not abide a man who had laid upon him the weight of an obligation. He used to go to Church too, regularly every Sundaybut of late he has left it off entirely, though professing at the same time to be more religious than ever, and to adore the Supreme Being in his Works. So he makes me walk in the open air during Service time, and bids me gaze up and look around, and overflow with divine sensation which he says is natural Religion, and better than all the preaching, and saying printed prayers in the world. I do not know why it is, but though I have walked in all weathers at this devotion, I have not felt so devout, nor come home so comfortable and satisfied with myself, as if I had been at church in the old way to which I was accustomed. As for my poor Mother, she is by no means to be persuaded to it, but calls it downright Heathen, and goes to church the more, which makes my Father only the more angry. But, perhaps, the greatest grievance of all is about my marrying, which I was going to be, but my Father has put a stop to it, because my EDWARD, to whom I was betrothed (and a match every way suitable in situation, as all the world allows), went into the Yeomanry Cavalry, for the defence of his King and Country-which angered my Father past all enduringpast all enduring-He hates all war and bloodshed, he says, and was always twitting and reproaching EDWARD with his military ardour, and thirst of human blood (as he called it) till at length, one day, in his drink (for though formerly very sober and abstemious, he has taken more to drink of late) he downright quarrelled with him for good and all, and turned him out of the house, saying, he would have no butcher of his fellowcreatures there. This was last month, at the dinner I which which he gave on the christening of my little Brother Buonaparte Sourby, which name he gave him against the advice of the Clergyman and all his neighbours. I am afraid these particulars may seem tiresome and uninteresting; and I feel that I have not half described the uneasiness which this new temper and principles of my Father occasion, and the change that has been made in him; nor how surprizing it seems to me, that the more he has liberty and independence in his mouth, the more he should be a Tyrant (if I might say so) in his conduct to his family. But I will intrude no longer, than to say, that I am, Sir, Your afflicted humble Servant, I forgot to mention, that my Father does not know of my seeing your paper, which I see at a neighbour's in the Village (a Widow Lady) who takes it in, and lets me read it when I call upon her. My Father would be very angry if he knew it. POETRY. We cannot enough congratulate ourselves, on having been so fortunate as to fall upon the curious Specimens of Classical Metre and correct Sentiment, which we made the subjects of our late Jacobinical Imitations. The fashion of admiring and imitating these Productions has spread in a surprizing degree. Even those who sympathize with the principles of the Writer selected as our our Model, seem to have been struck with the ridicule of his Poetry. There appeared in the Morning Chronicle of Monday, a Sapphic Ode, apparently written by a Friend and Associate of our Author, in which he is travestied most unmercifully. And to make the joke the more pointed, the learned and judicious Editor of that Paper contrived to print the Ode en masse, without any order of lines, or division of stanza; so that it was not discovered to be Verse till the next day, when it was explained in a hobbling Erratum. We hardly know which to consider as the greater object of compassion in this case the original Odist thus parodied by his Friend, or the mortified Parodist thus mutilated by his Printer. “Et tu Brute!" has probably been echoed from each of these worthies to his murderer, in a tone that might melt the hardest heart to pity. We cordially wish them joy of each other, and we resign the modern Lesbian Lyre into their hands without envy or repining. Our Author's DACTYLICS have produced a second Imitation (conveyed to us from an unknown hand), with which we take our leave of this species of Poetry also. THE SOLDIER'S WIFE, Dactylics. Weary Way-wanderer, &c. &c. * See our last Number, p. 168. IMITATION. IMITATION. Dactylics, Being the quintessence of all the Dactylics that ever were, or ever will be written. HUMBLY ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE FOREGOING. Wearisome Sonnetteer, feeble and querulous, Sorely thy Dactylics lag on uneven feet: Slow is the Syllable which thou wouldst urge to speed Lame and o'erburden'd, and " screaming its wretchedness!" Ne'er talk of Ears again! look at thy Spelling-book; Dilworth and Dyche are both mad at thy quantitiesDACTYLICS, call'st thou 'em?" God help thee, silly one!" The VERSES which we here present to the Public, were written immediately after the Revolution of the Fourth of September. We should be much obliged to any of our Classical and Loyal Correspondents, for an English Translation of them. IPSA mali Hortatrix scelerumque uberrima Mater In se prima suos vertit lymphata furores, Luctaturque diù secum, et conatibus ægris. My worthy friend, the Bellman, had promised to supply an additional Stanza; but the business of assisting the Lamp-lighter, Chimney-sweeper, &c. with Complimentary Verses for their worthy Masters and Mistresses, pressing on him at this Season, he was obliged to decline it. Fessa Fessa cadit, proprioque jacet labefacta veneno. At quà Pestis atrox rapido se turbine vertit, Et quodcunque Fides, quodcunque habet alma verendi Religio, Pietasque, et Legum fræna sacrarum. Nec spes Pacis adhuc-necdum exsaturata rapinis Crescit inextinctus Furor, atque exæstuat ingens Una etenim in mediis Gens intemerata, ruinis, Ordine firma suo, sanoque intacta vigore, Servat adhuc, hominumque fidem, curamque Deorum. Eheu! quanta odiis avidoque alimenta furori ! Quanta profanatas inter spoliabitur aras Victima! si quando versis Victoria fatis Annuerit scelus extremum, terrâque subactâ Impius Oceani sceptrum fædaverit Hostis ! MISCEL |