and the philosopher: but, as poems that are to delight, instruct or amend, we know not to what class of the community we could safely recommend their perusal.
Such being our sentiments, on the merits of the original, we cannot sympathize with the solicitude of the many translators who have laboured to present it to their countrymen in an English dress. On the contrary; we should feel no regret nor pity for our unlettered brethren, if Juvenal were a sealed book to all but profound scholars. The remainder of our reading population would be no losers, if they rested satisfied with the imitations of him, which exist in our language. In those of JOHNSON, they would read what Juvenal would have written in his happiest moments, had he lived in our own times. That dignified solemnity and felicity of illustration, which we admire occasionally in the Roman, are sustained throughout in the English poet; and the dexterous introduction of modern examples gives a relish to his imitation, which no mere translation of an ancient can ever possess. Satirical composition, indeed, more, perhaps, than any other species of writing, is a local and national property. It abounds with allusions to the perishing events and characters of the day, which, to those of a different age and country, must be always uninteresting and generally unintelligible. The mere translator of such productions is like a merchant who should endeavour to force into circulation, a quantity of the current coin of some distant region, by simply altering the legend, instead of having it melted at the mint, its purity adjusted to the English standard, and the whole re-stamped with the insignia of Britain. How much less interesting to an English reader, is the catastrophe of Juvenal's Sejanus with his "longa et insignis honorum pagina," than the fall of the "full blown dignity" of Wolsey, with "Law in his voice, and Fortune in his hand?" and how vapid are those traits of indirect Satire, where Juvenal deals his bye-blows to less prominent and contemporary characters, which to us are literally voces et preterea nihil, compared to the parallel passages of Johnson, where every name recalls some well known period of our national history?
CORRESPONDENCE--FOR THE PORT FOLIO.
The very entertaining writer of the Bee Hive, No. 4, under the head of "Keep to the right as the law directs" states, that he is informed, and on the very best authority, that the English rule is, keep to the left. I have travelled through great part of England, and can assure him that he is correctly informed. The circumstance of such being the law, gave rise to the following Epigram:
The laws of the road are a paradox quite,
For when you are travelling along,
If you keep to the left, you are sure to go right,
But if you go right, you go wrong.
SELECTED POETRY FOR THE PORT FOLIO.
FROM MRS. EDGEWORTH'S MODERN GRISELDA.
I married a Nymph who delighted all eyes,
And thought myself happy in gaining the prize,
But alas! very soon, as if sated with pleasing,
She show'd me her pow'rs in the practice of teazing.
If quite in good humour, I call'd her my dear,
'Twas sneer'd at as mawkish, or term'd insincere,
If epithets tender I fail'd to apply,
She would pout, refuse food, and murmur and sigh;
Then say " she'd long seen that my love was abating,
'Twas now but neglect, it would soon come to hating,
Should I swear that I more was enslav'd by her charms,
Much more than when yielded at first to my arms;
She'd answer, 'twas flattery, smiles all grimace,
And that deeming her foolish, I laugh'd in her face,
If to sooth her, I vow'd I respected her sense,
She'd frown and exclaim, it was all a pretence;.
"Your indifference" she'd cry "too plainly appears,
"Ah! why did I marry?" and then fell her tears.
In vain I endeavour'd to banish her gloom,
My feelings all tortur'd, she'd fly to her room;
I foolishly follow'd, with pain at my heart,
Though 'twere better I knew, to tarry apart.
There are who have firmness, when madam's a shrew,
To restrain all regard until she comes to;
There's no reasoning they say, with a female in rage,
'Tis fuel to fire-an attempt to assuage;
I'd tap at her door, and say "'tis fine weather,
"My love, if you please, shall we walk out together?"
She'd pettishly answer, perhaps, merely-no,
Or, tis cold-or, I'm busy; or, why plague me so?
