University of Virginia Library

There is no need to cross the Tweed in order to prove the illiberality of the reviewers of literature, as the metropolis of England teems every month with specimens of the grossest injustice, couched under assurances of the most scrupulous disinterestedness on the part of the editors, who are biassed by public opinion; not to lay any stress upon private pique, which has too frequently instigated their proceedings. One instance, however, the writer has to record, as coming directly under his cognizance, of a literary character, who, while in the practice of affixing his name to the title-page of his productions, was uniformly handled in the most illiberal manner; whereas, no sooner had he adopted the expedient of annexing a false signature, than several of these conscientious censors of literature, who would not have allowed this author the smallest share of praise had his name been rendered public, were themselves the most conspicuous in blazoning forth his productions, as being characterised by every requisite that could render them worthy the patronage of the public.

Notwithstanding the correctness of the above assertion, it is hoped that no young bard will despair of arriving at the summit of Parnassus, be his dawning effusions what they may, when it is remembered that the great Jonathan Swift made his debut in the literary world by one of the most wretched odes that could disgrace the votaries of Grub-street: for the truth of which assertion let the following extracts stand recorded.

Again,

If any thing, however, could contribute to the disgrace of writing such a poem, it is the folly of having addressed it, with a very silly introductory letter, to the writers of the Athenian Oracle; a set of people whose conceit in offering to answer all questions, ignorance in giving solutions, and credulity in listening to the grossest falsehoods, is rendered conspicuous throughout the work in question. At the period when the above mentioned ode was written, Swift had attained the age of twentyfour.

The following quotation, from a modern author, is inserted, as peculiarly applicable to the above line:

Juvenal.

Such is the situation of things, that it is difficult to avoid writing satire.

With all due deference to Sir Noodle's perspicuity, I conceive that he has not done justice to the republic of letters in Great Britain, by placing Spenser as the leading star in our literary hemisphere. Though the phraseology be uncouth, nevertheless everything is due to the lucubrations of venerable Chaucer. The sweetness of Lord Surry, who infused the tenderness of Petrarch throughout his sonnets, must always confer honour upon the age when his effusions met publicity. Nor be the name of Sir Thomas More forgotten, who, for energy and perspicuousness of style, is not inferior to any subsequent writer whatsoever; and whose great abilities are summed up in the following words by Burnet, in his Specimens of English Prose Writers, vol. i. p. 394.

“Sir Thomas More is justly regarded as one of the chief revivers of classical literature in England. He both wrote and spoke Latin with almost the correctness and fluency of an ancient Roman; and with all his theological errors, he taught that erudition which civilized his country. He is scarcely less conspicuous as an improver of his native tongue. His language is more studied, more appropriate and correct, is more the phraseology of a man of learning and sense, than any specimen which preceded him. From his proficiency in the Greek and Latin, he was enabled to transfuse into his vernacular dialect many of the excellencies which characterise those admirable languages; and his style abounds with inversions and other peculiarities of classical diction. His English works were considered as standards of style, as low down as the reign of James the first.”

The above term is peculiar to many gentlemen of the Trade who possess no feeling for any one but themselves, having the most rooted predeliction for the old adage, that charity begins at home.

This gentleman's voluminous productions seem to have been written with a view to the display of his universal reading, rather than of annexing to his name the title of a great and lasting poet: he has been esteemed a follower of Wordsworth's style, without laying claim to the pathos which characterises a variety of that gentleman's productions, notwithstanding his contempt for all the heretofore acknowledged rules of poetical composition. Whensoever Mr. Southey issues from the press, we find him arrayed in a different costume, though one unvarying predeliction for the wonderful runs through the whole series of his poems. His Joan of Arc, hastily composed after the manner of Milton and other epic poets, though possessing merit, is particularly deficient on the score of patriotism, as every Gallic chief is elevated to the rank of an hero, while our fifth Henry, Talbot, &c. are scarcely raised above the common walk of life. Thalaba the Destroyer, after the model of the Arabian Tales, is characterised by some bold but extravagant flights. Madoc, though generally pleasing, on account of the mild sentiments which breathe throughout that production, is nevertheless rendered irksome to the reader, at intervals, from insipidity and tameness of style. Kehama, diversified with the rhapsodies of Thalaba, and the gentleness of the last mentioned poem, claims precedence above the rest; and whatsoever genius this writer may possess is certainly elicited from the work in question. Upon analyzing the productions of Mr. Southey, it will be found that he is most anxious to make the world acquainted with the multiplicity of books that have engrossed his attention: to accomplish which purpose he has neglected the arrangement of his ideas, and a due attention to the groundwork of his plans; two concomitants which are absolutely essential to ensure the poet universal and unperishable fame.

A poem entitled the Damnation of Ruvomisha, from the pen of Rodrigo Maddocks, Esq., is a production in the style of Southey; containing a portion of the extravaganza of that writer's Curse of Kehama, while the versification is much more regular than the laureat's poem of Thalaba the Destroyer. There is, indeed, no part of the production of Mr. Maddocks which can compare with Kehama's entrance through eight portals at the same juncture of time; or of the orb compounded of a thousand little eyes kneaded into one. All that it is requisite to state, respecting the Damnation of Ruvomisha, is, that such individuals who may be partial to the most marvellous of the marvellous will find ample food for the indulgence of their predeliction on perusal of the work in question.

Whatsoever may have been the failings in Southey's Carmen Triumphale, it would be invidious not to allow his lucubration more merit than was to be found in the compositions of his predecessor; wherefore the present laureat may well apply these words of Terence to the defunct—Da locum melioribus.

Louer les Princes des Vertus qu'ils n'ont pas, c'est leur dire impunement des injures.—Rochefoucault.

Alas! the golden æra with poets and authors is now no more! There was, indeed, a period when a well-seasoned title or dedication would command its price from some profligate courtier or demi-rep of fashion, as there still existed the wish at least to appear what they really were not; but now, every class out Herods shame, daring alike the language of reproof and the keen lash of correction, without deigning to subsidize a venal pen in order to throw a gloss over the flagrant dereliction. As a specimen, however, of this species of composition, taken in its fullest extent, may tend to amuse, I shall present the subjoined without further apology.

Father de Aranaz published a book at Pampeluna in favour of Philip the Vth, the title of which, rendered into English word for word, ran as follows.

“The Lord Philip Vth is true King of Spain of God's own making: the “Tower of the second David, persecuted and victorious, fortified with three “bulwarks, viz. Justice, Religion, and Politics, to which a thousand Shields “are fastened to defend his Crown; dedicated and consecrated to the King “our Lord, whom God preserve for the Glory of Spain and the Good of “Christendom. By Father Hyacinthus D'Aranaz, a native of the most “faithful city of Sanguessa, Doctor of Divinity, Synodal Examiner of the “Archbishopric of Toledo, Chaplain to his Majesty, &c. &c”.

This fanatical, I might add farcical writer, compares his work to a fortress with three bulwarks. Fifteen shields are fastened to the first, eight to the second, and four to the third. To get into that fortress, one must go through a portico, where, says the author, one may be informed that the Devil, in quality of the Prince of Discord, inspires the malcontents with a desire of changing their king; and has entrusted the heretics with the execution of such enterprize.

Juvenal.

The skilful race of flatterers praises the discourse of the ig- norant, and the face of the deformed friend.

Menage, speaking of Martial, the epigrammatist, asserts, that there is no Latin poet whatsoever in whose works there are so many things that might have transpired in the course of conversation as are to be found in the epigrams of this poet; and in like manner no writer of the present epoch can compare with Mr. Moore in his amatory effusions and the easy flow of his versification; the perusal of which never fails to bring to recollection the lines of Virgil, taken in a literal sense, where he says,

As pleasing are thy verses to us, divine Poet, as sleep is to the wearied, &c. &c.

It appears, indeed, as if this gentleman was inspired with all the exuberance of Ovid, and the mental energy of Armstrong; he never assumes the pen but to entrance with delight, and stamp upon the mind a conviction that Poeta nascitur non fit.

It has been disputed whether the abovementioned production is from the pen of the gentleman now under review who, I believe, denies any knowledge of this satiric effusion; the appearance of which is said to have deprived him of a very lucrative post under the Governor-General of India. As the above lines, however, denominate Mr. Moore as the writer of The Two-Penny Post Bag, I should conjecture that the poet had some just cause for venturing upon the allegation: at all events, I can only say, as the humble annotator, that if the genuine trifle in question be not the production of our offspring of Anacreon, there are certainly two suns now blazing in the world of literature.

It was a frequent complaint of Goldsmith, that he lived in too late an age for poetry: he seemed to consider the simple and genuine productions of the Muse as of too delicate a nature to arrest the attention of minds accustomed to the strong stimuli of trade and ambition. Will the present age give the lie to this theory?—Never surely was there a greater abundance of poets than have sprung up in our days; and these poets have small reason to complain of coldness on the part of the public. But so strongly have we at present imbibed the spirit of trade, that we seem only to estimate a poet by the quantity of his productions, and the price they bear in the market. Were the few exquisite poems of a Goldsmith now to appear for the first time, they would make no impression on a public accustomed to quartos of original poetry by the month. A certain quantity of poetry is wanted in a given time, and he is accounted the greatest poet who can furnish the readiest and most abundant supply. That I am not going too far in my assertion, I have only to instance two well-known living poets. The one, Anacreon Moore, has from time to time produced some of the most exquisite lyrical effusions in our language, and which must dwell on the memory of every lover of the Muse. But are the public contented with these? Every one allows their merit. Yet why, it is asked, can he not produce a more elaborate work? For this reason alone; he seems to be at present totally eclipsed by Walter Scott, the great fashionable poet of the day, whose surprising fertility a charitable British public seems willing to ascribe to an inexhaustible fancy. Inexhaustible this poet certainly is; but where are the passages which bespeak a warm and creative fancy, and which soar beyond a certain easy mediocrity? Where is to be found the curious felicity which has always stamped a genuine offspring of the Muse?

The perspicuous manner in which Sir Noodle has delivered his opinion of Mr. Rogers's production needs no comment. I shall therefore dismiss the present note by requesting that if there be any lover of the Muse now existing, who has not feasted his mind upon the glowing numbers of this gentleman, he will forthwith make his peace with Apollo, by purchasing the Pleasures of Memory, which, once read, can never be forgotten.

When sunbeams illumine the sphere, we are gladdened by the brilliancy of their rays; and when the soul of poetry vibrates on the mind, we own the heavenly inspiration. It is therefore sufficient that the Pleasures of Hope be enrolled, to invigorate every thrill that emanates from the effusions of harmonic and vigorous poesy. Having thus dismissed a Campbell with a eulogy inadequate to his deserts, which are so conspicuous throughout all his performances, I cannot refrain from coupling with the above-mentioned bard the name of Cowper, which has no less conferred the highest honour upon the votaries of true genius in our matchless isle.

Independently of the works published during the lifetime of Burns, which have excited, and so justly continue to excite public applause, the world is also indebted to the persevering and praiseworthy researches of the late Mr. Cromk for the poetical and prose remains of this offspring of talent; which not only tend to enhance the Bard in the estimation of literary characters, but also display him in that social point of view which truly delineates the soul of this unsophisticated child of Caledonian song.

If an intuitive genius for poetry be allowed to have existence, Burns, as well as Chatterton, and numerous others, was certainly gifted with the divine inspiration; which does not only consist in harmonious versification, but equally combines wit and an exquisite refinement of every emanation of the heart. As there are, however, gradations in this mental impetus, I shall leave it to the reader's judgment to decide if the ensuing anecdote affords an mstance of talent remaining dormant, or whether the force of momentary feeling actuated the soul of the writer.

