After the very enthusiastic eulogiums bestowed by the ancients and moderns upon the poems of Anacreon, we need not be diffident in expressing our raptures at their beauty, nor hesitate to pronounce them the most polished remains of antiquity. They are all beauty, all enchantment. He steals us so insensibly along with him that we sympathise even in his excesses. In his amatory odes there is a delicacy of compliment not to be found in any other ancient poet. Love at that period was rather an unrefined emotion; and the intercourse of the sexes was animated more by passion than sentiment. They knew not those little tendernesses which form the spiritual part of affection; their expression of feeling was therefore rude and unvaried, and the poetry of love deprived of its most captivating graces. Anacreon, however, attained some ideas of this gallantry; and the same delicacy of mind which led him to this refinement prevented him from yielding to the freedom of language which has sullied the pages of all the other poets. His descriptions are warm; but the warmth is in the ideas, not the words. He is sportive without being wanton, and ardent without being licentious. His poetic invention is most brilliantly displayed in those allegorical fictions which so many have endeavoured to imitate, because all have confessed them to be inimitable. Simplicity is the distinguishing feature of these odes, and they interest by their innocence, while they fascinate by their beauty; they are, indeed, the infants of the Muses, and may be said to lisp in numbers.

I shall not be accused of enthusiastic partiality by those who have read and felt the original; but to others I am conscious that this should not be the language of a translator, whose faint reflection of these beauties can but little justify his admiration of them.

In the age of Anacreon music and poetry were inseparable. These kindred talents were for a long time associated, and the poet always sung his own compositions to the lyre. It is probable that they were not set to any regular air, but rather a kind of musical recitation, which was varied according to the fancy and feelings of the moment. The poems of Anacreon were sung at banquets as late as the time of Aulus Gellius, who tells us that he heard one of the odes performed at a birthday entertainment.

The singular beauty of our poet's style, and perhaps the careless facility with which he appears to have trifled, have induced, as I remarked, a number of imitations. Some have succeeded with wonderful felicity, as may be discerned in the few odes which are attributed to writers of a later period. But none of his emulators have been so dangerous to his fame as those Greek ecclesiastics of the early ages who, conscious of inferiority to their prototypes, determined on removing the possibility of comparison, and, under a semblance of moral zeal, destroyed the most exquisite treasures of antiquity. The zeal by which these bishops professed to be actuated gave birth more innocently, indeed, to an absurd species of parody, as repugnant to piety as it is to taste, where the poet of voluptuousness was made a preacher of the gospel, and his muse, like the Venus in armour at Lacedæmon, was arrayed in all the severities of priestly instruction. Such was the "Anacreon Recan

tatus," by Carolus de Aquino, a Jesuit, published 1701, which consisted of a series of palinodes to the several songs of our poet. Such too was the Christian Anacreon of Patrignanus, another Jesuit, who preposterously transferred to a most sacred subject all that Anacreon had sung to festivity.

We come now to a retrospect of the editions of Anacreon. Το Henry Stephen we are indebted for having first recovered his remains from the obscurity in which they had reposed for so many ages. He found the 7th ode, as we are told, on the cover of an old book, and communicated it to Victorius, who mentions the circumstance in his "Various Readings." Stephen was then very young; and this discovery was considered by some critics of that day, as a literary imposition. In 1554, however, he gave Anacreon to the world, accompanied with annotations and a Latin version of the greater part of the odes. The learned still hesitated to receive them as the relics of the Teian bard, and suspected them to be the fabrication of some monks of the sixteenth century. This was an idea from which the classic muse recoiled; and the Vatican manuscript, consulted by Scaliger and Salmasius, confirmed the antiquity of most of the poems. A very inaccurate copy of this MS. was taken by Isaac Vossius, and this is the authority which Barnes has followed in his collation; accordingly he misrepresents almost as often as he quotes; and the subsequent editors, relying upon him, have spoken of the manuscript with not less confidence than ignorance. The literary world has at length been gratified with this curious memorial of the poet, by the industry of the Abbé Spaletti, who, in 1781, published at Rome a facsimile of the pages of the Vatican manuscript which contained the odes of Anacreon.

Monsieur Gail has given a catalogue of all the editions and translations of Anacreon. I find their number to be much greater than I could possibly have had an opportunity of consulting.

THOMAS BROWN, THE YOUNGER,

AUTHOR OF THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG

Le Leggi della Maschera richiedono che una persona mascherata non sia salutata per nome da uno che la conosce malgrado il suo travestimento.CASTIGLIONE

PREFACE.

IN what manner the following Epistles came into my hands, it is not necessary for the public to know. It will be seen by Mr. Fudge's Second Letter, that he is one of those gentlemen whose Secret Services in Ireland, under the mild ministry of my Lord C--gh, have been so amply and gratefully remunerated.

Like

his friend and associate, Thomas Reynolds, Esq., he had retired upon the reward of his honest industry; but has lately been induced to appear again in active life, and superintend the training of that Delatorian Cohort, which Lord S-dm-th, in his wisdom and benevolence, has organised.

Whether Mr. Fudge, himself, has yet made any discoveries, does not appear from the following pages ;-but much may be expected from a person of his zeal and sagacity, and, indeed, to him, Lord S-dm-th, and the Greenland-bound ships, the eyes of all lovers of discoveries are now most anxiously directed.

