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How inviting are the titles of some of the Fables: "The Lark and her young ones;" "The Lion in love;" "The Oak and the Reed;" "The wanton Calf;" "The Angler and the little Fish," &c. How productive of deep and serious thought are such as "The young Man and the Swallow;"" Cupid and Death;" "The old Man and Death." Were we to mention all that are good, we should name them all. The most mysterious to my young mind was "The Belly and the Members;" and I heartily commiserated the fate of the poor subject of dispute, who, between one and the other, seemed very likely to be forgotten: it remained for my riper experience to comprehend its meaning. One of Gay's, "The Miser and Plutus," ever haunted me in stormy nights, when the loud gusts shook the lattices of the old school-house; I thought with fearful iteration on the first line, "The wind is high, the window shakes," and had the apparition been any one but Plutus (who, though I knew it not, was not frightful) it would have been a minister of terror. In the "Ass eating thistles," we almost lick our lips at the "fine large thistle" which he so relishes, rather than at the pack-saddle of capons. We exult at the old mouse's escape from the wily cat's whiskers, who, being cunning beyond her sphere, must needs hang herself on a peg by the hind legs, to invite the curiosity of her simple enemies, and while they were exulting in her death, thought to spoil their sport by making them her prey.

The pleasant confabulations of the animals are replete with huma-nity; even the evil speeches have a redeeming quality of ignorance to take off the ugliness of vice. "The Elephant in the Bookseller's shop" is the most congenial of animals, in bulk and sagacity, for such an element; he looks grave and polite,-two especial qualities of wisdom: the bookseller seems conscious of the greatness of his guest (not customer). I mean a compliment when I say it reminds me of Dr. Johnson.

The l'envoy of Gay's political Fables is social: Esop's are addressed to mankind. Gay's are easy and unassuming; his powers of sense and wit were well adapted to this species of profitable wisdom; and his poetical genius was not too vast. The Fables, and his immortal "Beggars' Opera," are a-kin, and are his best works.

The Fables of Æsop and others have been beautifully embellished by the industrious Mr. Bewick, the wood-engraver, in a style not a whit inferior to the old cuts in design, and superior in execution. The same identity of scenery is given with equal effect; and those delicious morçeaux, the tail-pieces, are Hogarthian. "The History of Birds and Quadrupeds," by the same artist, (so well known to every admirer of wood-cuts,) must be included in this humble compliment to his ingenuity and perseverance.

GASTON.

MILK AND HONEY, OR THE LAND OF PROMISE.

LETTER VIII.

MISS LYDIA BARROW TO MISS KITTY BROWN.

CONTENTS.

Reminiscence of White Conduit House.-Islington Wells versus Tunbridge.-Sir Solomon's Song.-Hugh Middleton and John Gilpin.-Cowper and the New River Company. Bentham, Bonaparte, and Accum.-Lydia turns Reformer.—American Ladies dancing Moneymusk.-They mistake James Paine for Tom.- Episodical Eulogy of the former.-Ball at Čity Hotel, New York.-" All honourable Men."-Bear and Fiddle.

DEAR Kate, you remember Sir Solomon Souse,

Who gave the tea party at White Conduit House;
And swore, while we sat in the box of Apollo,
That Islington waters beat Tunbridge Wells hollow.
Papa, he, and we, leaving others to bowl,

Walk'd out, toward the Wells, just by way of a stroll;
He stopp'd us all three at the Middleton's Head,
Then pointed aloft to the sign-post, and said,
"The hooded old man, who is swinging up there,
Set off, spade in hand, and took water to Ware:

As Hercules valiant, he treated with scorn

Dame Prudence, and took River Thames by the horn.
John Gilpin, the Cit, who in calico dealt,

And rode with two full bottles under his belt,

Set off, whip in hand, in old Middleton's rear,

But kept the Cheap-side, where the Knight kept the dear.
Both wild-goose adventurers, equally rash,
The Cit lost his dinner, the Knight lost his cash;
Will Cowper got many a pound by the first,
The last has in gold quench'd the Company's thirst,
Who now gain a hundred per cent by his wealth,
And don't even drink in the water his health.
'Tis thus that projectors the game always give in,
And fools run up houses-for wise men to live in.
See sail to the Wells yonder pleasure-bound crew,
All talk of Grimaldi, none think of Sir Hugh.
Friend Barrow, take warning: keep snug in the storm :
Cajole men and welcome; but never reform:
With Bentham bewilder, with Bonaparte frighten,
With Accum astonish: do all but enlighten:

Who aims at enlightening, only out doles

An ophthalmic drug to a nation of moles."

