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What soldier would consent to fight,
What tar be to the bottom hurl'd,
What poet sing—what scholar write,
Were Folly banish'd from the world?
Tell me whom most this goddess rules,
Is it the patients or physicians?
Whom shall we call the greatest fools,
The people or the politicians?
With charms in opera, ball, or play,
Did Folly not the scene attend,
How poor the rich, how sad the gay,
Were Folly not their truest friend;
How ever should we hope to find,

Pleased with itself each happy creature,
If all were wise and none were blind,
And Folly never succour'd nature.
For once be wise, ye grave one's hear,
Why need I more my theme pursue,
If all alike such fools appear,

Let me with smiles be pardon'd too;
Wisdom you love-and so do I—
Am no derider-no despiser,
But I of fools the grave ones fly,

And think the merry fools the wiser.

EPIGRAM ON A DOMESTIC ARRANGEMENT.

From Travelling Recreations,

BY W. PARSONS.

OHN calls his wife his better half,
His place so oft is fill'd by Ralph,
But half of her he has, 'tis true;
The house and carriage John supplies,
Ralph nothing pays for which the wise
Think John's the worst half of the two!

EPIGRAM

ON A PURSE-PROUD INSOLENT MAN, WHO HAD MADE

A LARGE FORTUNE IN THE EAST INDIES.

POMP

COMPOSO still boasts of his lacks of rupees :
When he swaggers with airs of importance, 'tis fit,

Other lacks be allowed him in union with these,
Vast lacks of good-breeding, discernment and wit!

ON

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ON THE ORIGIN OF EVIL

From the Same.

EAR Seward! ever since this earth
And all its strange contents had birth,
Philosophers have tried their skill
To trace the origin of ill,

And tell why Vice and Woe prevail,
Till trite their subject is, and stale.

For this, the learn'd of diff'rent nations
Surprize us with such odd narrations,
For this, the Grecian sage unlocks
The mischiefs of Pandora's box,
While Typhon fills th' Egyptian strain,
And Runic bards of Lok complain.

But I, whate'er may be their boast,
Applaud the Syrian system most,
By which the first man-and his wife,
In the fourth heav'n began their life,
And there amid those blissful plains,
No vices knew, and felt no pains.

In these sad times a modern sinner,
Without some trouble gets no dinner.
He first, alas! must buy his meat,
Nor then, without a cook, can eat.
But cares like these ne'er broke their quiet,
Ambrosia was their constant diet,

Pure food, which needs no human aid,

Nor e'er unseemly ordure made,
But through the skin, as sages say,
In od'rous dews exhales away!

So pass'd their days, in full delight,
Till some gross viand met their sight,
As Jews and Christians both believe
An apple first corrupted Eve:
Too curious, then, and gluttons grown,
Sudden they siez'd-and gulp'd it down.
Scarce had they gratified their sense
Ere came the dreadful consequence:
Sharp pangs, unfelt before, they tell ye,
Usurp'd the region of the belly,
While the strange food, in durance pent,
Roar'd loud and struggled for a vent.

*The Apostle Paul mentions the third heaven; but how the Syrians disco

vered a fourth the author is not informed,

Vex'd with complaints so dire, so new,
What then could our first parents do?
For dar'd they with pollution vile,
The bright empyreal seats defile?

At length some angel saw their grief,
And, pitying, brought the wish'd relief.
Said he "To yon small planet run,
Which crab-like sidles round the sun,
That is than all the rest much worse,
The jakes of this vast universe!"

Here, then, they came-but now polluted,
This place their alter'd nature suited;

So here remained the foolish elves,

And soon got children-like themselves *.

These verses will be understood as intended to ridicule profound inquiries o subjects above human comprehension, and also to convey a moral lesson for man pride.

Account

Account of Books for 1806.

Memoirs of Richard Cumberland, written by Himself, containing an Account of his Life and Writings, interspersed with Anecdotes and Characters of several of the most distinguished Persons of his Time, with whom he had Intercourse and Connexion.

