BOOK I

'll tell thee now (dear love) what thou shalt do To anger destiny, as she doth us; How I shall stay, though she eloign me thus, And how posterity shall know it too; How thine may out-endure Sibyl's glory, and obscure Her who from Pindar could allure, And her, through whose help Lucan is not lame, And her, whose book (they say) Homer did find, and name.

Study our manuscripts, those myriads Of letters, which have passed 'twixt thee and me; Thence write our annals, and in them will be To all whom love's subliming fire invades Rule and example found; There the faith of any ground No schismatic will dare to wound, That sees how Love this grace to us affords, To make, to keep, to use, to be these his records.

This book, as long-lived as the elements, Or as the world's form, this all-gravèd tome In cypher writ, or new-made idiom; We for Love's clergy only are instruments; When this book is made thus, Should again the ravenous Vandals and the Goths invade us, Learning were safe; in this our universe, Schools might learn sciences, spheres music, angels verse.

Here Love's divines--since all divinity Is love or wonder--may find all they seek, Whether abstract spiritual love they like, Their souls exhaled with what they do not see; Or, loth so to amuse Faith's infirmity, they choose Something which they may see and use; For, though mind be the heaven, where love doth sit, Beauty a convenient type may be to figure it.

Here more than in their books may lawyers find, Both by what titles mistresses are ours, And how prerogative these states devours, Transferred from Love himself to womankind; Who, though from heart and eyes, They exact great subsidies, Forsake him who on them relies; And for the cause, honour or conscience give; Chimeras vain as they or their prerogative.

Here statesmen--or of them, they which can read-- May of their occupation find the grounds; Love, and their art, alike it deadly wounds, If to consider what 'tis, one proceed. In both they do excel, Who the present govern well, Whose weakness none doth, or dares, tell; In this thy book, such will there something see, As in the Bible some can find out alchemy.

Thus vent thy thoughts; abroad I'll study thee, As he removes far off, that great heights takes; How great love is, presence best trial makes, But absence tries how long this love will be; To take a latitude Sun, or stars, are fitliest viewed At their brightest, but to conclude Of longitudes, what other way have we, But to mark when and where the dark eclipses be?

J. DONNE.

THE BOOK OF THE BRAIN

... From the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there; And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain.

W. SHAKESPEARE. _Hamlet._

LOVE'S PURVEYOR

No greater grief than to remember days Of joy, when misery is at hand. That kens Thy learned instructor. Yet so eagerly If thou art bent to know the primal root, From whence our love gat being, I will do As one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day, For our delight we read of Lancelot, How him love thralled. Alone we were, and no Suspicion near us. Oft-times by that reading Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue Fled from our altered cheek. But at one point Alone we fell. When of that smile we read, The wishèd smile so rapturously kissed By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er From me shall separate, at once my lips All trembling kissed. The book and writer both Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day We read no more.

DANTE. _Inferno._

THE DOUBLE LESSON

Maiden of Padua, on thy lap Thus lightly let the volume lie; And as within some pictured map Fair isles and waters we descry, Trace out, with white and gliding finger, Along the truth-illumined page, Its golden lines and words that linger In memory's cell, from youth to age.

The young Preceptor at thy side Had pupil ne'er before so fair; And though that scholar be thy guide, He sits that fellow-learner there. As every page unfolds its meaning, As every rustling leaf turns o'er, He finds, whilst o'er thy studies leaning, Beauty where all was dull before.

Familiar is the book to him, A record of heroic deed; Yet deems he now his eyes were dim, And thine have taught them first to read. Now fades in him the scholar's glory; For he would give the fame he sought, With thee to read the simplest story, And learn what sages never taught.

The precious wealth of countless books, Lies stowed within his grasping mind; Yet should he not peruse thy looks, He now were more than Ignorance blind. From many a language, old, enchanting, Rare truths to nations he enrolls; But one old language yet was wanting, The one you teach him--tis the soul's.

* * * * *

Full long this lesson, Pupil fair! All pupils else hath he forsook; He draws still nearer to thy chair, And bends yet closer o'er the book. As time flies on, now fast, now fleeter, More slowly is the page turned o'er; The lesson seems to both the sweeter, And more enchanting grows the lore.

The book now yields a tenderer theme; The Master loses all his art, The Pupil droops as in a dream, And both are reading with one heart. His eyes upraised a moment glisten With hope, and joy, and fear profound; While thine, oh, Maiden! do they _listen_? They seem to _hear_ his sigh's faint sound.

But hark! what sound indeed breaks through The silence of that life-long hour! Melodious tinklings, such as sue For favour near a lady's bower. Ah! Maid of Padua, music swelling In tribute to thy radiant charms, Now greets thee in thy father's dwelling, To woo thee from a father's arms.

The suitor comes with song and lute, Youth, riches, pleasures, round him wait; Go bid him, Paduan Maid, be mute, Thy lot is cast, he comes too late! One lesson given, and one received, The Book prevails, the Lute's denied; With love thy inmost heart has heaved, And thou shalt be a student's bride.

S. LAMAN BLANCHARD.

CUPID AND THE BOOK OF POEMS

Cadenus many things had writ: Vanessa much esteemed his wit, And called for his Poetic Works: Meantime the boy in secret lurks; And, while the book was in her hand, The urchin from his private stand Took aim, and shot with all his strength A dart of such prodigious length, It pierced the feeble volume through, And deep transfixed her bosom too. Some lines, more moving than the rest, Stuck to the point that pierced her breast, And, borne directly to her heart, With pains unknown increased her smart.

J. SWIFT. _Cadenus and Vanessa._

BOOKS AS SPOKESMEN

O! LET my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast.

W. SHAKESPEARE. _Sonnet XXIII._

TO HIS BOOK: OF HIS LADY

Happy, ye leaves, when as those lily hands, Which hold my life in their dead doing might, Shall handle you, and hold in love's soft bands, Like captives trembling at the victor's sight. And happy lines on which, with starry light, Those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to look, And read the sorrows of my dying spright, Written with tears in heart's close bleeding book. And happy rhymes bathed in the sacred brook Of Helicon, whence she derivèd is, When ye behold that Angel's blessèd look, My soul's long-lackèd food, my heaven's bliss. Leaves, lines, and rhymes, seek her to please alone, Whom if ye please, I care for other none.

