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the young man frankly acknowledged to him, that he had been three days seeking for an exordium to a discourse, and that he was now quite in despair, at not having been able to find any thing that pleased him. Is it not, returned Florus, smiling, because you wish to do better than you can? There is certainly a great deal of presumption in this difficult disposition. We reject every thing, because we think every thing unworthy of us; and we act in nearly the same manner as those ladies, who never think that their portraits resemble them, because they think themselves more beautiful than any that can be drawn for them. It often happens, that from self-love, and not from want of knowledge, we have so many faults in our works. Poets and painters, particularly, are liable to have too much affection for their own productions; and to alter any of them, is to them a most painful operation. A poet will clearly see that a thought which struck him, in the warmth of his enthusiasm, is not just, or that it does not suit his subject: but there will be something brilliant in it which pleases him, and which makes him desire to preserve it. He the in his hand wavers, reason puts pen to suppress it; but he is immediately softened, and self-love easily obtains grace for it. Seneca has preserved an example of an author's tenderness in the Some of his friends person of Ovid. having advised him to repress in his works, two or three of his verses, which did not do him much credit, he consented to it upon condition, that they should find no fault with three verses that he was going to write, privately begging them at the same time to write down those verses they wished to be omitted. Having agreed to these conditions, he found that the three verses his friends had condemned, were the very same for which he had obtained grace; and he declared to them, says Seneca, that he was not ignorant of their defects; but that he could not dislike them. I am astonished that a man who burnt the fifteen books of the Metamorphoses, with the design to suppress them, could be so difficult for

three verses.

The eyes of the vulgar frequently see what escapes those of the learned. It is said of Malherbe, that he consulted the ear of an old domestic; the same thing is related of Molière. Every one knows the esteem of Apelles for the judgment of the people, which he evinced by exposing his finest works to their criticisms,

and by sometimes adopting their opi nions. Annibal Caracci often declared, that he had learnt to judge of two pic tares of the martyrdom of St. Andrew, which Albano and Domenichino had painted to rival each other, from an old woman, who stopped for sometime with her daughter to sit before the picture of Domenichino, and who afterwards passed The silently before that of Albano. excellent works are those which immediately strike, and which are directed to the heart.

THE FATHERS ATTACKED.

Barbeyrac, the learned translator of Puffendorf, attacked in his preface the blind veneration paid by the Catholics to the Fathers. This of course roused the indignation of the Romish church. Père Ceillier published a voluminous defence of these primitive Christians, but which in fact is a continued invective against Barbeyrac retorted the Protestants. with great ingenuity by his "Traité de la Morale des Pères de l'Eglise," a curious work, in which, not satisfied with having attacked their talents, he even aims at their morals. In a chapter to each, he amasses all the ridiculous things he can collect against them.

Justin Martyr, in order to shew the beauty of the cross, says that nothing is done in this world without a cross; that the masts and yards of a ship, and the shape of most instruments, have all crosses; and adds, that what most distinguishies man from the brute creation is, that in an elevated posture he can extend his arms, so as to form a cross with his body.

Irenæus, highly approves of thievery, in justifying the Israelites robbing the Egyptians; for, (says he) whatever we acquire, though unjustly, if we employ it. in the service of the Lord, we are jus

tified.

Of Clement, of Alexandria, our author has produced a copious fund of absurdities.

Clement tediously refutes those who, because the title of children is given to Christians, would infer that there was any thing childish in the gospel. This father has a hundred such puerile distinctions and dissertations; he makes every part of the Scriptures mystical. He has poured out declamatious with respect to manners, and considers- the use of looking glasses as idolatry, because Moses forbids the making of any image! This will be sufficient."

Tertullian coudemus all theatrical exhibitions, because, says he, the actor's

buskins

buskins give the lie to C, who told us, that we could not add one cubit to our stature! Tertullian, with all the fathers, considered marriage as criminal; he writes to his wife, that after the resurrection, they will not make use of any voluptuous turpitude, for God has nothing filthy in his presence.

