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TO THE EDITOR, SIR, THE public are infinitely indebted to you and to Mr. William Gifford for the chastisement you have given to a writer, who has libell'd with impunity all that is excellent and respectable in puric or in private life without ihe least regard to rank, sex, or pro{adion. He has long deserved the punishment which he has received in more ways than one, and he merits much more ; and if you think the following lines worthy of a place in your Review, I shall be happy to contribute my mite, in the virtuous cause, of holding up to contempt and detesta.. tion a character uniformly infamous.



Quid vetat et nofmet?
SECURE, at least, the wretched * World to please,
A mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease,
Mel fluous Bards, in panegyric verse
Were vont each others praises to rehearse,
While Lady Poets in the contest ftrove,
And iun’d their lyres to every kind of love ;
Then merry Spun the Gossamery line,
And Robinson replied in lays divine,
Nonsense and Crufca bore unrivall’d sway,
Till Gifford's fatire swept the swarm away:
To latest times each + Dunciad shall remain,
As Horace keen, and strong as Perfius' ftrain.
Come then, with wit and various learning grac'd,
Correct our manners as you formd our talte ;
A nobler cause your zealous aid demands,
And justice, Gifford, claims it at your hands :
Cut to the quick this daggrel man of rhyme,
Who takes the title of a Bard sublime;
Deals out, with here and there, a lucky hit,
Treason and traih, obscenity and wit;
To each vile purpose prostitutes his Mufe,
The friend of vice, the champion of the fews.
Whate'er is eminent in chușch and state,
E'en female excellence insures his hate,
Lives there a Prelate, I who in virtue's caufe
Would curb the worst of crimes with wholesome laws ?

Another manuscript says,

Secure the world, vile Topham's World, to please + The Bayiad and Mæviad, # The Bishop of London,


The friend of vice prepares his ready pen,
And the worst ridicules the best of men.
Is there a * female, whose enlighten'd mind,
With learning fraught, with piety refin’d,
Instructs her sex ? the champion of the stews,
Back'd in the cause by Jacobin Reviews,
Truths, that he cannot answer, dares abuse.
Yet higher still his frantic efforts rise,
The friend of France, the best of Kings defies ;
And trembling on the margin of the grave,
The friend of Atheists dares his Maker brave.
Once he has felt, (but let not once suffice)
From thee, the double chastisement of vice;
Still on his deeds their juft reward bestow,
The liar's libel, or the ruffian's blow;
But stop not here ; with vigour all your owu,
Scourge the disloyalty that Thakes the throne;
And worse, if worse can be, the impious rage,

That taints his converse, and pollutes his page;
Till e'en + Reviews desert their friend forlorn,
And I Chronicles consign the wretch to scorn.


* Miss Hannah More.

+ The Monthly Review, which has long laboured in the fame good cause with Peter, but with more art, begins to think, since he has fallen into universal contempt, that he has not chosen his subjects happily of late; but was always in the habit of praising him till he was firit fatirized and afterwards deservedly horsewhipped.

| The Morning Chronicle, a fellow-labourer also, turns its back upon poor Peter, and coolly calls him, a fool and a blockhead.

SIR, IF the following bagatelle, written in honour of Gallic freedom, is, in your estimation, deserving a place in your truly patriotic Ma. gazine, the insertion of it would oblige


Si, des maux que

cause l'absence,
· Mon triste coeur est tourmente;
Si je ne puis te voir, ma Constance
Accuses en la Libertè.