E. SPENSER. _Amoretti._

TO THE LADY LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD

And this fair course of knowledge whereunto Your studies, learned Lady, are addressed, Is the only certain way that you can go Unto true glory, to true happiness: All passages on earth besides, are so Incumbered with such vain disturbances; As still we lose our rest in seeking it, Being but deluded with appearances; And no key had you else that was so fit To unlock that prison of your sex, as this; To let you out of weakness, and admit Your powers into the freedom of that bliss That sets you there where you may oversee This rolling world, and view it as it is; And apprehend how the outsides do agree With the inward being of the things we deem And hold in our ill-cast accounts, to be Of highest value and of best esteem; Since all the good we have rests in the mind, By whose proportions only we redeem Our thoughts from out confusion, and do find The measure of our selves, and of our powers.

* * * * *

And though books, madam, cannot make this mind, Which we must bring apt to be set aright; Yet do they rectify it in that kind, And touch it so, as that it turns that way Where judgement lies: and though we cannot find The certain place of truth, yet do they stay And entertain us near about the same; And give the soul the best delight that may Encheer it most, and most our spirits inflame To thoughts of glory, and to worthy ends.

S. DANIEL.

A BOOK OF FLESH AND BLOOD

There's a lady for my humour! A pretty book of flesh and blood, and well Bound up, in a fair letter, too. Would I Had her, with all the Errata.

First I would marry her, that's a verb material, Then I would print her with an _index Expurgatorius_; a table drawn Of her court heresies; and when she's read, _Cum privilegio_, who dares call her wanton?

J. SHIRLEY. _The Cardinal._

WOMEN'S EYES

From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain, and nourish all the world.

W. SHAKESPEARE. _Love's Labour's Lost._

My only books Were woman's looks,-- And folly's all they've taught me.

T. MOORE.

[Greek: UPOTHÊKÊ EIS EMAUTON]

Back to thy books! The swift hours spent in vain Are flown and gone: Thou hast no charm to lure them, or regain What loss hath won.

Up from thy sleep! The dream of idle love, So frail and fair, Hath vanished, and its golden wings above Melt in mid air.

Stand not, nor gaze astonied at the skies, Serenely cold: They have no answer for thine eager eyes; Thy tale is told.

Fool, in all folly cradled, swathed from sense, To trust a toy; To purchase from pronounced indifference A shallow joy;

To leave thy studious native heights untrod For that low soil, Where momentary blossoms deck the sod; To pant and toil

In hungry chasings of the painted fly, That fluttered past-- Back to thy summits, where what cannot die Survives the blast!

There, throned in solitary calm, forget Who wrung thy heart: Long hours and days of silent years may yet Restore a part

Of that large heritage and realm sublime, Which, love-elate, Thou fain would'st barter for the fields that time Makes desolate.

J. A. SYMONDS.

OF A NEW MARRIED STUDENT THAT PLAYED FAST AND LOOSE

A student, at his book so placed That wealth he might have won, From book to wife did flit in haste, From wealth to woe to run. Now, who hath played a feater cast, Since juggling first begun? In _knitting_ of himself so _fast_, Himself he hath _undone_.

SIR T. MORE (?)

MARRIAGE AND BOOKS

I understand with a deep sense of sorrow of the indisposition of your Son: I fear he hath too much _mind_ for his _body_, and that superabounds with fancy, which brings him to these fits of distemper, proceeding from the black humour of melancholy: moreover, I have observed that he is too much given to his study and self-society, 'specially to converse with dead men, I mean Books: you know anything in excess is naught. Now, sir, were I worthy to give you advice, I could wish he were well married, and it may wean him from that bookish and thoughtful humour.--J. HOWELL. _Familiar Letters._

MARRIAGE! MY YEARS ARE YOUNG

Marriage, uncle! alas! my years are young, And fitter is my study and my books Than wanton dalliance with a paramour.

W. SHAKESPEARE. _First Part of King Henry the Sixth._

LOVE AND THE LIBRARY

I do not know that I am happiest when alone; but this I am sure of, that I am never long even in the society of her I love without a yearning for the company of my lamp and my utterly confused and tumbled-over library.--G. GORDON, LORD BYRON.

A COUNTER ATTRACTION

So have I known a hopeful youth Sit down in quest of lore and truth, With tomes sufficient to confound him, Like Tohu Bohu, heaped around him,-- Mamurra stuck to Theophrastus, And Galen tumbling o'er Bombastus. When lo! while all that's learned and wise Absorbs the boy, he lifts his eyes, And through the window of his study Beholds some damsel fair and ruddy, With eyes, as brightly turned upon him as The angel's were on Hieronymus. Quick fly the folios, widely scattered, Old Homer's laurelled brow is battered, And Sappho, headlong sent, flies just in The reverend eye of St. Augustin. Raptured he quits each dozing sage, Oh woman, for thy lovelier page: Sweet book!--unlike the books of art,-- Whose errors are thy fairest part: In whom the dear errata column Is the best page in all the volume!

T. MOORE. _The Devil among the Scholars._

TO COSMELIA

Some Verses, written in September, 1676, on presenting a Book.

Go, humble gift, go to that matchless saint, Of whom thou only wast a copy meant: And all, that's read in thee, more richly find Comprised in the fair volume of her mind; That living system, where are fully writ All those high morals, which in books we meet: Easy, as in soft air, there writ they are, Yet firm, as if in brass they graven were.

J. OLDHAM.

ON A PRAYER BOOK SENT TO MRS. M. R.

Lo, here a little volume, but great book! A nest of new-born sweets, Whose native fires disdaining To be thus folded, and complaining Of these ignoble sheets, Affect more comely bands, Fair one, from thy kind hands, And confidently look To find the rest Of a rich binding in your breast!

It is in one choice handful, heaven; and all Heaven's royal host; encamped thus small To prove that true, schools use to tell, A thousand angels in one point can dwell.

It is love's great artillery, Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie Close couched in your white bosom; and from thence, As from a snowy fortress of defence, Against your ghostly foes to take your part, And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.

It is an armoury of light; Let constant use but keep it bright, You'll find it yields To holy hands and humble hearts More swords and shields Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts. Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons, and the eyes Those of turtles, chaste and true, Wakeful, and wise; Here is a friend shall fight for you; Hold but this book before your heart, Let prayer alone to play his part.