Origen advises us to mutilate our manhood, if we would become good Christians; he not only preached this precept, but, what was still more extravagant, he really set the example. His allegorical explanations of the Scriptures are still more extravagant.

St. Cyprian's continence tormented him terribly, besides the ceaseless importunities of his exasperated lady. He hardly disapproves of suicide; so that had their continence and their suicide prevailed among the Christian sect, (for at that moment christianity can only be considered as a sect), Europe would have been in time quite depopulated. St. Ambrose oddly observes, that where there are Nuns, there are fewer persons born; and he would increase their number as much as possible. They were so partial to martyrdom, that they accused themselves of crimes, as a stratagem to be put to death.

Such were the fanatic propagators of primitive Christianity. Men who are held in saintly veneration by the bigoted children of Rome, yet who perhaps committed more absurdities than any body of fanatics that have yet appeared. Sometimes they take a passage in the literal sense, and sometimes they accept it in a mystical one; their holy indignation against the heathen, hindered them from dwelling on moral topics; and the fine ethics of the ancient philosophers, with which they might have enriched their miserable writings, were contemned, because they were frequently considered as so many faggots, proper only to be burnt.

Had there not been something more attractive in the nature of Christianity, than the savage piety of these fathers; Christianity would have gradually expired, as a flame dies in its own ashes. But the flame of this religion was nourished by a sweet oil and an agreeable perfume. The females were allured by the flattering honours paid to the Virgin, which convinced them that the sex was not despicable; and the susceptible mind of youth was delighted by the meek character, and the patient sufferings of MONTHLY MAG. 184.

its excellent founder. Conducted by the hand of the invisible Jesus, they walked in a path of roses, and slept in visions of immortality.

ON BOCCACIO, AND HIS DECAMERON. Boccacio was born at a little villag near Florence. His birth was obscure; and his father, in consequence of his poverty, sent him against his inclination to a merchant, to learn commerce: he remained with him some time, but having been to Paris with his master, and having seen there a little of the world, he soon became disgusted with his profession: The love of the Belles-lettres made him so neglect all mercantile affairs, that the merchant sent him back to Florence. His father then, by the advice of his friends, made him study the law; but young Boccacio did not find his inclination lead him to that either: he quitted the bar for the study of polite literature and poetry. His genius unfolded itself, and he composed some tolerably good verses; but those of Petrarch, who flourished at that time, appeared to him so infinitely superior, that he resolved to burn his; preferring rather to make none, than to yield to another in that respect; it is true, that if we judge of his talent by the verses at the end of his Decameron, we shall not form a very advantageous idea of his poetry. However, he and Petrarch were great friends; for Petrarch constantly wore a ring on his finger, on which was the portrait of Boccacio; and the latter wore one, on which was the portrait of Petrarch.

Boccacio was handsome and well made; and his manners were charming. He was passionately fond of the women, as we may see by his works, and he was also much beloved by them; amongst others by the natural daughter of the king of Naples, from whom it is said, he received the greatest favours, and who is so celebrated in his works under the name of Fiammetta.

The Decameron is his master-piece; this work is full of fine and delicate thoughts, his expressions are happy, and he gives an air of gallantry to all he says; but we cannot too much admire the purity of his style; the Italians, fastidious as they are on this point, still read it with pleasure; and they have hired readers, or professors, who explain it. It is to be wished we could judge as favorably of his morals; but in some parts he pushes libertinisin too far. Unfortunately, if we were to take away these parts, we should take from

3 B

Boccacio

Boccacio all his graces and his beauties. With respect to his judgment, that is a faculty he least excels in, for it very often fails him: he makes women, whom he calls virtuous, hold conversations which would be shameful in the most infamous places; at other times, he makes them speak as Epicureans, without considering who are the persons whom he introduces on the scene; and even his description of the plague of Florence, pathetic as it is, does not appear to me quite in its proper place.

