Imatges de pÓgina

molt be near the truth. The latitude of the same place would be ascertained by the celestial observations essential to the measurement, and would verify our determination taken from the observed culmination of zenith stars. Lastly, the height of Geneva above the level of the Mediterranean Sea (which is supposed to be 196 toises) can be obtained with a fufficient precision from the barometrical observations, which for several years paft have been segularly made here,'

We trust, from the insertion of this paper, that M. Pictet's very judicious and liberal observations and offers will be attended to; and that an object so important in philosophy and astronomy, with the collateral experiments mentioned by our author, will be carried into execution with a national dignity and truly philosophical exertions.

The volume concludes with the usual meteorological journal for the year 1790. The thermometer varied from 30° to 77o, and the mean heat of April was only 44. The heat of the year may, in this case, be better ascertained by the mean heats of March, April, and May, which appear to be very nearly 48. The range of the barometer was from 28.80, to 30.65. The rain was not more than 16.052 inches.

The Baviad, a paraphrastic Imitation of the

firf Satire of Perfius. 8vo. *25. lewed. Faulder. 1791. TH HE words are those of Persius, but the manner is that of

Juvenal. Our author, indignantly violent, reprehends the modern taste in poetical compofition, and severely lashes, with all the force of Juvenal, the late trifling poems which, under real and fictitious names, have been so warmly praised by those who, with a reciprocal complaisance, modestly receive and bestow the most exaggerated commendations. We allude to the poems published, as those of Anna Matilda, Della Crusca, and some real names in the British Album, in which, while we haye pointed out fome errors, we have had occasion to notice some elegant and poetical lines. Our author, a little inhumanly, with one blow of his cæftus, is eager to destroy the whole corps; and if his wholesome reprehenfion will contribute to check the flimzy conceits, and the insipid nonsense which is at present called, by courtesy we suppose, poetry, he may be acquitted of any very great offence.

We have formerly observed, in reviewing Mr. Murphy's imitation of Juvenal, that his polished-lines came more nearly to the manner of Persius than of Juvenal. We have just said that the author of the Baviad resembles Juvenal. We may be permitted consequently to add

hinc vos Vos hinc mutatis discedite partibus


Nor can we avoid expressing our surprize that, in the liberty our author has taken in omitting a line or two occasionally in the fatire of Perfius, hc thould have stepped over the elegant compliment to Horace, when so many modern Horaces might have deserved a tribute of applause. On the whole, however, our imitator's energy, his honest indignation, the justice and feverity of his censures, deserve our commendation. He ftrikes, at times perhaps, too indiscriminately, and in his eagerness to expose folly, has, in one or two instances, included in his list names that deferve a better treatment. In the following lines, and we sele&t them for this purpose, our author has kept closer than ufual to the original, and has imitated Perfius with great success. Our learned readers may find the Latin in line 38th, &c. of the Roman satyrist.

F. And is it nothing then to hear our naine
Thus blazon'd by the general voice of fame?

P. Nay, it were ev'ry thing, did that dispense
The sober verdict found by taite and sense.
But mark our jury. O’er the flowing bowl,
When wine has drown'd all energy of soul,
Ere Faro comes (a dreary interval!)
For some fond, fashionable lay they call.
Here the spruce enfign, tottering on his chair,
With lisping accent, and affected air,
Recounts the wayward fate of that poor poet,
Who, born for anguish, and disposed to shew it,
Did yet so aukwardly his means employ,
That gaping fiends mistook his grief for joy.

Lost in amaze at language so divine,
The audience hiccup, and exclaim,“ Damn'd fine!"
And are not now the author's ashes bleft?
Now lies the turf not lightly on his breaft?
Do not sweet violets now around him bloom?
Laurels now burst spontaneous from his tomb!

F. This is mere mockery; and (in your ear)
Reason is ill refuted by a sneer.
Is praise an evil? Is there to be found
Auglit so indifferent to its soothing found,
As not to with hereafter to be known,
And make a long futurity its own ;
Rather than

P.-With 'squire Jerningham descend
To paftry-cooks and moths, “and there an end !

") We shall proceed in the lines which immediately follow those just quoted, to give a specimen of his general talents, and the hearty good will with which he bestows his fatyrical Jathes.

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O thou

"O thou that deign'ft this homely feene to share,
Thou know'lt when chance (tho' this indeed be rare)
With random gleains of wit has grac'd my lays,
Thou know's too well how I have relish'd praise.

Not mine the soul that pants not after fame;
"Amitio'.s of a poet's envied name,
I haunt the sacred fount, athirst to prove
The grateful influence of the stream I love.

A. d yet, my friend, (though ftill at praise bestow'd
Mise eye has gliftened, and my cheek has glow'd),
Yet, when I prostitute th: lyre to gain
The e logies that wait each modısh ftrain,
May the sweet Mute my groveling hopes withstand,
And tear the firings indignant from my hand.