IOGRAPIIY affords, perhaps, the most universal delight of any species of literary composition; and if it be true that "the proper study of mankind is man," there is nothing which can more effectually advance this study than the delineation of character, the actual portrait of human nature, which are presented to us by the true and impartia! history of men, celebrated for their talents or their virtues, their useful labours or their splendid achievements.

Two things only are wanting to complete the purpose of biography; that its portraits should be drawn from interesting characters, and that they should be sketched with a correct and faithful pencil. In general, the lives of literary men are thought to be devoid of that interest which is supposed pre-eminently to belong to the active characters of the great world, to those who have conquer ed in the field, or negociated for the fate of kingdoms in the cabinet.

If the reader looks only for not of adventure, for hair bi 'scapes" and "imminent dar, he must not seek them in stea of authors; but if he is de of acquainting himself with the y gress of the human mind, steps by which it advances to provement, of its nascent eser and its cultivated powers, the will trace successfully in the graphy of men of letters. have moved in an extensive c their history may be interspers with anecdotes of their conten ries, and their lives are no single portraits of the mind of man, but groupings of various racters, to display the mea manners of their age and coa And this is never better dose 54 when the authors have delive their own characters.

In all history, in all biograp the grand requisite is truth, from the nature of human affairs, is, unfortunately, too seldom to found. Science can only be proved by experiment, by in tion from facts and conclass founded upon known truths or disputed axioms. History can c be useful from the actual ko ledge which it affords of past currences; and biography, in manner, for the true exhibition

the modes and motives of human their lives. To whatever cause we conduct.

But how little of this have we reason to expect in the best histories that are extant?

Gazettes and chronicles record the battles, the state negociations, the public events of every country; and who reigned and who succeeded; who fought and who was beaten; who proposed terms of peace, and who made cession of territory, may accurately be known. But descend into particulars, inquire into motives, search deeply into causes, apply events to the only purposes for which we could wish them to be recorded, and all is obscurity and error. Fiction is substituted for truth, and imagination is made to supply the place of judgment. We no longer reason from what we know, but from what we conjecture, and from what we are told by those who sometimes conjecture and sometimes deceive. Histories, therefore are, in general, little better than historical romances, a species of composition which is, perhaps unintentionally, the best satire upon the fanciful narratives and unfounded deductions of the professed writers of that which is, with little jus. tice, called true history and real biography. We have, however, upon some occasions, faithful memoirs of statesmen, which are invaluable, as they develope the secret histories of courts, and lay open the intricacies of public affairs.

We have also had writers, who, conscious of their own importance, or to gratify the curiosity of their cotemporaries, have published their own histories, and laid open, or pretended to lay open, the secret thoughts and private transactions of VOL. XLVIII.

owe them, whether to the workings of vanity, or the consciousness of utility, we must peruse them with the satisfaction that by their means we are advanced so much the nearer to the sources of truth. We no longer take facts from second hand narration; we place the penitent in his confessional, or the witness in the box from which he is to give his testimony, and we may safely put. that reliance upon his statements, to which, from his character, and the manner of his narrative he is entitled.

We need say nothing more to recommend the life of a celebrated author, by himself, as a subject of much curiosity. The present memoir was undertaken towards the end of a long career of laborious employment as a dramatic writer, a moral essayist, a poet on moral and reli. gious subjects, a writer of many suc cessful novels. It is not written to gratify idle curiosity, or to satisfy absurd vanity; but at the suggestion of the booksellers, who offered him 500l. for the work. It is the means of contributing to the comfortable sustenance of an aged man of letters, who has served his country as an author of much celebrity, as a faithful servant in some official situations, and as an honest but unsuccessful negociator, upon one occasion of particular importance.

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In the last instance, he was, we think, most cruelly treated by his employers, and perhaps there are many who read his life that will feel with us, that the man who has devoted his literary talents to fame and to the world, and who has injured his fortune to serve his country, ought not to remain without a pension, and to be found at the 3 Z

age

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