the English academy, it consists of a gallery of several hundred yards, which even now is not sufficient, as I am told, to contain all the pictures. I cannot conclude without mentioning the Marriage at Cannæ, by Paul Veronese. It is thirty feet long, proportionably high, and filled with figures of the size of life. This picture surpassed my expectation. If there be a sublimity in colour, it is in this picture. There is something so pure, so divine, in the atmosphere that breathes in it throughout, so grand and impressive is the aspect of the whole, that you forget you are looking at an entertainment, and fancy yourself in the presence of some arial court, surrounded by genii, and respiring the ambrosial gales of enchantment. So powerful is the effect of colour even without sentiment ! Here is a female head, by Leonardo da Vinci..... Were it alive it would set all the men crazy; I never saw any thing so fascinating; and it smiles so bewitchingly, that had I been alone I should certainly have kissed it. I have much to say of Titian, much of Poussin, Carachi, and Rubens. At present, good night. SMELFUNGUS. SILVA. No. 6. Nempe inter varias nutritur SILVA columnas.....HOR. PITT'S VIRGIL. These lines are thus translated And had not heaven the fall of Troy designed, Or had not men been fated to be blind, Then a better mind. had our lances pierced the treacherous wood, And Ilian towers, and Priam's empire stood. I HAVE often thought, that by Dryden. Pitt's translation of the Eneid has never received half the encomiums it deserves. There are many who prefer Dryden's,though in many instances a very slovenly performance. Where the poet indeed breaks out, as he occasionally does, he far surpasses Pitt, and possesses more fire, perhaps, than Virgil himself. But Pitt preserves better the grave majesty of the Mantuan bard, and the correct harmony of his numbers. I shall quote a few passages of the original with their translations, in which I think the superiority of Pitt is evident. These lines are flat and prosaick. Pitt is scarcely inferiour to his original. Then, had not partial fate conspired to blind With more than madness every Trojan mind, The crowd the treacherous ambush had explored, And not a Greek had 'scaped the vengeful sword. Old Priam still his empire would enjoy, And still thy towers had stood, majestick Troy ! This last line breathes the very Art, and the nature of the place con spirit of Virgil. Ter conatus ibi collo dare brachia circum ; spired To furnish all the strength that war Ter frustra compressa manus effugit With weighty stones o'erwhelmed imago. Dryden. L. 792. And thrice about her neck my arms I flung, And thrice deceived, on vain embraces hung, Light as an empty dream at break of day Or as a blast of wind she rushed away. Pitt is far more spirited, and equally preserves the elegant repetition of the original. Thrice round her neck my eager their troops below, Shoot through the loop-holes, and sharp javelins throw. Turnus, the chief, tossed from his thundering hand, Against the wooden walls, a flaming brand. It struck, the fiery plague; the winds were high, The planks were seasoned, and the timber dry. Contagion caught the ports; it spread along, Scorched, and to distance drove the scattered throng. The Trojans fled, the fire pursued amain, Still gathering fast upon the trembling train, Till crowding to the corners of the wall, Down the defence and the defenders fall. The mighty flaw makes heaven itself resound, The dead, and dying Trojans strew the ground. These lines, with the exception of the four last are faithful and poetical, but must yield to the following, which are wrought up with uncommon spirit and elegance. Pitt. Full o'er the wall a turret rose on high, Stage above stage, unrivalled, to the sky. This fort to gain the Latians bend their care, Point their full strength, their whole collected war. Vast fragments from above the Trojans throw. And through the walls their javelins gaul the foe. A blazing torch the mighty Turnus flung; Close to the sides the flaming mischief hung; CHURCHILL. CHURCHILL possessed great genius, which he prostituted in the most scandalous manner. He was so intoxicated with the praise bestowed on the Rosciad, his first production, that he grew careless in his composition, and profiigate in his habits. His works are fast hastening to oblivion, from which the far greater part deserves not to be rescued. Wilkes used to repeat the following lines of his poetical friend as the finest in our language. Cold-blooded criticks! whom enervate sires Scarce hammered out, when nature's feeble fires Glimmered their last. PUNS. IT is observed by some one, that none despise puas but those, who are unable to make them, The observation is not strictly just, as Johnson and Swift were extremely happy in this species of wit, though they despised it. Swift's pun on a Cremona fiddle accidentally thrown down by a lady's gown, then commonly called a mantua, is admirable. On observing the accident he immediately repeated from Virgil the following line. Mantua ve misere nimium vicina Cremone. Pope, who was extremely diminutive and deformed, in poring over a Greek author at a coffeehouse, found a passage which he could not explain. A young officer in his regimentals, who happened to be an excellent scholar, looking over him, observed, that a note of interrogation would remove the difficulty,and render the sentence clear. The great poet, mortified at being thus instructed by a stripling, asked with contempt. And, pray, Sir, what is a note of interrogation?' A note of interrogation, Sir, replied the young man, fixing his eyes on the unhappy person of the bard, is a little crooked thing, that asks