R. CRASHAW.

ON GEORGE HERBERT'S 'THE TEMPLE' SENT TO A GENTLEWOMAN

Know you, fair, on what you look? Divinest love lies in this book: Expecting fire from your fair eyes, To kindle this his sacrifice. When your hands untie these strings, Think, you've an angel by the wings; One that gladly would be nigh, To wait upon each morning sigh; To flutter in the balmy air Of your well-perfumed prayer;

These white plumes of his he'll lend you, Which every day to heaven will send you: To take acquaintance of each sphere, And all your smooth-faced kindred there. And though Herbert's name do owe These devotions, fairest, know While I thus lay them on the shrine Of your white hand, they are mine.

R. CRASHAW.

TO HELEN

Written in the first leaf of Keble's _Christian Year_, a birthday Present.

My Helen, for its golden fraught Of prayer and praise, of dream and thought, Where Poesy finds fitting voice For all who hope, fear, grieve, rejoice, Long have I loved, and studied long, The pious minstrel's varied song.

Whence is the volume dearer now? There gleams a smile upon your brow, Wherein, methinks, I read how well You guess the reason, ere I tell, Which makes to me the single rhymes More prized, more conned, a hundred times.

Ere vanished quite the dread and doubt Affection ne'er was born without, Found we not here a magic key Opening thy secret soul to me? Found we not here a mystic sign Interpreting thy heart to mine?

What sympathies up-springing fast Through all the future, all the past, In tenderest links began to bind Spirit to spirit, mind to mind, As we, together wandering o'er The little volume's precious store,

Mused, with alternate smile and tear, On the high themes awakened here Of fervent hope, of calm belief, Of cheering joy, of chastening grief, The trials borne, the sins forgiven, The task on earth, the meed in heaven.

My Own! oh surely from above Was shed that confidence of love, Which in such happy moments nurst When soul with soul had converse first, Now through the snares and storms of life Blesses the husband and the wife!

W. M. PRAED.

SENT WITH POEMS

Little volume, warm with wishes, Fear not brows that never frown! After Byron's peppery dishes Matho's mild skim-milk goes down.

Change she wants not, self-concentered, She whom Attic graces please, She whose Genius never entered Literature's gin-palaces.

W. S. LANDOR.

WOMAN AND BOOKS

Hear them [books] speak for themselves.... 'We are expelled with heart and hand from the domiciles of the clergy, apportioned to us by hereditary right, in some interior chamber of which we had our peaceful cells: but, to their shame, in these nefarious times we are altogether banished to suffer opprobrium out of doors; our places, moreover, are occupied by hounds and hawks, and sometimes by a biped beast; woman to wit,--whose cohabitation was formerly shunned by the clergy, from whom we have ever taught our pupils to fly, more than from the asp and the basilisk; wherefore this beast, ever jealous of our studies, and at all times implacable, spying us at last in a corner, protected only by the web of some long-deceased spider, drawing her forehead into wrinkles, laughs us to scorn, abuses us in virulent speeches, points us out as the only superfluous furniture lodged in the whole house; complains that we are useless for any purpose of domestic economy whatever, and recommends our being bartered away forthwith for costly head-dresses, cambric, silk, twice-dipped purple garments, woollen, linen, and furs.'--R. DE BURY. _Philobiblon._

THE GHOST OF BETTY BARNES

I beheld a female form, with mob-cap, bib, and apron, sleeves tucked up to the elbow, a dredging-box in the one hand, and in the other a sauce-ladle. I concluded, of course, that it was my friend's cook-maid walking in her sleep; and as I knew he had a value for Sally, who could toss a pancake with any girl in the country, I got up to conduct her safely to the door. But as I approached her, she said,--'Hold, sir! I am not what you take me for;'--words which seemed so apposite to the circumstances that I should not have much minded them, had it not been for the peculiarly hollow sound in which they were uttered. 'Know, then,' she said, in the same unearthly accents, 'that I am the spirit of Betty Barnes.'--'Who hanged herself for love of the stage-coachman,' thought I; 'this is a very proper spot of work!'--'Of that unhappy Elizabeth or Betty Barnes, long cook-maid to Mr. Warburton, the painful collector, but ah! the too careless custodier, of the largest collection of ancient plays ever known--of most of which the titles only are left to gladden the Prolegomena of the Variorum Shakespeare. Yes, stranger, it was these ill-fated hands that consigned to grease and conflagration the scores of small quartos, which, did they now exist, would drive the whole Roxburghe Club out of their senses--it was these unhappy pickers and stealers that singed fat fowls and wiped dirty trenchers with the lost works of Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, Jonson, Webster--what shall I say?--even of Shakespeare himself!'--SIR W. SCOTT. _Introductory Epistle to The Fortunes of Nigel._

A CHEAP AND LASTING PLEASURE

I yet retain, and carefully cherish, my love of reading. If relays of eyes were to be hired like post-horses, I would never admit any but silent companions: they afford a constant variety of entertainment, which is almost the only one pleasing in the enjoyment, and inoffensive in the consequence.... Every woman endeavours to breed her daughter a fine lady, qualifying her for a station in which she never will appear: and at the same time incapacitating her for that retirement to which she is destined. Learning, if she has a real taste for it, will not only make her contented, but happy in it. No entertainment is so cheap as reading, nor any pleasure so lasting. She will not want new fashions, nor regret the loss of expensive diversions, or variety of company, if she can be amused with an author in her closet.... Daughter! daughter! don't call names; you are always abusing my pleasures, which is what no mortal will bear. Trash, lumber, sad stuff, are the titles you give to my favourite amusement. If I called a white staff a stick of wood, a gold key gilded brass, and the ensigns of illustrious orders coloured strings, this may be philosophically true, but would be very ill received. We have all our playthings; happy are they that can be contented with those they can obtain: those hours are spent in the wisest manner that can easiest shade the ills of life, and are least productive of ill consequences. I think my time better employed in reading the adventures of imaginary people, than the Duchess of Marlborough's, who passed the latter years of her life in paddling with her will, and contriving schemes of plaguing some, and extracting praise from others to no purpose; eternally disappointed and eternally fretting. The active scenes are over at my age. I indulge, with all the art I can, my taste for reading. If I would confine it to valuable books, they are almost as rare as valuable men. I must be content with what I can find. As I approach a second childhood, I endeavour to enter into the pleasures of it. Your youngest son is, perhaps, at this very moment riding on a poker with great delight, not at all regretting that it is not a gold one, and much less wishing it an Arabian horse, which he would not know how to manage; I am reading an idle tale, not expecting wit or truth in it, and am very glad it is not metaphysics to puzzle my judgement, or history to mislead my opinion: he fortifies his health by exercise; I calm my cares by oblivion. The methods may appear low to busy people; but if he improves his strength, and I forget my infirmities, we both attain very desirable ends.--LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. _Letters._