THE CHARACTER OF PLINY THE

NATURALIST.

What respect is not due to the memory. of Pliny? He is without exception one of the greatest men of antiquity: he is an author who has received praises from all the truly wise, and who is only despised by the valgar literati, as it has been remarked by one of our most formidable critics, Plinius tantus vir ut non mirum sit, si vulgus illum improbet, quum minimé sit Auctor vulgaris. Gibbon has inge "the Liniously described his work as brary of the Poor Man." Nevertheless, those who have praised him the most, have discovered in him many defects; but, for the greater part of these defects he ought not to incur censure. Was he obliged to know more of Physic, Medicine, or Astronomy, of the virtues of plants and minerals, or of other things of the same nature, than was known in his time? If he has appeared too credulous with respect to some facts, which have the air of the marvellous, has he not acted in the same manner as all the illustrious historians of his age; and amongst others, Livy, whom I could on this subject turn into ridicule, as easily as Pliny has been?

I have always thought, and I do still, that great men ought not to be condemned so inconsiderately: Modestè et circumspecto judicio de tantis viris pro nunciandum. I allow, that we should not copy their errors; but before we pronounce judgment against them, we should consider well whether some excuse might not be offered for them; reason and equity command it, and so does the self-interest of those who ever attempt to write.

After all, though Pliny committed some faults (which we cannot deny), we ought to be less surprized at that, than at his not

having committed a great many more,
Every wise man who considers the im-
mense extent of his design, the prodigious
quantity of knowledge, and of curiosities
which it contains, the infinite number of
books from which he was obliged to take
his materials, and that in the midst of
considerable occupations, military as well ·
as political, must be struck with a just ad-
miration of the excellence of his history.
He will say with the candour of Horace :
Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis
Offendar maculis, quas aut incuria fudit,
Aut bumana parum cavit natura.
But in a poem elegantly writ,
I would not quarrel with a slight mistake,
Such as our nature's frailty may excuse.

He will laugh at those literary bullies, who, incapable of perceiving the solid beauties with which a work abounds, think themselves great persons for discovering some trifling defects. In fact, he will say, with one of the most judicious critics of the last century, that whoever speaks ill of Pliny, hurts that great man's reputation much less, than he does his own: Non tantum Pliniano detraxit nomini quam suo.

PETRARCH'S WILL.

There is a Life of Petrarch, published by Jerome Squarzaficus of Alexandria, very scarce, but printed in the curious edition of Petrarch's Latin works, in folio, at Venice, in 1501. It also contains his will, which is rather singular, for the whimsical and good-humoured satire with which he disposes of his legacies to his friends and domestics.

He bequeaths to Lombardus Asericus his silver gilt goblet, out of which he is to drink water, which he likes better than wine: 66 cum quo bibat aquam, quam libenter bibit, multo libentius quam vinum;" to John de Bochetta, vestry-keeper of his church, his great breviary, which had cost him a hundred francs; to John de Certaldo seu Boccatio, fifty gold florins, of Florence, to buy him a winter garment, fit for his studies and his vigils; to Thomas de Bambasia de Ferrare, his lute, that he might make use of it to sing the praises of the Lord, non pro vanitate sæculi fugacis; to Barthelmi de Sienne, called Pancaldus, twenty ducats, with the proviso, that he does not game them away, Quos non ludut.

ORIGINAL

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join'd,

In vain wou'd strive to meliorate mankind, Still are there means all potent to confound The iron breasts thy suff'rings fail to wound; Still to their pow'r superior mayst thou rise, And ev'ry arrow of their wrath despise.