In the year 1758, John Wilson, a young man of slender education, was condemned to suffer death for a riot. The contrition which he evinced for the crime thus committed, together with his youth and good character, induced his majesty, on the representation of several respectable persons, to extend that most amiable prerogative of the crown—royal mercy. In a few hours after the reprieve had reached the repentant convict, he poured forth the effusions of his grateful heart in the following verses, which were penned with his own hand; although it was never known that he had ever before attempted any thing of a metrical nature.

If the rapid sale of a work can speak for its merits, the Farmer's Boy must claim the most unbounded commendation: beauties it certainly does possess, what will ever deservedly rank it a favourite with a British public. As for the subsequent labours of Mr. Bloomfield, they so far fall short of this dawning effusion as scarcely to appear the performances of the same writer: and I am by no means singular in my opinion, when I aver that had this gentleman dropped the pen upon the completion of the Farmer's Boy, his poetic talent would not have experienced any diminution in the judgment of literary censors. Urged, as I conjecture, by the success of his brother, Mr. Nathaniel Bloomfield also enlisted himself under the auspices of the Nine; but his attempts can never place him upon a par with his relative, when the Farmer's Boy becomes the subject of consideration. Among other poems of this description, an anonymous writer has favoured the public with The Fisher Boy, Sailor Boy, Cottage Girl, and Jack Junk; four productions which have met with considerable applause. They portray the unvarnished delineations of life, as far as the scenes extend which they were composed to delineate; and if morality, patriotism, and an easy style of versification can gratify a reader, these poems are not unworthy the patronage already conferred upon them.

Mr. Capel Loft, the annotator of the Farmer's Boy, has not only lavished the most unqualified praises upon this work, but, in imitation of Messrs. Malone, Steevens, Chalmers, and such laborious commentators, enlisted, as his auxiliaries, the Greek and Latin poets, in order to prove that Mr. Bloomfield, having eyes, could sometimes see, form his opinions, and express himself in terms not dissimilar to the style of those antique gentlemen. By this scientific research the public is favoured with a volume containing twice the quantum of paper and print which the poem itself would expend; and for which every purchaser of course must pay, although not one in five hundred ever takes the trouble of wading through notes which only tend to confuse the text of a writer whose excellence consists in the simplicity of his tale, and the perspicuity of style which characterizes the effusion of his Muse.

This poet is now, alas! equally insensible to censure and to praise. While this proof was passing through the press, I read the account of his death in the public papers, which took place on the 4th of October, near Birmingham. He was a man of genuine benevolence. His character as an author has been variously appreciated.

Public characters of every description, but more particularly those of a literary stamp, are peculiarly subject to the attacks of virulence and ill nature: it is therefore little to be wondered at that Mr. Pratt, in the progress of his long career, should have felt the lash of malice and ill nature. As I am far from desirous of interfering with the private characters of individuals, I shall refrain from adverting to any of these insidious attacks, and content myself with referring to the literary requisites of this author, which, however chequered by inequalities, are, upon the whole, far above mediocrity. Mr. Pratt has certainly indulged too much in the flimsy Della Cruscan style; nor do any compositions of that description display the real talent of this writer, who never pleases so much as when eliciting the unsophisticated effusions of the heart. He has been by far too exuberant in his encomiums upon individuals; and the frequency of this strain of eulogy has, in too many instances, prompted our author to become a plagiarist upon himself, by committing a poetical felo de se. With all his literary lapses, however, Mr. Pratt is, in many instances, deserving the meed of approbation. Neither have his efforts to procure relief for the suffering been unattended by success; although the most ill natured construction has been put upon this gentleman's motives for such humane interposition.

As a specimen of Mr. Pratt's extempore, the subjoined lines are transcribed from the fly leaf of the first volume of his works, in 22 volumes, presented to a friend.

I have above stated that Mr. Pratt has been too much addicted to the eulogizing of particular personages: this strain, however, cannot rank in competition with the subjoined specimens, which, by way of a commentary upon the bombast, may not prove displeasing to the reader.

Honorie Riouffe, president and orator of the French Tribunate, who complimented Bonaparte in a strain of flattery that might have disgusted a Nero or a Domitian, seemed to have been regularly trained in this school of adulation. In 1786, he made a Sully of Calonne, and a Richelieu of his successor, Cardinal De Brienne. He next proceeded to compliment Neckar as the modern Colbert: and, in 1789, compared La Fayette to the great Washington, and ranged Mirabeau on a par with Dr. Franklin. In 1790 Abbé Maury was the French Demos. thenes. In 1791 Brissot was the Gallic Cato, and Roland the French Aristides. In Marat the world beheld a Brutus: in Danton a Tullius: while Santerre, in his estimation, was equal to Marlborough. This sycophant, in 1793, flattered the monster Robespierre by the designation of Gracchus; and Henriot was not inferior to the great Eugene. In 1795 Talleyrand was held out as the Republican Christ! O blasphemy! where is thy blush? La Revelliere, in 1796, was the Republican Moses: Rewbell shone forth a Solon: and Carnot blazed the living Vauban! To this vile flattery, by way of finale, I shall subscribe the lines once addressed to the facetious but inoffensive Tom D'Urfey, making only a slight alteration.

So numerous and in such quick succession have appeared the flights of Mr. Scott, that to enter into a separate review of each poem would swell my notes into so many chapters : a step not only incompatible with the limits of this production, but rendered of little utility, after the concise strictures as delivered above by Sir Scribblecumdash. If the Greek adage was correct, which goes to state that

θελω τυχης σαλαγμον, η φρενων πιδον, Give a man good luck, and throw him into the sea,

then, indeed, had our poet long ago found a watery grave: but when we call to mind that the love of money begetteth more, it may not appear wonderful if he

An occupation, by the by, in which poets of the present æra are but very seldom engaged. Throughout Mr. Scott's productions there is nothing so striking as the inequalities observable both in his style and versification. In one poem the name of Marmion is incessantly made a tag at the end of the line; while the words enlisted to form a jingle are strained and unpoetical in the extreme: witness

In reply to which, one might well exclaim—

In Mudford's Life of Cumberland is introduced a long note, upon the subject of our northern leviathan and the late Miss Seward, to the which I refer the public for a specimen of just criticism, as to the literary pretensions of this once metrical and corresponding duetto, whose diffidence and modesty are there blazoned forth to the meanest capacity. As Mr. Scott's walk has not been confined to the mazes of fancy alone, I should like to be made acquainted whether or not, upon the proposal being made to that gentleman of editing the works of the renowned Dryden, two prizes were not tendered by him; viz. remuneration for the toils of the man of literature, or payment for a bookseller's job? the latter of which was grasped at by the publishers, as being the cheapest: in which case the noblest flights of a British poet were subjected to the mere editorship of tare and tret. With regard to the followers of Walter Scott, Miss Holford was particularly bitten with a mania for imitating his style, and has produced a poem entitled Wallace, or the Fight of Falkirk, wherein are to be found many traits of exuberant genius. It is, therefore, only a matter of regret that the literary friends of this lady did not interpose so far as to prevent her from adopting the versification of another; for there is little doubt but, in giving rein to her own natural talent, the production would have borne the stamp of originality, and in all probability obviated the necessity for any stricture on the score of subserviency in style or composition. If we contemplate the volume in question with a publisher's eye, it must certainly rank a complete bookseller's bargain; for, upon averaging the pages, there will be found about twelve lines in each; which, considering the price of the work being only one pound five, is a very decent curtailment of matter to the purchaser.

Should Mr. Scott ever chance to skim over the present volume, he may perhaps feel little pleased in perusing the last note; which was not, however, intended as the vehicle of pique or ill nature: the bard under review being only known to the annotator through the medium of his several poetic productions. Mr. Scott's abilities as a classical scholar cannot be denied; and it is therefore the more astonishing that his judgment should have been warped from those standard principles of literature which have stood the test of ages, and will continue to exist when the new-fangled ephemeræ of fashion shall be no more. It remained with a Chatterton, whose object was deception, to enlist the phraseology of the 13th century: but what reason could possibly prompt this gentleman to produce such a pyebald style of composition? If, indeed, notoriety and pecuniary benefit were the incitements, Mr. Scott has fully answered his purpose; but I very much doubt whether the fame of his lucubrations will outstretch the boundary of his own mortal career. I shall now terminate my note by stating, in strict unison with Sir Noodle's opinion, that Mr. Scott is capable of producing that which he has never yet thought fit to achieve: Munus Apolline dignum: in expectation of which I dismiss our northern aspirer to the envied honours of Parnassus.

This gentleman's first literary production established his fame with the public; for, notwithstanding the immoral tendency of many of the incidents, not to dwell upon the libibinous scenes therein portrayed, the story of the Monk is certainly entertaining; and the language, in many instances, classically beautiful. These volumes were succeeded by tales of wonder, and hobgoblin poems of numerous descriptions, that have now lost their zest with the public; which must prove the case with every production tending to outstretch the modesty of nature, and consequently overstrain the literary palate: for as wholesome and plain nutriment is best calculated to gratify the appetite and assist corporeal digestion, so reason and science are the only feasts that can afford a lasting relish to the human mind. As the page of an author, already quoted, affords some Hudibrastic lines, that are applicable to subjects analogous to Mr. Lewis's favourite topics, I shall now quote the same, for the edification of my readers.

Very little can be advanced, for a certainty, respecting this extraordinary association; which, we are told, kept potentates in awe: all we can ascertain, as matter of fact, is that the oaths of secrecy were of the most diabolical tendency; as the associate was thereby bound to spare no one allied to him, even by ties of closest consanguinity; but immolate, without contrition, any individual who should fall under the displeasure of the tribunal. It has been conjectured, from the impenetrable mystery attending the practices of this society, that the institution must be similar to that of the Rosicrucians.

This society, as well as the beforementiond association, had its origin in Germany; but was also particularly in vogue with the leaders of the French revolution. The tenets professed by its votaries, if not directly atheistical, had so much tendency thereto, that it was difficult to apply any other appellation to the faith of these pseudo philosophers.

Of witches, and the estimation in which they were held among the Danes and Anglo Saxons, there are some curious notes in Erin's Rauga Saga, and other Icelandic annals. The description of the witch Thorbiorga, and her interview with Earl Thorchill, is particularly curious. She is represented as the only survivor of nine sisters, all witches or fortune-tellers, and frequented public entertainments, when invited. Earl Thorchill, to ascertain when a sickness or famine would cease, which then raged, sent for, and made preparations for the reception of Thorbiorga. On her arrival in the evening, she was dressed in a gown of green cloth, buttoned from top to bottom; about her neck was a string of glass beads, and her head was covered with the skin of a black lamb, lined with that of a white cat; her shoes were of calf's skin with the hair on, tied with thongs, and fastened with brass buttons; and on her hands were a pair of gloves of white cat's skin, with the fur inward; about her waist she wore a Hunlandic girdle, at which hung a bag containing her magical instruments; and she supported herself on a staff, adorned with many knobs of brass. Such was the dress of the witch Thorbiorga; who, upon the following day, prognosticated to Thorchill that the famine would soon cease, and the sickness abate in proportion: which divinations, we are told, accordingly came to pass.

Poetical talent being seldom coupled with the name of a man of title, it would appear invidious to withhold the meed of approbation attachable to this nobleman for his translation of Camoens' Poems, which made its appearance some years back; combining correctness of judgment, elegance of style, and a complete knowledge of his original. To say that his lordship has given to them the appearance of an original English composition would be going too far: it is a translation of the first order; and will never disgrace the library of the man of real taste and refined literature.

