able circumstance is this: Mr. Marriott, thinking Horace begins and ends too abruptly, has ventured to introduce the original with two Latin lines of his own composition, and added six at the end, to render Horace more complete. He might, however, have saved himself the trouble of lacing his own lines in the margin: the reader would have distinguished them without this precaution. Perhaps the public may be curious to see this improvement on a Roman classic. He begins, then, in this

Lanner:

"Annus quando novus nascitur, illius
Natalisque dies orbe revolvitur ;-

He concludes thus:

"Orco, Musa, pios eripiens nigro,

Arces, carminibus, tollit ad igneas;

Nomen grande tuum fiet amabilis,

Vatum materies, Musa tuis dabit
Mercedem meritis, Te faciet sacrum,

Sublimem, astra supra, Te vehet, ardua."

The poem itself is divided into two books, and contains many curious particulars. His account of Portia's death is very sublime :

"Fam'd Portia, worthy of her mate and sire,

Express'd such friendship, when she swallowed fire;

Soon as she heard of her dear Brutus' death,

Her consort breathless, she disdain'd to breath;

Each instrument of death, to her deny'd,

'Shall Portia be debarr'd from death?' she cry'd,

Then drank live embers, and intrepid died."

We wish Mr. Marriott would explain the manner in which the ancients drank live embers. In p. 59, he candidly owns, that he has labored hard in bringing these poems to perfection:

"Hear me, fair pupil, ne'er despise the bard

Whose muse for your instruction labors hard."

In the next page we meet with this curious paradox:

"Her witty child, let the fond mother boast,

You show most wit, when you conceal it most."

This, for aught we know, may be the author's own case; for he seems to have a particular knack at concealing his wit.

There is something so agreeable, yet familiar, in his precepts !

"Red heels, a wise man's head will ridicule."

"From smart cock'd hat, let no vain streamers fly."

"I only warn you-ne'er your teeth neglect;

White teeth will make amends for each defect."

"To singing add the force of music too."

This is a very necessary injunction; for it is very common to hear singing without music.

"Make not your houses Babels! ah, no more

Let numerous torches smear th' indecent door!"

"A curtsey makes impression, if made well,

Learn then to curtsey with an air genteel."

Rather than pick out any more flowers of this kind, with which the poem abounds, we will make a few extracts, from which the poet's genius may be more justly estimated :

"Let no provoking words your wrath attend,

Lest passion should in dire disaster end;
How tragical had been Xantippe's fate,
Had Socrates not been her peaceful mate!
You may just hint a fault, while you commend
His well-known merit, like a faithful friend.

If distant hints from you he'll not receive,
Desist; no curtain-lectures to him give;

Think not to tame him, like some savage beast,
By oft disturbing his nocturnal rest:

Though much he may repeated lessons need,

Sacred to concord is the genial bed:

Thence far be sour, contentious, jarring noise!
There dwell in silence, reconciling joys;
There love's bright lamp is fed with new desire,
Rekindled there, it never will expire.

"Once I through thin partition chanc'd to hear A curtain-lecture with astonish'd ear:

It wak'd, and scar'd me, in the dead of night,
Ere I my senses could recover quite ;

It sounded like a seraph's plaintive voice,
So dire the sound, so solemn was the noise!
Trembling I heard, nor dar'd to ope my eyes,
Lest I might view a horrid spectre rise.
Soon I perceiv'd it was a woman's tongue,
Rehearsing to her mate each nuptial wrong;
Obdurate he, and stupid as a dunce,
Heard unconcern'd, nor interrupted once;
Till faint and spent, she falter'd in her speech,
And, quite exhausted, could no longer preach;
When her speech fail'd, she soon began to cry,

And ev'ry tear had its attendant sigh.

Then he, to aggravate each nuptial wrong,

Wish'd death would silence soon her clam'rous tongue.

Thus every curtain-lecture, preach'd in vain,

Gives to the preacher, not the hearer, pain.

To hint a fault requires the nicest touch,

The pride of self-sufficient man is such;
Few with good grace can give or take advice,
So few think others than themselves more wise;
Their faults the wisest are averse to hear;
Touch gently, lest you hurt a tender ear.

"Though ev'ry charm forsake your fading frame, Yet let your modesty remain the same.

Conceal whatever may distaste excite;

Let your dress please, attractive, clean, and neat:
Dress not your person in your consort's sight;
When dressing, you offend-when drest, invite.
Half-drest, in her short petticoat, I view'd,

By chance, the nymph who had my heart subdu'd;

In this disguise so lost was ev'ry charm,

It turn'd to ridicule her beauteous form.

Is this the virgin, to myself I said,

Who can so charm me in full dress array'd?" &c. &c.

To draw a comparison between Ovid and our bard, we may observe, that as one performance of the former was styled Tristia from the subject, so this production may derive the same title from the execution, and be justly denominated Marriott's Tristia.

XIV.-BARRETT'S OVID'S EPISTLES.

[From the Critical Review, 1759. "Ovid's Epistles translated into English Verse; with critical Essays and Notes. Being part of a Poetical and Oratorial Lecture, read in the Grammar-School of Ashford, in Kent; and calculated to initiate Youth in the first rudiments of Taste. By Stephen Barrett, Master of the said School." 8vo.]

THE praise which is every day lavished upon Virgil, Horace, or Ovid, is often no more than an indirect method the critic takes to compliment his own discernment. Their works have long been considered as models of beauty; to praise them now is only to show the conformity of our taste to theirs; it tends not to advance their reputation, but to promote our own. Let us then

dismiss, for the present, the pedantry of panegyric; Ovid needs it not, and we are not disposed to turn encomiasts on ourselves.

It will be sufficient to observe, that the multitude of translators which have attempted this poet, serves to evince the number of his admirers; and their indifferent success, the difficulty of equalling his elegance or his ease.

Dryden, ever poor, and ever willing to be obliged, solicited the assistance of his friends for a translation of these epistles. It was not the first time his miseries obliged him to call in happier bards to his aid; and to permit such to quarter their fleeting performances on the lasting merit of his name. This eleemosynary translation, as might well be expected, was extremely unequal, frequently unjust to the poet's meaning, almost always so to his fame. It was published without notes; for it was not at that time customary to swell every performance of this nature with comment and scholia. The reader did not then choose to have the current of his passions interrupted, his attention every moment called off from pleasure only, to be informed why he was so pleased. It was not then thought necessary to lessen surprise by anticipation, and, like some spectators we have met at the play-house, to take off our attention from the performance, by telling, in our ear, what will follow next.

Since this united effort, Ovid, as if born to misfortune, has undergone successive metamorphoses, being sometimes transposed by schoolmasters unacquainted with English, and sometimes transversed by ladies who knew no Latin: thus he has alternately worn the dress of a pedant or a rake; either crawling in humble prose, or having his hints explained into unbashful meaning. Schoolmasters, who knew all that was in him, except his graces, give the names of places and towns at full length, and he moves along stiffly in their literal versions, as the man who, as we are told in the Philosophical Transactions, was afflicted with