This sermon, like most other sermons, dear Kitty,
Went bolt through both ears of Papa-more's the pity!
With politics still he would make his old fuss,

And settling the nation, he unsettled us :

For, deeming long parliaments snares to entrap 'em,
He made us put up with short commons at Clapham.
Popt down in my Album, Sir Solomon's song
Slept sound as a sexton, and might have slept long;
But lately I've taken it down from the shelf

To read, for-I'm turning Reformer myself!

Nay, don't cry" Lord bless us !"- I don't mean to roar
'Gainst cradle cotillons, like Miss Hannah More,

Nor leave my own fish by Grimalkin to die,

To dress other people's, like good Mrs. Fry.

I leave hearts and heads to Reformers like those,

I only, dear girl, revolutionize toes.

Kitty Brown, would you think it? I don't say the fault's in
Themselves; but the girls here know nothing of waltzing.
I found them in Moneymusk kicking their heels,
And when I named Paine, and his set of Quadrilles,
(I wonder what planet some people come from)
The poor ignoramusses thought I meant Tom.
How could, gentle James, the New York women be
So dull as to mix that stay-maker with thee?
What though Brother Richard, as usual, out plumps
A pun, and declares that you both deal in Jumps-
Shalt thou, who 'midst Negus and tapers of wax,
Art christen'd, par excellence, Paine of Almack's;
Who set, to an entre-chat-La ci la mano,
And jigg'd the dead march on an open piano-
Shalt thou be mix'd up with that infidel Turk,
Who scribbled a pamphlet in answer to Burke?
Let White print his rival La Poulle and Trenise,
And dedicate humbly to Mrs. Charles Rees;
Let Hart, like Phil Ástley, make horses turn dancers,
And play Zitti Zitti to Hussars and Lancers.
Fear nothing cut capers: be frisky and merry;
Not even Musard, with his Duchesse de Berry,
His Traversez, chassez, dechassez, La Cheine,
Shall push from the music-stand gentle James Paine.
Long, long shalt thou flourish, the King of Quadrilles ;
And when, over Styx, 'midst the virtuous of heels,
Thou 'rt borne to the meadows Elysian, with you
The daughter of Ceres shall dance a pas-deux :
While Hermes shall lend you his feather-bound shoes,
And whirl you to bliss in a Russian Sauteuse.

And now, my dear Kate, for the best news of all:
We have worried Papa into giving a ball.

As soon as he squeez'd out a sad" Very well,"
Dick hired the rooms at the City Hotel.
We danced until midnight on Saturday last,

And, spite of a head-ache, I'll tell you what pass'd.
The Natives, who came about half-after-eight,
Were duly announced by their titles of State.
Their Honours Mat Mite and Aminadab Mum,
The one dealt in cheese, the other in Rum.

His Honour Ben Block, who contracts with the Fleet,
And keeps a mahogany yard in State-street:
His Honour Luke Lambert, a huge lump of clay,
Who luckily happens to live in Broad-way.

They all seem'd amazingly shy of plain Mister;

Which made Brother Richard observe to my Sister,
That though they hate titles as much as O'Connor,
They cling like a Leech to the sound of "Your Honour."-
And
now for my dress-but my paper 's scrawl'd through,
So no more at present.-Dear Kitty, adieu!

L.B.

THE MARTYR OF ANTIOCH*.

THIS poem possesses the characteristics of fine talents; whether it can be said to shew those of positive genius appears to us to be much more questionable. The whole of Mr. Milman's writings are calculated to afford interesting and instructive examples of cultivated intellect and taste, producing high effects of beauty without original powers of invention.

Higher poems of this author than the present, we conceive, would illustrate this position; but this production, we think, is remarkably calculated to prove it. The Martyr of Antioch belongs to that class of poetry which, perhaps, may be regarded as more valuable than any other that is not highly inventive, namely, that which places before us actual historical truth, rendered fresh and radiant to our perceptions by being clothed in a garb of imaginative beauty, which displays and sets off the form it covers, rather than conceals or gives it a false and deceitful appearance--a class which may in one sense of the words be called "Truth severe in fairy fiction dress'd."

