Stealing and giving sweets.

IN the year 1784 Dr. Hunter first appeared before the world, in the character of an author, by the publication of two volumes of his Sacred Biography. The plan of this work he had conceived, we are told, when young; and so favourable was the reception it experienced, as to encourage him to extend it to seven volumes. Previous, however, to the publication of the latter part of this work, accident introduced him to an acquaintance with a French edition of Lavater's Physiognomy. Whatever opinions Dr. Hunter embraced, he embraced warmly.' He was struck with the novelty and originality of thought displayed in the essays of that writer; he became an enthusiast in the cause; and determined to translate them into English. The same ardent spirit which had induced Dr. H. to adopt this scheme, prompted him to make a journey to Zurich, for the sake of a personal interview with Lavater. In August 1787 he accordingly repaired thither. It might have been reasonably expected,that a proceeding so romantick would have been considered by Lavater as no common compliment to him. But he did not receive Dr. Hunter with that frankness or generosity, to which so distinguished a mark of respect seemed fairly to entitle him. Lavater was jealous of Dr. H.'s undertaking, and thought the English translation likely to injure the sale of the French edition, in which he was interested. By degrees, however, his scruples were overcome, and he finally opened himself to the Doctor without reserve. In a letter, written by the

SHAKESP.

latter gentleman from Bern, a portrait of Lavater is drawn, and a descripttion of their last interview is given. This we consider as a curious literary morsel, and we shall make no apology for transcribing it into the Anthology.

"I was detained the whole morning by that strange, wild, eccentrick, Lavater, in various conversations. When once he is set agoing, there is no such thing as stopping him, till he run himself out of breath. He starts from subject to subject, flies from book to book, from picture to picture; measures your nose, your eye, your mouth, with a pair of compasses; pours forth a torrent of physiognomy upon you; drags you, for a proof of his dogma, to a dozen of closets, and unfolds ten thousand drawings; but will not let you open your lips to propose a difficulty: crams a solution down your throat, before you have uttered half a syllable of your objection. He is meagre as the picture of famine; his nose and chin almost meet. I read him in my turn,and found little difficulty in discovering, amidst great genius, unaffected piety, unbounded benevolence, and moderate learning; much caprice and unsteadiness; a mind at once aspiring by nature, and grovelling through necessity; an endless turn to speculation and project in a word, a clever, flighty, good-natured necessitous man. He did not conceal his dread of my English translation, as he thinks is will materially affect the sale of the third and fourth volumes of his French edition, one of which is actually published, and the other in the press."

SMITH'S POEM

TO THE MEMORY OF MR. JOHN

PHILIPS.

In 1709, a year after the exhibition of Phædra, died John Philips, the friend and fellow-collegian of Smith, who, on that occafion, wrote a poem, which justice must place among the best elegies which our language can fhew, an elegant mixture of fondness and admiration, of dignity and foftnefs. There are fome paffages too ludicrous; but every human performance has its faults. JOHNSON.

SINCE our Ifis filently deplores

The bard who spread her fame to diftant fhores; Since nobler pens their mournful lays fufpend, My honeft zeal, if not my verse, commend, Forgive the poet, and approve the friend. Your care had long his fleeting life reftrain 'd, One table fed you, and one bed contain'd; For his dear fake long reftlefs nights you bore, While rattling coughs his heaving veffels tore, Much was his pain, but your affliction more. Oh! had no fummons from the noisy gown Call'd thee, unwilling, to the nauseous town, Thy love had o'er the dull difeafe prevail'd, Thy mirth had cur'd where baffled phyfick fail'd; But fince the will of heaven his fate decreed, To thy kind care my worthlefs lines fucceed; Fruitlefs our hopes, though pious our essays, Yours to preferve a friend, and mine to praise.

Oh! might I paint him in Miltonian verse, With ftrains like thofe he fung on Glo'fter's herfe; But with the meaner tribe I'm forc'd to chime, And, wanting ftrength to rife, defcend to rhyme.

With other fire his glorious Blenheim shines, And all the battle thunders in his lines; His nervous verse great Boileau's strength trans cends,

And France to Philips, as to Churchill, bends.

Oh! various bard, you all our powers control, You now difturb, and now divert the foul: Milton and Butler in thy mufe combine, Above the laft thy manly beauties shine; For as I've feen, when rival wits contend, One gayly charge, one gravely wife defend; This on quick turns and points in vain relies, This with a look demure, and steady eyes, With dry rebukes, or fneering praife, replies. Vol. III. No. 7. 2X

So thy grave lines extort a jufter smile,
Reach Butler's fancy, but furpass his style;
He speaks Scarron's low phrafe in humble strains,
In thee the folemn air of great Cervantes reigns.

What founding lines his abject themes exprefs ! What thining words the pompous Shilling drefs! There, there my cell, immortal made, outvies The frailer piles which o'er its ruins rife.

in her beft light the comick mufe appears, When the, with borrow'd pride, the buskin wears.

