fpleen, the gout, and the envy of a malicious world. And, after having taken a stroll beneath mouldering arches, I fummon the fifterhood together, and take the fairest among them, and fit down with her on a ftone, beneath a bunch of alders-And do what? you'll fay-Why I examine her gentle heart, and fee how it is attuned; I then guess at her wishes, and play with the crofs that hangs at her bofom-in fhort -I make love to her.

Fie, for fhame! Triftram-that is not as it ought to be.-Now I declare, on the contrary, that it is exactly what it ought to be; for though philofophers may fay, among

LETTERS of the late Mr. STERNE. the many other foolish things philofophers

It is an awful fpot-a rivulet flows by it, and a lofty bank, covered with wood, that gives a gloom to the whole, and forbids the thoughts, if they were ever fo difpofed, from wandering away from the place. Solitary Sanctity never found a nook more appropriated to her nature!It is a place for an antiquary to fojourn in for a month-and examine with all the spirit of rufty research. But I am no antiquary, as you well know-and therefore I come here upon a different and a better errandthat is-to examine myself.

So I lean, lackadafically, over a gate and look at the paffing stream-and forgive the

have faid, that a man who is in love is not in his right fenfes;-I do affert, in oppofition to all their faws and fee-faws, that he is never in his right fenfes, or I would rather fay, his right fentiments, but when he is pursuing fome Dulcenea or other. If that fhould be the cafe with you at this moment, I will forgive your ftaying from me; but if this letter fhould find you at the inftant when your last flame is blown out, and before a new one is lighted up, and you fhould not take poft and come to me and my nuns, I will abufe you in their name and my own, to the end of the chapter-though I believe, after all, at the end of the chapter, I fhould feel myself affectionately yours,

In luxury and ease, in pomp and pride,

Think thefe loft themes unworthy of your ear:
Such themes as these the rural Maro fung..
To wide-imperial Rome, in the full height"

Of elegance and tafte, by Greece refin’d.
In ancient times, the faered plough employ'd
The kings, and awful fathers of mankind :
And fome, with whom compar'd your infect tribes
Are but the beings of a fummer's day,
Have held the fcale of empire, rul'd the storm
Of mighty war; then, with victorious hand, ;
Difdaining little delicacies, feiz'd

The plough, and greatly independant fcorn'd
All the vile ftores corruption can bestow.

Ye generous Britons, venerate the plough!
And o'er your bills, and long withdrawing vales,
Let Autumn fpread his treasures to the fun,
Luxuriant and unbounded! as the fea,
Far thro' his azure turbulent domain,
Your empire owns, and from a thousand shores
Wafts all the pomp of life into your ports ;
So with fuperior boon may your rich foil,
Exuberant, Nature's better bleflings pour
O'er every land, the naked nations cloathe
And be the exhaustlefs granary of a world!

t

Nor only thro' the lenient air this change,
Delicious, breathes; the penetrative fan,
His force deep-darting to the dark retreat
Of vegetation, fets the fteaming power
At large, to wander o'er the verdant earth,
In various hues; but chiefly thee, gay Green!"
Thou finiling Nature's univerfal robe
United light and fhade! where the fight dwells
With growing strength, and ever-new delight.
From the moist meadow to the wither'd hill,
Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs,
And fwells, and deepens to the cherish'd eye.
The hawthorn whitens: and the juicy groves
Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees,
Till the whole leafy forest stands display'd,
In full luxuriance, to the fighing gales;
Where the deer ruftle thro' the twining brake,
And the birds fing conceal'd. At once, array'd
In all the colours of the flufhing year,
By Nature's swift and fecret-working hand,
The garden glows, and fills the liberal air
With lavish fragrance; while the promis'd fruit
Lies yet a little embryo, unperceiv'd,
Within its crimson folds. Now from the town
Buried in smoke, and fleep, and noisome damps,
Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields,
Where freshness breathes, and dafh the trembling
drops

From the bent bush, as thro' the verdant maze
Of sweet-briar hedges I purfue my walk;
Or taste the smell of dairy; or afcend
Some eminence, Augufta, in thy plains,
And fee the country, far diffus'd around.
One boundless blush, one white empurpled shower
Of mingled bloffoms; where the raptur'd eye
Hurries froin joy to joy, and, hid beneath
The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies.

If, bruth'd from Ruffian wilds, a cutting gale
Rife not, and scatter from his humid wings
The clammy mildew; or, dry-blowing, breathe
Untimely froft; before whofe baleful blaft
No. XV.-VOL. I.

