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nius of Voltaire; I hold them in high admiration, and really wish he stood as fair in the account of religion, philosophy and literary candour: but he was grievously tormented with three devils; with envy, hatred, and malice" towards every man whose reputation moved in the same orbit with his own.

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Monsieur le comte de Catuelan, Monsieur le Tourneur, and, Monsieur Fontaine Malherbe, had undertaken a translation of the works of Shakspeare into French, and published a commendation of their author. This stirred up the wrath of Voltaire to its very dregs. One of his letters on the subject was addressed to Monsieur D'Argenteuil, and is as follows:

MY DEAR FRIEND,

Ferney, July 19, 1776.

I hear that Monsieur de St. Julian is just arrived in my desert with Le Kain. If this news be true, I am quite surprised and quite overjoyed. But I must also tell you, how angry I am, for the honour of the gang, against one Tourneur, who is said to be secretary to a set of book-makers, but who does not appear to be a secretary of taste. Pray have you read two miserable volumes, in which he would have us look upon Shakspeare as the only perfect model of tragedy? He calls him the god of the theatre; he sacrifices all the French dramatists, without exception, to this idol, as they formerly used to sacrifice hogs to Ceres. He does not deign to name Corneille or Racine: these two great men are only enveloped in the general proscription, without their names being pronounced. There are already two volumes printed of this Shakspeare; which one would take to be pieces composed for Bartholomewfair two hundred years ago. This rascal has found means to engage the king, the queen, and all the royal family, to subscribe to his work.

Pray have you read this abominable conjuring book of which here are to be five volumes more? Do you feel sufficient hatred against this impudent blockhead? Can you bear the aífront which he throws on the whole French nation? You and monsieur de Thoubeville are too milky. There are not in France enough of foolscaps, enough of pillories for such a knave! The blood boils in my veins when I speak of him; if he has not put you in a passion, I hold you to be incapable of feeling. The worst of it is, that the monster has a party in France; and what is peculiarly unfortunate, 'twas I that formerly talked of this Shakspeare; 'twas I that shewed the French some pearls which I found on his enormous dunghill. I little thought that I should help to tread under foot the crowns of Racine and Corneille, to adorn the head of a buffoon and a barbarian.

I beg you would endeavour to be as much in a passion as I am, otherwise I feel myself capable of committing some desperate deed. As to my friend, monsieur Gilbert, I wish he may go full gallop to the pillory.

I have the honour to be, &c. &c.

Now would any body imagine that this is the letter of a scholar and a gentleman? Is it not rather the raving of a madman, the anger of a fish-woman? And what is the offence that brings forth this torrent of abuse? An attempt to introduce to the knowledge of the French people, the works of Shakspeare; of whom Voltaire himself has condescended to talk. The truth is that this vain, irascible Frenchman had been in the habit of stealing pearls from this "enormous dunghill," and could not bear that the source of his wealth should be discovered. Like Ali Baba, in the tale of the Forty Thieves, he wished to have the exclusive knowledge of this cave of inexhaustible treasures; into which he might enter in secret, and then astonish the world with a display of his magnificence. The contemplated translation would have brought the works of the English dramatist into a general acquaintance in France, where certainly very little was known of them even among the learned. In another letter of Voltaire upon this subject to the French academy, he says "some of you, gentlemen, know that Shakspeare wrote a tragedy called Hamlet." If only some of this learned body knew that Shakspeare had written such a tragedy, it is probable that his very name was unknown to the nation in general. I do not believe Voltaire indulged all this passion merely for the disrespect he thinks is shown to Racine and Corneille. He will be better understood if wherever these names occur in the letter we blot them out, and write Voltaire in their place, or at least add it to them. He was particularly fond of considering himself at the head of dramatic poetry; and raged at the approach of a rival. It was not the crown of Corneille or Racine he was so anxious about; but he knew that his own was studded with the pearls of Shakspeare. It has been asserted that Voltaire afterwards repented of this disgraceful animosity, and did homage to the genius of the English dramatist.

ORIGINAL POETRY-FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

ODE TO MYSELF.

Qui miser in sylvis moerens errabit opacis,
Ipse suum cor edens, hominum vestigia vitans.

In vain proud man thou seek'st to hide
The floods of grief which o'er thee roll;
In vain thy high indignant soul,
With scorn repels the flowing tide!

In vain with conscious honour bold,
Thy haughty frown-contracted brow
Disdains with humble mien to bow,
Or shrink from harsh Misfortune's hold!

Heaven frown'd indignant at thy birth,
And Misery mark'd thee for her own;
Alas, poor youth! thou stand'st alone,
Without a single friend on earth.

Without one friend whose feeling breast
Will beat responsive to thy grief;
Whose fond endeavours for relief,
Might lull thy anguished soul to rest.

The only refuge earth could give,

To sooth thy troubled bosom's pains, Another there triumphant reigns, And can'st thou then endure to live?

Oh canst thou tamely live to know

Thy dearest fondest hopes destroyed? Canst thou taste misery unalloyed, Nor break from such a scene of wo?

Death has no terrors for the brave,

For him whose soul no vice e'er knew;
The man to virtuous feeling true,

Can calm survey the silent grave.

Then boldly break the feeble chain Which binds thee to this wretched life, Oh! leave at once this scene of strife; And in the tomb forget thy pain.

GUIDO SELVAGGIO.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

MARY IN LOVE.

Though Mary loves, still do we feel
'Tis sweet each lingering blush to view,
To mark what witching glances steal
From her dark eye of brilliant blue.

And though that fair and sylphid form
Enshrines no more her virgin heart,
Her ruby lips still boast the charm,
A glow of rapture to impart.

Though Mary's heart (too rich a prize)
Shall ne'er its plighted faith reclaim
From him, who wak'd her glowing sighs,
Who lighted first the hallowed flame;

Still do we love that pensive air,

Where soft emotion is expressed,
Still dwell upon those features rare,
With tenderness and hope impressed.

Though her affection's opening flower,
Reserves its fragrance to reward
The youth, who, in the nuptial hour,
Shall reign supreme "her bosom's lord."

A bright, bewitching bloom remains,
Still to her form attraction lends,
Her cheek its vestal glow retains,

And purity with sweetness blends.

But though that eye of dazzling beam,

That lovely cheek's enchanting hue
Display each feeling's faintest gleam,

To nature and to passion true;

Can these with Mary's voice compare?
Her dulcet tones and syren song,
That melody which floats in air

And steals the raptur'd soul along.

Oft when the vesper planet reigns,
Illuming night with splendors pale,
Fancy might feign such plaintive strains
To linger in the sighing gale.

Or sounds so sweet, perchance, might flow
From some chaste convent's sacred shrine,
Where nuns with holy fervour glow,

And virgins chant their hymns divine.

Yes! could we hear the anthem swell,
When some pure spirit wings its flight:
Some sainted sister's requiem knell,

Which wafts the soul to realms of light,

Then should we think 'twas Mary sung
Of pray'r and praise, and sins forgiv'n;
While angels o'er the minstrel hung,
To guide the seraph notes to heaven.
New-York, 1810.

E.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

APOSTROPHE OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF E. C. AET.

DEAR LITTLE INNOCENT! thy artless smile,
Thy prattling tongue, so sweet, so voluble,
Full oft have sooth'd the weary hours

That press the mother's heart. Deceitful Hope
In Expectation's fondest dreams, had smiled
On thy fair promise! But thou hast left us!

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