We are frequently told by the reviewers, that birth and fortune do not produce the smallest influence upon their decisions respecting any point connected with the republic of letters; which is, however, to my mind a very problematical assertion. Notwithstanding due praise be allowed to Lord Byron, on the score of assiduous labour, scholastic acquirement, and classical elegance, he most assuredly cannot at present lay claim to real genius or originality; and, with deficiencies so palpable, the productions of his lordship could never have received those unqualified eulogiums, had not the talismanic charm of nobility infused its balsam as an ingredient into the dose of criticism. Considered in the light of a didactic writer, Lord Byron is deserving a considerable portion of praise; but any attempt to soar into the heaven of heavens, is a task beyond the powers of this Parnassian nobleman.

Some time has elapsed since the former part of this note was committed to paper: since which period a few short ebullitions have met the public eye, that do infinite credit to the muse of Lord Byron. I would, however, most seriously advise this nobleman to apply his abilities to some more sterling and lasting topic: let him obliterate from his thoughts all recollection of the new school. His judgment is obviously much matured; and the style he adopts is seldom characterized by a want of perspicuity: and, as the sublimity of Alpine scenery elevates the soul to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, even so will the mental energies expand in proportion to the grandeur of the subject which is selected to put them into action. Under such an impression, therefore, do I advise Lord Byron to lay the ground-work of a poem, the superstructure of which may justly entitle him to the praises of futurity.

But not a peerless poet: his lordship must be content with one dignity. Kings can make peers, but there is no royal art of creating poets. Lord Thurlow composes with exquisite rapidity; his works follow each other more quickly than they are read. His lordship, however, meditates a nobler flight, which cannot be better described than in his own inimitable language and versification.

In some lines addressed to Lord Holland, he says,

Lord Thurlow is a devoted admirer of a certain illustrious personage, who abundantly admires himself; and he has discovered a fact concerning that said personage, of which no one but his lordship ever suspected him to be guilty: it is no less an exploit than setting the Thames on fire. We hope his lordship is not ironical, but in his “Carmen Britannicum, or Song of Britain, written in honour of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent,” he seriously puts forth the following line,

We are quite sure his lordship does not mean this as a joke, because in another part of the same poem he traces his Royal Highness's lineage, in a direct line from Jupiter, through Hercules, Glaucus, the Tarquins, &c. down to Azo, the son of Hugo. Now the descendant of so many heroes may fairly presume to be himself quite hero enough for setting the aforesaid river in a blaze, though we profess, notwithstanding his lordship's assertion, that we were never so fortunate as to witness the conflagration.

Lord Thurlow first presented himself to the public as the extravagant panegyrist of various living characters; whom he extols, in sonnets, according to their respective degrees of rank in society, with a poetic enthusiasm that vies with the flights of the gallant Sir Philip Sidney: since which he has also favoured the literary world with a poem called Moonlight; wherein is described, with much poetic sentiment, the contemplations of a bard during that period of solemnity and repose. In this effort it is obvious that our nobleman has constantly kept Milton in view; not only by imitating the structure of his versification, but even borrowing his very images, and placing to his own account many favourite expressions scattered throughout the poems of that sublime epic writer. Upon the whole, however, the productions of Lord Thurlow indicate a considerable share of metrical energy: so that, if he cannot attain the summit of his ambition, he nevertheless evinces the most enthusiastic love for the pursuit in which he has so meritoriously engaged. The following, as a happy specimen of his talent, may tend to convey some idea of the peculiar style of composition he adopts in eliciting the flights of his muse.

The volume which contains the above specimen is however rendered of peculiar interest, by handing to the public translations from the Greek poets, which constituted the chief amusement of the deceased Lord Chancellor Thurlow during his old age, and after having weathered the season of professional duties and the political burthens imposed upon him. It would be extending this note beyond the proper limits were I to descant fully upon the beauties of these performances, which are the more wonderful as being the production of extreme old age, when a recurrence to the pursuits of a juvenile period, after a life of unremitting toil, are so rarely found to exist. The translation of a chorus in Euripides possesscs all the energy of youthful exuberance; and Homer's frogs and mice, as rendered into English by this nobleman, have never been surpassed, if even equalled, by any former translator of the poem in question. It has been said that the present Lord Thurlow, since his nuptials with the accomplished Miss Bolton, has determined to make that lady a participator in his future poetical ebullitions, in which case I sincerely wish that this literary co-partnership may be productive of success.

However Sir Noodle may prove himself correct in most instances, I cannot altogether agree with his stricture upon Mr. Coleridge's literary acquirements; which have, in many instances, placed him in a respectable point of view. That he has been too much indulged in the new vamped-up school I am free to confess, but I cannot in justice refrain from allowing him those merits to which he is entitled on the score of feeling and sensibility. Advice I allow to be necessary, but the judgment so harshly delivered in the conclusive line of Scribblecumdash I must state to be indecorous, and such as by no means applies to the poetical acquirements of the gentleman above cited.

Having already descanted upon Mr. Wordsworth's talents as a poet, in my annotations upon the present laureat, I conceive it altogether superfluous to dilate further upon the subject, except it be to assure the above gentleman that I grant him every praise, as a writer appealing to the heart. I have, myself, very frequently owned the potency of his spells, which if uncontaminated by foppish singularity of style would place him in the most envied situation as a sterling delineator of the pathetic.

So many ladies have written, and still continue to produce trash, that no praise offered at the shrine of feminine excellence should be deemed fulsome; since the panegyric may prompt such unfortunate essayists to consult the productions of the personage so extolled, from whose style they may perhaps be prompted to correct their own effusions, or, if endowed with sense, to discriminate their natural inability, discard the pen, and thus relinquish all literary claims for ever. Independently of the poem of Cupid and Psyche, the lady now under Sir Noodle's review produced numerous other short effusions, all of which are characterized by every requisite that could tend to adorn a female of the most refined taste and exquisite sensibility.

As the mention of this long-eared beast brings to my recollection some curious facts, I shall here annex the same by way of a note, for the edification of those writers, who, like Mr. Clio, may be led to imagine that the world can be amused with Braying.

Ammonius Alexandrinus, the master of Origen, informs us of an ass that was a pattern of wisdom. Midas was honoured with the vast auricular appendages of this animal; and, in holy writ, Balaam's Ass, on the appearance of an angel, was gifted with speech. But in order to prove still further the honours conferred upon this creature, on quoting an English writer of two centuries back, in whose work the ass is made to speak, he thus expresseth himself.

“As contemptible as we are, there are two of us who have a bright place in heaven, as the constellation of Cancer will show you: as contemptible as we are, some of your greatest philosophers have held grand disputes on our very shadow, and Apuleius's golden ass makes us famous to eternity. As contemptible as we are, the strongest man that ever was made use of the jaw-bone of one of us, to destroy thousands of his enemies. The Empress Poppæa used our milk to make her skin the whiter: and lastly, you know who made his entry into Jerusalem upon one of us, for which we carry the cross upon our shoulders, as the badge of a blessing even to this day; which made a zealous Spaniard break out in these lines upon the sight of a pageant on Palm Sunday.

In the city of Beauvais, on the 14th of January was celebrated the Ass's Festival, or Holiday, in order to represent to the life the flight of Mary into Egypt. For this purpose the clergy of the cathedral being assembled, selected from amongst several that were presented to them the most beautiful damsel, who, being placed upon an Ass richly caparisoned, was thus conducted, as it were in triumph, from the principal church to that of St. Stephen's; where the young maid and her donkey were introduced into the chancel, and placed on the right side of the altar. In the course of the service, performed on this occasion, the chants were interrupted at intervals with an Hiu Haw, in imitation of the Ass's braying, which was loudly articulated by the whole congregation; and at the close of the mass, the deacon, instead of the accustomed Ita Missa est, uttered three loud brays, which were immediately re-echoed by his auditors. But the sublimest part of this famous ceremony was the hymn chanted on the occasion, which, as a great curiosity, I shall now give at full length; being handed down to posterity by Charles du Cange, the French antiquary, who preserved the extraordinary morceau from a manuscript upwards of five hundred years old.

From the eastern country this Ass is arrived, comely and stout, and fittest to bear a load.

Of pace he was slow, unless one had a stick, and his flanks were pricked with a spur.

He was on the hills of Sichem, bred up and fed by Reuben, and crossing the Jordan he leaped into Bethlehem.

Lo! with his long ears, the son of the yoke-bearer, a charming Ass! the king of Asses.

He outruns the young fawns, the deer, and the kids; and surpasses in swiftness the Dromedaries of Midian.

The gold from Arabia, and the frankincense and myrrh from Saba, were brought into the church by the virtue of the Ass.

While he is yoked to the cart with a heavy burden, his jaws grind a coarse food.

The barley with its ears and the thistle are his food; the corn from the straw by him is divided in the trough.

Say Amen, O! gentle Ass! now sated with grass. Repeat, O! repeat Amen! and now despise old forms.

So terminates this curious composition in praise of the Jack Ass tribe; the Latinity of which is peculiarly well adapted to illustrate the ceremony it was intended to commemorate.

If any man be desirous of a surfeit of laughing, let him but purchase the poems of Clio Rickman, and, upon perusal, I will venture my life to a farthing that he allows the dose to be infallible. His lucubrations, indeed, most powerfully bring to my recollection the flights of a writing-master bitten with the divine cacoëthes, who, during my boyish days, composed a prologue to Cato, which was to be performed on the breaking up of the seminary for the holidays, four lines of which I perfectly call to mind, viz.

And again,

This self-dubbed companion of the Nine was some years back a most determined advocate for the doctrines of Tom Paine; and such continues to be his reverence for that departed reformer of morality and religion, that he still keeps, as an invaluable relic, the table whereon were written the never-to-be-forgotten Age of Reason and Rights of Man; which fact the visitant is given to understand from a long inscription upon a brass plate, which now adorns this inestimable treasure; and, as extraordinary freaks are ever the concomitants of eccentric characters, Mr. Clio, to answer some momentous purpose, was no less enamoured of two-penny loaves, samples of which, both French and English, he was in the habit of procuring, in order, as it was conjectured, to contemplate the respective sizes of these staves of life; whence he drew a comparison between the prosperity of Gaul and his own native country. Such pursuits are well calculated to immortalize a man of Mr. Rickman's comprehensive and exhaustless genius, and it would be well for innumerable poetasters, who strut in his stilts, were they to adopt similar vagaries, in order to leave to posterity an indelible stamp of their boundless mental capacities. I should have felt extremely happy in obeying Sir Noodle by tacking the names of Clio's brethren to the present note, but as I fear the list might extend ad infinitum, I shall content myself with what has been already advanced upon the score of this gentleman's perceptions, leaving the reader to annex such signatures as may have appeared worthy the distinguished honour of being inscribed with that of the present celebrated character.

After having written the above, I perchance stumbled on a couplet, which I will here insert for the benefit of Mr. Rickman, who may doubtless be enabled to turn the same to good account.

The following lines were made by a Mr. Canfield, who was employed in rendering the Highlands of Scotland passable, by means of the finest military roads which ever were made in so wild a country. This gentleman must surely have felt the “fine phrensy” of which the Bard sings, before he could have taken this sublime flight from Parnassus.