The full-blown Spring thro' all her foliage fhrinks,
Joylefs and dead, a wide dejected wafte.
For oft, engender'd by the hazy north,
Myriads on myriads, infect armies waft
Keen in the poifon'd breeze; and wasteful eat,
'Thro' buds and bark, into the blackened core,
Their eager way. A feeble race! yet oft
The facred fons of vengeance! on whofe course
Corrofive famine waits, and kills the year,
To check this plague the skilful farmer, chaff,
And blazing ftraw, before his orchard burns;
Till, all-involv'd in smoke, the latent foe
From every cranny fuffocated falls;

Or fcatters o'er the blooms the pungent dust
Of pepper, fatal to the frofty tribe:
Or, when th' invenom'd leaf begins to curl,
With fprinkled water drowns them in their neft;
Nor, while they pick them up with bufy bill,
The little trooping birds unwifely fcares.

Be patient, fwains; thefe cruel-feeming winds
Blow not in vain. Far hence they keep, reprefs'd
Those deep'ning clouds on clouds, furcharg'd with
rain,

That o'er the vast Atlantic hither borne,

In endless train, would quench the fummer-blaze,
And, chearless, drown the crude unripen'd year.
The north-east spends his rage; he now, shut up
Within his iron cave, th' effufive fouth
Warns the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven
Breathes the big clouds with vernal fhowers diftent.
At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise,
Scarce ftaining ether; but by fast degrees, ́
fails
In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapour
Along the loaded sky, and mingling deep
Sits on th' horizon round a fettled gloom.
Not fuch as wintry-storms on mortals shed,
Oppreffing life; but lovely, gentle, kind,
And full of every hope and every joy,
The with of Nature. Gradual, finks the breeze,
Into a perfect calm; that not a breath
Is heard to quiver thro' the elofing woods,
Or ruftling turn the many twinkling leaves
Of afpin tall. Th' uncurling floods, diffus'd
In glassy breadth, seem thro' delusive lapse
Forgetful of their courfe. 'Tis filence all,
And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks
Drop the dry sprig, and mute-imploring eye
The falling verdure. Hush'd in short suspence,
The plumy people streak their wings with oil,
To throw the lucid moisture trickling off;
And wait th' approaching sign to strike, at once,
Into the general choir. Even mountains, vales,
And forefts feem, impatient, to demand
The promis'd fweetnefs. Man fuperior walks
Amid the glad creation, musing praise,
And looking lively gratitude. At last,
The clouds confign their treasures to the fields;
And, foftly fhaking on the dimpled pool
Prelufive drops, let all their moisture flow,
In large effufion, o'er the frefhen'd world.
The ftealing fhower is scarce to patter heard,
By fuch as wander thro' the forest-walks,
Beneath th' umbrageous multitude of leaves.
But who can hold the fhade, while heaven defcends
In univerfal bounty, fhedding herbs,

And fruits, and flowers, on Nature's ample lap?
H h

Swift fancy fir'd anticipates their growth;
And, while the milky nutriment diftills,
Beholds the kindling country colour round.

Thus all day long the full-diftended clouds
Indulge their genial ftores, and well-fhower'd earth
Is deep enrich'd with vegetable life;
Till, in the western sky, the downward fun
Looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush
Of broken clouds, gay fhifting to his beam.
The rapid radiance inftantaneous strikes
Th' illumin'd mountain, thro' the foreft ftreams,
Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist,
Far finoaking o'er the interminable plain,
In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems.
Moift, bright, and green, the landskip laughs around.
Full fwell the woods; their every music wakes,
Mix'd in wild concert with the warbling brooks
Increas'd, the distant bleatings of the hills,
The hollow lows refponfive from the vales,
Whence blending all the fweetned zephyr springs.
Meantime refracted from yon eastern cloud,
Beftriding earth, the grand ethereal bow
Shoots up immense; and every hue unfolds,
In fair proportion running from the red,
To where the violet fades into the sky.
Here, awful Newton, the diffolving clouds
Form, fronting on the fun, thy fhowery prifm;
And to the fage-instructed eye unfold ··

The various twine of light, by thee disclos'd
From the white mingling maze. Not fo the fwain;
He wondering views the bright enchantment bend,
Delightful, o'er the radiant fields, and runs
To catch the falling glory; but amaz'd
Beholds th' amusive arch before him fly,
Then vanish quite away. Still night fucceeds,
A foften'd fhade, and faturated earth
Awaits the morning beam, to give to light,
Rais'd thro' ten thousand different plastic tubes,
The balmy treasures of the former day.

