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books, written by the ancients, as the moderns; but the art of printing being unknown, and consequently the multiplication and preservation of books being attended with great trouble and expense, such as were of little intrinsick value, were not transcribed, copies of them were not increased, and they consequently soon perished by the depredations of time."

Since books are so excessively multiplied, it is our duty to destroy useless, unnecessary, and pernicious productions, as the ancient Grecians exposed their most puny and imbecile offspring to perish. Therefore the office of a reviewer is, in the republick of letters, as beneficial and necessary, though as odious and unpleasant, as that of an executioner in the civil state. They are the porters at the gates of the temple of Fame, and should be as blind and inexorable as Justice, which, “in its punishments, rather seems to submit to a necessity, than to make a choice."

Authors who, by plausible professions and false pretensions, defraud the publick of money, dissipate valuable time, and insidiously rifle them of their good principles, are enemies of their kind, and merit the thong of chastisement and the knout of criticism; and he that undertakes the task of analyzing their works, displaying their beauties, and exposing their wicked arts, confers a favour on the publick. Harmless and obscure writers, in their prefaces frequently supplicate the candour of readers, by observing that their hasty productions will not injure, if they do not benefit mankind. But voluntary trifling with the publick is criminal; and lenity to the former is cruelty to the latter. In estimating the merit or demerit of literary productions, the motives and circumstances of the author con

stitute no justification; they must be considered abstractedly, for the republick of letters is not a state of moral probation. Bloomfield, Phillis Wheatly, and many others in humble life, have attracted some attention by their writings, not because they are excellent, but because they are extraordinary; as Dr. Johnson, observed that dogs, by art and labour taught to dance, are noticed, not because they dance with ease and grace, but because they dance at all. Sound intellect and real erudition ought to exempt from the lash of severe criticism those who intrude their works on the publick; for in the literary commonwealth there is no hospital for the reception of mendicant vagabonds, no Bedlam for insanity and frenzy, no Magdalen for impunity and defilement, and no Lazaretto for lame and hobbling authors. Therefore a large portion of the multitude of publications are at their birth ripe for extinction; and may be sentenced, as Clarence in his troubled dream fancied he was addressed by an angry spirit, "Seize him, Furies, take him to your torments.”

CELIBACY.

MATRIMONY is rarely contracted but by chance. Hence partners, widely differing in qualities of mind, fortune, and situation in life, frequently form a jarring and discordant union. Many who attempt to obey the precept "almis adjungere vites," at length discover that it is not the vine which they have wedded to the elm, but the deadly ivy,which destroys whatever it embraces. "Ut hedera serpens vires arboreas necar.”

Some Benedicks, who by chance have crept along to thirty without forming a domestick alliance, determine to take vengeance on tardy Fortune, and bravely forswear

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At times, alas! not in his perfect mind! Holds dialogues with his lov'd brother's ghost.

It is a remarkable fact, that many of the brightest luminaries of literature have spent their lives in cold and cheerless celibacy, Pope, Goldsmith, Locke, Pitt, Voltaire, Erasmus, and many others, were bachelors. Swift was merely a Platonist in love. Dr. Johnson was indeed married; but during the life of his " dear Tetty" he seems not to have been very warmly attached to her; his affection was rather posthumous. The most exquisite literary productions have been the effects of exertions to relieve their authors from distressing poverty, want, and necessity. The mind rarely makes great efforts, but to satisfy the cravings of the body. Wives are not among the necessaries of life; therefore they chose not to become bound to encounter the eares of the domestick state, and to exchange the tranquillity of midnight meditation for the bitterness of curtain lectures. They esteemed it less expensive and more delightful, to be wedded to the nine Muses, than to one mortal wife of flesh and blood. For, if they could write verses with the

* Memnonis saxea effigies, ubi radiis solis icta est, vocalem sonum reddens.--Tacit.Annal. 2.61.

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Ancient authors frequently use several successive words, commencing with the same letter; whether by chance or design is uncertain. They never manifest such an affectation and ambition for alliteration as many of the mod. erns have displayed. Tacitus, in describing the manners of the Ger man women, observes, "Prima pars pectoris fatet."

MOTHERS.

THE education and discipline of the minds of children are more in the power of the mother, than of the father. The former has, or ought to have, her young children constantly under her eye, and can rouse their curiosity, cherish their mild and benevolent affections, and instruct their minds. Cowley, Cumberland, and Sir William Jones, when they had become eminent and distinguished, confess. ed that their best powers were strengthened, and their finest feelings cherished by maternal care, vigilance, and anxiety. The biographer of Agricola, in relating the discipline of his early years, respecting Julia Porcilla, his mother," in hujus sinu indulgentiaque educatus, per omnem hones tarum artium cultum pueritiam adolescentiamque transegit."

To the Author of the Silva, Num

ber 11.

