than it is; and we are uniformly delighted and surprised to find that every part is, not only as it ought to be, but far better than we could possibly have imagined. The middle class consists of productions, some passages of which afford us great pleasure, whilst others displease; although in general we cannot tell how to remedy what we feel is offensive or not satisfactory. The lowest class, where we find few or no beauties, and perpetual faults which we are certain we could' never have committed, and could easily remedy, ought to be forthwith remitted to our friend the trunk-maker. It is not pretended that any of the erotic writers, even Longus himself, are to be placed with the immortals, who occupy the first rank; but they certainly all deserve a high station amongst the heroes in the second; for few books afford the reader greater pleasure, and their faults, which it cannot be dissembled are many, most commonly are such as we are sensible do exist, but cannot clearly see how to rectify. We must bear in mind likewise, that they treat chiefly of love, which is a delicate subject; for making love, it should seem, is not a mere mechanical operation, like making hay. The spectator is rarely satisfied when he sees it made on the stage, even by those who are esteemed by the best judges as artists in their line. It has been conjectured, that this is because every man has a way of his own which he considers the most perfect, and is therefore very intolerant on this subject. But is not Longus in a bad taste? Let us first agree in what kind of taste this little ode is written: "Voi, freschi venticelli, Voi, delicati fiori, Intorno a lei crescete; Voi, ninfe, e voi, pastori, To give a clear idea of the peculiar style of the erotic writers, which is artificial but yet very agreeable, by any general description, is impossible; to enter into minute details, and to say that the structure of the sentence is governed by the principle of assigning this place to the adjective and that to the verb, and that a period usually consists of so many members, arranged according to such and such rules, would be insufferably tedious, and wouldmost probably fail of attaining the end proposed. As peculiarities consist altogether in manner, they can only be seized by actual observation. In return for the pleasure derived from works of fancy, and indeed from almost all our amusements, we must make some pretty liberal concessions: we must bear with a great deal that is unnatural; we must tolerate many absurdities, acquiesce in improbabilities, and sometimes even concede what is impossible; we must allow a certain distance to the juggler, and permit him to be inaccessible on the rear, and strongly entrenched on the flanks; we must be content to view the perspective of a painting from one point only; to consider a motionless statue as a flying Mercury; to suppose that the hero of an opera is soliloquizing in a perfect solitude, although every word gives præternatural activity to the elbows of fifty fiddlers; and, in spite of ourselves, to feel drowsy during the ballet, in sympathy with the heroine, who, by a fiction of the theatre, sleeps soundly in a hornpipe. If the reader should think the demands of Longus rather high, he must remember that his fare is good; and although some articles may at first seem extravagant, when he becomes a little accustomed to his ways, he will find that on the whole he is not unreasonable. It has always been usual, in giving an account of any author in an unknown tongue, to offer, by way of specimen, some translations. This is a cruel practice; but cruel as it is, it must be complied with. If the merit of a work is supposed to be comprehended in a thousand particulars, nine hundred and ninety-nine and three quarters of these will always consist in the peculiar manner of the writer, which of course cannot be translated. What is called a free translation, when it is not a cloak for ignorance, is an attempt to improve upon the thing translated, and is consequently high treason against the author, for which the literary reputation of the translator ought to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. Every one who is not hardened in his doings into English, will, when compelled to translate, throw himself upon the reader's mercy, and cry, "I have been literal." As a Form of Prayer for persons in that unhappy situation has never been drawn up, the following is submitted to their consideration at least, until a more approved one is substituted by authority: "Gentle Reader, I have brought this delicate piece of workmanship into England out of Greece, by long journies over bad roads. True it is, that the finest parts have been shaken off, and are altogether lost; that the sharp edges are worn and broken; that the masterly joinings are gaping through shocks and joltings; that the colours have faded and changed; and that the exquisite polish has every where disappeared this is but too true, as you perceive; bút such as it remains, it is the very identical piece which I received at Athens. I have made no judicious alterations; not one improvement: I have neither painted, gilded, nor varnished. Leave me to lament over this involuntary havoc, and spare your reproaches." The 3d and 4th Chapters of the 2d Book have been selected as the most proper to make an example of: they are as follows: Chap. 3.-"An old man came to them, clothed with a frock, shod with sandals, furnished with a scrip, and that scrip an old one. He sat down beside them, and spoke thus:-"I am, my children, the old man Philetas; I, who have many times sung to these nymphs, who have many times piped to that Pan, who have led many a herd of oxen by my music alone. I come to you, to relate what I have seen, to tell what I have heard. I have a garden, the work of my own hands, which I have cultivated ever since I ceased to tend the flocks on account of old age. It produces, according to each season, whatever the seasons bear: in spring, roses, lilies, the hyacinth, and both the violets; in summer, poppies, pears, and all kinds of apples; now, grapes, and figs, and pomegranates, and green myrtle-berries. In this garden flocks of birds assemble in the morning; some to feed, some to sing; for it is overspreading and shady, and watered by three fountains: if the hedge were taken away, it would seem to be a wood. When I went into the garden yesterday about noon, I saw a boy under the pomegranate-trees and myrtles, carrying pomegranates and myrtle-berries; he was fair as milk, and golden-haired as fire, and fresh as one lately bathed; he was naked, he was alone, and he was sporting as if he had been plucking fruit in his own garden. I hastened towards him to lay hold of him, fearing lest in his rudeness he should break the myrtles and the pomegranate-trees. But he escaped me lightly and easily-sometimes running under the rose-bushes, some times hiding himself under the poppies, like a young partridge. "Often have I had much trouble in pursuing sucking. kids, often have I toiled in running after new-born calves; but this was an ever-varying and unattainable labour. Being weary, for I am old, and resting upon my staff (watching him meanwhile that he might not escape) I enquired to whom of my neighbours he belonged, and what he meant by gathering fruit in another man's garden? He made no answer, but, standing beside me, he smiled softly, and pelted me with myrtle-berries. I know not how it was, but he soothed me so that I could no longer be angry. I implored him therefore to come within reach, and to fear nothing; and I swore by the myrtles, that I would let him go, that I would give him apples and pomegranates, and would permit him always to gather the fruit and pluck the flowers, if I could obtain from him one single kiss. At this he laughed heartily, and said in a voice, such as no swallow, no nightingale, no swan (a bird as long-lived as myself) could utter 'It is no trouble to me to kiss you, Philetas, for I desire to be kissed even more than you desire to be young: but pray consider, would this favour be suitable to your years? For your old age would be of no avail to deter you from following me, after you had gotten one kiss. I am difficult to be overtaken by a hawk, and by an eagle and by any bird that is swifter even than these. I am not a child; and although I seem to be a child, yet am I older than Saturn, than all Time itself. I knew you, when in early youth you used to feed a wide-spreading herd in yonder marsh, when you loved Amaryllis: but you did not see me, although I used to stand close by the girl. However, I gave her to you, and now your sons are good herdsmen and good husbandmen. At present I tend Daphnis and Chloe, and when I have |