I regret that I have been obliged to omit Mr. Bob Fudge's Third Letter, concluding the adventures of his Day with the Dinner, Opera, &c. &c.-but, in consequence of some remarks upon Marinette's thin drapery, which, it was thought, might give offence to certain well-meaning persons, the manuscript was sent back to Paris for his revision, and had not returned when the last sheet was put to press.

It will not, I hope, be thought presumptuous, if I take this op portunity of complaining of a very serious injustice I have suffered from the public. Dr. King wrote a treatise to prove that Bentley was not the author of his own book," and a similar absurdity has been asserted of me, in almost all the best-informed literary circles. With the name of the real author staring them in the face, they

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have yet persisted in attributing my works to other people; and the fame of the Twopenny Post-Bag-such as it is-having hovered doubtfully over various persons, has at last settled upon the head of a certain little gentleman, who wears it, I understand, as complacently as if it actually belonged to him; without even the honesty of avowing, with his own favourite author, (he will excuse the pun)

Εγω δ' Ο ΜΩΡΟΣ αρας
Εδησαμην μετωπω.

I can only add that if any lady or gentleman, curious in such matters, will take the trouble of calling at my lodgings, 245 Piccadilly, I shall have the honour of assuring them, in propriâ personâ, that I am-his, or her, very obedient and very humble servant, THOMAS BROWN, THE YOUNGER.

April 17, 1818.

LETTER I.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY
IN IRELAND.

OF CLONSKILTY,

Amiens.

DEAR DOLL, while the tails of our horses are plaiting,
The trunks tying on, and Papa, at the door,
Into very bad French is, as usual, translating

His English resolve not to give a sou more,

I sit down to write you a line-only think!

A letter from France, with French pens and French ink,
How delightful! though, would you believe it, my dear?
I have seen nothing yet very wonderful here;

No adventure, no sentiment, far as we've come,

But the corn-fields and trees quite as dull as at home;
And but for the post-boy, his boots and his queue,

I might just as well be at Clonskilty with you!
In vain, at Dessein's, did I take from my trunk

That divine fellow, Sterne, and fall reading "The Monk;"
In vain did I think of his charming Dead Ass,
And remember the crust and the wallet-alas!
No monks can be had now for love or for money,
(All owing, Pa says, to that infidel Boney ;)
And, though one little Neddy we saw in our drive
Out of classical Nampont, the beast was alive!

By the by, though, at Calais, Papa had a touch
Of romance on the pier, which affected me much.
At the sight of that spot, where our darling Dixhuit
Set the first of his own dear legitimate feet,*
(Modelled out so exactly, and-God bless the mark!
'Tis a foot, Dolly, worthy so Grand a Monarque)

• To commemorate the landing of Louis le Desiré from England, the impression of his foot is marked out on the pier at Calais, and a pillar with an inscription raised opposite to the spot.

He exclaimed "Oh mon Roi!" and, with tear-dropping eye,
Stood to gaze on the spot-while some Jacobin, nigh,
Muttered out with a shrug (what an insolent thing!)
"Ma foi, he be right-'tis de Englishman's King;
And dat gros pied de cochon-begar, me vil say
Dat de foot look mosh better, if turned toder way."
There's the pillar, too-Lord! I had nearly forgot
What a charming idea!-raised close to the spot;
The mode being now, (as you've heard, I suppose,)
To build tombs over legs,* and raise pillars to toes.

This is all that's occurred sentimental as yet;
Except, indeed, some little flower-nymphs we've met,
Who disturb one's romance with pecuniary views,

Flinging flowers in your path, and then-bawling for sous!
And some picturesque beggars, whose multitudes seem
To recall the good days of the ancien regime,

All as ragged and brisk, you'll be happy to learn,
And as thin as they were in the time of dear Sterne.

Our party consists, in a neat Calais job,

Of Papa and myself, Mr. Connor and Bob.

You remember how sheepish Bob looked at Kilrandy,
But, Lord! he's quite altered-they've made him a Dandy;
A thing, you know, whiskered, great-coated, and laced,
Like an hour-glass, exceedingly small in the waist:
Quite a new sort of creatures, unknown yet to scholars,
With heads so immoveably stuck in shirt-collars,

That seats like our music-stools soon must be found them,
To twirl, when the creatures may wish to look round them!
In short, dear, "a Dandy" describes what I mean,

And Bob's far the best of the genus I've seen:

An improving young man, fond of learning, ambitious,
And goes now to Paris to study French dishes,

Whose names-think, how quick !-he already knows pat,
A la braise, petits pâtés, and-what d'ye call that
They inflict on potatoes?-oh! maître d'hôtel-
I assure you, dear Dolly, he knows them as well
As if nothing but these all his life he had eat,
Though a bit of them Bobby has never touched yet;
But just knows the names of French dishes and cooks,
As dear Pa knows the titles of authors and books.

As to Pa, what d'ye think?-mind it's all entre nous,
But you know, love, I never keep secrets from you-
Why, he's writing a book-what! a tale? a romance?
No, ye Gods, would it were!-but his Travels in France;
At the special desire (he let out t'other day)

Of his friend and his patron, my Lord C-stl-r-gh,
Who said, "My dear Fudge I forget the exact words,

And, it's strange, no one ever remembers my Lord's ;

* Ci-git la jambe de &c. &c.