So when nurse Nokes, to act young Ammon

tries,

With fhambling legs, long chin, and foolish eyes; With dangling hands he ftrokes th' Imperial robe, And, with a cuckold's air, commands the globe; The pomp and found the whole buffoon display'd, And Ammon's fon more mirth than Gomez made.

Forgive, dear shade, the fcene my folly draws, Thy trains divert the grief thy ashes caufe: When Orpheus fings, the ghofts no more com plain,

But, in his lulling mufick, lofe their pain:
So charm the fallies of thy Georgick muse,
So calm our forrows, and our joys infuse;
Here rural notes a gentle mirth inspire,
Here lofty lines the kindling reader fire,
Like that fair tree you praife, the poem charms,
Cools like the fruit, or like the juice it warms.

Bleft clime, which Vaga's fruitful streams im

prove,

Etruria's envy, and her Cofmo's love; Redftreak he quaffs beneath the Chiant vine, Gives Tuscan yearly for thy Scudmore's wine, And ev'n his Tao would exchange for thine. Rife, rife, Rofcommon, fee the Blenheim muse The dull conftraint of monkish rhyme refufe; See, o'er the Alps his towering pinions foar, Where never English poet reach'd before: See mighty Cofmo's counsellor and friend, By turns on Cofmo and the bard attend ; Rich in the coins and butts of ancient Rome, In him he brings a nobler treasure home; In them he views her gods, and domes defign'd, In him the foul of Rome, and Virgil's mighty

mind:

To him for cafe retires from toils of flate, Not half fo proud to govern, as translate.

Some fay this chain the doubtful fenfe decides,
Confines the fancy, and the judgment guides;
I'm fure in needlefs bonds it poets ties,
Procruftes-like, the ak or wheel applies,
To lop the mangled fenfe, or ftretch it into fize:
At beft a crutch, that lifts the weak along,
Supports the feeble, but retards the strong;
And the chance thoughts, when govern'd by the
clofe,

Oft rife to fuftian, or defcend to profe.
Your judgment, Philips, rul'd with fleady fway,
You us'd no curbing rhyme, the Mufe to flay,
To ftop her fury, or direct her way.
Thee on the wing thy uncheck'd vigoar borë,
Tó wanton freely, or fecurely foar.

So the ftretch'd cord the fhackle-dancer tries, As prone to fall, as impotent to rife; When freed he moves, the fturdy cable bends, He mounts with pleafure, and fecure defcends; Now dropping feems to strike the diftant ground, Now high in air his quivering feet redound.

Rail on, ye triflers, who to Will's repair For new lampoons, fresh cant, or modth air ; Rail on at Milton's fon, who wifely bold Rejects new phrafes, and resumes the old : Thus Chaucer lives in younger Spenser's strains, In Maro's page reviving Ennius reigns; The ancient words the majefty complete, And make the poem venerably great: So when the queen in royal habit's dreft, Old myftick emblems grace th' imperial vest, And in Eliza's robes all Anna itands confeft.

A haughty bard, to fame by volumes rais'd, At Dick's, and Batfon's, and through Smithfield, prais'd,

Cries out aloud-Bold Oxford bard, forbear
With rugged numbers to torment my ear;
Yet not Mke thee the heavy critick foars,
But paints in fuftian, or in turn deplores;
With Bunyan's ftyle prophanes heroick songs,
To the tenth page lean homilies prolongs;
For far-fetch'd rhymes makes puzzled angels
ftrain,

And in low profe dull Lucifer complain;
His envious Muse, by native dulness curst,
Damns the beft poems, and contrives the worft.

Beyond his praife or blame thy works prevail Complete where Dryden and thy Milton fail; Great Milton's wing on lower themes fubfides, And Dryden oft in rhyme his weakness hides; You ne'er with jingling words deceive the ear, And yet, on humble subjects, great appear. Thrice happy youth, whom noble His crowns! Whom Blackmore cenfures, and Godolphin owns: So on the tuneful Margarita's tongue The liftening nymphs and ravish'd heroes hung: But cits and fops the heaver.-born mufick blame, And bawl, and hifs, and damn her into fame ; Like her sweet voice, is thy harmonious fong, As high, as fweet, as çafy, and as strong.

Oh! had relenting heaven prolong'd his days, The towering bard had fung in nobler lays, How the last trumpet wakes the lazy dead, How faints aloft the cross triumphant spread : How opening heavens their happy regions show; And yawning golphs with flaming vengeance glow; And faints rejoice above, and tinners howl below: Well might he fing the day he could not fear, And paint the glories he was fure to wear.

