fish of all kinds may be instantaneously killed, an incision being made with a sharp pointed penknife, or puncture with a bodkin, longitudinally into the brain about half an inch or an inch above the eyes, according to the size of the fish.... a method which will be remembered by those who wish to lessen the unnecessary sufferings of animal nature. LITERARY INTELLIGENCE. The following Works have lately appeared from American Presses: Juvenile Magazine, 4 vols.....Johnson, Philadelphia. Haley's Life of Cowper....Pellam, Ellicot's Journal....Dobson. Fifth Volume of Vesey, Junior's Linn's and Priestley's Pamphlets. Montifeor's Commercial Precedents. Hear Both Sides, a Comedy. By Account of Louisiana, &c. do. Barton's Botany....For the Author. The following Works are preparing for Publication in this City: Pinkerton's Geography....Heron's Letters of Junius......Johnson's and Steeven's Shakspeare......... Aiken's Complete Edition of the English Poets....Burke's Works, &c. &c. The London Prints mention that Godwin's Life of Chaucer is nearly ready for the Press.....That the Reverend Mr. Boyd is engaged in the Translation of the Auraucana of Eroella....That Miss Seward is writing the Life of Darwin....That Mrs. Radcliffe is writing another Romance. NOTE FROM THE EDITOR. THE Editor of this work having engaged in a very arduous undertaking, is conscious that his success will in a great measure depend upon the literary aid which he shall receive from his friends, and the Literati of this country...He, therefore, most earnestly solicits from the man of science, and from the polite scholar, the contributions of their genius and leisure: while the Editor performs all that is in his power, he hopes that they will not permit another attempt to extend abroad useful knowledge, to perish. All communications addressed to the Editor, should be left at the Book-store of Mr. Conrad. Authors and Publishers who are at a distance, and who wish their works to be immediately noticed, are requested to forward them to the Editor. Denville is thanked for his communication, and is informed, that his offers are gratefully accepted. The pages of this work are always open to the impression of the pen of the author of the lines to Dr. Jenner. JOHN CONRAD & CO. PHILADELPHIA; M. & J. CONRAD & CO. BALTIMORE; RAPIN, CONRAD & CO. WASHINGTON CITY; SOMERVELL & CONRAD, PETERSBURG; BONSAL, CONRAD & CO. NORFOLK; BERNARD DORNIN, NEW-YORK; WHITING, BACHUS, & WHITING, ALBANY; SAMUEL PLEASANTS, RICHMOND; BEERES & HOWE, NEW-HAVEN; CROW & QUERY, CHARLESTON, S. C. H. MAXWELL, PRINTER, NO. 25, NORTH SECOND STREET. FOR THE LITERARY MAGAZINE. I HAVE been listening this half hour, to R― reciting the odes of Anacreon. He is wonderfully delighted with this old songster, and backs his praise with a thousand testimonies of sage critics, and enlightened contemporaries of the poet. Nothing, in the whole universe of poetry, he says, is so sweet, so delicate, so delicious. He utters such dulcet and harmonious breath that the rudest savage would be soothed by it into civility, and the gloomiest anchorite start madly into extacy at the sound. There must surely be some magic in the Greek language, incomprehensible by common understandings: some music in its accents unintelligible to vulgar ears: for I have listened to Tom's recitals, with as anxious a desire to be pleased as I could possibly conjure up and yet my rapture was extremely moderate. I heard no sounds that breathed of heaven. Nothing that snatched my soul out of my body and lapped it in Elysium. I will not confess, either, a total insensibility to plea sure from music. I have listened to a sweet enchantress, and though I felt no inclination to weep, to cast up my eyes, to throw abroad my hands, or utter incoherent exclamations, yet my eye was chained to the singer, and I had almost forgot to breathe. As to verse, it has really some charms for me, and numbers though silently read, has frequently bewitched me nearly as much, as a concert of flutes. Indeed, being tired of listening to a voice not the sweetest and most tunable that ever warbled, I snatched the book from his hand, and by reading the lines according to my own system of rhythm and pronunciation, it was easy to perceive that Greek verse is, indeed, articulated harmony. It is not, however merely the sound, the Euphony, that captivates Tom. It is, it seems, the style, the imagery, the sentiment. Love, according to him, never had so just, so exquisite, so impassioned a culogist. Mirth had never so divinely eloquent, so irrisistibly se ductive an advocate since love and mirth came into fashion, and Tom, says, if all this be not worthy of credit on his word, he can produce a whole army of critics, of all ages and nations, to second him; whereas, there is not to be found on record a single declaration, doubting or denying the merit of this poet. This was extremely formidable to one like me who, if I may praise myself when nobody is bye, am not noted for conceit or arrogance, Se, anxious for something like proof of these assertions, I again seized the book and turned to that side of the page which contained a literal translation into English. I can read, but cannot understand Greek, and a literal translation, I imagined, would exhibit at least the naked thought, the image though unadorned. Farbe it from me, said I, my good friend, as I turned over the leaves, to bring into question the divinity of either Love or Mirth. To reject or dispise the first is to rebel against Heaven, who supports by this chain, the felicity and even the existence of all animated nature: and as to mirth, it is the seasoning of life; the companzen of love and friendship; benevolence is his father and his mother is wit. Were I born to the honours of poetry, I would build my claim on nothing bart the fervency of my devotions to kave, and the zeal of my panegyrics upon mirth. If these be the powers invoked by Anacreon, I will not be the last to honour his memory. But what is here? I see not a syllable about love. I see a great deal about flames, and fervours, and kisses, and I know not what, but I see nothing that relates to love. On the contrary, all that I find here is in alesolute hostility to that passion. I do not understand you, said my felend, if these he not the tokens and sensations of love, I should be gied to know what are. I see nothing here, replied I, but there fires that are rived and quenched in a brothel, which are excited by mere sex, and which nothing but wanton arts, unceasing variety, and glossy youth can keep alive. I see nothing but a gross appetite, distinguished by no humanity, no delicacy, from that which stimulates the goat and the bull. I see propensities kept alive by nothing but the force of habit, and by inflammatory liquors; I see hoary age, glorying in sensations, for which the hey-day of youth scarcely affords an apology. Nay, the passion which inspires the greatest part of all this love, and all this poetry appears not to have even woman for its object. Fough! The very thought excites nausea. Between disgust and abhorrence, my stomach sickens. Indignation indeed, ought to get the better of every other emotion. Indignation, at those who dare to name sacred love, in such company. Amid such unhallowed fires, stimulated by ebriety, by novelty, by variety, by youth; terminating in the physical and momentary gratification, and so purely sensual that sex itself is confounded; shall we look for that passion which is built upon esteem, matured by possession, strengthened by time; the very essence of which is individuality, fidelity to one and constancy in one sentiment. It is not here that we must look for that love, the soul of which is chastity: that is to say, an absolute indifference to all but one: and tenderness, that is to say, a something compounded of desire and esteem: a something which flows partly from personal charms, and chiefly from experience of good offices, kindness, and equanimity : a passion that owes its highest delights to the endearments of offspring, a circumstance that so far from being ever alluded to by Anacreon is utterly incompatible with the subject of his eulogies. The mirth of this poet is on a level with his love. I see nothing but the apparatus of a drinking match-Laus, alias Bacchus, dias wine, is the eternal theme of his |