Too just, too ample is thy cause for woe; Then check not tears, but freely let them flow; Affliction's tide, by constant force repress'd, And closely pent within a single breast, Tire ragès fierce, with direst mischiefs rife, Dethroning Reason, and o'erwhelming Life. Then give it way; and, to some kindred heart,

Thy ev'ry care, thy ev'ry thought impart ;

For Sympathy, blest instinct of our kind,
Is purest opium to the tortur'd mind.
Seek, then, some Friend, who early learn'd
to grieve

At others' woe, who lives but to relieve;
Some breast so much in concert with thy

own.

when thou smilst, or weep'st, to joy er

groan;

As,
With sweet Mimosa be her temples crown'd,
By patient Prudence let her lips be bound;
Of all thy griefs let her have felt the smart,
And shew where once they rankled in her

heart;

When to check tears, and when to bid them Let her (rare gift!) possess the skill to know flow;

Thus will her hand be competent to spread Comfort's soft roses o'er thy thorny bed.

But, once again, dear suff'ring Saint, take

heed

This Friend be deck'd with Caution's choicest meed;

For Grief unlocks the soul, and brings to

view

Each thought, each inerit, and each failing

too.

Seek then a Friend, sage, cautious, faith

ful, kind

If some good Angel such a Friend bestow'd, But hold!-I know the temper of thy mind. To rescue thee from Grief's o'erwhelming load,

Thy soul wou'd doat on her's-and should'st thou lose

This first of blessings-Hold! ah, hold, my Muse!

Nor paint a scene which Nature cou'd not bear.

Yes-seek a Friend! a firmer Friend than

e'er

Adorn'd our mortal clay-a Friend, whose

mind

Not all the malice of this world combin'd
Can e'er wean from thee-a celestial Guard;
Who, from thy breast each stroke of Fate to
O'er Fate herself presides, o'er Time, o'er
ward,
Space,

And all the myriads of the Human Race;
Who knows no change, whose love will never

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IMPROMPTU LINES TO SIR JOHN CARR,
AFTER READING HIS NORTHERN SUM-
MER.

THO' much you've honour'd martial men,
The triumph is not their's alone;
You, by your pencil and your pen,

Make every realm you reach your own.
The wreath, for which the hero sighs,
Is stain'd with blood, however bright;
But you bring home a spotless prize,
Of rich instruction and delight.
Your Northern Summer seems a day,
As we retrace its varied hours;
Well pleas'd and proudly we survey

Your graceful wreath of " Polar Flowers."

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Of its ordained silence, how intent

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And bend thee supple, fraught with lies, and smiles,

In the lov'd sunshine of a patron's grace.
Say rather, thou didst busy thee in vain
Amid the phantom scenes of luxury
Irresolute; or, with extended arms,
Didst follow the receding, vagrant blaze
Of pleasures gross, as fatal. Yet, how grim,
How bare thy joys have left these worthless
bones!

Might the dread seal of secrecy be burst, What noble converse could the charnel'd dead

Couldst weave a fit discourse to curb the rage
Pour in the list'ning ear! And truly thou
Of frantic man.-Perhaps to thee was given
To reach the depth and treasures infinite
Of sacred lore; to commerce with those
bards

And rev'rend sages of far distant times,
Whose sense
unhallow'd still directs to

heav'n ;

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The hidden and disclosed stores of things, That croud the earth, and give a zest to life! Perchance in thee the lamp of genius burn'd,

Would I the thousand scenes eventful change And thou could'st tread the steepy heights of

Of thy unknown mortality record,
Th' instructive lessons of a friend deceas'd!

To thee, poor, tenantless, exhausted case Of man's frail compass, once belong'd the rule

Of passions headstrong as the wint'ry tide :
To thee the helm and steerage uncontroul'd
Of that slight pinnace, man; the sov'reign
will

To brook the buffets of an adverse wind;
To dare the rocks, and struggle under storms
Of seas untried; or (happier lot!) to bask
In moorings of some enviable port!

Haply thy days are pencil'd by the hand
Of living fame, or stand enroll'd above
Within the page alone of mortal doom,
Whom nor ambition sway'd, nor empty glare
Of praise.-Oh! the flesh creeps upon my
bones,

When ancy paints thee some black harden'd wretch,

Distain'd in heart with spots of unwash'd crime,

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