THE POETS

There, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud the poems Made to Tuscan flutes, or instruments more various of our own; Read the pastoral parts of Spenser--or the subtle interflowings Found in Petrarch's sonnets--here's the book--the leaf is folded down!

Or at times a modern volume,--Wordsworth's solemn-thoughted idyl, Howitt's ballad-verse, or Tennyson's enchanted reverie,-- Or from Browning some 'Pomegranate', which, if cut deep down the middle, Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.

E. B. BROWNING. _Lady Geraldine's Courtship._

THE WORLD OF BOOKS

I sate on in my chamber green, And lived my life, and thought my thoughts, and prayed My prayers without the vicar; read my books, Without considering whether they were fit To do me good. Mark, there. We get no good By being ungenerous, even to a book, And calculating profits,--so much help By so much reading. It is rather when We gloriously forget ourselves and plunge Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound, Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth-- 'Tis then we get the right good from a book.

I read much. What my father taught before From many a volume, Love re-emphasized Upon the self-same pages: Theophrast Grew tender with the memory of his eyes, And Aelian made mine wet. The trick of Greek And Latin, he had taught me, as he would Have taught me wrestling or the game of fives If such he had known,--most like a shipwrecked man Who heaps his single platter with goats' cheese And scarlet berries; or like any man Who loves but one, and so gives all at once, Because he has it, rather than because He counts it worthy. Thus, my father gave; And thus, as did the women formerly By young Achilles, when they pinned the veil Across the boy's audacious front, and swept With tuneful laughs the silver-fretted rocks, He wrapt his little daughter in his large Man's doublet, careless did it fit or no....

I read books bad and good--some bad and good At once (good aims not always make good books: Well-tempered spades turn up ill-smelling soils In digging vineyards even); books that prove God's being so definitely, that man's doubt Grows self-defined the other side the line, Made atheist by suggestion; moral books, Exasperating to licence; genial books, Discounting from the human dignity; And merry books, which set you weeping when The sun shines,--aye, and melancholy books, Which make you laugh that any one should weep In this disjointed life for one wrong more.

The world of books is still the world, I write, And both worlds have God's providence, thank God, To keep and hearten.

E. B. BROWNING. _Aurora Leigh._

THE CLASSICAL EDUCATION OF WOMEN

We have often heard men who wish, as almost all men of sense wish, that women should be highly educated, speak with rapture of the English ladies of the sixteenth century, and lament that they can find no modern damsel resembling those fair pupils of Ascham and Aylmer who compared, over their embroidery, the styles of Isocrates and Lysias, and who, while the horns were sounding and the dogs in full cry, sat in the lonely oriel, with eyes riveted to that immortal page which tells how meekly and bravely the first great martyr of intellectual liberty took the cup from his weeping gaoler. But surely these complaints have very little foundation. We would by no means disparage the ladies of the sixteenth century or their pursuits. But we conceive that those who extol them at the expense of the women of our time forget one very obvious and very important circumstance. In the time of Henry the Eighth and Edward the Sixth, a person who did not read Greek and Latin could read nothing, or next to nothing. The Italian was the only modern language which possessed anything that could be called a literature. All the valuable books then extant in all the vernacular dialects of Europe would hardly have filled a single shelf. England did not yet possess Shakespeare's plays and the _Faery Queene_, nor France Montaigne's _Essays_, nor Spain _Don Quixote_. In looking round a well-furnished library, how many English or French books can we find which were extant when Lady Jane Grey and Queen Elizabeth received their education? Chaucer, Gower, Froissart, Comines, Rabelais, nearly complete the list. It was therefore absolutely necessary that a woman should be uneducated or classically educated.--LORD MACAULAY. _Lord Bacon._

GIRLS' READING

Whether novels, or poetry, or history be read, they should be chosen, not for what is _out_ of them, but for what is _in_ them. The chance and scattered evil that may here and there haunt, or hide itself in, a powerful book, never does any harm to a noble girl; but the emptiness of an author oppresses her, and his amiable folly degrades her. And if she can have access to a good library of old and classical books, there need be no choosing at all. Keep the modern magazine and novel out of your girl's way: turn her loose into the old library every wet day, and let her alone. She will find what is good for her; you cannot: for there is just this difference between the making of a girl's character and a boy's--you may chisel a boy into shape, as you would a rock, or hammer him into it, if he be of a better kind, as you would a piece of bronze. But you cannot hammer a girl into anything. She grows as a flower does,--she will wither without sun; she will decay in her sheath, as the narcissus does, if you do not give her air enough; she may fall, and defile her head in dust, if you leave her without help at some moments of her life; but you cannot fetter her; she must take her own fair form and way, if she take any, and in mind as in body, must have always

Her household motions light and free And steps of virgin liberty.

Let her loose in the library, I say, as you do a fawn in a field. It knows the bad weeds twenty times better than you; and the good ones too, and will eat some bitter and prickly ones, good for it, which you had not the slightest thought were good.--J. RUSKIN. _Sesame and Lilies._

'Twere well with most, if books, that could engage Their childhood, pleased them at a riper age.

W. COWPER. _Tirocinium._

POETRY AND PIETY

Flavia buys all books of wit and humour, and has made an expensive collection of all our English poets. For, she says, one cannot have a true taste of any of them without being very conversant with them all.

She will sometimes read a book of piety, if it is a short one, if it is much commended for style and language, and she can tell where to borrow it.--W. LAW. _A serious Call to a devout and holy Life._

A LADY'S LIBRARY

Non illa colo calathisve Minervae Foemineas assueta manus.--VIRG.

