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published five volumes of his translation and commentaries on Horace, completed the work in five more.

Hitherto we have seen this extraordinary couple consulting their own individual taste in their compositions, without producing any joint work, the praise of which might be common to both. Such a work was first recommended to them by the president Harley, their patron, who put into their hands the Moral Reflections of Marcus Antoninus for a French translation; to this they added a variety of curious remarks, and a life of the author, which has been thought to compensate, in some measure, for the loss of that which the Emperor himself is known to have written. Soon after M. Dacier lost his father, the inheritance of which he became possessed, though properly his own concern, seemed to require a skilful management, of which he thought Madame Dacier more capable than himself; at his suggestion, therefore, she readily postponed her beloved occupations, to the necessity of going to Castres upon her husband's affairs. Those who have seen the letters which she wrote from thence, speak of them as surprising combinations of exactness, the details of her proceedings, of the most tender sentiments of love, increased by absence, and of erudition, in her remarks on what occurred to her in reading, to which she devoted her leisure hours.

During this period, M. Dacier translated Aristotle's Art of Poetry, and enriched it with many notes: it was also during this kind of solitude, that he formed the grand design of a new translation of Plutarch's Lives, intending to sound the inclinations of the public with a volume containing six Lives; two he had finished before Madame Dacier's return, when they agreed to divide the other four, and it is said, they were highly amused at anticipating the speculations of the learned, and the diversity of opinions among the public, as to whom each particular Life was to be attributed; the perfect similarity of their genius and talents, having transfused itself into their very expressions.

M. Dacier's pen first taught Hippocrates to speak French, and certainly it came with greater advantage from a neutral humanist, than from a professed physician. His next work was a translation of Plato, with notes, and the life of this philosopher, whose precepts on the soul are still more entitled to value than those which are limited to the welfare of our frail bodies; this was also followed by a version of other moral philosophers.

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The charms of M. Dacier's translations gained him a seat in the French Academy, in 1695, to which honour was soon added, that of Inscriptions and Belles lettres; and possibly the public opinion, which placed Madame next to him in both, would have been gratified, if her indifference about distinction had not obstructed it more than the silence of the Statutes, which had made no provision for the election of females. The high opinion they entertained of M. Dacier is evident, in their unanimous choice of him, upon a vacancy of the office of Secretary. Madame resigned to her husband the entire honour of the version of Plu-. tarch, and gave herself wholly to a more arduous undertaking, namely, a translation of Homer, hoping thereby to ingratiate that incomparable bard even with the warmest admirers of modern poesy.

If the ardour of this distinguished lady, for the ancients, carried her in some few instances beyond the gentleness of her sex, and caused some strong expressions to escape her in the heat of literary controversy, the following instances are sufficient to prove, that her asperity did not proceed from conceit, or from any deficiency of feminine diffidence. It was a custom with the savans of the north, whenever they visited any individuals, eminent in literary reputation, to request the favour of them to write their names, with some sentence, in a little book which they always carried with them for that purpose. A German gentleman of great learning waited upon Madame Dacier, and presented his Album, expressing his wish that she would insert her name and a sentence, but she answered that she was not worthy to appear in such company; that for her to add her name would be the highest presumption; but the gentleman would take no denial; and at last, overcome by his importunities, she took the pen, and wrote her name, with a verse from Sophocles, which is, in English, "Silence is woman's ornament." Another instance is this:-She made some very luminous remarks on the Holy Scriptures, which she was often desired to make public, but she said that a woman ought to read and to meditate on the Scriptures, and to regulate her conduct from what she learned; but that upon such serious topics she ought to keep silence, conformably with the precept of St. Paul.

Valuable books were not the only fruits of this couple: they had a son and two daughters; a son so promising, that before he died-and he did not outlive his eleventh year--he was acquainted with some of the best Greek authors. The eldest daughter betook herself to a nunnery. Of the youngest, who seemed formed for the joy of the family, they were deprived when she was but eighteen. The last trial of M. Dacier's affections, was the death of his excellent wife, which happened in August, 1720. The eulogiums which followed, on her talents and virtues, could not alleviate his sorrow; he survived her only two years, when he crowned a studious life, by a calm and devout death, in the seventy-second year of his age.

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THE PERILS OF EDITORSHIP.

It is not many weeks ago, that our friend J. H. H. complained, in very pathetic terms, of the "perils of authorship," it is now our turn to complain of the still greater dangers which attend upon the duties of editorship. Of all lives in the world, that of an editor is the most miserable. First, there is the publisher to please, then the contributors, then the printer, and then the public-the last, perhaps, the most difficult to please of any. Now we would beg to recall to the remembrance of each, and all, of these parties, the story of the old man and his ass, and the awful result of the old man's endeavours to please every body. We shall keep his misfortune in view, and learn from it, that our wisest plan, in all cases, will be to please ourselves.

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We have been led to make these remarks from certain letters which we have lately received on the subject of our Magazine. Many, we may say the greater part, of these letters, contain commendations of the spirit in which our publication is conducted; but, on the other hand, there are certain testy, fastidious old gentlemen, who have taken it into their heads to abuse us most wofully. One of these worthies, whose precious epistle is dated from Islington, addresses us thus:

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SIR,―The very manifest improvement that every number of the second volume of the Magnet indicates, I am sorry to observe is not to be found in the last three numbers. Each of those numbers will bear no comparison whatever with those contained in Parts IX. or X.; and only resemble those miserable compilations, Parts VII. and VIII. decidedly the worst, as the former are the best, that have yet appeared in your once promising work. May I ask whether your correspondents, Clearsight, B., and H. are of the same opinion as myself, that they do not correspond with the work? When such men as these discontinue their services, I think it is a hint for your subscribers to follow their example. In this little village I hear that above a dozen have dropped since the last three wecks-Verbum sat sapienti.

