Our Members have been hitherto so liberal, that it was with a feeling of disappointment that we perceived the Chest to be this week less abundantly stored than usual, and we trust that we shall not call in vain on the liberality and industry of our Members.

One of our correspondents has obliged us by an amusing detail of some experiments on the comparative weights of blank and written paper. His opinion appears to be that written paper certainly preponderates over that which is immaculate, but that its weight is also influenced by the gravity of the subject and the light or heavy style employed by the writer. This we do not wonder at, nor should we be surprised to find that some subjects should appear to be of such levity as more than to counteract the weight of the ink. We suspect, indeed, tho’ it be not expressly stated by our learned friend, that this must have been the case with the lady’s love-letter which flew out of the scales before the experiment was completed. At any rate the enquiry is so curious, and the results so extraordinary, that we are anxious for further details. We do not understand that Mr Solve-query has submitted the various styles of poetry to the test. So numerous are the yet nondescript species which have recently sprung up among us, that we think some information of their relative weight and value would be highly interesting, and also of essential use in enabling us to distinguish the counterfeit from the silver and gold of Parnassus. Should Mr Solve-query be at a loss for specimens (which in this Age of Rhyme is almost impossible) we think we can promise that the Attic Society has plenty of rough copies of every kind at his service.

We have received some verses without a title or signature, and were at first doubtful as to their aim, till we perceived them to have been written in reply to some beautiful lines sent with a purse and lamenting the effect of penury on Genius, which are fresh in the memory of our hearers. The poem to be read this evening concludes with a panegyric on the Literary Fund.

We have next an elegant little Impromptu written with the pen of a lady. We wish the little talisman had inspired a longer strain.

It is a great pity that the lost Muse cannot be found, as the advertisement has been productive of infinite trouble to all the Bow Street Officers of Parnassus, and several well disposed persons have been taken up on suspicion. To avert some such disagreeable event which threatened her friends, a lady has lately presented herself, and even announced herself as the truant returned, but on inspection she appeared to be only Good Nature — a very good sort of person we believe, but little known in the fashionable world, and seldom seen in the company of the Muses. This false report has however deceived the unhappy bard into the belief that he had recovered his lost treasure, and the promised reward of five hundred lines has been sent to the Chest in consequence. We do not perceive in them one objectionable or offensive idea, one specimen of tumid diction or one aberration from the line of taste, yet they want variety and sublimity both of thought and language, a more elevated diction, the glow of a warmer imagination, in short, the ocular conviction of a mathematical truth, till lately believed incapable of demonstration, is the only idea which we have received from them — and the Candidate must certainly be high in the favour of the New Muse, who shall open his promised reward without a feeling of disappointment. We do not think that she inspired them, and we doubt if any other Muse will claim them.

The letters from France are continued, and we are much amused with the unhappy catastrophe of the rejected hero — but we must not anticipate our audience. Allah ul Dien we think improves, but the fourth act is long, and we fear the necessity of deferring a part of it.

The Ode, or shall we call it the Dithyrambic poem (for it does not in its structure conform to any of the legitimate lyric models) on the progress of Sculpture, is conceived in the spirit of Pindar, and possesses many Pindaric features. We shall look with impatience for the promised continuation.

The Comte Leandre is arrived in England, and to our astonishment is indignant at what he calls the mistranslation of his Vive L’Amour which appeared in the last number. He will pretend to understand his own song better than the Attic Society — but he is a foreigner, and we forgive his impertinence. We can even find merit and elegance in the version by a friend which he presumes to substitute, and surprising, amazing, wonderful, as our forbearance may be, we can receive with pleasure his “Chanson a boire”, and will sing it, or rather depute it to be sung while we drink to his health at supper.