The note at p. 93 contains a very curious imaginary dialogue between the translator and Mr. Thomas Paine, whose lack of erudition he appears to hold in great contempt. A translation of the Moral Characters of Theophrastus is added, which is elegant delively perhaps than that of Bruyere, lefs and but more instructive because more faithful. It is interesting to observe how much below the modern level of politeness were the habitual manners of those vaunted Athenians; and how infinitely preferable is modern society, even where least refined, to that which satisfied the gentlemen of antiquity. We shall insert a chapter: • OF THE SLOVEN *. • Slovenliness is such a want of care of a man's person as is creative of disgust in others. The sloven comes into company with a black pair of hands, and a set of long nails at the ends of them, stuffed with dirt; and tells you, for an excuse, that his carelessness is hereditary, and that his father and grandfather indulged the very same humour before him. It is customary with him, also, to have sores in his legs and bruises on his knuckles; of which he takes not the least care, but lets them go on till they turn to festers. His sides are as hairy as those of a wild beast, and his teeth black and half rotten; whence his company is very unpleasant, and he cannot be approached without being offensive. He has a trick of wiping his nose upon his coatsleeve; and no sooner does he begin to eat, but he begins also to prattle, and, by that means, so sputters his victuals on every side as to offend the company. In drinking, he coughs and bloffs in the cup, and always makes more haste than good speed. When he goes into the bath, you may easily find him out by the scent of his oil; and distinguish him when he is dressed, by the spots in his coat. He stands not much upon decency in conversation; but will talk smut, though a priest, and even his own mother be in the room. When he is engaged in the most serious offices of religion, as in prayer, or in the offering of libations, he lets the cup slip carelessly out of his hands, and then falls to laughing, as if he had done something wonderful. At a concert of music, when the company are silent and attentive, he is the only one of them all who will be beating time with his fingers and humming the tune over to himself; and if he think it long, he will ask the musicians whether they will never have done? Moreover, he always spits at random; and if he be at an entertainment, it is ten to one but it will be upon the servant who stands behind him.' What are we to think of the manners of a country, in which this is only a caricature of an intruder into company? * We are not sure that some apology is not due to our readers, for The The two portions of this volume are respectively dedicated to the two Members of Parliament for the City of Norwich: we doubt not that they have it in their power to patronize the Reverend Author. ART. VI. The Henriade of Voltaire, translated. Part II. 4to. 10s. 6d. sewed. Booker. 1798. Tay.” W Long in the land rever'd, a law prevails, When Death's all-lev'lling hand the throne assails, To shame, to reason lost, and blindly bold, From * Those awful States.] Though the poem supposes the convocation of the States immediately after the death of Henry III. they were not in reality held till four years after. This deviation from history is a poetical licence which Voltaire takes great pains to excuse in his notes on this Canto. The truth is, Henry the Great besieged Paris some time after the battle of Ivry, in the month of April 1590; the Duke of Parma obliged him to raise the siege in the month of September following. The League, a long time after, called the States to choose a King in the place of Old Cardinal de Bourbon, whom they had acknowledged by the name of Charles X., and who then had been dead two years and a half. In the same year (1593), in the month of July, the King abjured the Protestant religion in the church of St. Denis, and entered Paris in March 1594. So far was Henry then from reigning by right of conquest that, had he not solemnly abjured an opinion which certainly was dear to him, and gone to mass to please his subjects, it is doubtful whether he ever would have reigned over them. Voltaire has taken no notice of the Duke of Parma in his poem, be cause From rank revolt and murder, madly draw And vest rebellion with an air of state. In France they deem'd, (so long the crown had sway'd}, Soon to the States with noisy pomp declar'd, Pamper'd by public mis'ry, rear'd her head; No princes in those States, no peers attend, By birth design'd to counsel and defend; Still near the throne their honor'd station claim. cause he was too great a character, nor of the Cardinal de Bourbon, because he was too insignificant a one. "I compose," he says, " a Poem, and not an History." Milton has certainly taken greater liberties with events where any deviation from the strict order of truth seems less excusable. I cannot help thinking that idea mistaken, which confines Poetry to the imagination there is as much truth in Poetry as in History. From History we have a right to expect the exact detail of events in their time and place; but it is the province of Poetry to express, in such sounds as irresistably draw our attention and grave themselves for ever on our mind, the sublime and unalterable truths which the genius of a poet (or his muse if you please) discovers in the human soul, in the great book of nature. His imagination only creates the scenery in which they are displayed, the events which draw them forth. It is false that gunpowder was known in the age of Charlemagne; yet who will read the indignant reflections of Ruggiero, when he cast the carbine into the sea, and not acknowledge their truth? Who will pretend that Ariosto, the most fanciful of poets, is not full of truth? Dido never saw Eneas; perhaps neither ever existed: but let any woman read the fourth book of the Æneid, and say that it is not true from the beginning to the end. There are as many grand political truths in Juvenal and Lucan, and as finely expressed, as in Tacitus and Machiavel; yet there are modern statesmen who would almost blush to be seen with a poem in their hands: whether the fault be in the art, or in those who practise it, Poetry is almost in our days become the stamp of mediocrity, and who unfortunately writes verses is thought unfit for any thing else. Though the poet whom, notwithstanding the little, taste we have left, we must admire, -Not follow'd fancy long, But stoop'd to truth and moraliz'd the song.' There There the wise guardians of our sacred laws, The Synod met-Soon from each clam'rous tongue, Court the mean honors of a foreign state: Their aim in France that hateful court to raise, gore. Others as basely brib'd by Spanish gold, * That shameful monument.] The inquisition. This horrid tribunal, which pretends to judge the most secret motions of the mind, was instituted by Pope Innocent III. in the beginning of the 13th century; and every Christian country in Europe, except England, has to blush at having submitted to its power. The French never were a people to bear it long; it never was generally received among them, soon disappeared, and is now scarcely remembered. It is a melancholy truth, that not one sect of Christianity can be fairly exempted from the reproach of religious persecution. The reformers of church abuses overlooked this, the greatest of them all. Loud as they are in their invectives against the inquisition, in the 18th century not individuals or families, but whole nations are still, for their religious tenets, deprived of the honors, confidence, and emoluments of their country, and exposed to all the insult and danger of law in the hands of a party still embittered by religious zeal. Such is the frailty of human nature that it seldom is safe for one nation to reproach another with its vices: yet if there is a truth undeniable in politics, it is the inefficacy of religious persecution; if there is a truth in morality, it is the guilt of employing it.' The power already his-the glitt'ring name, But Potier rising, on their councils broke, Thus seem'd Potier-Wisdom inspir'd his tongue, "Would you on Mayne confer the sov❜reign sway! No more he merits what he seeks to gain." 'Scarce had these accents reach'd their wond'ring ears, With regal pomp Lorraine's proud Chief appears: Potier unmov'd beheld the prince advance. "Yes," boldly he resum'd," for us, for France, What |