The satirical effusions of Doctor Walcot have been so long before the public, and so universally read, that it would be needless to descant upon their sterling merits, which are universally acknowledged. That some flights are superior to others must be allowed; yet the tout en semble prove the writer to have possessed a fund of humour, and the most felicitous and flowing style of versification. He that wields the satiric pen, however, sometimes plays with edge tools: an assertion which was rendered conspicuous some few years back in a bookseller's shop in Piccadilly, when a dreadful rencontre took place between the Doctor and Mr. Gifford, of equal literary lashing celebrity; upon which occasion, the argumentum baculinum was manfully resorted to, and as vigorously repelled. The countenances of our satiric combatants were doubtless of no pleasant cast upon this occasion; wherefore I shall annex an anecdote respecting Doctor Warburton, which may, perhaps, tend to give the reader some faint idea of the looks of Messrs. Walcot and Gifford, upon the meeting in question.

Doctor Warburton being one day in conversation with his bookseller, Churchill happened to come into the shop, and silently observed the right reverend prelate. When he departed, Churchill asked what was the name of the clergyman who had just gone out; and on being told that he was Doctor Warburton, the bishop of Gloucester! Why, he looks as if he would say to the Apostle Paul if he should meet him, D—n you, hold my horse!!!

If Doctor Walcot be celebrated as a satirical writer, he is no less capable of producing the amatory and tender styles of poesy, many of which, already before the public, will testify for the veracity of this assertion: in addition to which, a number of manuscript effusions, dedicated to Anacreon and Love, were some time back lent for the writer's private perusal, which, after this gentleman's demise, will in all probability make their appearance, to charm and astonish the votaries of lyrical compositions.

This pamphlet, which made its appearance in order to ridicule the fact of a bribe having been offered to Lord Sidmouth, at that time Chancellor of the Exchequer, by an ignorant native of Cornwall, for the procurement of a place under government, is one of the most impotent productions that has appeared from the pen of Doctor Walcot.

If a writer be desirous of establishing himself as a candid censor of literature, he should be cautious in his criticisms, and not indiscriminately assail with rancour every literary gentleman whose work may chance to meet his eye, as virulence, then, assumes the place of candour; and of such a man we can only say, that

Mr. Mathias's Pursuits of Literature were purchased with avidity, not as I conceive from the work being so generally read and understood, but in consequence of the unvarying ill-nature which characterised its pages, and the fame which it acquired with a set of scholastic critics who haunt the shops of the Piccadilly publishers, and gave it celebrity as a most classical production. For my own part, I must confess this work did not appear to me as deserving of the encomiums lavished upon its style, particularly on reference to the poetry, which never struck me as being above a certain degree of mediocrity; but when the candour of its decisions are examined, no man can regard the Pursuits of Literature but as a vehicle of the most unprovoked abuse, and rancorous ill-nature. Every individual who publishes certainly lays himself open to criticism; but where the wound can be healed with a salve, there is no need to apply the amputating knife: this, however, was not the opinion of Mr. Mathias, who perhaps indulged in such strictures, conceiving them mere badinage; but I would reply, in answer to a supposition of this nature,

As no character can be more appropriately drawn than that which may be found in Mr. Gifford's Baviad, I shall here introduce it verbatim, as illustrating the character of the literary personage now under review.

“It has been represented to me that I should do well to avoid all mention of this man, from a consideration that one so lost to all sense of decency and shame was a fitter object for the beadle than the Muse. This has induced me to lay aside a second castigation, which I had prepared for him, though I do not think it expedient to omit what I had formerly written. One word more—I am told that there are men so weak as to deprecate this miserable object's abuse, and so vain, so despicably vain, as to tolerate his praise; for such I have nothing but pity—though the fate of Hastings, see the ‘Pin Basket to the Children of Thespis,’ holds out a dreadful lesson to the latter; but should there be a man or a woman, however high in rank, base enough to purchase the venal pen of this miscreant for the sake of traducing innocence and virtue; then— I was about to threaten, but it is not necessary—the profligate cowards who employ Anthony can know no severer punishment than the support of a man whose acquaintance is infamy and whose touch is poison.”

Upon this unvarnished attack making its appearance, Williams became infuriate, and he, in consequence, commenced legal proceedings against several venders of the Baviad, when, instead of receiving any redress from this appeal to a court of judicature in vindication of his aspersed character, the judge, on the contrary, observed, that no man should enter a court of justice to ask damages for a libel who was himself a libeller; that the plaintiff, in question, was one of the latter description of persons, having “ate his libel, drank his libel, and slept upon his libel.” In consequence of which a verdict was given in favour of the defendants.

The poem of the Children of Thespis was dedicated to Governor Hastings, and, during the trial of that persecuted gentleman, Pasquin proffered his literary services, which were, however, politely rejected; when some letters of a threatening nature passed, in the hope of proeuring remuneration for puff direct paragraphs, concerning Mr. Hastings, which not being productive of the desired effect, Pasquin published the last of these epistles in his Pin Basket, in order to give (what he construed such conduct to be) a detail of the most finished human ingratitude.

It is most curious to observe the tergiversation which frequently occurs in the conduct of literary characters; for though Pasquin be now employed as dramatic censor, Parisian correspondent, and paragraph inditer, by the clerical baronet of Catherine-street, yet there was a period when no two individuals were greater opponents; and such were then the nature of Anthony's philippics against Bate Dudley, that the latter threatened him with a horse-whipping; upon which the former cancelled the offending paragraph, and inserted an humble apology for his “Error.” Indeed, the above is not the only instance wherein this satirist has been subjected to the threat of castigation, as the case of Mr. Barrymore the comedian, and others, will fully demonstrate.

The famous Peter Aretin, who wielded the pen far better than the sword, having warmly espoused the part of Titian against Tintoret, in a dispute which had arisen between them, the latter resenting this behaviour, and being well acquainted with the timidity of Aretin, met him purposely one day near his own dwelling, into which he pressed him to enter that he might draw the portrait of so celebrated a character. The poet consented; when the artist, to his visible horror, advanced fiercely towards him with a pistol in his hand. “Alas!” said the satirist, “what are you going to do?” “I only mean to take your precise measure,” answered Tintoret. “You are, I perceive, just four times and a half the length of my pistol.” Aretin, however, not feeling any relish for such a prelude, ran away as fast as possible, without waiting to sit for his portrait.

Such revengeful spirits, who prosecute their resentments with precipitancy against others, very frequently find the weightiest part of punition devolves upon themselves.

The gentleman mentioned in the above line formerly figured as shopman at an oil warehouse, of which firm he afterwards became a partner, and from that epoch dedicated his mind to the study of theatricals; when, conceiving that as a critic he was gifted with two ingredients to be purchased in his own shop, viz. oil and vinegar, he suddenly emerged from obscurity, and stood forth the editor of the Monthly Mirror. Since that period, however, the pepper of poverty subdued the verjuice firm, and the Mirror no longer reflected the censor's lucubrations: still, in defiance of fate, he once more ascends Hill difficulty, and appears the Sunday Champion, wherein the public are favoured with such leading articles—[Vide Sunday Paper for Jan. 14th, 1814]—as never before appeared for the amusement and instruction of the public. I shall now bid mine hero farewell, wishing him success, in order that he may long indulge in quaffing his favourite wines, Champagne and Burgundy.

Plays, novels, and farces, tend more to hand down to succeeding generations a just picture of the times and manners in which they were composed than any branch of literature; since none but the authors of such pieces will deem it requisite to describe, with minuteness, the customs of their contemporaries, as a narration of that kind would be insipid, and of no utility whatsoever. On the contrary, should the dramatic writer err in the delineation of his portraits, the production would be scouted, and his piece tend only to burden the shelves of the publisher. It is to Terence, Plautus, Aristophanes, Apuleius, Thucydides, Livy, and Cæsar, that we are indebted for our insight into the manners, fashions, and customs of the Greeks and Romans; while it is pitiable to remark the extreme distress to which our ablest antiquarians are reduced, when desirous of making the present generation acquainted with the minutiæof those of our ancestors who lived before the stage or the press existed to elucidate posterior writers. Nay, if we even refer to an epoch subsequent to the invention of the art of printing, how much are the most prominent features of the time enveloped in darkness. Instance the short reign of Richard III., many of whose actions, as handed down to posterity, even by the ancient chronicles, have since been proved altogether nugatory, particularly in the person of Jane Shore, whom he is stated to have condemned to death by starvation; whereas Sir Thomas More, a writer of the greatest probity living in the reign of Henry VIII., not only acquaints us with the then existence of Mrs. Shore, but that he saw and had a long conversation with her, being a lapse of many years subsequent to the death of King Richard. But if we refer back a century or two anterior to this monarch's reign, how very little do monastic charters, or the gaudy ornaments of a missal, which are the best guides to the curious, afford an insight into the humours of the age, when compared to what posterity will glean from the dramatic effusions of a Foote, Murphy, Coleman, Macklin, Sheridan, and Cumberland, or the didactic narratives of a Fielding, Smollet, Goldsmith, together with the labours of many writers of the present period, who, if not endowed with such transcendant talents, are nevertheless close imitators of the existing state of society in their native country.

One note will be sufficient to condense the names of Macklin, Murphy, Cumberland, and Sheridan, whose respective dramatic talents have so uniformly been sanctioned by public applause, that it is but to mention each writer, and the meed of praise must consequently follow. Macklin, though not a voluminous contributor to scenic representations, has condensed multum in parvo, by showing a complete knowledge of the practices of the stage, and an acute perception of human life: his characters are drawn with the hand of a master, who felt no diffidence in the accomplishment of the task which he had proposed to himself to execute. Murphy, treading in the old school of the drama, has left to posterity the lasting memorials of what may be produced by a combination of genius and classical acquirements; his tragic powers are of the first class, and must continue to interest, while Melpomene finds a sanctuary in a British theatre. The versatile talents of Cumberland, and the rapidity of his pen, sometimes prompted him to write without sufficient consideration, and a few of his theatrical labours were in consequence condemned by the audience; but while his West Indian, Wheel of Fortune, and his Jew, are performed, their trifling demerits will always be forgotten, and such pieces receive the sanction of a gratified public. To praise the acknowledged sterling pieces of Sheridan, would only be an echo of the above lines; his claims to theatrical excellence are indelibly stamped upon the minds of the amateurs of the drama, and it is only to be regretted that an individual, thus gifted, should have proved so sparing of the great talents which nature has bestowed upon him.

The stage veteran Waldron, a downright enthusiast in his profession, very respectably exerted his talents in the dramatic line; while the late General Burgoyne, uniting all the acquirements of a polished gentleman, an intimate acquaintance with high life, and the most finished style of composition, has enriched the stage with specimens of genteel comedy, which fully entitled him to that universal praise he enjoyed while living, and the fame which has followed him in death. Of the late Mr. Dibdin, whether considered as a writer or musical composer for the stage, it is impossible to say too much; his genius in either walk was prolific in the extreme; and when I state that no man, perhaps, ever yet produced so much for the gratification of all classes of society, I shall not only keep within the pale of veracity, but offer a just panegyric to one of the most powerful supporters of operatic exhibitions that has appeared since the first establishment of a British place of scenic entertainment. To the voluminous labours of the elder Colman the theatric boards are highly indebted; but it is to his son, the present dramatist, that every praise is due: his wit is intuitive, and it is impossible to find, in private society, any companion so aptly formed by nature for social enjoyments; indeed, in speaking of this gentleman, we may justly apply the words of Shakspeare, where he says,

Independent of his numerous scenic labours, Mr. G. Colman has no less endeared himself to the literary world, by humorous tales, handled in a metrical manner completely his own; in short, he seems to possess an inexhaustible fund of mirthmoving wit, which is ever found to diversify his dramatic productions, and thus ensure the favour of a British public.