Your's, &c.

J. P."

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We are here told that the manifest improvement which every number of our second volume indicates, is not to be found in the last three numbers. Wonderful intelligence! That each of these numbers will bear no comparison with Part X. is not our fault, for they were from the pens of the same writers who produced the parts of which Mr. J. P. speaks in terms of approbation. By far the longest and best article in them was from the pen of our able contributor, though that signature was not attached to the production; Clearsight and B. were actively engaged in them; and although H. was not brought into action, he, we believe, is not dead, but sleeping." So much for J. P.'s judgment. If our worthy correspondent, as we infer, means that a dozen of his neighbours have "dropped" our Magazine, we can only say, that is their misfortune, not our's. We have never taken into the account, either of our hopes of success, or of the chances of failure, the caprices of individuals. We write generally for the community, and not with any particular views to gain favour in the sight of the good people of Islington, or their redoubtable champion, J. P.

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That our efforts to render the Literary Magnet deserving of the public patronage, have been unceasing, our own consciences tell us-that we have succeeded in doing so, the increasing sale of the work demonstrates to us-and if any further confirmation of our success were necessary, we would refer to the letters which have called forth these observations. We grant that our Magazine is open to improvements, (where is there one that is not?) but still we have never followed the philosophy of Nil actum reputans, dum quid superesset agendum.

LAURA TO PETRARCH.*

CALM was my bosom, as the waveless deep;
Still as the chamber of forgetful sleep ;-
Almost my flatter'd heart believed its lot,
That love and Petrarch were, at once, forgot.-
Yes, yes;
how vainly did thy Laura deem
That love had vanished like a pleasing dream;
Which, while its visions o'er my mem'ry burn,
I cherish'd still, but dreaded its return.-
Vainly I hoped,-oblivion o'er the past,
The lover to the wife might yield at last;
That all the errors of my passion's dream,-
Petrarch forgotten-duty might redeem.—

Thy fond epistle comes!-and ah! no moré
My bosom sleeps ;-its dream of peace is o'er.-
What!" do I hear thee ardently exclaim,

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;

"Can words which, form'd in pure affection, came
Warm from my heart; a heart too, such as mine
My sighs would fain have wafted into thine ;-
Can they destroy my dearest Laura's rest;
Or banish peace one moment from her breast?
Then must my notes indeed for ever cease,
Since Petrarch's pleasures wound his Laura's peace!"
No, no! my Petrarch-rase the stern decree,
Laura still cherishes each word from thee!

-

Yet, how to answer?-or to answer not?-
(Hate is less keen, than is-to be forgot―)
How shall I tell? or how the thought conceal,
Of one who would not wound, yet dares not heal?—
By fate another's, pledg'd at Heaven's throne,
I blush to name what still with pride I own.-
May I declare it, nor offend above?--

I honor him, but Petrarch still I love!

-

Sade has the hand this feeble verse that writes;
But thou the heart that ardently indites!—
O, hard decree of Destiny severe,

Thus to contract enjoyment's narrow sphere!—

*The loves of Petrarch and Laura are too well known to need much observation. At the time of the commencement of their unfortunate passion, Laura was the wife of one Hughes de Sade, but that passion, however criminal in its rise, was never indulged in guilt.

The subject of the present epistle is in reply to one supposed to have been written to her by Petrarch, and which is to be found in a collection of poems written by Mr. James, published in 1808.

Why was I given, e'er my will could choose,
Or passion knew the gem it had to lose?
Why was I led, untutor'd as the dove,
To be united, e'er I knew' to love,

To one my heart ne'er crav'd dominion o'er,
And ripening passion still refused the more?—
O had it been my fortune to be bless'd
By him I loved,—to be ador'd, caress'd,-
Instead of forcing nature still to cloy
On heartless, soul-less scenes of frigid joy;
To join heart-soul, in one embrace of bliss,
Nor think of other worlds, enjoying this!-
What has thy Laura writ? her own disgrace-
Yet love forbids, what virtue bids me rase!
Yes; let it pass-receive it as thou wilt;
It speaks affection more than taints of guilt!

But ah! no more let thought roam wildly freez
Nor Fancy muse on scenes- -that must not be.-
Let sad reality my mind restore

To that which is, or-that which is no more.-——

If sad to thee the well remembered hour,*
When first my heart reclaim'd its rifled pow'r
Within my breast, how doubly sad to me
Must that still cherish'd recollection be!

my

soul!

Source of my ev'ry woe,—my tearful eyes-
My virtuous struggles-and my guilty sighs-
When first my Petrarch's form in rapture stole
My thoughts from prayer, and from Heav'n
Yes,-virtue, honor, faith, all loudly say,
I should abhor the memory of that day:
Yet must affection still the truth confess,
When I would rise to curse-I kneel and bless!-

Say, could the years their currents backward trace,
And every record of their course erase;
Could ardent prayer, or e'en a wish restore
Those hours of tranquil innocence, before
Thy form I saw; and give me power to fly
The lightning glances of my Petrarch's eye ;—
Letting the moments fleet as they had flown,
And Petrarch be to Laura still unknown!
That wish would linger on my lips, until
Death should forestall the purpose of my

will!

* In Petrarch's epistle, alluding to their first meeting in the Church of St.

Clair on the 6th day of April, 1327, he says,

O time for ever dear, tho' mark'd by woe,
Afflictive source of all the griefs I know.

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