Then spring the living herbs, profufely wild,
O'er all the deep-green earth, beyond the power
Of botanist to number up their tribes:
Whether he steals along the lonely dale,
In filent fearch; or thro' the forest, rank
With what the dull incurious weeds account,
Burfts his blind way; or climbs the mountain-rock,
Fir'd by the nodding verdure of its brow.
With fuch a liberal hand has Nature flung
Their feeds abroad, blown them about in winds,
Innumerous mix'd them with the nursing mold,
The moistening current, and prolific rain.

But who their virtues can declare! Who pierce,
With vision pure, into these secret stores
Of health, and life, and joy? The food of man,
While yet he liv'd in innocence, aud told
A length of golden years; unflesh'd in blood,
A stranger to the favage arts of life,
Death, rapine, carnage, furfeit, and disease ;
The lord, and not the tyrant of the world.
The first fresh dawn then wak`d the gladden'd race
Of uncorrupted man, nor blush'd to fee
The fluggard fleep beneath its facred beam :
For their light flumbers gently fum'd away;
And up they rose as vigorous as the fun,
Or to the culture of the willing glebe,
Or to the chearful tendence of the flock.
Meantime the fong went round; and dance and sport,

Wisdom and friendly talk, successive stole
Their hours away. While in the rofy vale
Love breath'd his infant fighs, from anguifh free,
And full replete with blifs; fave the sweet pain,
That, inly thrilling, but exalts it more.
Nor yet injurious act, nor furly deed,
Was known among thefe happy fons of heav'n;
For reafon and benevolence were law.
Harmonious Nature too look'd fmiling on.
Clear fhone the fkies, cool'd with eternal gales,
And balmy spirit all. The youthful fun
Shot his beft rays, and ftill the gracious clouds
Drop'd fatnefs down; as o'er the fwelling mead,
The herds and flocks, commixing, play'd fecure.
This when, emergent from the gloomy wood,
The glaring lion faw, his horrid heart
Was meeken'd, and he join'd his fullen joy.
For mufic held the whole in perfect peace :
Soft figh'd the flute; the tender voice was heard,
Warbling the varied heart; the woodlands round
Apply'd their quire; and winds and waters flow'd
In confonance. Such were those prime of days.
But now thofe white unblemish'd minutes, whence
The fabling poets took their golden age,
Are found no more amid these iron times,
Thefe dregs of life! Now the diftemper'd mind
Has loft that concord of harmonious powers,
Which forms the foul of happiness; and all
Is off the poife within the paffions all

Have burst their bounds; and reason half extinct,
Or impotent, or elfe improving, fees
The foul diforder. Senfelefs and deform'd,
Convullive anger forms at large; or pale,
And filent, fettles into fell revenge.
Bafe envy withers at another's joy,
And hates that excellence it cannot reach.
Defponding fear, of feeble fancies full,
Weak and unmanly, loofens every power.
Even love itfclf is bitternefs of foul,
A penfive anguish pining at the heart;
Or, funk to fordid intereft, feels no more
That noble with, that never cloy'd defire,
Which, felfish joy difdaining, feeks alone
To blefs the dearer object of its flame.
Hope fickens with extravagance; and grief,
Of life impatient, into madnefs fwells;
Or in dead filence waftes the weeping hours.
Thefe, and a thoufand mix'd emotions more,
From ever-changing views of good and ill,
Form'd infinitely various, vex the mind
With endless storm. Whence, deeply rankling,

grows

The partial thought, a liftlefs unconcern,
Cold, and averting from our neighbour's good;
Then dark difguft, and hatred, winding wiles,
Coward deceit, and ruffian violence;
At last, extinct each focial feeling fell
And joyous inhumanity pervades
And petrifies the heart. Nature disturb'd
Is deem'd vindictive, to have chang'd her courfe.
Hence, in old tuky time, a deluge came:
When the deep-cleft difparting orb, that arch'd
The central waters round, impetuous rush'd,
With univerfal burft, into the gulph,
And o'er the high pil'd hills of fractur'd earth

Wide dafh'd the wayes, in undulation vast;
Till, from the center to the ftreaming clouds,
A fhoreless ocean tumbled round the globe.

The feafons fince, have, with feverer sway,
Opprefs'd a broken world: The Winter keen
Shook forth his waste of fnows; and Summer fhot
His peftilential heats. Great Spring, before,
Green'd'all the year; and fruits and bloffoms blush'd,
In focial sweetness, on the felf-fame bough.
Pure was the temperate air; an even calm
Perpetual reign'd, fave what the zephyrs bland
Breath'd o'er the blue expanfe: for then nor storms
Were taught to blow, nor hurricanes to rage;
Sound slept the waters; no fulphureous glooms
Swell'n in the sky, and sent the lightning forth;
While fickly damps, and cold autumnal fogs,
Hung not, relaxing, on the fprings of life.
But now, of turbid elements the sport,
From clear to cloudy toft, from hot to cold,
And dry to moift, with inward-eating change,
Our drooping days are dwindled down to nought,
Their period finish'd ere 'tis well begun.