Oh beft of friends, will ne'er the filent urn
To our juft vows the hapless youth return?
Must he no more divert the tedious day?
Nor fparkling thoughts in antique words convey?
No more to harmless irony defcend,
To noify fools a grave attention lend,
Nor merry tales with learn'd quotations blend!
No more in falfe pathetick phrafe complain
Of Delia's wit, her charms, and her diïdain?
Who now shall godlike Anna's fame diffuse?
Muit the, when moft the merits, want a muse?
Who now our Twyfden's glorious fate shall tell;
How lov'd he liv'd, and how deplor'd he fell?
How, while the troubled elements around,
Earth, water, air, the ftunning din refound;
Through ftreams of smoke, and adverse fire, he
rides,

While every hot is level'd at his fides?
How, while the fainting Dutch remotely fire,
And the fam'd Eugene's iron troops retire,
In the first front, amidst a flaughter'd pile,
High on the mound he dy'd near great Argyle.

Whom shall I find unbiafs'd in difpute,
Eager to learn, unwilling to confute?
To whom the labours of my foul difclofe,
Reveal my pleasure, or discharge my woes?
Oh! in that heavenly youth for ever ends
The beft of fons, of brothers, and of friends.
He facred Friendship's ftricteft laws obey'd,
Yet more by Confcience than by Friendship fway'd;
Againft himself his gratitude maintain'd,
By favours pafl, not future prospects gain'd:
Not nicely choofing, though by all defir'd,
Though learn'd, not vain; and humble, though
admir'd:

Candid to all, but to himself fevere,
In humour pliant, as in life auftere.
A wife content his even foul fecur'd,
By want not fhaken, nor by wealth allur’d.
To all fincere, though carneft to commend,
Could praise a rival, or condemn a friend.
To him old Greece and Rome were fully known,
Their tongues, their spirits, and their flyles, his

own:

Pleas'd the leaft fteps of famous then to view,
Our authors' works, and lives, and fouls, he knew;
Paid to the learn'd and great the same efteem,
The one his pattern, and the one his theme :
With equal judgment his capacious mind
Warm Pindar's rage, and Euclid's reafon join'd.
Judicious phyfick's noble art to gain
All drugs and plants explor'd, alas, in vain !
The drugs and plants their drooping mafter fail'd;
Nor goodness now, nor learning ought availd !

Yet to the bard his Churchill's foul they gave, And made him fcorn the life they could not favo:

Elfe could he bear unmov'd, the fatal gueft, The weight that all his fainting limbs oppreft, The coughs that struggled from his weary breath ? Could he unmov'd approaching death sustain ? Its flow advances, and its racking pain? Could he forene his weeping friends survey, In his laft hours his easy wit difplay,

Like the rich fruit he fings, delicious in decay?,

Once on thy friends look down, lamented skade,
And view the honours to thy afhes paid;
Some thy lov'd duft in Parian stones enfhrine,
Others immortal epitaphs defign,

With wit, and ftrength, that only yields to thine:
Ev'n I, though flow to touch the painful string,
Awake from flumber, and attempt to fing.
Thee, Philips, thee despairing Vaga mourns,
And gentle His foft complaints returns ;
Dormer laments amidit the war's alarms,
And Cecil weeps in beauteous Tufton's arms:
Thee, on the Po, kind Somerset deplores,
And even that charming scene his grief reftores :
He to thy lofs each mournful air applies,
Mindful of thee on huge Faburnus lies,

But most at Virgil's tomb his swelling forrows rife.

But you, his darling friends, lament no more, Display his fame, and not his fate deplore; And let no tears from erring pity flow, For one that's blett above, immortalized below.

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.

On the ever-lamented loss of the two Yew Trees, in the parish of Chilthorne, Somerset, 1708. Imitated from the eighth book of

Ovid.

BY SWIFT.

IN ancient times, as story tells,

The faints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hofpitality.

It happen'd on a winter-night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother-hermits, faints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Difguis'd in tatter'd habits, went To a small village down in Kent; Where, in the strollers' canting strain, They begg'd from door to door in vain, Tried every tone might pity win ; But not a foul would let them in.

Our wandering faints, in woful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having through all the village past, To a small cottage cathe at last! Where dwelt a good old honeft ye'man, Called in the neighbourhood Philemon ; Who kindly did these faints invite In his poor hut to pass the night; And then the hospitable sire

Bid goody Baucis mend the fire ;
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
And freely from the fatteft fide
Cut out large flices to be fry'd;
Then step'd afide to fetch them drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,
And faw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful !) they found
'Twas fill replenish'd to the top,
As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.
The good old couple were amaz'd,
And often on each other gaz'd;
For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And just began to cry,-What ar't!
Then foftly turn'd afide to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,
Told them their calling, and their errand:
Good folks, you need not be afraid,
No hurt fhall come to you or yours:
We are
but faints, the hermits faid;
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses fhall be drown'd;
Whilst you shall fee your cottage rife,
And grow a church before your eyes.
They scarce had fspoke, when fair and
foft

The roof began to mount aloft ;
Aloft rofe every beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climbed slowly after.
The chimney widen'd, and grew
higher,
Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoift,
And there ftood fastened to a joist,
But with the upside down, to fhow
Its inclination for below :
In vain ; for a fuperiour force,
Apply'd at bottom, stops its course :