Some months ago, my friend Sir Roger, being in the country, enclosed a letter to me, directed to a certain lady whom I shall here call by the name of Leonora, and as it contained matters of consequence, desired me to deliver it to her with my own hand. Accordingly I waited upon her ladyship pretty early in the morning, and was desired by her woman to walk into her lady's library, till such time as she was in readiness to receive me. The very sound of a lady's library gave me a great curiosity to see it; and, as it was some time before the lady came to me, I had an opportunity of turning over a great many of her books, which were ranged together in a very beautiful order. At the end of the folios (which were finely bound and gilt) were great jars of china placed one above another in a very noble piece of architecture. The quartos were separated from the octavos by a pile of smaller vessels, which rose in a delightful pyramid. The octavos were bounded by tea-dishes of all shapes, colours, and sizes, which were so disposed on a wooden frame, that they looked like one continued pillar indented with the finest strokes of sculpture, and stained with the greatest variety of dyes. That part of the library which was designed for the reception of plays and pamphlets, and other loose papers, was enclosed in a kind of square, consisting of one of the prettiest grotesque works that I ever saw, and made up of scaramouches, lions, monkeys, mandarins, trees, shells, and a thousand other odd figures in china ware. In the midst of the room was a little japan table, with a quire of gilt paper upon it, and upon the paper a silver snuff-box made in the shape of a little book. I found there were several other counterfeit books upon the upper shelves, which were carved in wood, and served only to fill up the number, like faggots in the muster of a regiment. I was wonderfully pleased with such a mixed kind of furniture as seemed very suitable both to the lady and the scholar, and did not know at first whether I should fancy myself in a grotto or in a library.

Upon my looking into the books I found there were some few which the lady had bought for her own use, but that most of them had been got together, either because she had heard them praised, or because she had seen the authors of them. Among several that I examined, I very well remember these that follow:

Ogilby's _Virgil_. Dryden's _Juvenal_. _Cassandra._ _Cleopatra._ _Astraea._ Sir Isaac Newton's works. _The Grand Cyrus_, with a pin stuck in one of the middle leaves. Pembroke's _Arcadia_. Locke of _Human Understanding_; with a paper of patches in it. A spelling-book. A dictionary for the explanation of hard words. Sherlock upon Death. _The Fifteen Comforts of Matrimony._ Sir William Temple's Essays. Father Malebranche's _Search after Truth_, translated into English. A book of Novels. _The Academy of Compliments._ Culpepper's _Midwifery_. _The Ladies' Calling._ Tales in Verse by Dr. D'Urfey: bound in red leather, gilt on the back, and doubled down in several places. All the Classic authors, in wood. A set of Elzevirs by the same hand. _Clelia_: which opened of itself in the place that describes two lovers in a bower. Baker's _Chronicle_. _Advice to a Daughter._ _The New Atlantis_, with a key to it. Mr. Steele's _Christian Hero_. A Prayer-book: with a bottle of Hungary water by the side of it. Dr. Sacheverell's Speech. Fielding's Trial. Seneca's _Morals_. Taylor's _Holy Living and Dying_. La Ferte's _Instructions for Country-dances_.

I was taking a catalogue in my pocket-book of these and several other authors, when Leonora entered.--J. ADDISON. _Spectator_, 37.

WOMEN'S WANT

Except some professed scholars, I have often observed that women in general read much more than men; but, for want of a plan, a method, a fixed object, their reading is of little benefit to themselves, or others.--E. GIBBON. _Autobiography._

BOOKS FOR A LADY'S LIBRARY

Convivae prope dissentire videntur, Poscentes vario multum diversa palato. Quid dem? quid non dem?

HOR.

Since I have called out for help in my catalogue of a lady's library, I have received many letters upon that head, some of which I shall give an account of. In the first class I shall take notice of those which come to me from eminent booksellers, who every one of them mention with respect the authors they have printed, and consequently have an eye to their own advantage more than to that of the ladies. One tells me, that he thinks it absolutely necessary for women to have true notions of right and equity, and that therefore they cannot peruse a better book than Dalton's _Country Justice_: another thinks they cannot be without _The Compleat Jockey_. A third, observing the curiosity and desire of prying into secrets, which he tells me is natural to the fair sex, is of opinion this female inclination, if well directed, might turn very much to their advantage, and therefore recommends to me _Mr. Mede upon the Revelations_. A fourth lays it down as an unquestioned truth, that a lady cannot be thoroughly accomplished who has not read the _Secret Treaties and Negotiations of Marshal d'Estrades_. Mr. Jacob Tonson, junior, is of opinion, that _Bayle's Dictionary_ might be of very great use to the ladies, in order to make them general scholars. Another, whose name I have forgotten, thinks it highly proper that every woman with child should read Mr. Wall's _History of Infant Baptism_: as another is very importunate with me to recommend to all my female readers _The Finishing Stroke: Being a Vindication of the Patriarchal Scheme_, &c.

In the second class I shall mention books which are recommended by husbands, if I may believe the writers of them. Whether or no they are real husbands or personated ones I cannot tell, but the books they recommend are as follow. _A Paraphrase on the History of Susanna._ _Rules to keep Lent._ _The Christian's Overthrow prevented._ _A Dissuasive from the Playhouse._ _The Virtues of Camphire, with Directions to make Camphire Tea._ _The pleasures of a Country Life._ _The Government of the Tongue._ A letter dated from Cheapside desires me that I would advise all young wives to make themselves mistresses of Wingate's _Arithmetic_, and concludes with a postscript, that he hopes I will not forget _The Countess of Kent's Receipts_.

I may reckon the ladies themselves as a third class among these my correspondents and privy-councillors. In a letter from one of them, I am advised to place _Pharamond_ at the head of my catalogue, and, if I think proper, to give the second place to _Cassandra_. Coquetilla begs me not to think of nailing women upon their knees with manuals of devotion, nor of scorching their faces with books of housewifery. Florella desires to know if there are any books written against prudes, and entreats me, if there are, to give them a place in my library. Plays of all sorts have their several advocates: _All for Love_ is mentioned in above fifteen letters; _Sophonisba_, or _Hannibal's Overthrow_, in a dozen; _The Innocent Adultery_ is likewise highly approved of; _Mithridates, King of Pontus_ has many friends; _Alexander the Great_ and _Aurengzebe_ have the same number of voices; but _Theodosius_, or _The Force of Love_, carries it from all the rest.--J. ADDISON. _Spectator_, 92.