The Martyr of Antioch is founded on the history of Saint Margaret; but Mr. Milman has merely availed himself of that portion of the history which relates, that she was the daughter of a heathen priest, and beloved by Olybius, the prefect of the East under the Emperor Probus. The rest of the legend has been discarded, and the outline filled up as the author's own imagination suggested.

The scene is laid at Antioch, and the poem opens before the celebrated temple of Apollo in the grove of Daphne; of which temple Margarita, the heroine, is at the outset of the poem supposed to be the chief priestess, and the especial favourite of the God. The scene is ushered in by a hymn, sung by the youths and maidens of Antioch, in the presence of the assembled priests, nobles, and people. This hymn is intended to indicate the close of the solemn rites which have just been paid to Apollo; and nothing is wanting to complete the splendid spectacle of the day, but

"The crown and palm-like grace of all,

The sacred virgin, on whose footsteps Beauty
Waits like a handmaid; whose most peerless form,
Light as embodied air, and pure as ivory

Thrice polish'd by the skilful statuary,

Moves in the priestess' long and flowing robes,

While our scarce-erring worship doth adore
The servant rather than the God."

The assembly wait for her for some time in breathless and admiring expectation; when at length a priest enters from the holy sanctuary, to announce that Margarita is not to be found, and that

"Trampled in the dust we found the laurel crown,
The lyre unstrung cast down upon the pavement,
And the dishonour'd robes of prophecy
Scatter'd unseemly here and there."-

In the midst of the general consternation occasioned by this unlookedfor absence, messengers arrive from Rome, bringing the Emperor's

"The Martyr of Antioch, a dramatic poem, by the Rev. H. H. Milman, Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford."

commands to Olybius for renewed severities against the Christians, who are known to have taken refuge in the neighbourhood of Antioch. While Olybius, who loves Margarita and is beloved by her, is, in pursuance of the new edict, denouncing the Christians and devoting them to death, she enters, clad in sackcloth and with ashes strewn upon her head. The multitude hail her with enthusiasm; but she, regardless of the scene before her, is rapt in her own thoughts

"She hath fall'n down upon her knees; her hair

Is scatter'd like a cloud of gold; her hands
Are clasp'd across her swelling breast; her eyes
Do hold a sad communion with the heavens,
And her lips move, yet make no sound."

This we take to be as lovely and perfect a picture as was ever copied by the pen from the pencil. It is, without exception, the most finished passage in the poem: indeed it is one of the best that was ever executed in its way; but we do not attach any very high value to such pictures, as it relates to the talent required to produce them. The reader will, of course, recognize its original in several of the Magdalenes of Guido, Carlo Dolce, &c. The priests attribute the few incoherent words and the distracted manner of Margarita to a special visitation from the God; and they lead her away amid the shouts of the people in honour of Olybius, "the Christian's scourge."-We now meet with Margarita passing alone at night through the grove of Daphne, where she is joined by Olybius, who declares his love for

her.

"On the Parthians' fiery sands

I look'd upon the blazing noontide sun,

And thought how lovely thou before his shrine
Wast standing with thy laurel-crowned locks.

And when my high triumphal chariot toil'd

Through Antioch's crowded streets, when every hand
Rain'd garlands, every voice dwelt on my name,

My discontented spirit panted still

For thy long silent lyre."

She seeks to disengage herself from him, and by her ambiguous words and manner, raises his suspicions of her faith and purity; but she dares not at present explain herself, or avow her new creed, because, as it appears afterwards, she is on her way to warn the Christians of their impending danger from the new edict of the Emperor. She therefore abruptly quits Olybius, and, arriving at the spot where the persecuted sect meet at night, relates the purport of her errand. At the close of this conference the Roman soldiers are heard approaching.

"They come :

Pale lights are gleaming through the dusky night,
And hurrying feet are trampling to and fro.

Disperse-disperse, my brethren, to your homes!-
Sweet Margarita, in the Hermitage

By clear Orontes, where so oft we've met,

Thou'lt find me still."

At day-break Margarita returns to the Temple, where she meets her doting father, who finds her hanging over her accustomed lyre, and hails her with delighted pride.

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