The poet and the sage proclaim, with voice Unanimous, these great and useful truths: Man is the study fittest for mankind;
To know ourselves the noblest end of thought. To meditate on these no field so rich,
So boundless, so diversified, as is
The city's throng. He then, who flees the
Of active life for stones, and brawling brooks, And haunts of deer: the misanthrope, who leaves
The cheerful converse of mankind, the sight
"Of human face divine," to hear the shrill
Ear-torturing cries of owls, and the rude song
Of woods, but doats upon an idle dream,
And wastes the noblest powers of his mind,
In vain research, and unproductive toil.
Here, in the conflict of mankind alone,
Can we trace out their nature. Here alone
Perceive th' expansive force of that vast mind,
Which elevates him to the height of God.
Imagination, judgment, memory here,
Attain their destined strength; and all the passions,
Rouse and enlarge by adverse aims, until
Their latent energies unfold to view.
Of books, th' exclusive boast of civil life,
Exhaustless source of wisdom, ornament
Of youth, of age the solace and support,
Yielding in ev'ry state, unmingled streams
Of never-cloying bliss, the city brings
A large and various store, forever new,
Food for "the mind of desultory man.'
Not as in solitude too oft we find,
To the dull page tied down, so frequently
Perus'd, that the pall'd ear abhors it's sound.
But whether we'd hold converse with those
minds,
Who on a nook of earth, at Europe's verge,
Nourish'd the flow'r of freedom, and attain'd
In times remote, in letters and in arts,
A height unrivalled by modern fame;
Or those, not far behind, of haughty Rome,
The only trophies left of her who sway'd
The empire of the world. Would we pursue
With arduous step those philosophic paths,
Where men long wander'd, in an endless maze
Of theory-while fancy took the reins
From reason, till those stars of England rose
And clear'd the doubtful way. Or rather woo
Th' historic muse, whose page embalms the
fame
Of those "who greatly thought or bravely
Of those, whose labours have enlarg'd the sphere
Of human bliss, by the long train of arts,
By teaching wisdom, or by acting well.
Would we unbend the mind's fatigue, and feel
A mournful pleasure, while the tragic muse
Through fancied woes conducts us, or live o'er
The home-felt scenes the novelist displays,
With a profusion endless, these the city
Proffers the eager mind. Tis here alone
Our meals are greeted, with the punctual call
Of those moist folios, whom a single day
Robs of their taste. Or those, which weeks
Or months bring round, laden with varied fruits,
Most grateful to the literary mind.
What time the fair forsake the room, and leave
The stronger sex to toast, to sing, to drink
Intoxicating draughts: when some retreat
To pay their punctual visit to the couch,
Th' unerring harbinger of wakeful nights;
In search of all the luxury of books,
My steps conduct me to the tranquil dome,
Where Franklin's venerable form invites
My leisure hours. A niche well fill'd by one,
Whose country rear'd the infant pile within.
Here learning nobly emulates the gods,
Like them diffusing through the world, from rich
And inexhausted stores, her glorious gifts.
But most of all the city life affords,
Th' enliv'ning joys that social converse yields.
The face so often seen insipid grows,
And conversation bald and wearisome,
Unless renew'd by novelty. The round
Of life is render'd dull and spiritless,
And like the inmates of an India ship,
Four tedious months coop'd up at sea, we tire,
Even at the sight of those we daily see,
And sigh to hear again a stranger's voice.
Here we may saunter forth: And as it suits,
Canvass the changeful news of war or peace,
The movements of ambitious powers abroad,
Or more important counsels of our own.
Or if the boist'rous din of politics
Delight us not, here may we greet the
Of literary minds, congenial
To our own taste: receiving and imparting New pleasures from our former studious toil. But 'tis within the circles of the fair,
The Sylph of social converse joys to view, With fondest rapture, and with partial love Her flowery throne erected. Here each grace Displays her winning charms, unveil'd. The chaste
And polish'd virtues stand around, and guard Her seat from all licentiousness of act
Or tongue. Mirth and good humour reign o'er all,
While we run through the trifles of the hour,
That banish care, and humanise the soul.
Nor is amusement all. New Lælias
And new Mucias here display, that grace
Of style and wit, that polish'd turn of thought,
Which once the youthful Tully sought
Among the Roman fair. Without whose aid,
Learning is cumbersome, and knowledge vain.
The following passages are extracted from the Memoirs of Anacreon; a work which was written by the editor of this compilation many years ago, in intervals of relaxation from Year Books and Reporters;
from Viner and Ventries With all their tough entries.
The idea of this tissue of fact and fiction laid on a Grecian frame, was derived from the Athenian letters of Hardwicke, and the Anacharsis of Abbé Barthelemy. The ambition of the young author was quickened by the enthusiasm which the presence of Mr. Moore had kindled at that period in the literary circles of Philadelphia: and it was highly flattering to receive his approbation of the work when a portion of the manuscript was subsequently transmitted to him. There are many works in France on the same model,-les Amours d'Horace, le Catulle, &c.; and the Germans have the Alcibiades by Reischer, of Aristippus, by Wieland, &c. but I have never seen one of them. From the life of Anacreon by Gacon, who calls himself, "the poet without blemish," I have borrowed one or two trifling incidents in the commencement of my work, but he was soon found to be too intolerably silly, and thrown aside.
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