Authors, before they write, should read. 'Tis very true; but we'll proceed. And, Sir, at present would you please To leave your name-Fair maiden, yes. Reach me that board. No sooner spoke But done. With one judicious stroke, On the plain ground Apelles drew A circle regularly true : And will you please, sweetheart, said he, How painters write their names at Co. She said; and to his hand restored Such obvious light, and easy shade, [* This story, which Prior took in a very plain state from Pliny and enlivened with his own exquisite humour, has been altered by Mason and weakened:-it is not easy to add to Prior when he wrote in his happiest moods.] FROM "ALMA; OR, THE PROGRESS OF THE MIND *." CANTO II. TURN we this globe, and let us see One people from their swaddling bands Observe but in these neighbouring lands The different use of mouths and hands; As men reposed their various hopes, In battles these, and those in tropes. In Britain's isles, as Heylin notes, The ladies trip in petticoats; Which, for the honour of their nation, They quit but on some great occasion. Men there in breeches clad you view : They claim that garment as their due. In Turkey the reverse appears; Long coats the haughty husband wears, And greets his wife with angry speeches If she be seen without her breeches. In our fantastic climes the fair We simple toasters take delight [* What Prior meant by this poem I cannot understand; by the Greek motto to it one would think it was either to laugh at the subject or his reader. There are some parts of it very fine; and let them save the badness of the rest.-GOLDSMITH. What suggested to Johnson the thought that the Alma was written in imitation of Hudibras I cannot conceive. In former years they were both favourites of mine, and I often read them; but I never saw in them the least resemblance to each other; nor do I now, except that they are composed in verse of the same measure.--CowPER, Letter to Unwin, 21st March, 1784.] In China none hold women sweet, At Tonquin, if a prince should die (As Jesuits write, who never lie,) The wife, and counsellor, and priest, Who served him most, and loved him best, Now turn we to the farthest east, Distinguish'd slashes deck the great : How sleek their skins! their joints how easy! I mention'd different ways of breeding: The child would thank you for your kindness, An equal instance of this matter Is in the manners of a daughter. In Europe if a harmless maid, Her friends would look on her the worse. To make her but one hour his care. The tender mother stands affrighted, To close this point we need not roam Of men born south or north o' th' hill, That some few leagues should make this change, But need we, friend, insist on this? Since, in the very Cantons Swiss, And prove it plain, that one may be On this, or t' other side a river. Here, with an artful smile, quoth Dick, I safely will to future age DR. GEORGE SEWELL. [Died, Feb. 8, 1726.] DR. GEORGE SEWELL, author of "Sir Walter Raleigh, a tragedy :" several papers in the fifth volume of the Tatler, and ninth of the Spectator; a life of John Philips; and some other things. There is something melancholy in this poor man's history. He was a physician at Hampstead, with very little practice, and chiefly subsisted on the invitations of the neighbouring gentlemen, to whom his amiable character made him acceptable; but at his death not a friend or relative came to commit his remains to the dust! He was buried in the meanest manner, under a hollow tree, that was once part of the boundary of the church-yard of Hampstead. No memorial was placed over his remains. VERSES, SAID TO BE WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR ON HIMSELF WHEN HE WAS IN A CONSUMPTION. WHY, Damon, with the forward day, What winds arise, what rains descend, What do thy noon-tide walks avail, Thou and the worm are brother-kind, Vain wretch! canst thou expect to see SIR JOHN VANBRUGH. [Born, 1666. Died, 1726.] SIR JOHN VANBRUGH*, the poet and architect, was the oldest son of Mr. Giles Vanbrugh of London, merchant; he was born in the parish of St. Stephen's, Walbrook, 1666. He received a very liberal education, and at the age of nineteen was sent by his father to France, where he continued several years. In 1703 he was appointed Clarencieux king of arms, and in 1706 was commissioned by Queen Anne to carry the habit and *The family of Sir John Vanbrugh is stated, in the Biographia Dramatica, to have come originally from France; but my friend, the Rev. George Vanbrugh, rector of Aughton, in Lancashire, the only surviving descendant of the family, informs me that his ancestors were eminent merchants of Antwerp, and fled out of Flanders when the duke of Alva tried to establish the inquisition in those provinces. They first took refuge in Holland, and from thence came over to England to enjoy the protestant protection of Queen Elizabeth. ensigns of the order of the garter to King George the First, then at Hanover. He was also made comptroller-general of the board of works, and surveyor of the gardens and waters. In 1714 he received the order of knighthood, and in 1719 married Henrietta Maria, daughter of Colonel Yarborough. Sir John died of a quinsey at his house in Scotland-yard, and is interred in the family vault under the church of St. Stephen Walbrook. He left only one son, who fell at the battle of Fontenoy+. [† No man who has been satirized by Swift, and praised by Reynolds, could have much chance of being forgotten; but the fame of him who was at once the author of The Relapse" and "The Provoked Wife," and the architect of Castle Howard and Blenheim, stands independent of even such subsidiaries.