University of Virginia Library

Lord Erskine has lately published a letter addressed to the Earl of Liverpool, “on the subject of the Greeks,” in which he recommends an union of Christian powers to drive the Turks from Turkey, principally because they are “barbarians.” I would ask his lordship, in the first place, where he would have them driven to; in the second, by what theory of reasoning does he prove them to be that “barbarous” people he asserts. Certainly if the holy, or any other alliance, were to engage to exterminate all nations equally deserving the appellation, they would have enough work on their hands.

Dryburgh Abbey is a lonely place on the banks of the Tweed, the seat of the Earl of Buchan, Lord Erskine's elder brother. The traveller is shewn there the tomb of its owner ready prepared with a golden inscription to be filled up with dates, &c. at his decease; and, moreover, a goodly collection of busts, arranged with a striking attention to similarity of characters and pursuits—for we there view Provost Creech, an Edinburgh bookseller and magistrate, between Homer, the maker of epics, and John Knox, the un-maker of churches, on one side,—on another Cæsar and Mozart, supporting— Count Rumford of economical fire-grate notoriety!—whilst a third group consists of Washington, the republic-wright, Shakspeare, the play-wright, and Watt, the steam-engine-wright, &c. &c.

Gretna-Green is situated on the banks of the river Sark, and at Gretna-Green the septuagenarian frolic of Lord Erskine was acted to the amusement of the world.

“Why ghosts?” inquires the reader. Alas! are they not dead? It is well the rhythm did not require a word of two syllables, as I fear spirits would have been too ironical.

Mr. Adamson has proved himself an industrious compiler from the German and other occult tongues.

Even the persevering Lord Holland sunk before the herculean task of translating Lope de Vega, the most voluminous writer of his own or any age. (Scott is nothing to him.) His Lordship has, however, had a touch at the Spaniard. “If I cannot murder thee outright, I will wound, wound, wound.”

I should have considered myself guilty of a woeful dereliction of duty, had I neglected to give a line to these royal roads to knowledge—these short cuts to the Temple of Science.

Wanstead's sale is hardly over, ere that at Fonthill commences. They ought to prove useful lessons to certain persons in certain classes of society.

For many years Fonthill had been wholly inaccessible to the curious. Yesterday's paper announces that upwards of two hundred carriages per diem disgorge their contents beneath its walls, and that the crowd of pilgrims to this shrine of virtù is yet increasing.

Stourhead in Wiltshire, the seat of Sir R. C. Hoare, Bart author of “Ancient Wiltshire,” “Classical Tour in Italy and Sicily,” &c.

See that excellent satire, “The Pursuits of Literature.”

Dibdin's Typographical Tour is an interesting and elegant work. When the author enlarges upon Black Letter topics he occasionally excites a smile by his apparent ardour in their pursuit, but it is far from a smile of contempt.

I have little doubt that Mr. F.'s good sense will prevent his being offended at the epithet I have bestowed upon him. His British Monachism is an erudite work, and has annexed to it some very pleasing productions of its author's muse, deserving of a more general circulation than they are likely to obtain as a portion of an expensive folio.

Mr. Mawe is perhaps more of a mineralogist than a chemist, but mineralogy and chemistry are twin sisters. Mr. Accum—ay, what has become of Mr. Accum?

It is reported that the inhabitants of a certain village within a sabbath day's journey of Edinburgh, some years ago took up the mineralogical class of that university as a gang of French spies—the learned villagers, no doubt, taking whacke, schistus, and similar words, for gallicisms.

See Don Juan, Canto II. Stanza 4.

The Author of “The Fudge Family,” &c. (be he or be he not Tom Moore) has certainly chosen a very appropriate nom de guerre. Tom Brown the younger is no unworthy successor to Tom Brown the elder. Vide the Memoirs of the latter character.

“Advice to Julia” is a pretty work, very suitable to the boudoir or drawing room, but its satire is, I fear, too slight to have much effect.

A Mr. Terrut, Terrat, or Terrot (a youthful divine) hath collected sundry and divers remarks from the newspapers of the last ten years, and, after manufacturing them into bad verse, published them under the title of “Common Sense, a poem.” Common enough, certainly. But why should I revive such things from their native oblivion?

Samuel Birch (cidevant Lord Mayor and Colonel of Train Bands, now Alderman, pastrycook, playwright, and what not?) wrote a play or plays greatly admired by the courts of aldermen and common council; who, however, regarded the phenomenon of one of their body dealing in such articles as somewhat ominous. There is, I should imagine, but little fear of such a merchant having many rivals amongst his civic colleagues.—On his door-post in Cornhill is written “Birch successor to the late Mr. Horton.”