It is a generally received opinion, that two heads are better than one; but in the present instance the adage is not proved infallible, as very little connected with true theatrical talent is discernible in the several productions of this dramatic combination.

From the pen of Mrs. Inchbald several pieces have appeared, among which we may rank the Midnight Hour, as having justly acquired a greater share of celebrity: her style, as a dramatist, is far above the common standard of writing, and in other branches of literature she has no less been honoured with the approval of the public. Mr. Tobin, who unfortunately did not live to enjoy the gratification of hearing his merits publicly extolled, has only illumined the theatrical hemisphere with his productions for the last few years; the energy of his language has been universally allowed, and the arrangement of his ideas, in the manner of Shakspeare, confer the highest honour upon the figurative powers of his fancy. It is only to be regretted, that the management of a theatre should be so faulty as to suffer performances of this meritorious description to remain neglected from year to year, while paltry compositions, aided by some trifling interest, have, in the interval, been obtruded upon the public, in contempt of an enlightened audience, and to the flagrant disgrace of the managers of an institution who could tolerate such a violation of every principle of justice and decorum.

If Mr. Holcroft's dramatic essays are not of the first class, they at all events afforded amusement to the public; indeed, from the general tenour of this gentleman's writings, one could not have expected that he would delineate such characters as Goldfinch, in the Road to Ruin: his thoughts were of the sombre cast, and tinctured with all those new-fangled philosophical tenets, which, instead of instilling cheerfulness over the mind, cast the gloom of despondency and dissatisfaction. From the nature of the drama it was impossible that the Mysterious Mother of the Earl of Orford could ever be represented to a British audience: the whole mechanism of the piece hinges upon an incestuous intercourse between the mother and her son, every scene partakes of the gloom of the cloister, no under-plot enlivens the monotony of the subject, and the language, though pompous at intervals, does not elicit any sparks of mental refinement.

Aided by the powerful talents of the late justly celebrated Storace, Messrs. Cobbe and Hoare have figured ably in the operatic department; not that I mean to say much in commendation of the pieces these gentlemen have produced, when considered in a literary point of view, for where performances are made the vehicles of harmony, it is of little consequence what trash be now foisted on the public; some years back the case widely differed, but tempora mutantur, &c.

This clerical baronet has vainly endeavoured to gain a footing upon the theatrical boards, his dramatic efforts being of the most mediocre cast, not to say in some respects indecorous: after such vain attempts, it would therefore be advisable that he should continue to issue forth his puny attempts at Shaksperian imitation; indeed, his own morning print is the best vehicle for giving publicity to the lucubrations of himself and his worthy compeer Anthony Pasquin. As to Major Topham, of greyhound and sporting celebrity, I would most seriously advise him to stick to the breed of dogs rather than attempt in future to amuse an English audience; for, after the justly merited fate of Small Talk, or the Westminster Boy, what can be expected to emanate from such a Muse but the most consummate nonsense?

The fate of Vortigern is well known to the public; it was the effusion of a youth of eighteen, and, if not possessed of some beauties when read in the closet, the wisest and most able critics must have been most egregiously deceived. After the above piece had been brought forth among the fabricated papers attributed to Shakspeare, a second play, entitled Henry II. was produced by young Ireland; and, after his confession of the forgery, was also written a play under the title of Mutius Scevola. With respect to the merits of this writer, whose works are very numerous, it would be unfair to have recourse to the reviewers; the stigma of having deceived the public uniformly follows his career, and, be his efforts what they may, the lash of severest criticism at all times pursues him. It is said, however, that many productions from his pen have appeared without any signature, which have been much commended: it is therefore to be regretted that this gentleman does not avow to the world all he has written, that they may be fully enabled to appreciate the extent of his literary acquirements. Having adverted above to the subject of the Shaksperian forgery, I cannot, as appertaining to the Belles Lettres, here omit the insertion of the following anecdote, which, for its singularity, surpasses even the attempts of Chatterton, Lauder, or Ireland.

Pere Hardouin, a Jesuit, strove, about the middle of the last century, to gain immortality by dispossessing the Latin poets, in particular, of their seats in Parnassus; the idea propagated by this father was, that, about 350 years ago, when learning was reviving in the north of Europe, a set of Literati, all protestants, united to form a body of fictitious poems, congenial to a few which were really extant; to these they prefixed the respectable names of Virgil, Ovid, &c. In short, the good Jesuit only allowed, as genuine, the Georgics of Virgil, the Epistles of Horace, and a few more fragments. Some regarded this treatise as the offspring of a frenzied brain, while others conjectured that Hardouin was encouraged by his brethren in this attack on the pillars of literature, in order that, should he succeed, and introduce again into the world the obscurity of former ages, the clergy might then resume that superiority which the learned will always be able to support among the ignorant. The cry was, however, so loud against this ridiculous system, that the author was abandoned, and even cried down by the votaries of his own order.

Lauder, a learned but petulant North Briton, assaulted the reputation of Milton, about the same period, with the same success; but his motive for the attack was, avowedly, envy at the preference given by Pope to that great Bard above “one Johnstone,” whose works Lauder was concerned in publishing.

Write when he will, and what he will, spectres must attend this gentleman's Muse; of whom having previously spoken, I shall content myself with offering my congratulations upon the run of his piece, without mentioning one syllable in commendation of his dramatic style, or the Clap-Trap system which he has uniformly adopted during the progress of his theatrical career. The two younger Dibdins, pursuing the track of the parent, have indefatigably laboured in their literary and musical avocations: they are far from being deficient on the score of talent, and their uniform industry entitles them to the highest commendation. Mr. Theodore Hooke, full of eccentricity, and who exists but to partake of the gratifications of life, is now absent from England: that he possesses talents cannot be denied; but, like many men of ability, his natural unstableness debars him from adopting any fixed mode of action: one hint, however, it is necessary that I should give this gentleman, whose effrontery in having produced Tekeli as his own (which is a translation verbatim from the French), may be esteemed one of the most flagrant proceedings that ever characterized the conduct of a dramatic writer: a plagiary, when delicately concealed, we can willingly pardon; but to father the whole production of another, and stand forth to the world with such a barefaced untruth, is a mode of action which could not even have been expected from the thoughtless dramatist of whom I have spoken.

Horace.

It is melancholy to observe how some persons wilfully endeavour to force themselves into publicity, without possessing an attribute that can entitle them to merit that praise which they are so assiduously bent upon obtaining. Miss Hannah Brand, the very able mistress of a lady's seminary, not only conceived herself capable of writing for the stage, but actually came forward as the performer of the heroine in her own piece, which was a tragedy entitled Uniades. On the night of representation the writer of this note was present, and never were the wearers of the buskin greeted with such incessant peals of laughter: the tragedy was rendered into broad farce, which the solemn demeanour of our heroine, who did not expect the transmogrification, tended to increase throughout each successive act. Let the reader, however, judge for himself as to matters as they stood after perusal of the following fact. The late Mr. R. Palmer, who performed the part of the tyrant ravisher, instead of ordering old Packer in the following words, “Rise up Oriades,”literally exclaimed, to the prostrate actor, “Rise up old Ragged A—e.”

To Mesdames West and Chambers much praise is due for their endeavours to increase the theatrical budget: their style is correct, and language pure; nor do we find any of those hyperbolical flights for which female writers, and particularly for the stage, are frequently censured with becoming justice.

Having witnessed the first night's representation of The Castle of Wolmer, I have only to acquaint its author that he had better—“Sleep in Peace.” Kenny possesses some requisites for broad farce, but he is not sufficiently skilful in the concealment of his plagiaries. This gentleman is, I believe, an heirloom to Covent Garden theatre, receiving an annual stipend for his dramatic efforts; I would therefore advise the managers not to grapple at too much, but permit him to write less and think more. Hulston and Smith rank nearly upon a par: we know their names as caterers for the theatre, and little more is necessary; their productions certainly will not outlive their memories. Mr. Allingham has not proved himself an indolent purveyor for the dramatic corps; in some instances we have witnessed flashes from the fancy of this gentleman, but, like most of the moderns, he appreciates the acquirement of fame by the quantum which a writer can produce. Add to these the name of Mr. Lawler, who brought forward a piece called Sharp and Flat, the conclusive word of which title is, in every respect, applicable to the nature of the dramatic effort in question.

Mr. George Brewer has more than once attempted scenic compositions, and in his efforts to produce humour, he soars above mediocrity; but the literary fame of this personage is better appreciated by consulting his labours as an essayist in the style of Goldsmith, in which department he has a very happy flow of delivery. The younger Kemble is only known in the light of a translator; he is well acquainted with the arcana of stage-trick, and in pursuing this humble line may benefit himself and his employers, without setting his fame on the hazard of the die. As for Mr. John Philip, the tragedian of the same name, he once entered the flowery pastures of poesy, and produced a volume of miscellaneous metrical scraps, of which it will be sufficient to state, that the author is himself so truly ashamed, that he has, at a vast expense, repurchased and destroyed nearly all the copies that were ushered forth to the public. The performances of Mr. Skeffington, like his person, are of the tinsel order; he plunders scraps from all the old French and Italian compositions, and of this amalgama, or patch-work, furbishes up a something of the butterfly breed, which lives for a day and then is heard no more. Farley, without attempting what he would be unable to achieve, is satisfied with the honest endeavour of benefiting himself and his employers, by producing a species of spectacle, which, if, from its nature, placed without the pale of criticism, is nevertheless eagerly sought for by the public; and, therefore, whatsoever may be the writer's opinion, as to what is strictly due to the legitimate stage, this gentleman, obedient only to the taste of the times, acts accordingly; and in his vocation, it is but justice to add, no individual has ever yet surpassed him.

The personage above mentioned was butler in a gentleman's family, and having lost his wits like many other writers, who notwithstanding conceive themselves in possession of every sane faculty, took it into his head that he could compose a tragedy; which was executed accordingly; when, in order to benefit the poor fellow in a pecuniary point of view, subscriptions were collected by his late employer, from persons of fashion, in order to have the piece elegantly printed in quarto, with decorative engravings. One of these volumes the writer hereof has partly perused; and if it were possible to conceive what a thousand personages writing a thousand lines promiscuously would produce, then may the subject matter of Oronzo's Feast be truly defined. Having now come to a close with the dramatic literary corps, I must request the pardon of many personages, whose names are not inscribed in the poem of Sir Noodle, or my own elaborate annotations; such individuals, for instance, as Boaden, the author of Fontainville Forest, who, some years back, intended “To tip Billy Shakspeare the go by;” but, unfortunately for the public, has not yet been as good as his word. Apropos, one more individual shall blazon my page, viz. the late Miles Peter Andrews, from whose pen, it must be confessed, many well written prologues and epilogues have appeared, which, I believe, without a single exception, received the most flattering applause that could possibly accompany such species of compositions.