TO A LADY FURNISHING HER LIBRARY AT *** IN WARWICKSHIRE

When just proportion in each part, And colours mixed with nicest art, Conspire to show the grace and mien Of Chloe or the Cyprian queen: With elegance throughout refined, That speaks the passions of the mind, The glowing canvas will proclaim A Raphael's or a Titian's name. So when through every learnèd page Each distant clime, each distant age Display a rich variety Of wisdom in epitome; Such elegance and taste will tell The hand that could select so well. But when we all their beauties view, United and improved by you, We needs must own an emblem faint To express those charms no art can paint. Books must, with such correctness writ, Refine another's taste and wit; 'Tis to your merit only due That theirs can be refined by you.

R. JAGO.

LYDIA LANGUISH AND THE CIRCULATING LIBRARY

LUCY. Indeed, ma'am, I traversed half the town in search of it: I don't believe there's a circulating library in Bath I ha'n't been at.

LYDIA LANGUISH. And could not you get _The Reward of Constancy_?

LUCY. No, indeed, ma'am.

LYDIA. Nor _The Fatal Connexion_?

LUCY. No, indeed, ma'am.

LYDIA. Nor _The Mistakes of the Heart_?

LUCY. Ma'am, as ill luck would have it, Mr. Bull said Miss Sukey Saunter had just fetched it away.

LYDIA. Heigh-ho!--Did you inquire for _The Delicate Distress_?

LUCY.----Or, _The Memoirs of Lady Woodford_? Yes, indeed, ma'am. I asked everywhere for it; and I might have brought it from Mr. Frederick's, but Lady Slattern Lounger, who had just sent it home, had so soiled and dog's-eared it, it wa'n't fit for a Christian to read.

LYDIA. Heigh-ho!--Yes, I always know when Lady Slattern has been before me. She has a most observing thumb; and I believe cherishes her nails for the convenience of making marginal notes.--Well, child, what _have_ you brought me?

LUCY. Oh! here, ma'am.

[Taking books from under her cloak, and from her pockets.]

This is _The Gordian Knot_, and this _Peregrine Pickle_. Here are _The Tears of Sensibility_, and _Humphrey Clinker_. This is _The Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, written by herself_, and here the second volume of _The Sentimental Journey_.

LYDIA. Heigh-ho!--What are those books by the glass?

LUCY. The great one is only _The Whole Duty of Man_, where I press a few blonds, ma'am.

* * * * *

... O Lud! ma'am, they are both coming upstairs....

LYDIA. Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. Quick, quick. Fling _Peregrine Pickle_ under the toilet--throw _Roderick Random_ into the closet--put _The Innocent Adultery_ into _The Whole Duty of Man_--thrust _Lord Aimworth_ under the sofa--cram _Ovid_ behind the bolster--there--put _The Man of Feeling_ into your pocket--so, so, now lay _Mrs. Chapone_ in sight, and leave _Fordyce's Sermons_ open on the table.

LUCY. Oh, burn it, ma'am, the hairdresser has torn away as far as _Proper Pride_.

LYDIA. Never mind--open at _Sobriety_. Fling me _Lord Chesterfield's Letters_.--Now for 'em.

[Mrs. Malaprop and Sir Anthony Absolute enter and after Lydia has been ordered to her room--]

MRS. MALAPROP. There's a little intricate hussy for you!

SIR ANTHONY. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am--all this is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. Had I a thousand daughters, by Heaven! I'd as soon have them taught the black art as their alphabet!

MRS. MALAPROP. Nay, nay, Sir Anthony, you are an absolute misanthropy.

SIR ANTHONY. In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library! She had a book in each hand--they were half-bound volumes, with marble covers! From that moment I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress!

MRS. MALAPROP. Those are vile places, indeed!

SIR ANTHONY. Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge! It blossoms through the year! And depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the fruit at last.--R. B. SHERIDAN. _The Rivals._

THE OLD BACHELOR'S BOOKS

My books were changed; I now preferred the truth To the light reading of unsettled youth; Novels grew tedious, but by choice or chance, I still had interest in the wild romance: There is an age, we know, when tales of love Form the sweet pabulum our hearts approve; Then as we read we feel, and are indeed, We judge, the heroic men of whom we read; But in our after life these fancies fail, We cannot be the heroes of the tale; The parts that Cliffords, Mordaunts, Bevilles play We cannot,--cannot be so smart and gay. But all the mighty deeds and matchless powers Of errant knights we never fancied ours, And thus the prowess of each gifted knight Must at all times create the same delight; Lovelace a forward youth might hope to seem, But Lancelot never,--that he could not dream; Nothing reminds us in the magic page Of old romance, of our declining age: If once our fancy mighty dragons slew, This is no more than fancy now can do; But when the heroes of a novel come, Conquered and conquering, to a drawing-room, We no more feel the vanity that sees Within ourselves what we admire in these, And so we leave the modern tale, to fly From realm to realm with Tristram or Sir Guy. Not quite a Quixote, I could not suppose That queens would call me to subdue their foes; But, by a voluntary weakness swayed, When fancy called, I willingly obeyed.

G. CRABBE. _Tales of the Hall._

The state, whereon I studied, Is like a good thing, being often read, Grown feared and tedious.

W. SHAKESPEARE. _Measure for Measure._

THE OXFORD SCHOLAR AND HIS BOOKS

A clerk ther was of Oxenford also That un-to logik hadde long y-go. As lene was his hors as is a rake, And he was nat right fat, I undertake; But loked holwe, and ther-to soberly. Ful thredbar was his overest courtepy; For he had geten him yet no benefyce, Ne was so worldly for to have offyce. For him was lever have at his beddes heed Twenty bokes, clad in blak or reed, Of Aristotle and his philosophye, Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrye. But al be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre; But al that he mighte of his freendes hente, On bokes and on lerninge he it spente, And bisily gan for the soules preye Of hem that yaf him wher-with to scoleye. Of studie took he most cure and most hede. Noght o word spak he more than was nede, And that was seyd in forme and reverence, And short and quik, and ful of hy sentence. Souninge in moral vertu was his speche, And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.

