as fuftian and bombaft: for our authors, dreading the vice of incorrectnefs above all others, grow ridiculously precife and affected. In short, however paradoxical it may feem, we have now, in my opinion, too correct a tatte, It is to no purpose for such prudent sober wooers, as our modern bards, to knock at the door of the Mules. They, as well as the mortal ladies, love to be attacked brifkly. Should we take a review even of Chaucer's poetry, the most inattentive reader, in the very thickest of old Geoffrey's woods, would find the light fometimes pierce through and break in upon him like lightning; and a man must have no foul in him, who does not admire the fancy, the strength, and elegance of Spenfer, even through that difagreeable habit which the fashion of the times obliged him to wear, conclude, there is this material difference between the former and present age of Poetry; that the writers in the fit thought poetically; in the laft, they only express themselves fo. Modern poets feem to me more to study the manner how they shall write, than what is to be written. The minute accuracy of their productions; the bells of their rhimes, fo well matched, making most melodious tinkle; and all the mechanism of poetry fo exactly finished, (together with a total deficiency of fpirit, which fhould be the leaven of the whole) put me in mind of a piece of furniture, generally found in the ftudies of the learued— In an odd angle of the room,' a mahogany cafe, elegantly carved and fashioned on the outfide, the fpecious covering of a-chamber pot. I am, Sir, your humble fervant,

R. L.

THE TYR AND THE PEDLAR.

A FABLE.

WORDS are, fo Wollafton defines,
Of our ideas merely Gigns,
Which have a pow'r at will to vary,
As being vague and arbitrary.
Now demn'd, for inftance-All agree
Damn'd's the fuperlative Degree;
Means that alone, and nothing more,
However taken heretofore.
Damn'd is a word can't stand alone,
Which has no meaning of it's own;
But fignifies or bad or good,
Juft as it's neighbour's understood.

Examples

Examples we may find enough;

Fancy's a flight we deal no more in,

damn d stuff.

So fares it too with it's relation,
I mean it's fubftantive, damnation.
The wit with metaphor makes bold,
And tells you he's damnation cold:
Perhaps, that metaphor forgot,
The felf-fame wit's damnation hot.

And here a fable I remember-
Once in the middle of December,
When every mead in fnow is loft,
And ev'ry river bound with froft;
When families get all together,
And feelingly talk o'er the weather;
When-pox of the defcriptive rhime-
In short, it was the winter time.
It was a Pedlar's happy lot
To fall into a Satyr's cot:
Shiv'ring with cold, and dimoft froze,
With pearly drop upon his nofe,
His fingers ends all pinch'd to death,
He blew upon them with his breath.
Friend, quoth the Satyr, what intends
That blowing on thy fingers' ends ?'-
It is to warm them thus 1 blow,
For they are froze as cold as fnow;
And fo inclement has it been,
I'm like a cake of ice within.'-
Coine,' quoth the Satyr, comfort, man!
I'll chear thy infide, if I can;
You're welcome, in my homely cottage,
To a warm fire and mefs of pottage.'

This faid, the Satyr, nothing loth,
A bowl prepar'd of fav'ry broth;
Which with delight the Pedlar view'd,
As fmoaking on the board it stood.
But, though the very fteam arofe
With grateful odour to his nose,
One fingle fip he ventur'd not,
The gruel was fo wondrous hot.
What can be done?-with gentle puff
He blows it, till 'tis cold enough.

Why, how now, Pedlar, what's the
• matter?

Still at thy blowing?' quoth the Satyr.
I blow to cool it,' cries the clown,
That I may get the liquor down;
For, though I grant you've made it well,
You've boil'd it, Sir, as hot as hell.'

Then raising high his cloven ftump, The Satyr fmote him on the rump. Begone, thou double knave, or fool; • With the fame breath to warm and cool! Friendship with fuch I never held, "Who're fa damu'd hot, and fo damn'd cold."

ETISTLE TO A FRIEND.

AGAIN I urge my old objection,

That Modern Rules obftruct perfection, And the feverity of Tafle

Has laid the walk of Genius walle,

And all the brave imagination
Is dwindled into declamation.

But ill you cry, in fober sadness,
There is difcretion e'en in madness."
A pithy fentence, but wants credit,
Because, I find, a Poet faid it:
Their verdict makes but small impresfion,
Who are known itars by profeffion.
Rife what exalted flights it will,
True Genius will be Genius fill;
And fay, that horfe would you prefer,
Which wants a bridle, or a fpur?
The mettled fteed may lofe his tricks;
The jade grows callous to your kicks.

Had Shakespeare crept by Modern Rules,
We'd loft his witches, fairies, fools;
Inftead of all that wild creation,
He'd form'd a regular plantation,
Or garden trim and all inclos'd,
In niceft fymmetry difpos'd,
The hedges cut in proper order,
Nor e'en a branch beyond its border.
Now like a forest he appears,

The growth of twice three hundred years;
Where many a tree afpiring throuds
It's aëry fummit in the clouds,
Wheie round it's root ftill loves to twine
The ivy and wild eglantine.

But Shakespeare's all-creative faney,
Made others love extravagancy;
While cloud-cap: Nonfenfe was their aim,
Like Hulothrumbo's mad Lord Flame.'
True. Who can stop dull imitators,
Those younger-brothers of translators,
Thofe infects, which from Genius rife,
And buz about, in fwarms, like flies?
Fashion, that fets the modes of dress,
Sheds too her influence o'er the prefs:
As formerly the fons of rhime
Sought Shakespeare's fancy and fublime,
By cool correctness now they hope
To emulate the praise of Pope.
But Pope and Shakespeare both difclaim
Thefe low retainers to their fame.

What talk can Dulness e'er effect So ealy, as to write correct? Poets, 't's faid, are fure to split By too much or too little wit So, to avoid th' extremes of either, They miss their mark, and follow neither: They fo exactly poife the fcale, That neither menfure will prevail; And Mediocrity, the Mufe Did never in her fons excufe. 'Tis true, their tawdry works are grac'd With all the charms of modern Taßi, And ev'ry fenfeless line is dreft In quaint Expreflion's tinfel veft. Say, did you never chance to meet A Monfieur Barter in the fireet,

Whee