Nothing more powerfully displays that men are all but children of a larger growth, than the extraordinary predilection which is more or less manifested by every rank of society for the perusal of the marvellous. Nay even though we pretend to deride the idea of supernatural agency, we are, nevertheless, fond of listening to the detail of any narrative, avouched as a fact, though it is in direct opposition to the tenets we profess. Under these circumstances it is not surprising that Milton, Locke, and Dr. Johnson, should have felt interested in the perusal of romances, and the fables of knights errant and their persecuted dulcineas. Within the last twenty years the leading features of romance writing have undergone a complete change, as no production of this nature can go down, the drama of which is not performed in a catholic country, and the burthen of the tale connected with some wandering spirit of the night, To Clara Reeve and Sir Horace Walpole we are greatly indebted for this species of composition, which afterwards received additional strength from the German productions respecting the Illuminati, Rosicrucians, &c. &c., while, with giant strides, a Radcliffe and Monk Lewis appeared with lucubrations that made the former tales of the nursery appear as so many insignificant pigmies. In the old romances we find no mention of ghosts; but, in lieu of such flitting agency, if we refer to the black letter translations, for the which we are indebted to Sir John Bourchier, Knight, Lord Berners, we shall perceive many which possess a great share of merit. The Mort D' Arthur abounds with picturesque scenes, particularly one, where the effect of the “stroke dolorous,” is described. “Huon of Bourdeaux” has conferred obligations on many subsequent writers, which they had not the gratitude to acknowledge. His wild and picturesque stories of Judas whirling about in the sea, and of Cain in the desert, with an attendant friend, have supplied M. Petit de la Croix with the most interesting parts of his Persian Tales; nor has Huon's “Castle of Adamant” been spared by the same plagiarist.—There is a romance little known, called “Galienus Restored,” which, from the specimen given by an ingenious French writer, must be very interesting. The account of a visit, which, the author says, Charlemagne and his twelve peers paid to an Emperor Hugo of Constantinople, and the reception which that prince gave to them, is, as the same writer expresses it, “Un des plus grand naivetez qu'on ait jamais ecrites.” After a magnificent entertainment these guests were conducted to a sumptuous bed-chamber by Prince Tiberius and the lovely Princess Jacqueline. Thirteen pompous beds ornamented the apartment; that in the middle was for Charlemagne, who, not being sleepy, proposed to amuse himself with his knights by a species of conversation which the author of the romance calls “Gaber,” and which consisted of the most improbable rhodomontades; from whence, it is conjectured, is derived “The Gift of the Gab.” The emperor himself began by vaunting that, with his good sword Joyeuse, he could cut a man in twain, though defended by the best tempered steel. Orlando, his nephew, professed that, with a blast of his horn, he would level with the ground fifty fathoms of the walls of Constantinople; and thus every peer made his boast, when, the Gabs being completed, the party composed themselves to sleep, which would not have been the case had they known what awaited them the ensuing morning. Now it chanced that the Emperor Hugo, expecting much from the conversation of thirteen such paragons of valour and wisdom, placed a spy, who was directed to note every word which passed, and report the same early in the morning. The commission was faithfully executed, and the result made known to Hugo, who was so disappointed to find, in the room of the wise maxims he had expected, such a farrago of lies, that, unmindful of the laws of hospitality, he sent word to the whole party, that, unless each performed the purport of his “Gab,” he had made an oath to hang up every one of them, not excepting the great Charlemagne himself. The remainder of the story is too long, too profane, and much too free for this work; wherefore those who are desirous of ascertaining how the emperor and his peers extricated themselves from the scrape must consult Menage, who will inform them of the humanity of Princess Jacqueline, and of the very different figure which a celestial messenger made by undertaking a business quite out of his line.

The style of this would-be flight of fancy, like the dull monotonous language of the Mysterious Mother before mentioned, is a further convincing proof of its writer's total incapacity to produce any composition bearing the stamp of originality and genius. As a compiler of the Anecdotes of Painting and Engraving, Lord Orford appears in a respectable light; but for the accomplishment of any literary attempt beyond the mere drudgery of research he never was intended by nature; and, consequently, the world would have lost nothing had his romance and his drama existed only in the mazes of his lordship's pericranium.

There is a simplicity in the style and a constant interest kept up throughout the tale of Miss Reeve's Old English Baron, which must command the plaudits even of the most fastidious advocates for literature; for myself I am free to confess that I perused its pages with infinite pleasure; nor is there, in my humble opinion, a better fiction now extant among the countless works of the same description which have since been handed from the circulating libraries.

Miss Lee's Recess is ably put together; she has blended truth with fiction in a masterly way, and the only fault of this production is the tediousness of the last volume.

Much has been said respecting the Mysteries of Udolpho, from the pen of the above lady; but I have no hesitation in stating that I should never for a moment balance in awarding the preference to the Romance of the Forest. In the first-mentioned production the descriptions are carried on to an extent that not only renders them tedious, but unintelligible; and I very much query if two, and sometimes three of Sonini's Alpine pictures were not condensed into one by the author upon these occasions. But the most flagrant defect in this performance is the miserable denouement of what constituted such unceasing terror during so many thick volumes; I mean a mere effigy in wax behind a curtain, which every reader is prompted to believe a more horrific spectacle than ever before met human optics. The Romance of the Forest, on the contrary, is replete with interest; such actions, such scenery, and such characters might, and doubtless have, existed; and for this plain reason do I prefer the last mentioned volumes. As to Mrs. Radcliffe's productions, taken in the aggregate, they undoubtedly prove her to have possessed a most fertile imagination combined with no small share of literary acumen.

Having previously commented Mr. Lewis's productions under the head of poetry, I shall content myself by stating, that, from this writer's horrific predilection, he would not have found a bad auxiliary in Mr. Urquhart, of the navy department in Somerset House, whose taste, as a book and print collector, is further extended to a predilection for the ropes which have ended the career of all our notorious malefactors; which relics might have afforded ample scope for the production of the terrific from Monk Lewis's pen. Strange, however, as this branch of collecting may be deemed, I do not see but much good may result from the same; as upon reviewing each life-bereaving cord, the possessor cannot fail to recur to the particular crime of the man whose career it was instrumental in terminating; and from thence a train of reflections, no doubt, occupy the mind of Mr. Urquhart, as to the baleful effect of indulging, to excess, certain passions of the human heart, which more or less contributed to the disgraceful exit of the criminal. From this it is evident that circumstances, however trivial to appearance, may act as a most beneficial lesson to the contemplative and well-informed mind.

The lady now under review, who cherishes, I believe, all the extravagant notions of Mary Wolstonecraft, has apparently endeavoured, also, to adopt her vigorous mode of expression. All this may be excusable in a female, but any mind tinctured with morality can never for a moment tolerate the giving publicity to such scenes, heightened by the most florid descriptions, as are delineated in the progress of Zofloya the Moor. It is universally allowed that the existing state of society is sufficiently depraved; wherefore, let such writers take shame to themselves who not only labour to increase the existing evil, but willingly pervert those talents which, if applied to the purposes of virtue, science, and morality, would not fail to insure to the possessor the respect and admiration of every praiseworthy member of the community.

As the last annotation applied to the sister of the above lady also conveys my opinion respecting the present personage, I shall dismiss the subject with this remark, that, to the conclusive line of Sir Noodle's stricture, I, from my very soul, exclaim Amen.

The compositions of Miss Owenson (now Lady Morgan), I must candidly allow have delighted me; and I will therefore refrain from any further animadversions than are couched in the above couplets, as it would be ungallant in the extreme to follow up the two preceding comments by a third attack upon a female's productions, whose good sense will, I am convinced, in future, prevent the necessity of using the language of reprehension, should her fancy commit any further lucubrations to the ordeal of public scrutiny.

This gentleman, who has long found out the fallacy of interfering with the political horizon, is now honourably employed in placing to account those talents he possesses. As a romance writer he has justly acquired a high degree of consideration; his fictions are tolerably managed; and the language, though sometimes inflated, is not of that vague character which marks the generality of such performances.

Sir Scribblecumdash having thought fit to unite the above gentlemen, I shall not have the temerity to break the link, as the performances of both partake sufficiently of the marvellous to rank them brothers in fiction. Mr. Ireland's ebullitions of this class contain much imagery; and though his language is at times rather inflated, yet, upon the whole, the atural flow of his phrases bespeaks a mind attuned to harmony, while his plots and the developements of his fictions are the indications of a creative fancy. Mr. Curtis, pursuing a similar track, is not only more copious in his descriptive parts, after the manner of Anne Radcliffe, but his incidents partake in a greater degree of the marvellous than those of his compeer. However, with all these extravagancies, there is no doubt but ladies out of number have trembled for the fate of the heroes, and wept over the distresses of the dulcineas of their eventful pages.

Three sisters of the above name have displayed much talent in pursuing this walk of literature; and the praise which has been bestowed by romance readers upon their several labours is but a just tribute to their industry and literary deserts.

In addition to his romantic productions, which are of a superior class, the gentleman, of whom I now speak, is the author of a novel entitled the Vagabond, containing an instructive lesson and excellent sarcasm upon the pursuits of a misguided individual, who, led astray by the false philosophy of the then revolutionized France, became a prey to sufferings and misfortunes which were the sole result of his own misguided opinions and immoral pursuits.

The Pilgrim of the Cross, from the pen of Mrs. Helme, though possessing great merit as a romance, must, notwithstanding, yield the palm to her Farmer of Inglewood Forest, than which a better novel, perhaps, has not of late years issued from the British press.

Fully determined to attempt every style of literature, our great epic laureat has not disdained to herd with the children of romance by producing the above performance, throughout which we find a great deal that calls to remembrance the pompous and declamatory ebullitions contained in Sydney's Arcadia; in short, all the lucubrations of this gentleman display a certain something which indicates that the writer is desirous of exclaiming with King Richard, “I have no brother, am like no brother.”

The abilities of Messrs. Murphy and Lathom are of the most respectable class, with whom may be conjoined Mr. N. Brewer; not so is it, however, with Miss Stanhope, who produced the Bandit's Bride, a romance which will never soar above mediocrity in the judgment of any unbiassed reader. Having now brought Sir Noodle to the termination of his muse's present flight, I deem it necessary to remark that the catalogue of non-descripts, designating themselves retailers of the wonderful, might be extended beyond all conception; but when it is remembered that such annotations could contain nothing but a recapitulation of unknown names, the catalogue may well be spared.

The mind of man in every age has felt, at periods, a wish for relaxation; and, in such cases, books of the lighter class have generally been resorted to; nor has there ever been a period when numerous writers have not stepped forward to indulge all readers of this denomination. Novelists of the present day have not much to boast upon the score of wit or contrivance; nevertheless, generally speaking, they do not give publicity to tenets subversive of morality. With regard to the number of novel writers, and the consequent quantity of works that issue from the press, they are almost incalculable, as the circulating libraries of the metropolis can sufficiently testify. In order to prove, however, that quantity is not at all times requisite for the amusement of a population, the following anecdote will sufficiently tend to demonstrate.

About eighty years back the whole stock of books in one of the Scilly Islands consisted of a Bible and the History of Dr. Faustus. The spot was populous, and the inhabitants of the western district being addicted to literature, the conjuror's story had been handed from house to house, until, from perpetual thumbing, little of his enchantments or momentous history remained legible. At this most alarming juncture a meeting was called of the principal inhabitants, and a proposal was made, and unanimously approved, that, as soon as the season would permit any intercourse with Cornwall, a supply of books should be sent for. A debate in consequence began, in order to ascertain what selection should be made upon this occasion, when the result proved that an order should be transmitted to an eminent bookseller at Penzance, for him to send another copy of Dr. Faustus.

If every work of the novel cast was written after the plan of the above cited productions, there would be little occasion for criticism, as it is impossible to find fault with Miss Burney's labours, which have solely for their object the edification as well as amusement of the reader. It has been said that this writer was aided, in some instances, by a very famous literary character; and that one of the personages in Cecilia was drawn as a portraiture of himself; in which case the more praise is due to our literary female, who must have given incontestable proofs of her ability before she could receive the countenance of so great a pioneer of literature.

