The contest between the faults of the two sexes seems to draw near a termination, for Timon on the one side acknowledges himself conquered, and Incognita appears inclined to retire from the field, by relinquishing what she is entitled to, both by the laws of forensic war and the undisputed privilege of her sex, the last word. This Lady has given a solution of the riddle which circumscribes the virtues of the fair sex in the compass of a silver penny; but with submission to the gallant Amazon, who may reasonably be supposed to know her own meaning. We think a better solution may be found, and we throw the ball once more to our auditors, and catch it who can. As to Timon we look upon him as a recreant knight, for we do not remember to have seen him in the field, and unless he fought in borrowed armour, he has challenged and yielded, without either giving or receiving a blow. We hope the Ladies will sing his praises in hudibrastic heroics and give him a wreath of nettles as the fomentor of strife, instead of laurel that bind the brow of the honourable warrior.

A nameless poet we imagine has had dreadful apprehensions respecting this contest, since he has had recourse to celestial interference, which according to the Horatian precept should never be done till the author has so far entangled himself with his subject, that nothing but a God can relieve him. What he has done, however, he has done judiciously, for he first employs Momus to embroil the combatants still more, and then engages the God of Eloquence to reconcile them, who adroitly does it — without saying a word — by waving his wand and laying them asleep on the carpet. We cannot say we much approve of this kind of reconciliation, for after lodging thus higglety pigglety together all night, who can be certain that they may not wake with new animosity. Had he called in the aid of Apollo with his tarantula fiddle, and set the parties a-dancing till their fury had evaporated, we think they would have parted in good humour and all future contest would have been avoided.

We shall begin our readings with “A Melting Effusion to a Candle Snuffed Too Low”, which we hope will make every eye run over. This will be followed by a farewell sonnet to Anna, Verses to a Lady, Verses from Yorick to Eliza, which we admire for the neat application of a thought not uncommon in poetry. A free imitation of Lord Surrey’s description of spring, which is a pleasing poem, but the rhymes are defective in the last stanza. An Epitaph on a Young Lady, and Epitaph signed William Jackson, and a Sonnet written on the top of York Minster. These pieces though of a graver cast than our usual contributions we hope will not unpleasantly diversify the amusement of the evening.