Nor think that, while my verse too much I prize,
Too much th'a plause of fashion I despise ;
For mark to what 'ris given, and then declare,
Mean tho'lam, if it be worth my care.
Is it not given to Efte's unmeaning dash,
To Topham's fuftian, Colman's Aippant trah,
Mil's Andrews' uoggrel, Merry's frantic whine*,

Cobbe’s vapid jeit, and Greathead's lumbering line?' We shall add but one paffage more; it is from the 11th line of the original :

P. O might I! durft I! Then-but let it go.
Yet, when I view the follies that engage
The full-grown children of this piping age ;
See snivelling Jerningham at fifty weep
O'er love-lorn oxen and deserted sheep;

Merry's frantic whine.--In a most wretched rhapsody of incomprehen fible nonsenie, addressed by this gentleman to Mrs. Robinson, which me in her calvable poems (page 100) calls a charming compofition, abounding in lines of Exquifice beauty, is the following rant:

Conjure up demons from the main,
Storms upon storms indignane heap,
Bid ocean howl, and nature weep,
Til the Creator bluso to fee
How burrible bis world can be :
While I will glory to blaspheme,

And make the joys of hell my theme. ! The reader, perhaps wonders what dreadful event gave birth to these fearful imprecations. As far as I can recollect it was – - the aforesaid Mrs. Robinson's not opening ber eyes !!!. Surely it is most devoutly to be wished that these poor creatures would recollect, amidst their frigid ravings, and common place er, pavagances, that excellent maxim of Pope :

“ Perlift, by nature, reason, taste, unaw'd;
But learn, ye dunces, not to scorn your God,"


See Coiley * frisk it to one ding-dong chime,
And weekly cuckold her poor spouse in rhyme;
See Thrale's grey widow with a satchell ruam,
And bring in pomp laborious nothings home;
See Robinfon forget her state, and move
On crutches tow'rds the grave, to +

Light o' Love;"
I scarce can rule my spleen

F. Forbear, forbear;
And what the great delight in, Icarn to spare.

P. It most not, cannot be; for I was born
To brand obtrusive ignorance with scorn ;
On bloated pedantry to pour my rage,
And his preposterous fuftian from the stage.
Lo, Della Crusca 1! In his closet pent,
He coils to give the crude conception vent;
Abortive thoughts that right and wrong confound,
Truib sacrific'd to letters, sense to sound;
False glare, incongruous images, combine ;
And noise and nonsense clatter thro' the line.'

Memoirs of the firft forty-five Years of the Life of James Lack

ington, the present Bookseller in Chiswell-Street, Moorfields, London. Written by himself, in a Series of Letters to a Friend. 8vo. 5s. Boards. Sold by the Author. 1791. N this age of multifarious biography, there is not so much

vanity apparent in the present production as might on a first glance be imagined. The book is apt to strike as a kind of puifing fhop-bill; but as it contains some instruction, and a portion of amusement, a reader may pardon the seeming presumption in favour of the effects. "Mr. L.'s vanity fits eafy upon him, and is little offensive to the vanity of others : fometimes he laughs at it, and sometimes he lays it aside.

• * For the poetic amours of this lady, see the British Album, particularly the poem called the Interview ; of which, soit dit en paffant, I have a must delectable tale to tell when time shall serve.'

† Light o'Love! that's a tune that goes witbout a burden. Shakspear,' | Lo, Della Crusca !

“ O thou, to whom superior worth's allied,

Thy country's honour, and the Muse's pridem ' So fayi Laura Maria

et solem quis dicere falsum

Audeat? 'Indeed she says a great deal more ; but as I do not understand it, I fupbear to lengthen my quotation.

lunumerable odes, funnets, &c. published from time to time in the papers, have juftly procured this gentleman the reputation of the first poet of the age : but the performance which called forth the high-Sourding panegyric abovementioned, is a philosophical rhapsody on the French Revolution, called the Wreath of Liberty

Open Open and sincere in his constant confession of the original pesury of his situation, even envy may pardon him for escaping from a Moemaker's stool to a carriage and four thousand a year.

After a triple dedication to the public, to respectable and to sordid booksellers, we find a preface, according to the most approved receipts for making a book. Mr. L. does not difdain a trick, formerly common, now abandoned, when he informs us that he wrote his Life in order to prevent its being written by others : but the following paragraphs are in a more laudable style :

• If unfortunately any of my kind readers should find the book so horrid, dull, and stupid, that they cannot get through it; or if they do, and with not to travel the same road again, I here de clare my perfect readiness to supply them with abundance of books much more learned, much more entertaining, much more witty, much more—whatever they please : they never shall want books while L. is able to aflift them; and whether they prefer one of his writing, or that of any other author, he protests he will not be in the smallest degree offended : let every author make the same declaration if he can.

• Should my Memoirs be attended with no other benefit to Society, they will at least tend to sew what may be effected by a persevering habit of induitry, and an upright conscientious demeanour in trade towards the public, and probably inspire fome one, of perhaps superior abilities, with a laudable ambition to emerge from obscurity, by a proper application of those talents with which Providence has favoured him, to his own credit and emolument, as well as the benefit of the community. To such an one I ever have, and ever shall with every possible fuccess, as it has uniformly been my opinion, that whatever is thus acquired is more honourable to the parties than the possession of wealth obtained without any intrinsic merit or exertion, and which is too frequently confamed with rapidity in the pursuit of vice and dirfipation.'

This publication is divided into forty-one letters, prefaced with scraps of poetry from various English authors. In the first letter the subject is proposed, and John Dunton's life and errors is mentioned as a preceding example of a bookseller metamorphosed into his own biographer : but John is forgotten, in spite of the once popular Athenian oracle; and it is no high compliment to say that Mr. L. furpafies his prototype. The succeeding epiftle informs us, that he was born at Wellington in Somersetshire, on the gift of August, old style, 1746.

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