The writings of Charlotte Smith are of a very superior cast; and her knowledge of men and manners is conspicuously blazoned throughout her prose effusions, while her poetry, and particularly her sonnets, approach nearer to those of Petrarch than any that have yet made their appearance. One trait I shall detail of this author, which sufficiently demonstrates her being possessed of genius, if, as it is said, improvidence and want of thought be the characteristics of inborn talent. The writer was once present at a bookseller's when Mrs. Smith drove up to his door in a post-chaise and four, and after being for a time closetted with the publisher in question, the chaise was discharged, when it afterwards appeared that she had brought up a manuscript from the country to be disposed of; and, until an advance upon the same had been made, she literally was without a shilling to discharge the vehicle which had conveyed her to the metropolis. Mrs. Lenox, though not possessed of the high literary requisites of a Burney or Smith, has given to the world some specimens of ability which will never fail to rank her among the higher class of novelists. From the quantity of trash that has issued from Leadenhall Street, it has been justly remarked that, instead of Minerva, a goose should have been the designation of its far-famed press; but, as there is no rule without an exception, so, in the present instance, we may with justice allow that Mrs. Roche's Children of the Abbey is certainly a counterpoise to hundreds of novels which should never have met the light; wherefore this may be justly esteemed as one of Mr. Lane's most fortunate hits; for, while this species of composition is favourably received by the public, the fame of Minerva can never be tarnished.

If the above unfortunate lady's effusions are characterized by an acute knowledge of life, there is nothing surprizing, as few females had greater cause to abhor the other sex. Had this personage merely displayed the attractions of face and form, the unmanly neglect she experienced might have been accounted for; but, possessing a mind cultivated in the extreme, and formed, as it were, to render a person of polished manners completely happy, we are at a loss how to account for the shameful depravity of the human heart. Independently of the two productions entitled Angelina, and the False Friend, this writer produced several poetical specimens, which bespeak a mind fraught with pathos and the keenest sensibility. The writer was once in the company of Mrs. Robinson's daughter, who had caught from her parent the divine spark of poetry, and was, to all appearance, gifted with talents of a very superior nature.

There is a studied and pedantic affectation about the novel productions of Mr. Holcroft which render his volumes tedious to the reader; his Anna St. Ives, in particular, reminds one of such antiquated lucubrations as Cassandra, and other folio works of this description, the perusal of which, to a man of letters of the present æra, would be worse than a pilgrimage barefoot to the chapel of our Lady of Loretto.

The novels of Mr. Cumberland, like his dramatic productions, display an elegant and easy flow of language; he is peculiarly happy in eliciting the sentimental or the moral, but his attempts at wit are very feeble. If any particular fault be attachable to a publication of this writer's, such reprehension must attend the perusal of his John de Lancaster, which is what may be termed a dull prosing composition; however, notwithstanding his faults, this gentleman must always command admirers, if it were only on account of his chaste style, and the celebrity attached to most of his theatrical compositions.

Having spoken at large of Mr. Pratt in the early part of the present volume, I shall merely echo the panegyric of Sir Noodle, by stating, that the melancholy pleasure I experienced in the perusal of Emma Corbbet was equal to that which actuated my breast when first Mackenzie's Man of Feeling met my regard; and, such being the case, I must again repeat, that, let Mr. Pratt's defects, as a writer, be what they may, he has, nevertheless, found a key to the human heart which many authors accredited of higher repute than this gentleman, have never yet been able to discover.

Dr. Moore's Zeluco, though classed as a novel, is written in a masterly style, that would not disgrace a work of the first literary consequence. It has been said, that the character of his hero was composed in order to pourtray the mental qualifications of a distinguished personage, with whom he had been in such close habits of intimacy, that it was impossible for a gentleman of the doctor's acute discernment not to read the inmost secrets of the heart. The author now under consideration was for many years the tutor to a nobleman of the highest rank, whose appetites were much more addicted to worldly gratifications than the cultivation of the mind; wherefore, as a specimen of this nobleman's epistolary powers may not be uninteresting to the public, I have annexed the copy of an original letter, now in my possession, being a challenge to a sporting personage, with whom, on the preceding evening, he had had a trifling altercation.

Sir,

You have acted in a manner very unbecoming the character of a gentleman with regard to me. I ask satisfaction; and, as we can neither course nor hunt to-morrow, that day will be the most convenient. I will meet you any where, at any hour, and with what weapons you please. I shall bring another gentleman with me. I am, sir, your obedient servant, &c.

Leonora, and Popular Tales, from the pen of Miss Edgeworth, are of that superior stamp which must class her name among the number of the happiest essayists in this range of literature: her style is particularly chaste, and the moral tendency of her labours has justly endeared her to every female whose mind is attuned to the dictates of morality and social refinement.

If the literary acquirements of Mrs. Parsons are not, strictly speaking, worthy of high encomium, they are of that class which will never offend the ears of delicacy; and when it is remembered that her ceaseless assiduity as a writer sprang from the most praiseworthy of principles—the honourable struggle for the support of a family wholly dependant upon her mental efforts—we must allow, that what may be deficient on the score of perfect ability as a writer, is, in a great measure, compensated for by the meritorious cause that actuated her endeavours.

Multum in parvo will not , altogether, apply to the works of Mrs. Bennet, who seems to have studied more the profits likely to accrue to the circulating librarians by the production of quantity, than to have considered what was due to her character as a literary personage. Notwithstanding this, the Beggar Girl is far from a mediocre production, and the language is tolerably perspicuous; but the story of the Ghost of my Father is very deficient on the score of interest, as the major part of the volumes present nothing but events which transpired during the French revolution, all of which had previously met the eye in different publications relating to that eventful epoch.

The talents of Mrs. Meeke are of that negative class, that if her compositions present nothing that can excite praise, no censure is attachable to her for any lack of modesty or decorum.

Mrs. Opie must be ranked as one of the most fascinating and irresistible female writers that now grace the literary hemisphere. It is only required of our author to take the pen, and she never can fail of bewitching the reader. Gifted with such talents, how highly indecorous was it in this writer to compose the work above adverted to, the principles of which can tend to answer no one purpose that is conducive to morality or virtue. As I confess to have received so much gratification from the above lady's effusions, I will spare any further reprehension, under the hope that her good sense will prevent her from recurring to a similar mode of literary composition in future; though I must add, that while contemplating this subject, I cannot refrain from saying with the Latinist, that

A woman, when thinking by herself, is always thinking of mischief.

Mr. G. Brewer, who has been previously mentioned among the dramatists, is also the author of two works, entitled The Siamese Tales, and Essuys in the Manner of Goldsmith; in both of which publications are to be found many traits of sterling humour, accompanied by language at once flowing and unaffected.

Aubrey, from the pen of this gentleman, is a studied composition, which, when perused, will never leave any sterling impression upon the mind.

Unprovoked virulence was never rendered more conspicuous than in the production of the above-mentioned novel; the rapid sale of which verifies the following sentence from Cicero:

Nihil est tam voluere quam maledictum; nihil facilius emittitur, nihil citius excipitur, nihil latius dissipatatur. Cicero.

Nothing in its progress is so rapid as calumny; nothing is more readily received, and nothing can be more widely spread abroad.

Had the most flagrant injury been committed against Mr. Surr by the heroine of his tale, surely the consideration of her being a woman should have wrested the pen from his vindictive grasp; but where there was no apparent cause whatsoever for such an attack, the circumstance becomes totally inexplicable. Surely the thought of lucre could never have prompted a man to strike so deep, and that too at the peace of an individual, whose greatest crime was the possessing a heart “open as day to melting charity.” It is not hearsay that dictates the present note, as the writer, if necessary, could incontestably prove his assertion from a knowledge beyond what casual information could validate. Were I convinced that the author of the Winter in London was capable of cherishing a compunctious yearning, I could tell that which might wring a heart of adamant; but, under the impression that a being composing such a work would perhaps glut his vindictiveness, rather than feel a contrary sentiment, I shall scrupulously refrain from affording him the diabolical gratification.

The reader must be well aware, that the novelists thus chronicled are but as a single grain in the bushel, when compared with the phalanx actually existing; but among the number, how few, let me ask, deserving even a name, are left unrecorded? To such, however, the writer most humbly offers his apology; but for the multitude certainly, to use a common adage, “the least said is the soonest mended,” since nothing interesting to the public, or in the least gratifying to such scribblers, could be conveyed through the medium of my annotations: under this assurance I shall for the present relinquish the pen, trusting that my reasons may appear valid in the eyes of the public.

ANONYMOUS NOVELISTS. Among anonymous effusions of the novel class, I cannot refrain from quoting a work, entitled Thinks I to myself, the sale of which has been commensurate with the merits of the production, the volumes in question having passed through no less than nine editions. As the writer wishes to remain unknown, I shall not here insert his name, though he has no cause to seek concealment when considered in the light of an author. For the benefit of the reader, however, I beg to remark, that the individual to whom we are indebted for this production is very intimate with a Justice of the Peace in the vicinity of Covent Garden, and that he claims some relationship to a conspicuous family in the neighbourhood of Woodstock.

For the truth of this assertion, let the reader refer to Pliny, where he will find this miracle avouched; while Cowley, in his poetical Treatise of Plants, inserts these lines:—

A Sicilian called Strabo is reported to have seen objects at the distance of one hundred and thirty miles, with as much distinctness as if only removed to a few yards distance.

This most ingenious chamber-traveller was native of Germany, and a carpenter, who pretended to have explored the most remote regions of Africa, an account of which appeared in print, and was eagerly translated into French and English; when, lo! the writer's confession shortly after appeared, announcing to the public that the whole was a mere fabrication, the writer never having visited that part of the globe which constituted the narrative in question.

Insitû hominibus libidine alendi de industria rumores. Men having in them a natural desire to propagate reports.

If there existed gudgeons in the present century who swallowed Dambergher's bait, our ancestors, be it remembered, did not prove themselves less credulous; since the fictitious existence and code of laws pictured by Sir Thomas More in the Utopia, were long accredited as in actual being; and the learned Ludovicus Vives, his constant correspondent and friend, in speaking of the empire of China, writes—“That he wonders any man could spend his time about such trifles.”

The unfortunate circumstances attending the fate of this persevering adventurer are sufficient to deter any spirited individual from encountering dangers under the hope of ultimately benefiting the human race. What must have been Mr. Bruce's feelings, after the perils he had manfully encountered, to find his narrative turned into ridicule, and himself held forth as the grossest impostor; and this too, by a set of hireling writers in their garrets, who never were five miles removed from the smoke of the metropolis? Unfortunately for Mr. Bruce, he did not survive the shock to hear detailed the researches of the French when in Egypt, which tended in every respect to validate the narrative of this most injured gentleman; since which, indeed, Mr. Bruce's integrity is universally allowed—but reparation comes too late. If we refer to the travels of this personage, the narratives are interesting in the extreme; and in that part of the work which details his passage over the burning sands, nothing can afford more amusement, combined with dread for the safety of the being so completely environed with horrors on every side. Let romancers delineate what they will, no fictitious embellishments can ever surpass these recorded truths of our gallant countryman.

The wonderful perseverance of Mungo Parke, like that of the last-mentioned traveller, is a convincing proof of the astonishing powers of the human mind when bent upon the accomplishment of any particular object; unfortunately for the world, there is too much cause to apprehend that the final discoveries of this most enterprising individual are for ever lost, as several of the latest accounts almost amount to a proof of his having perished by drowning while crossing a rapid stream to escape the murderous purpose of some savage pursuers.

The account of Lord Macartney's Embassy to China is extremely entertaming, and may be relied upon as a most faithful delineation, not only of the occurrences which transpired to his lordship and suite, but all the statements relative to the customs, manners, &c. of that extraordinary nation are detailed with a precision that bespeaks the veracity of every delineation which the work contains.