G. CHAUCER. _The Canterbury Tales._

THE CHIEF FOOL

I am the first fool of all the whole navy, To keep the poop, the helm and eke the sail. For this is my mind, this one pleasure have I: Of books to have great plenty and aparayle. I take no wisdom by them, nor yet avail Nor them preceive not: and then I them despise. Thus am I a fool and all that sew that guise.

That in this ship the chief place I govern, By this wide sea with fools wandering, The cause is plain and easy to discern; Still am I busy books assembling, For to have plenty it is a pleasant thing, In my conceit, and to have them ay in hand, But what they mean do I not understand.

But yet I have them in great reverence And honour, saving them from filth and ordure, By often brushing and much diligence, Full goodly bound in pleasant coverture Of damask, satin, or else of velvet pure: I keep them sure, fearing lest they should be lost, For in them is the cunning wherein I me boast.

But if it fortune that any learned men Within my house fall to disputation, I draw the curtain to show my books then, That they of my cunning should make probation I care not to fall in altercation: And while they commune, my books I turn and wind For all is in them, and nothing in my mind.

Tholomeus the rich caused, long agone, Over all the world good books to be sought; Done was his commandment anon. These books he had and in his study brought Which passed all earthly treasure as he thought, But nevertheless he did him not apply Unto their doctrine, but lived unhappily.

Lo in likewise of books I have store, But few I read, and fewer understand; I follow not their doctrine, nor their lore, It is enough to bear a book in hand; It were too much to be in such a band, For to be bound to look within the book; I am content on the fair covering to look.

Why should I study to hurt my wit thereby, Or trouble my mind with study excessive? Sith many are which study right busily And yet thereby shall they never thrive: The fruit of wisdom can they not contrive. And many to study so much are inclined That utterly they fall out of their mind.

Each is not lettered that now is made a lord, Nor each a clerk that hath a benefice; They are not all lawyers that pleas do record, All that are promoted are not fully wise; On such chance now fortune throws her dice, That though one know but the Irish game Yet would he have a gentleman's name.

So in likewise, I am in such case, Though I naught can, I would be called wise; Also I may set another in my place Which may for me my books exercise; Or else I shall ensue the common guise, And say _concedo_ to every argument, Lest by much speech my Latin should be spent.

S. BRANT. _Shyp of Folys of the Worlde_, 1509.

THE ENVOY OF ALEXANDER BARCLAY, TRANSLATOR

EXHORTING THE FOOLES ACCLOYED WITH THIS VICE TO AMEND THEIR FOLLY

Say worthy doctors and clerks curious: What moveth you of books to have such number, Since divers doctrines through ways contrarious Doth man's mind dsitract and sore encumber; Alas, blind men awake, out of your slumber, And if ye will needs your books mutliply With diligence endeavour you some to occupy.

A. BARCLAY.

LETTER-FERRETS

Dionysius scoffeth at those grammarians who ploddingly labour to know the miseries of Ulysses, and are ignorant of their own.... Except our mind be the better, unless our judgement be the sounder, I had rather my scholar had employed his time in playing at tennis; I am sure his body would be the nimbler. See but one of these our university men or bookish scholars return from school, after he hath there spent ten or twelve years under a pedant's charge: who is so inapt for any matter? who so unfit for any company? who so to seek if he come into the world? all the advantage you discover in him is that his Latin and Greek have made him more sottish, more stupid, and more presumptuous, than before he went from home.... My vulgar Perigordian speech doth very pleasantly term such self-conceited wizards, letter-ferrets, as if they would say letter-stricken men, to whom (as the common saying is) letters have given a blow with a mallet.--MONTAIGNE.

DAINTIES THAT ARE BRED OF A BOOK

Sir, he hath not fed of the dainties that are bred of a book; he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink: his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts.--W. SHAKESPEARE. _Love's Labour's Lost._

AN ANTIQUARY

He loves no library, but where there are more spiders' volumes than authors', and looks with great admiration on the antique work of cobwebs. Printed books he contemns, as a novelty of this latter age; but a manuscript he pores on everlastingly, especially if the cover be all moth-eaten, and the dust make a parenthesis between every syllable. He would give all the books in his study (which are rarities all) for one of the old Roman binding, or six lines of Tully in his own hand.--J. EARLE. _Microcosmographie._

AN IGNORANT BOOK-COLLECTOR

With what, O Codrus! is thy fancy smit? The flower of learning, and the bloom of wit. Thy gaudy shelves with crimson bindings glow, And Epictetus is a perfect beau. How fit for thee bound up in crimson too, Gilt, and, like them, devoted to the view! Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard That Science should be purchased by the yard, And T----n, turned upholsterer, send home The gilded leather to fit up thy room. If not to some peculiar end assigned, Study's the specious trifling of the mind; Or is at best a secondary aim, A chase for sport alone, not game: If so, sure they who the mere volume prize, But love the thicket where the quarry lies. On buying books Lorenzo long was bent; But found at length that it reduced his rent. His farms were flown; when lo! a sale comes on, A choice collection! What is to be done? He sells his last; for he the whole will buy; Sells even his house, nay wants whereon to lie: So high the generous ardour of the man For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran. When terms were drawn, and brought him by the clerk, Lorenzo signed the bargain--with his mark. Unlearned men of books assume the care, As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair. Not in his authors' liveries alone Is Codrus' erudite ambition shown. Editions various, at high prices bought, Inform the world what Codrus would be thought; And, to his cost, another must succeed, To pay a sage, who says that he can read, Who titles knows, and Indexes has seen; But leaves to ---- what lies between, Of pompous books who shuns the proud expense, And humbly is contented with the sense.