In looking over the Anthology for the last year I observed in the Silva for January, that some gentleman has discovered so great a resemblance in the story of Parnell's Hermit to that of the Hermit in the 18th chapter of Voltaire's Zadig, as to induce him to suppose (and not unreasonably) that one of these two writers must in this instance have borrowed from the other. In fact, he has given to one of them a title, which both might have deserved; for one, I believe, has not been more guilty of plagiarism, than the other. The story is much more ancient, than either of these writers; perhaps indeed its first author may have existed earlier than the author to whom I have seen it attributed. In a letter of the once popular, and indeed celebrated Howel to the marquis of Hartford, he speaks of what he styles "an excellent passage, which a noble, speculative knight (Sir P. Herbert) hath in his late conceptions to his son; how a holy anchorite being in a wilderness, among other contemplations he fell to admire the method of Providence, how out of causes, which seem bad to us, he produceth oftentimes good effects; how he suffers virtuous, loyal, and relig. jous men to be oppressed, and others to prosper." The old hermit, transported with these ideas, meets with a goodly young man," and travels with him for a few days. The young man, in Sir P. Herbert's story, throws a person into the river, whom they meet with on a narrow bridge, strangles the only child of the gentleman who receives them with the most cour

teous hospitality; steals a silver goblet from their generous host, gives it to the avaricious wretch

that treats them with sullen incivility. The fifth day they meet a merchant at the close of the evening, as they approach a town; and on his asking them the way to a town," the young man puts him in a clear contrary way." The merchant was loaded with money, and by the "misguiding" of the young man escaped both robbery and assassination.-Howel's letters were first published in 1645, and some of them were written as early as 1618.

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ORIGINAL POETRY.

For the Anthology.

WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF. ARTHUR M. WALTER, ESQ.

Ostendunt terris hunc tantum fata, neque ultra

Esse sinunt. Nimium vobis Romana propago
Visa potens, superi, propria hæc si dona fuissent.Virg.
Vereor ne negligentius vivam.Cic.

IF from the aching bosom of a friend,

Which recent wounds still bleeding sorrows rend,
Might strains of artful melody resound,

And faithfully define his woe profound;

O Walter, I would dwell upon thy name,

My soul should oft thy hymned memorial frame.
Yet, though the fulness of my burdened heart
Strains most unequal to thy worth impart,

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Thou knowest my claim to lead the sorrowing throng,
Though skill nor genius aid my humble song:
The friendly love, thou living didst not spurn,
May pour the lay, though artless, o'er thy urn.

O memory, then, one healing pause dispense,
A needful respite from my pains intense;
And my peculiar sorrows so beguile,
As e'en my friendship were forgot the while :
But draw around me all the shadowy train
Of arts and virtues, that his death complain;
Calmly their several griefs let me relate,
With tearless eye each sad bereavement state.

Science, 'tis thine to mourn thy favourite dead:-
With sable hangings be thy temple spread;
And in the cypress grove's most dim retreat,
That bounds thy Academe, thy votaries meet.
Who now among thy wandering sons shall stand,
Thy sacred laurel in his gifted hand,

And bid them hope, the faithless world again

Shall love thy rites, and crowd thy honoured fane ?-
And bid them rear thy altar, and believe,

Thy worship shall degenerate man retrieve?
Whilst they, as erst from out the mystick shrine
'Mid Delphick shades, shall hear thy voice divine.

Oh, he was nurst to love thee and revere !
And thou didst smile his youthful vows to hear:
As if, like him, the wisest of our race,
Heaven moved to ask each highest gift of grace,
Thy love had bade him, by thy altar's side,
Claim each best boon, nor fear to be denied.

He knew, that science did from heaven descend,
And therefore judged, that she was virtue's friend;
Nor doubted, so his moral creed had charged,
The soul grows better, as the mind's enlarged.

Struck with her charms, that bade his heart disclaim Each mean attachment, each ignoble aim,

From the loud throng, that sordid passions sway,
In early life he took his separate way,

To trace her out beside her fountain springs,
And there commune concerning highest things.
Thus, while her power and glories he surveyed,
Each varied excellence his mind essayed:
Hence in her cause his zeal continual burned,
And hence each low inglorious toil he spurned,
To spread her soft dominion o'er mankind,
The worthy bias of his godlike mind.

How fitted was he for the high employ,
Witness in early youth his ardent joy,

When called to trace the steep and lengthened maze,
That leads where truth her purest light displays.

How promptly to the intercourse refined

Of each famed sage, that has adorned mankind,
Ancient or modern, were his steps impelled,

As with congenial inspiration filled.

Well pleased the patriarch's heaven-taught ways t' explore,
Nor less informed in evangeliek lore;

Each sacred maxim while his life pursued,

That source sublime his eloquence imbued.
Tully, at once the orator and sage,

Could he forego thy all instructive page?
Or while the human heart's unfathomed ways,
Its wiles untold can int'rest of amaze,
Could, Tacitus, thy angry genius fail

To guide him through each gloomy-faithful tale?
Nor less the flowings of the Grecian lyre
Tempered with Attick sweets his Roman fire.
Ah, but for minds like his, how wrapt in dust
Each virtue of the ancient wise and just!
How lost those annals, that were meant to raise
From errors' depths e'en these abandon'd days!

Was it, that, frequent in communion high
With souls of men long past into the sky,
His more ethereal parts, that still aspired
Panting to follow, where those friends retired,

At length gained power to burst their bands of clay,

And prematurely sought the realms of day?

Sure on that hour my earthly eyes were dimmed,

Struck with the rays from opening heaven that streamed;
Or I had seen, as near thy couch I stood,

The track of light thy fellow spirits trod.
Say, oh my heart, if near the scene allowed,
Where calm beneath him sunk the roseate cloud,
Had angels stopt their harps, that he might hear
Ere quite translated, what had been thy prayer?
Oh, thou wouldst ne'er, in sight of bliss divine,
Him thou so lovedst to mortal scenes confine
E'en though he fail to tell his earthly friends,
He left them not, till sure of vast amends ;
Until permitted by the Almighty will
To hover o'er and be their guardian still.

Next, oh my country, in the weeping train
Thy genius mourns along the darkened plain.

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