Hogg's Queen's Wake is his best production—I had almost said his only good one. It well atones, however, for such manufactures as his “Three Perils,” &c. &c.

“Human Life” is the “Pleasures of Memory” in its dotage. I may be wrong in attributing “Italy” to the same author. It is pretty in parts, but almost too pamby-namby even for Rogers.

With all his faults, Phillips is one of the most eloquent men of his day. His speech in the cause Guthrie v Sterne has long struck me as one of the best of its kind in our own or any other language.

It is a fact well known to ornithologists that a flock of geese always march with their most experienced gander at their head, and that wild-geese fly in the same order.

Whoever knows Miss E. is aware of her practice of noting down whatever she hears and sees—as materiel for future works. Some persons have shunned her society on this account, unwilling to have their peculiarities made public.

King Corny is a conspicuous character in Miss Edgeworth's tale entitled “Ormond.”

Guttes du sang, an heraldic term signifying drops of blood.

Miss Williams has more recently, I am happy to say, employed herself in translating from the French—a better task than publishing her ultra-revolutionary ideas.

That well-puffed production yclept “The Mohawks” has been attributed to Lady Morgan and her husband. I am unwilling to conceive, however, that even Lady M. could write some parts of it of a most unladylike nature; and the frequent employment of similes culled from the “Pharmacopœia Londinensis,” &c. induces me to suppose it has originated from the pericranium of her spouse.

Allow me to wish Mrs. R. well through her chancery suit with Mr. Murray.

I am not aware that Mrs. Frye is an author—but she, however, has made herself a sufficiently public character to excuse the slight notice I have taken of her in my poem. Her labours in the cause of gaol reform have, I am told, been eminently successful, and render her deserving of the thanks of the community. I cannot, however, help thinking hers a somewhat dangerous example—especially to young ladies. The female sex have of late become far too fond of display, and are too apt to seek for that applause from crowded anniversary meetings which they ought alone to look for from their fathers, husbands, or brothers. The great merit of Mrs. F. is the unassuming manner in which she commenced her praiseworthy labours; and doubtless she regrets as much as myself the (if I may be allowed the expression) unfeminine publicity since given to them.

I must confess I have no patience when I see our females forming themselves into societies, committees, &c. &c. whether for the purpose of clothing naked infants, erecting naked statues, distributing bibles or blankets, or collecting weekly pence for the support of all or any of these purposes. The objects themselves may be—many no doubt are good—but I fear very dearly purchased when at the risk of rendering our fair companions familiar with vice and publicity. Let every female be a Dorcas, but away with the canting institutions where ladies-patronesses, committee-women, &c. figure away in printed display with such additions as Miss A. three bedgowns—Miss B. seven shifts—Miss C. two frocks—Mrs. D. a bundle of old baby-linen—Mrs. E. a parcel of old rags, &c.

Mrs. More hath written much; and must now have attained a venerable old age. Pleasing must be the recollections of her well-spent life. Though her last work is the very acmé of slang-theological, it certainly strikes me as her best, and the most likely to become generally useful.

Who can this brace of lady-birds be? inquires my reader, as he refers to this note. I answer, the Miss Porters, the Miss Thomsons, &c. &c. or any others he may choose.

I never read Miss Porden's poem “The Veils,” nor do I think the title will allure me. Her late production “Cœur de Lion,” though in parts heavy, as all long poems are (Homer nods at times), is worthy to be called a national poem, and is laudably free from the clap-trap and quackery of our modern poets, from Byron downwards.

Mrs. Hemans does or did reside in Wales. It is a matter of surprise to me that her poems are not more generally known. Wherever they are known, they are sure to be favourites. I am sorry to see her writing prize poems, in as much as I should regret to behold a Lawrence or a Beechy rival candidates with the young gentlemen and ladies who compete for the silver pallets, &c. given by the Society for the Encouragement of Arts and Sciences.

Mrs. R. has, I believe, lately announced another work— full, no doubt, of haunted castles, aërial music, secret passages, &c. &c.

Mrs. Opie has written sundry and divers mediocre tales, a few prettyish poems, and one work of real genius, “The Father and Daughter.”

Mrs. Grant's “Letters from the Mountains” are deserving of a less affected title. Her Essays on the superstitions of the Highlanders have doubtless been read with pleasure by many of my readers.

Why—oh! why did Miss Baillie publish her “Metrical Legends?” Who can forbear, on reading them, to exclaim—

The propriety of this medical simile cannot be called in question by those who have read “The Mohawks.”