E. YOUNG. _The Love of Fame._

THE BIBLIOMANIA

What wild desires, what restless torments seize The hapless man, who feels the book-disease, If niggard Fortune cramp his generous mind, And Prudence quench the spark by heaven assigned! With wistful glance his aching eyes behold The Princeps-copy, clad in blue and gold, Where the tall Book-case, with partition thin, Displays, yet guards, the tempting charms within: So great Facardin viewed, as sages tell, Fair Crystalline immured in lucid cell. Not thus the few, by happier fortune graced, And blessed, like you, with talents, wealth, and taste, Who gather nobly, with judicious hand, The Muse's treasures from each lettered strand. For you the Monk illumed his pictured page, For you the press defies the spoils of age; Faustus for you infernal tortures bore, For you Erasmus starved on Adria's shore. The Folio-Aldus loads your happy shelves, And dapper Elzevirs, like fairy elves, Show their light forms amidst the well-gilt Twelves, In slender type the Giolitos shine, And bold Bodoni stamps his Roman line. For you the Louvre opes its regal doors, And either Didot lends his brilliant stores: With faultless types, and costly sculptures bright, Ibarra's Quixote charms your ravished sight: Laborde in splendid tablets shall explain Thy beauties, glorious though unhappy Spain! O hallowed name, the theme of future years, Embalmed in Patriot-blood, and England's tears, Be thine fresh honours from the tuneful tongue, By Isis' stream which mourning Zion sung! But devious oft from every classic Muse, The keen Collector meaner paths will choose: And first the margin's breadth his soul employs, Pure, snowy, broad, the type of nobler joys. In vain might Homer roll the tide of song, Or Horace smile, or Tully charm the throng; If crossed by Pallas' ire, the trenchant blade Or too oblique, or near, the edge invade, The Bibliomane exclaims, with haggard eye, 'No margin!' turns in haste, and scorns to buy. He turns where Pybus rears his Atlas-head, Or Madoc's mass conceals its veins of lead. The glossy lines in polished order stand, While the vast margin spreads on either hand, Like Russian wastes, that edge the frozen deep, Chill with pale glare, and lull to mortal sleep. Or English books, neglected and forgot, Excite his wish in many a dusty lot: Whatever trash _Midwinter_ gave to-day, Or _Harper's_ rhyming sons, in paper gray, At every auction, bent on fresh supplies, He cons his Catalogue with anxious eyes: Where'er the slim italics mark the page, _Curious and rare_ his ardent mind engage. Unlike the swans, in Tuscan song displayed, He hovers eager o'er oblivion's shade. To snatch obscurest names from endless night, And give Cokain or Fletcher back to light. In red morocco dressed he loves to boast The bloody murder, or the yelling ghost; Or dismal ballads, sung to crowds of old, Now cheaply bought for thrice their weight in gold. Yet to the unhonoured dead be Satire just; Some flowers 'smell sweet and blossom in their dust'. 'Tis thus even Shirley boasts a golden line, And Lovelace strikes, by fits, a note divine. The unequal gleams like midnight-lightnings play, And deepened gloom succeeds, in place of day.

But human bliss still meets some envious storm; He droops to view his Paynter's mangled form: Presumptuous grief, while pensive Taste repines O'er the frail relics of her Attic shrines! O for that power, for which magicians vie, To look through earth, and secret hoards descry! I'd spurn such gems as Marinel beheld, And all the wealth Aladdin's cavern held, Might I divine in what mysterious gloom The rolls of sacred bards have found their tomb: Beneath what mouldering tower, or waste champaign, Is hid Menander, sweetest of the train: Where rests Antimachus' forgotten lyre, Where gentle Sappho's still seductive fire; Or he, whom chief the laughing Muses own, Yet skilled with softest accents to bemoan Sweet Philomel in strains so like her own. The menial train has proved the scourge of wit, Even Omar burnt less Science than the spit. Earthquakes and wars remit their deadly rage, But every feast demands some fated page. Ye Towers of Julius, ye alone remain Of all the piles that saw our nation's stain, When Harry's sway oppressed the groaning realm, And Lust and Rapine seized the wavering helm. Then ruffian-hands defaced the sacred fanes, Their saintly statues and their storied panes; Then from the chest, with ancient art embossed, The penman's pious scrolls were rudely tossed; Then richest manuscripts, profusely spread, The brawny churls' devouring oven fed: And thence collectors date the heavenly ire That wrapt Augusta's domes in sheets of fire.

Taste, though misled, may yet some purpose gain, But Fashion guides a book-compelling train. Once, far apart from Learning's moping crew, The travelled beau displayed his red-heeled shoe, Till Orford rose, and told of rhyming peers, Repeating _noble_ words to polished ears; Taught the gay crowd to prize a fluttering name, In trifling toiled, nor 'blushed to find it fame'. The lettered fop now takes a larger scope, With classic furniture, designed by Hope, (Hope whom upholsterers eye with mute despair, The doughty pedant of an elbow-chair;) Now warmed by Orford, and by Granger schooled In Paper-books, superbly gilt and tooled, He pastes, from injured volumes snipped away, His _English Heads_, in chronicled array. Torn from their destined page (unworthy meed Of knightly counsel, and heroic deed) Not Faithorne's stroke, nor Field's own types can save The gallant Veres, and one-eyed Ogle brave. Indignant readers seek the image fled, And curse the busy fool, who _wants a head_.

Proudly he shows, with many a smile elate The scrambling subjects of the _private plate_; While Time their actions and their names bereaves, They grin for ever in the guarded leaves. Like poets, born, in vain collectors strive To cross their Fate, and learn the art to thrive. Like Cacus, bent to tame their struggling will, The Tyrant-passion drags them backward still: Even I, debarred of ease, and studious hours, Confess, 'mid anxious toil, its lurking powers. How pure the joy, when first my hands unfold The small, rare volume, black with tarnished gold! The eye skims restless, like the roving bee, O'er flowers of wit, or song, or repartee, While sweet as springs, new-bubbling from the stone, Glides through the breast some pleasing theme unknown. Now dipped in Rossi's terse and classic style, His harmless tales awake a transient smile. Now Bouchet's motley stores my thoughts arrest, With wondrous reading, and with learnèd jest. Bouchet whose tomes a grateful line demand, The valued gift of Stanley's liberal hand. Now sadly pleased, through faded Rome I stray, And mix regrets with gentle Du Bellay; Or turn, with keen delight, the curious page, Where hardly Pasquin braves the Pontiff's rage.

But D----n's strains should tell the sad reverse, When Business calls, inveterate foe to verse! Tell how 'the Demon claps his iron hands', 'Waves his lank locks, and scours along the lands.' Through wintry blasts, or summer's fire I go, To scenes of danger, an