Chagrin'd, to my study should I repair,
And endeavour, by reading, to banish my care,
Perhaps when I'd been a few minutes alone,
And my mind thus reliev'd, almost tranquil had grown,
She'd enter, and urge that I cared not for her,
My own selfish pleasures resolv'd to prefer,
That she therefore henceforth consulting her ease,
She'd pursue what her fancy suggested would please;
Then the carriage she'd order, some visit to pay,
And to show how the mistress would have her own way,
If I offer'd to go, she'd be sure to deride,
She would not have me to her apron strings tied-
If I said not a word, 'twas my plan to neglect her,
In me she once hop'd to have found a protector.
If I went in the carriage, and wish'd her to cast
A view at the beautiful prospects we pass'd,
She'd pull down the screens, and exclaim with surprise,
That I suffer'd the glare to pain her weak eyes.
Then she'd sit in the corner, and answer me short,
If to subjects amusing I tried to resort.
If I did not go with her whene'er she return'd,
She notic'd me not, and my questions she spurn'd,
Then after much pensiveness, sighing, ah me! "How happy, she'd say, some women can be, "Mrs. Jerry my neighbour, how envied her life, "Mr. Jerry conforms to each wish of his wife; "If she mentions a thing, 'tis immediately bought, " He almost anticipates even her thought; "Alas! 'tis my lot-but let me refrain, "I'll suffer in silence, and scorn to complain, " It cannot last long-what a pain in my head!" Then she'd ring for a candle, and languish to bed. When I took my own side, I pass'd all the night, Afraid to disturb her; nor thought of delight. If I mov'd, she would shrink, and in anger protest, That I did so on purpose to rob her of rest. Next morning at breakfast my ear was aroused, By regrets for the offers of titles refus'd, Her foolish affection for me was so great,
She had no one to blame, she deserv'd her sad fate. The advice of her friends she heedlessly scorn'd, She could not but own she was fully forewarn'd
If a friend came to dinner, she'd pouting complain,
And desire she might never behold him again,
He was dull, or unpolish'd, or had some defect,
Or from me he had learnt to show her neglect;
When I from our boyhood would prove him my friend,
And endeavour his conduct and words to defend,
She'd reply, that by habit I partial was grown,
To the faults of my friend, as I was to my own.
Then, with satire and wit, most perfect by use,
She'd magnify foibles and merits reduce,
Till by traits disproportion'd, at length she was sure
To exhibit her skill in a caricature.
All attempts to appease her, I found were in vain,
So though griev'd to the heart, I was fore'd to refrain
Thus treated, my friends, one, bir pneu all done off,
Some pitied, no doubul and bhdi.
Concessions to-day required greater tomonla
And each rising sun still augmented my sorrow.
Thus piqued and thus harass'd, with firmness one day
I address'd her-" My dear, I have tried every way
"To render you happy, yet all is in vain,
"The more I endeavour, the more you complain:
"Each expedient I've tried, that occurred to my mind,
"Twere useless to argue, whose conduct's unkind,
" Since we cannot live happy, we'd much better part,"
"You are right, she exclaim'd, 'tis the wish of my heart,
"I'll instantly go"-To a friend's house she went,
And soon for her things, by a servant she sent.
I sat moping alone, yet resolv'd on my plan,
Though I felt as a lover, I thought as a man.
She expected I'd come, and the quarrel deplore,
And seek reconcilement as practis'd before-
Nay, though serious at last, and full of contrition,
Shame, pride and ill humour, prevented submission,
Thus in sad separation, we're doom'd to remain,
And never shall cherish each other again.
Good humour's the sunshine to brighten our days,
The balm of our being, which blessings conveys,
The main of existence with trifles is fill'd,
Each minute they act as drops are distill'd.
When a tender expression, a look or a smile
Can pleasure bestow, and sorrow beguile,
When a female can render a family blest,
Why will she capriciously make them distrest?
When a wife will more vex, as you more strive to please her,
What a hell upon earth is produc'd by a teazer.
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