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NOTE TO CANTO XIII.
Note 1. Stanza vii.
Right honestly," he liked an honest hater.” “Sir, I like a good hater." See the Life of Dr. Johnson, &c.
Note 2. Stanza xxvi.
Note 3. Stanza xlv.
They and their bills, " Arcadians both, are left.
« Arcades ambo."
Note 4. Sianza lxxi.
Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's.
Note 5. Stanza lxxii.
His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish, If I err dot, “Your Dane” is one of lago's Catalogue of Nations " exquisite in their drinking."
Note 6. Stanza lxxvij.
Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura.
Note 7. Stanza xcvi.
"That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies." “ Mrs. Adams answered Mr. Adams, that it was blasphemous to talk of Scripture out of church.” This dogma was broached to her husband—the best christian in any book. See Joseph Andrews, in the latter chapters.
Note 8. Stanza cvi.
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it. It would have taught him humanity at least. This sentimental savage, whom it is a mode to quote (amongst the novelists) to show their sympathy for innocent sports and old songs, teaches how to sew up frogs, and break their legs by way of experiment, in addition to the art of angling, the cruellest, the coldest, and the stupidest of pretended sports. They may talk about the beauties of nature, but the angler merely thinks of his dish of fish; he has no leisure to take his eyes from off the streams, and a single bite is worth to him more than all the scenery around. Besides, some fish bite best on a rainy day. The whale, the shark, and the tunny fishery have somewhat of noble and perilous in them; even net-fishing, trawling, &c., are more humane and useful—but angling !-No angler can be a good man.
“One of the best men I ever knew-as humane, delicate-minded, generous, and excellent a creature as any in the world—was an angler: true, he angled with painted Alies, and would have been incapable of the extravagances of I. Walton.”
The above addition was made by a friend in reading over the MS.-“ Audi alteram partem”-I leave it to counterbalance my own observation.
Of thought we could but snatch a certainty,
But then 't would spoil much good philosophy.
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny;
And eats her parents, albeit the digestion
After due search, your faith to any question ?
You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one. Nothing more true than not to trust your senses ; And yet, what are your other evidences?
after all turn out untrue. An age may come, font of eternity,
When nothing shall be either old or new.
Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet
his debt At once without instalments (an old way
Of paying debts, which creditors regret)
V. 'T is round him, near him, here, there, every where;
And there 's a courage which grows out of fear, Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare
The worst to know it :-when the mountains rear Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there
You look down o'er the precipice, and drear The gulf of rock yawns, you can't gaze a minute Without an awful wish to plunge within it.
VI. 'T is true, you don't—but, pale and struck with terror,
Retire: but look into your past impression ! And
you will find, though shuddering at the mirror Of your own thoughts, in all their self confession, The lurking bias, be it truth or error,
To the unknown; a secret prepossession, To plunge with all your fears—but where? You know not, And that's the reason why you do—or do not.
Gent. reader, nothing; a mere speculation,
Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion,
This narrative is not meant for parration,
Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind blows ;” And such a straw, borne on by human breath,
Is poesy, according as the mind glows;
A shadow which the onward soul behind throws
For I have seen a portion of that same,
Of passions too, I 've proved enough to blame,
Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame :
The other : that 's to say, the clergy–who
head have bid their thunders break In pious libels by no means a few.
I can't help scribbling once a-week, Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. In youth I wrote because my mind was full, And now because I feel it growing dull.
Of fame or profit, when the world grows weary.
Why drink? Why read ?—To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards
On what I 've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery; And what I write I cast
the stream, To swim or sink-I 've had at least my dream.
I hardly could compose another line :
That no defeat can drive me from the Nine.
And yet 't is not affected, I opine.
my Muse by no means deals in fiction :
But mostly sings of human things and acts-
For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts;
Also a seasoning slight of lucubration ;
A slight glance thrown on men of every station.
you have nought else, here 's at least satiety
Both in performance and in preparation;