-ALLAN CUNNINGHAM'S Lives of British Artists, vol. iv. p. 253.] FABLE, RELATED BY A BEAU TO ESOP. A BAND, a Bob-wig, and a Feather, Old solemn truth, The Bob, he talked of management, He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirth, And not spend sixpence when he'd done, When these two blades had done, d'ye see, The Feather (as it might be me), It proved such sunshine weather And off they went together. WILLIAM CONGREVE. [Born, 1669. Died, 1729.] FROM THE MOURNING BRIDE." Alm. No, all is hush'd, and still as death-'tis How reverend is the face of this tall pile, Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, To bear aloft its arch'd and ponderous roof, By its own weight made stedfast and immoveable, Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight; the tornbs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice; Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear Thy voice-my own affrights me with its echoes.* [* This is the passage that Johnson admired so much. "Congreve," he said," has one finer passage than any that can be found in Shakspeare. What I mean is, that you can show me no passage where there is simply a description of material Leon. Let us return; the horror of this place, And silence, will increase your melancholy. Alm. It may my fears, but cannot add to that. No, I will on; show me Anselmo's tomb, Lead meo'er bones and skulls, and mouldering earth, Of human bodies; for I'll mix with them, Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corpse, Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride Of Garcia's more detested bed: that thought Exerts my spirits, and my present fears Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then show me, Lead me, for I am bolder grown lead on Where I may kneel, and pay my vows again, To him, to Heaven, and my Alphonso's soul. Leon. I go; but Heaven can tell with what regret. objects without any intermixture of moral notions, which produced such an effect." Croker's Boswell, vol. ii. p. 86. "If I were required," he says, in his life of Congreve, "to select from the whole mass of English poetry the most poetical paragraph, I know not what I could prefer to this. He who reads these lines enjoys for a moment the powers of a poet; he feels what he remembers to have felt before; but he feels it with a great increase of sensibility; he recognizes a familiar image, but meets it again amplified and expanded, embellished with beauty and enlarged with majesty." Mr. Croker had much improved his edition of Boswell, if he had illustrated Johnson's con- || versation by his own writings.] Enter HELI. Heli. I wander through this maze of monuments, Yet cannot find him-Hark! sure 'tis the voice Of one complaining-there it sounds! I'll follow it. [Exit. SCENE II-Opening, discovers a place of Tombs: one Enter ALMERIA and LEONORA. Leon. Behold the sacred vault, within whose The poor remains of good Anselmo rest, [womb Yet fresh and unconsumed by time or worms. What do I see? Oh, Heaven! either my eyes Are false, or still the marble door remains Unclosed; the iron gates, that lead to death Beneath, are still wide stretch'd upon their hinge, And staring on us with unfolded leaves ! Alm. Sure 'tis the friendly yawn of death for me; And that dumb mouth, significant in show, Invites me to the bed, where I alone Shall rest; shows me the grave where nature, weary And long oppress'd with woes and bending cares, ÖSMYN ascending from the tomb. Osm. Who calls that wretched thing that was Alm. Angels, and all the host of heaven, support me! Let me behold, and touch her, and be sure Is this a father? Osm. Look on thy Alphonso. Thy father is not here, my love, nor Garcia : Alm. It is, it is Alphonso! 'tis his face, The wildness of the waves and rocks to this; Osm. Oh, I'll not ask, nor answer, how or why Osm. Whence is that voice, whose shrillness, And gaze upon thy eyes, is so much joy, from the grave, And growing to his father's shroud, roots up hide me, Alm. Mercy! providence! Oh, speak, Speak to it quickly, quickly; speak to me, Comfort me, help me, hold me, hide me, Leonora, in thy bosom, from the light, And from my eyes! Osm. Amazement and illusion ! That, motionless, I may be still deceived! I have not leisure to reflect or know, Or trifle time in thinking. Alm. Stay awhile Let me look on thee yet a little more. Osm. What would'st thou? thou dost put me from thee. |