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In short, my fool, in mere rotation,
Your boasted wise predestination,*

Is nothing more than all men know:

That some have griefs, and some have joys;
W'are born, and live till death destroys:
Omnipotence will have it so.

Some calculate the hidden fates
Of monkeys, puppy dogs, and cats;
Some take a measure of the lives

Of fathers, mothers, husbands, wives.

* Voltaire's Candid, or, All for the Best, is an admirable production, and calculated, in every respect, to prove the fallacy of the doctrine of predestinarians: if any instance is required to prove this folly in its full extent, the reader has only to consider the conduct of the Turks, who are such rooted votaries of predestination, as absolutely to suffer the dead bodies to be exposed in a putrid state, in the time of a plague, rather than be at the trouble of burying them; as they are firmly of opinion, that such conduct would not conduce to extend the infection; for that if the plague is to rage more furiously, it was previously ordained by fate; and therefore no human endeavour could prevent, in the smallest degree, its destructive ravages.

L'ENVOY OF THE POET.

Before a man's birth, 'tis thought, his fate is cast, Be he a beggar, or a chief renown'd:

Yet, when all's said, 'tis only found at last, That rogues, when hung, are certainly not drown'd.

THE POET'S CHORUS TO FOOLS.

Come, trim the boat, row on each Rara Avis,
Crowds flock to man my Stultifera Navis.

SECTION LV.

OF MARTIAL FOOLS.

Bella! Horrida bella!

Matronis detestata.

WHO would not be a brave commander;*

In war a raging salamander,

And do as his superior teaches:

* A cuspide corona, should be the soldier's motto: for, even suppose that he is slain, he has acquired the wreath of glory in the grave; that is to say, according to the world's opinion: though, for my own part, I am perfectly well satis. fied with the glory of living as long as I can. Iniquissimam pacem justissimo bello antefero. For I never think of fighting, but it reminds me of the story of the late facetious Captain Grose, of antiquarian memory, which ran as follows: "Old Lord Ligonier took the charge of his nephew, when commanding the British forces abroad, and at the commencement of the first engagement he was greatly exasperated at the timidity which was evinced by his éléve, who excused himself, on the score of the novelty of the

With sword in hand mount deadly breaches:
Or, when the desp❜rate foes beset,
Rush on, to eat his bayonet.*

dreadful scene; as the slaughter increased, the young man's fear became less conspicuous, until a musket ball not only levelled to the earth a soldier who was at his side, but splashed his coat with the brains of the deceased. On witnessing this, a visible emotion was depictured on the features of the young soldier, which was noticed by the enraged uncle, who, with a bitter imprecation, vowed that his nephew was a poltroon, and only fit to be tied to his mother's apron string. "I beg your pardon, uncle," replied the nephew, archly, and looking at his bedaubed regimental coat, "I am not afraid, but am only astonished to find that a skull here should be possessed of any brains at all.”

* The Irish commander, of whom the following anecdote is related, was, in all probability, one of those fiery hot gentlemen, of whom it may be said,

Il sangue del soldato fa grande il capitano.

But to the point in question.

When General O'Kelly was introduced to Louis XIV. soon after the battle of Fontenoy, his Majesty observed, that Clare's regiment behaved well in that engagement. "Sire," said the general," they behaved well, it is true; many of them were wounded: but my regiment behaved better, for we were all killed!"

Who would not, when the fight increases,
Dash forward to be hack'd in pieces:*
And, to maintain his courage stainless,
Present to musket head that's brainless;
All death, save that of honour's hum:
For, who'd be wounded in the b-m?t

*Even the sacred functions of the clerical character have been stained with blood, in despite of the precepts of christianity; for it is related in history, that Richard Cœur de Lion, having taken a fighting bishop prisoner, the Pope claimed him as one of his spiritual sons. When the king jocosely sent the Pope the hacked and bloody armour of the bishop, saying, " Lo, this have I found, now know thou if it be thy son's coat or no!"

Such being the case, we may well exclaim,

Sure war must be the Lord's delight,

When priests 'mid seas of blood will fight.

No man, surely, reared to that

-heroic trade,

That demi gods and heroes made;
Slaughter, and knocking of the head:
The trade to which they all are bred,

could bear such an ignoble idea:

What!

Just in the place where honour's lodg'd,
As wise philosophers have judg'd;

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