questions.' The ancients seemed to have had little success in this kind of wit. Nothing can be more contemptible than Cicero's puns on the name of Verres. Quintilian, however, has preserved one that is admirable. Hortensius, who was engaged on the other side, pretending not to understand Cicero, who was pleading against Verres, observed that he was no Edipus, and could not explain riddles. No Edipus, replies Cicero, when you have the gelden THIS excellent scholar, and most amiable man will rise in estimation with posterity, when Warburton and the disciples of Warburton will no longer be read. We understand his works are now reprinting in England, and will probably comprise twenty octavo volumes. Profoundly learned himself, and at the same time distinguished by excellent sense and abundant wit, he could detect the errours of the most celebrated writers. He thus exposes the ignorance of Voltaire. Scanderbeg (says the Frenchman) was son of a despot, or little prince of Messrs. Editors, 6 Albany; that is to say, of a vassal prince, for so the word signified ; and it is strange, that the word despot should be appropriated to monarchs, who have made themselves absolute.' Voltaire Essai sur l'Histoire. II. 29. What ignorance! (says Jortin) to imagine that desfotick or despotism had its derivation from the title of these petty rulers. Though tributary princes have worn the pompous name of despot, yet originally Ass is a lord or master relatively to Auxos a slave; and so despotism means, properly and strictly, arbitrary and uncontroulable power. "A total ignorance of the learned languages (continues Jortin); an acquaintance with modern books, and with translations of old ones; some knowledge of modern languages; a smattering in natural philosophy, poetical talents, a vivacity of expression, and a large stock of impiety; these constitute a Voltaire, or a modern genius of the first rank, fit to be patronized by princes and caressed by nobles.' THOUGHTS ON PLAGIARISM. I NOTICED in your last some thoughts on plagiarism,with some extracts tending to show,that certain brilliant passages in celebrated works were borrowed or were imitations of predecessors. This is a nice subject, and requires a master's hand. "There is no new thing under the sun," and if we resolve to read and admire no-. thing but what is new and entirely original, we shall, I am afraid, deprive ourselves of a great deal of intellectual pleasure. The ingenious and candid Boileau has said, in the preface to his works, that wit and fine writing doth not consist so much in advancing things that are new, as in giving things that are known an agreeable turn. Mr. Addison, who quotes and applauds the passage, adds, that it is impossible for us, who live in the latter ages of the world, to make observations in criticism, morality, or in any art or science, which have not been touched upon by others. We have little else left us, but to represent the common sense of mankind in more strong, more beautiful, or more uncommon lights.' There have been but few originals in the world. Cannot we trace the logick now taught in all our colleges to Aristotle, who it seems invented it. Every thing praiseworthy in Horace's Art of Poetry may be found in the writings of the same mighty original. As to modern learning, if we reject all that is taken from Bacon, Newton, Hooke, Grew, Linnæus, and Priestley, to what a small number shall we reduce our publications. As in a political view we were colonies derived from Europe, so in a literary one we are colonies of that great mother country, especially England. As to our own native literature, our country has not yet arrived at the period of its encouragement. I should not be displeased, I confess, if our clergy would borrow more than they do from their elder brethren of Europe,especially England. As to our periodical publications I could wish them adorned with transatlantick silk and fine-twined linen; and not with tow-cloth, merely because it is homespun. I hate to see the disposition to hunt out resemblances, imitations, and strained plagiarisms. It discourages the young from attempting to express old things in a new way, when in truth that is all we ought to expect from them. Indignor quicquam reprehendi, non quia crasse Compositum, illepedeve putetur, sed quia nuper. W. ORIGINAL LETTER OF REV. SAMUEL MATHER. Messrs. Editors, The following letter is from the pen of Rev. Samuel Mather, a man who was not inferiour to any of his illustrious ancestors, and who closed the fourth generation of a family high in the ranks of natural aristocracy. The remarks are pleasant and ingenious, and highly recommendatory of the philosophick poet of Cato and Pharsalia. It seems to me a rich gem. I have read it as often as the medallist contemplates an exquisite camea, and my cabinet does not contain a rarity more precious. It was found among the papers of a clergyman, who died in this town a few years ago; and though the name of the person to whom it was written does not appear in the manuscript, yet I have learnt from high authority, reasoning on known facts and internal evidence, that it was addressed to the Rev. Nathaniel Walter, then a student in divinity under the care of Rev. Mr. White, of Cape Ann. The proposals for printing refer to the author's life of Rev. Cotton Mather. Mr. Henchman was then one of the deacons of the first church in this town, and kept a bookstore at No. 19, Cornhill, which was then the fashionable literary lounge of the clergy, and whence, on each Thursday, they proceeded in a body to the stated theological lecture. I could wish that your publick garden was adorned with every flower of rich fragrance and variegated hue, which now blooms |