And yet the wholesome herb neglected dies;
Tho' with the pure exhilarating soul
Of nutriment and health, and vital powers,
Beyond the fearch of art, 'tis copious blest.
For, with hot ravine fir'd, enfanguin'd man
Is now become the lion of the plain,
And worse. The wolf, who from the nightly fold
Fierce drags the blearing prey, ne'er drunk her milk,
Nor wore her warming fleece: nor has the steer,
At whofe ftrong cheft the deadly tyger hangs,
E'er plow'd for him. They too are temper'd high
With hunger ftung and wild neceflity,
Nor lodges pity in their fhaggy breast.

But Man, whom Nature form'd of milder clay,
With every kind emotion in his heart,
And taught alone to weep; while from her lap
She pours ten thousand delicacies, herbs,
And fruits, as numerous as the drops of rain
Or beams that gave them birth: fhall he, fair form!
Who wears sweet fmiles, and looks erect on Heaven,
E'er stoop to mingle with the prowling herd
And dip his tongue in gore? The beaft of prey,
Blood-ftain'd deferves to bleed: but you, ye flocks,
What have you done; ye peaceful people, what,
To merit death? you, who have given us milk
In luscious ftreams, and lent us your own coat
Against the winter's cold? and the plain ox,
That harmless, honeft, guileless animal,
Patient and ever ready, clothes the land
In what has he offended? He, whofe toil,
With all the pomp of harvest: fhall he bleed,
And struggling groan beneath the cruel hands
Even of the clown he feeds? And that perhaps
To fwell the riot of the autumnal feaft,
Won by his labour? Thus the feeling heart
Would tenderly fuggeft: but 'tis enough,
In this late age, adventurous, to have touch'd
Light on the numbers of the Samian fage.
High Heaven forbids the bold prefumptuous train,
Whose wifest will has fix'd us in a state
That must not yet to pure perfection rise.
Befides, who knows, how rais'd to higher life,
From ftage to stage, the vital scale afcends?
[To be continued. ]

ANECDOTES AND EXTRACTS

FROM THE

LIFE of the late DR. JOHNSON, just published by

SIR JOHN HAWKINS, KNT.

Thas, at length, made its appearance.

HIS long-expected performance

-The life takes up one large volume of 602 pages, befides an index; the Works are printed in ten other volumes.-The Life to be fold feparately for the benefit of those Gentlemen who are already poffeffed of the Doctor's Works.

Of the Life, from a firft perufal-we are bold to fay, that, as it exceeds the expectation of fome readers, it will fall fhort of that of others-Sir John's character, as a writer, is well known, and, by this work, will neither gain nor lofe-True it is, Sir John is no elegant writer, nor does he poffefs the "foul of wit," brevityThis Life, like Davies' Life of Garrick, is a collection of anecdotes and memoirs of every perfon Dr. Johnfon was acquainted with, and contains many digreffions relating to perfons and things, which would be as a propos in any other life as in that of Dr Johnfon-but this is Sir John's way of writing.

Thefe digreffions are the worst parts of the book-and there are many fuperfluous extracts from books that either are in every body's hands, or that nobody cares whether they are or not.

With these exceptions, which the reader may overleap if he pleafes, Sir John's book is not an unpleasant one. He is not like Bofwell, the panegyrift of Dr. Johnfon, nor does he, like Mrs. Piozzi, draw a frightful figure, and call it an AdonisSir John mixes, with a high opinion of Dr. Johnson, a regard for truth and juftice; and we confefs, that a better idea of the Doctor may be gathered from this book than any former publication. Sir John may be denied the merit of an elegant writer, or a pleafing one, but he writes like an honeft man, and although Johnfon is his amicus, yet magis amicus veritatis!

Sir John's opinion of books, of which he is not fparing, will feldom meet with approbation--Where he condemns the profligacy of a Chefterfield, he will be allowed to fpeak the fentiments of every good man --and where he attributes much mischief to the fentimental writings of Sterne, we liften with congenial conviction-but the furious attack on Fielding and Richardfon, is not justifiable to good taste, and icarcely defenfible on proper principles.

As we propofe to give our readers a few anecdotes here and there, for their entertainment-when our room will permit, we fhall for the prefent confine ourselves to the following, and they are not an unfavour