si spindrosis

for 90 Dans

Dans le tems de mille entravés
Jamais je n'eprouvai l'ennui-
Mais alors nous étions esclaves
Helas ! on eft libre aujourd'hui.
Il est donc passè ce bel age
Ou libres de tout souci
Nous nous aimions dans l'esclavage
Sous les loix d'un Tyran cheri.
Mais j'ai tort quand je regrette
Ces beaux jours eclipsés soudain
Car j'apprends par la Gazette
Que je suis libre et souverain.
Mais ne crois pas que, far ce Trone
Ou l'on m'a brusquement affis,
Enflè des titres qu'on me donne,
Je t'accable de mes mépris.
Non-rassures toi ma Constance
Jamais je n'eus moins de fiereté,
Pardonnes à ma triste puissance,
Prends pitié de ma Majesté,
Malgrè ce fameux privilege,
Qui nous égale aux Potentâts,
Ton amant, tranfi dans la Neige,
Géle aux confins de ses etâts,
Il est bien vrai qu'un secretaire
De nos infaillibles decrets,
Nous assure que, bientôt, la Terre,
Va nous habiller à fes fraix.
Jusqu'au fond de nos provinces
Le Zêle va nous poursuivant :
Comtes, Barons, Marquis et Princes
Vous n'êtes


Malgrè notre fatal empire,
Malgrè nos fucces desaftreux,
Tout Français a le droit de dire,
Qu'il est un ci-devant heureux
Si par quelque etrange miracle
Nous cessions d'être libres un jour-
Alors nous pourrions sans obstacle
Nous voir et nous parler d'amour.
'O dous moments! O bien supreme !
Près de toi quelle volupté !
Mais-je me tais ! car l'amour même
Ett fufpect à la liberté.



To Mrs. R... with a Trinket,
I have no pipe of seven years

By Thelluson supplied ;
No Indian gems, no Spanish gold,

For flate'ry nor for pride.
My income scanty bounds enclose

Earn'd hardly, hour by hour,
My tithes a pittance, and ev’n those

Withheld by scorn or pow'r.
Still something from my little store

To alien wants extend
" A present help” to cheer the poor,
A welcome for my

And fill, to bless indeed my heart

In ev'ry happier view;
The residue can yet impart

Comfort and joy to you.
Oh! then to take this pledge, though small,

With unmatch'd smiles incline
From him whose love, whose hope, whose all

Are thine and only thine.

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Black as


On Peter PINDAR.

you ne'er seen a large Newcastle coal,
When lighted on a kichen fire,

Spurt out a flame immense and clear,
Then throw a smoke that higher rose and higher,


Of brimstone and of pitch combin'd

Leaving a foul and ugly stench behind,
Still giving warmth to comfort, blaze to cheer,
Till having fizz'd and spurted, Aar'd and Atunk

It wasted to a mere, mere cinder-?
Just such a coal is PETER PINDAR;

His once bright fpirit sunk,
No curling smoke upon his brow,

No blazing glee,
No flame to animate,--no cheering flashes,
A mere, mere Cinder now

And soon to be


ANTI-JACOBIN Review and Magazine;

&c. &c. &c.

For FEBRUARY, 1801.

Si iftis ad maledicendum disertis et eloquentibus effe licet, nos, in optimâ noftrâ causâ, ad verè refpondendum haud sanè convenit esse mutos.

Juelli. Apol.



The History of the Campaign of 1799, in Holland. Translated from the French. 8vo. PP. 496. 158.

Cadell and Davies. 1801. 'HIS forms the fifth and last volume of the military history

of the war from the beginning of the campaign of 1796 to the close of that of 1799. It is composed with the same ability, the fame scrupulous attention to facts, and the fame rigid impartiality, which so eminently distinguished the former volumes. It contains, beyond comparison, the best, and, indeed, the only complete and satisfactory account of the Expedition to Holland, which has hitherto appeared in Europe. The author has, evidently, had access to the most authentic sources of information, and he has availed himself of them with equal judgment and skill : the military operations, in which the troops of this country took so decided and so diftinguished a part, are detailed in a manner at once the most pera spicuous and the most scientific, fo as to afford the fullest information to the common reader, and the highest Tatisfaction to the professional student. The end and object of the Expedition are clearly and forcibly explained, and ably rescued from the imputations of ignorance, and the perversions of malice, Here, as before, the author has rendered a public service by exNo. XXXII. VOL. VIII.



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