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seventh; then an eighth ; then a ninth, all with decent intervals, the coach in the mean time rocking as if it were giving birth to so niany dæmons. The couchman can conclude no less. He cries out, Devil! the Devil !” and is preparing to run away, when they all burst into laughter at the success of their joke. They had gone round as they descended, and got in at the other door.
We remember in our boyhood, an edifying comment on the proverb of "all is not gold that glistens." The spectacle made such an impression upon us, that we recollect the very spot, which was at the corner of a road in the way from Westminster to Kennington, near a stonemason's." It was a severe winter; and we were out on a holiday, think ing perhaps of the gallant hardships to which the ancient soldiers used to accustom themselves, when we suddenly beheld a group of hackney. coachmen, not, as Spenser says of his witch,
Bury, as seemed, about some wicked gin, but pledging each other in what appeared to us to be little glasses of cold water. What temperance! thought we.
What extraordinary and noble content! What more than Roman simplicity!
There are a set of poor Englishmen, of the homeliest order, in the very depth of winter, quenching their patient and honourable thirst, with modicums of cold water ! O true virtue and courage! O sight worthy of the Timoleons and Epaminondases !- We know not how long we remained in this error; but the first time we recognised the white devil for what it was,--the first time we saw through the chrystal purity of its appearance, -was a great blow to us. We did not then know what the drinkers went through; and this reminds us that we have omitted one great redemption of the hackney-coachman's character, his being at the mercy of all sorts of chances and weathers. Other drivers have their settled hours and pay. He only is at the mercy of every call and every casualty; he only is dragged, without notice, like the damned in Milton, into the extremities of wet and cold, from his alehouse fire to the freezing rain ;-he only must go any where, at what hour, and to whatever place you chuse, his old rheumatic limbs shaking under his weight of rags, and the snow and sleet beating into his puckered face, through -streets. wbich the wind scours like a channel.
ARIOSTOʻS PRISON. With all Ariosta's popularity, this is the first time, we believe, that one of his sonnets has appeared in English. Indeed, as for that mate ter, his great poem itself may be said to be very little known through the medium of the versions hitherto extant; and he must have an indestructible charm in him indeed, who with such representations
of him, can at all vindicate among us the popularity of his name · abroad.
That he deserves that name is certain. Those who 'read him in the original (and Italian is far from diflicult to any body, especially if
be reads Latin or French) koow what an endless variety he has of story, and pictòre, and passion, and the most delightful humanity, all to!d in a style the most prompt, graceful, and heart-breathing in the world. To those who do not read him in Italian, and who feel that they cannot discoxer him in his English version, perhaps even this almost literal version of one of his trifles will afford a glimpse of that pleasantness and naivete, of which they hare so often heard. The language is sufficiently unreserved it must be allowed ; but it is full of a genial impulse; it is the reverse of any thing impertinent or unsuitable; and the reader of true delicacy will know how to distinguish it accordingly from grossness. The old Italians, not excepting Petrarch, were accustomed 10 have more faith in the natural goodness of such a simplicity than w«; and of a like mind was Shakspeare. The turn round which the poet makes upon his prison, and the laurelled love which the lady had in store for herself, make up agreeable pair of images to the mind, present and absent. The repetition of the word But is remark. ably apprehensive and enjoying.
Avventuroso carcere soave,
O lucky prison, blithe captivity,
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Price 2d.–And sold also by A. GLIDDON, Importer of Snuffs, No. 31, Tavistock. streel, Covent-gardan. Orders receired ut ihe above plucer, and by all Book. sellers and Newsmen.
There he arriving round about doth flie,
No. XLVIII.-WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 6th, 1820.
TRANSLATION OF ANDREA DE BASSO'S ODE TO A DEAD BODY ;
AND REMARKS UPON IT. We are given to understand by the Italian critics, that the following ode made a great sensation, and was alone thought sufficient to render its author of celebrity. Its loathly heroine' had been a beauty of Ferrara, proud and luxurious. It is written in a fierce Catholic spirit, and is incontestibly very striking and even appalling. Images, which would only be disgusting on other occasions, affect as beyond disgust, by the strength of such earnestness and sincerity. He lays bare the mortifying conclusions of the grave, and makes the pride of beauty bow down to them. What we have to say further on the poem,
will better follow than precede it.
RISORGA de la tomba dvara e lorda
E tornerai dentro l'immoude bolge
Argine al mio fallire.
Rise from the loathsome and devouring tomb,