The account of Egypt by Mr. Wilson affords incontestable proof, that the writer was master of the subject he undertook to delineate. In narratives of this description, nothing is required but perspicuity of style, and the most implicit adherence to truth; in both which instances the writer has completely established his fame.

In addition to his acknowledged talent as an artist ,Mr. Ker Porter has not tarnished his fame by standing forth the literary delineator of Russia; a production rendered the more valuable, as from this gentleman's conjugal alliance it may naturally be inferred, that his opportunities of acquiring an intimate knowledge of every thing appertaining to the manners and customs of the country were greatly facilitated.

Though there is too much egotism in the pages of this gentleman, and his language is not sufficiently studied, yet his works are by no means divested of interest. Sir John, like many other people, has mistaken his talent: it is obviously his wish to be every where playful, and at times witty; whereas if he had been content to appear only the plain narrator of circumstances as they occurred, his volumes would have acquired a more sterling reputation with the lovers of literature.

Dr. Moore's Travels through France and Italy only afford a fresh proof of the sterling abilities possessed by this classical writer.

It is conjectured that the above lady committed notes to her pocket-book during the tour in question, which, upon her return to England, were methodized and put into their present trim by some author, whose leading object was a voyage to the Peruvian mines, rather than a ramble through the Crimea. Lord Valencia's tour is not divested of claims to some share of merit; but, unfortunately for the public, what with the splendid specimen of its typography, richness of the hot-pressed paper, and sumptuous pictorial embellishments, it is rendered so much a lordly book, that a man of middling fortune is not placed in a situation to peruse it.

The works of Mr. Gilpin have been very deservedly extolled by the public, and his picturesque accompaniments bespeak him intimately acquainted with the effect of light and shade in landscape scenery; and, although not recorded by Sir Noodle, I must here award no small portion of praise as justly due to Sir George Mackenzie, together with Messrs. Pinkerton, Gold, and Wakefield, who have ably laboured in their several literary vocations as descriptive and entertaining travellers.

This ci-devant Colonel of the West York Militia, who has for half a century back usurped the title of England's sportsman general, has given to the world a brace of Sporting Tours, containing feats of that description, which any personage may accredit whose powers in believing the marvellous are more capacious than the writer's. Our author, anxious at all times to place things to the best account, has not only kept his mistresses for domestic purposes, but transformed one into a jockey upon the race-course at York. His early friend and fellow-traveller through Scotland was the late Tom Mosley, who never acknowledged an acquaintance below the rank of His Grace my Lord Duke; in short, the colonel's associates have been of every rank and class in society, from the man of title down to the stable-boy: he has quarrelled with a branch of the blood royal, and entered into law-suits with artists, authors, and conveyancers; he has been horsewhipped on a public stand; in fine, he has performed such feats as justly entitle him to the appellation of the hic etubique colonel; and, as a finish to the portraiture, let it be remembered, that his wealth was never placed to any account whatsoever but the selfish gratification of his own inordinate pleasures.

Among booksellers and publishers, Mr. Mawman does not rank the only scribe; witness Sir Richard Phillips, whose publication, entitled The Office of Sheriff, is by no means divested of useful information. The late Mr. Gardiner, of Pall Mall, was also a dabbler with the press. Neither let Mr. Tegg, of the Apollo Library, Cheapside, be omitted, to whom we are indebted for the biographical sketch of Dr. Hugh Blair, inserted in Phillips's Public Characters.

The persevering industry of the two Lysons forcibly brings to our recollection the never to be too much extolled Sir William Dugdale, to whose unremitting labours we are, to the present day, indebted for an insight into the topographical and antiquarian remains of particular parts of England, which, but for his acumen, had been lost to the present and future ages for ever; neither, while speaking of this great topographer, let me omit to record the memory of his pictorial assistant, the honest engraver Hollar, whose numerous plates present to the eye the remains of those edifices which the pen of Dugdale so ably pourtrays to the mind. Messrs. Lysons, in their literary march, pursue that solid track which must hand their names down to posterity with all those honours that are due to individuals, whose toils are intended for the entertainment, instruction, and benefit of succeeding generations. In company with the above-mentioned individuals should not be omitted the name of J. T. Smith, whose brain has for a series of years been uniformly in motion, that the remains of ancient London may not be lost to the rising generations; while, as an artist pursuing the line of antiquarian topography, Mr. Britton also claims a like honourable mention.

The Bishop of Cloyne's production on Roman Causeways, is one of the most scientific works of that description which has ever appeared before the public; while there is every reason to believe that the Iter Britanniarum, from the pen of Reynolds, instead of being the result of actual research, was absolutely a closet performance, with the help of a library, from whence was culled the matter contained in this publication.

These two gentlemen, whose Magazine has for a series of years been made the receptacle of antiquarian and topographical research, are usefully employed in this branch of literature; and, although it has been objected that their monthly number has frequently been the vehicle of falsehood, from mischievous persons remitting accounts from the country which had no foundation in truth, still the astonishing mass of original and curious information which actually is to be found in the work in question, and the very high price at which the series of volumes sell when complete, are sufficient proofs of the utility and high consideration in which the Gentleman's Magazine is held by the admirers of universal literature.

Mr. Pennant, jun. is stated to be occupied upon a new edition of his late father's London, the sale of which has been a sufficient indication of its worth with the public. With respect to the deceased writer, his labours are not only voluminous, but fraught with information that must at future periods prove of the greatest utility to such individuals as may be engaged in topographical researches. In addition to the names above recorded by Sir Noodle, I cannot refrain from adding that of Gough, the deceased antiquarian, whose Camden's Britannia, although in many respects an interesting labour, contains, I fear, too much vague matter from newspapers and other publications of a similar class. Bigland's Gloucestershire is arranged with care and industry, and the account of London by Dr. Hewson, alias Pugh, displays sufficient proof that the compiler was not a sloven in the progress of this work. To these might be subjoined a variety of other topographical labourers, such as Herbert, the Lambeth historian; Park, jun. engaged in writing a history of Hampstead: but a recapitulation of every name would far exceed the bounds of this volume, the annotations to which have already increased to a bulk beyond the editor's original intention.

It is to antiquarians in a body we must fly to acquire a knowledge of this walk of literature; wherefore, the Somersethouse society, dedicated to the pursuits in question, is perhaps the best criterion to go by; and to judge of their infallibility, from the labours they have produced, would, I much fear, place their acumen in a very dubious point of view. I shall not here lay any stress upon the hoax played off some years back, by the late commentator Steevens, nor shock their nerves by recording all which was said and written upon the subject by the society's then oracle, Mr. Pegg; it is sufficient to hint, that events of this nature are known to have taken place, whereby the whole body was gulled; and from thence we may infer how easy a matter it is to dupe those who rank as wisest in this dubious walk of literature. As the Sarcophagus of Alexander is mentioned by Sir Scribblecumdash, I cannot refrain from stating, that I have perused, with no small degree of mirthful feeling, the pros and cons that have been committed to the press respecting the Egyptian stone relic deposited in the British Museum; which, with all due deference to the sticklers, who affirm the same to have been the tomb of Alexander, I no more conceive from tradition, and particularly external decorations, contained thát prince's body, than it was originally intended to receive the remains of your humble servant. I am not much versed in Egyptian hieroglyphics, it is true, but I am not quite so blind as to mistake what was due to the idols of Egypt, and what would have been the decorations of a sarcophagus sculptured to receive the body of a sovereign of Greece.

As I should be extremely sorry to involve any individual in disgrace, I will withhold the names of the parties concerned in the ensuing anecdote, which may be relied upon as matter of fact.

A living nobleman, of high celebrity, was in possession of a very valuable antique ring, the setting of which did not meet his approbation, and it was in consequence placed in his jeweller's hands for alteration; unfortunately, however, one of the family inspecting the stone, dropped the gem upon the hearth, and the antique was broken into several pieces. In this dilemma, what course was to be pursued? The artizan knew the veneration in which the ring was held by the nobleman in question, and how essential it was for his interest not to forfeit his custom: thus critically circumstanced, he repaired to his engraver, who undertook to procure a similar stone, and execute an exact imitation of the antique, which in the course of a week was completed, and, upon being set, delivered to its present noble owner, who not only believes himself that he possesses his original antique, but, when displayed to the best judges, no doubt is ever entertained of its validity. As any comment would be superfluous, I shall leave the reader to judge of the antiquarian's depth of discernment, and whether or not a modern may be found to equal many boasted labours of the Greek and Roman artists.

The name of Mr. Roscoe has long and justly been distinguished by its connection with elegant literature, and his attachment to the sound politics of his native country, in which avocations he has laboured with honour to himself, both as a writer and a statesman. As a specimen of chaste biographical composition, this gentleman's delineations of the Annals of Lorenzo de Medici, and Pope Leo the tenth, will stand the test of nicest criticism; it is that species of writing to the which nothing can be added or retrenched; for, as in the perusal of the Letters of Junius, every reader, from the beautiful and easy flow of language, conceives himself capable of producing a similar composition, so is it with the works of this gentleman, whose fine talents and classical acquirements are only discovered when an attempt is made at imitation. The writer cannot refrain from extending this note, in order to state that the son of Mr. Roscoe, at an early age, published a most promising poem founded on the ancient ballad of Chevy Chace; a specimen of which is annexed, to evince the warm fancy of a youth capable of eliciting such figurative beauties.

The account of the Kings of Spain, by Mr. Cox, is a novel and entertaining production, and is possessed of additional interest from the close alliance which has lately existed between this country and the Peninsula. Duppa's account of Michael Angelo is not only gratifying to the admirers of the arts, but, considered as the delineation of the life of one of the greatest men that ever blazoned the annals of painting, it is a valuable piece of biography to every admirer of general literature.

Few works ever excited such general interest in the republic of letters as the late Mr. Fox's Annals of the Stuart family, prior to its being issued from the press; and never, perhaps, was public expectation more disappointed. So justly was this statesman venerated for his shining oratorical powers, that it was thought next to impossible that any thing of a secondary class could emanate from his mind; the result however proved otherwise, which is a sufficient testimony of the fallacy attending all human judgment. With regard to Mr. Trotter's work; being a narrative of the close of this revered statesman's earthly career, although there are parts which cannot fail to interest, yet the minute particulars recorded by that gentleman are sometimes of a nature to turn the solemn into farce; nor can any sober-minded individual for a moment hesitate to condemn those enthusiastic admirers of Mr. Fox, who could suffer childish ebullitions as the following to be blazoned forth in different periodical publications. LINES BY MR. FOX.

Mr. Godwin has in two instances exerted his talents as a biographer; first, in delineating the Memoirs of Mary Wolstonecraft, which, from certain statements therein contained, it would have been preferable that the public should not have seen; and with respect to his second production, denominated the Life of Chaucer, it lays no claim whatsoever to the title it bears, which should rather have been an Essay on the Manners, Customs, Architecture, &c. &c. of the reigns of Richard the second and Henry the fourth, with the little that is extant appertaining to Geoffry Chaucer, and his munificent friend and patron John of Gaunt.

Gifford's Life of Pitt is written with a masterly hand, and the narrative affords a convincing proof that the writer possessed the most undoubted sources for rendering his pages the correct portraiture of that great statesman's public career.

In the pages of Lee Lewis are to be found a few amusing anecdotes, beyond which the volumes are not deserving any further comment. Raymond's Dermody, like the Anecdotes of the late George F. Cooke, and the Memoirs of Mrs. Sumbull, affords a useful lesson to the contemplative mind, which cannot fail to draw a comparison of the effects produced by the indulgence of ungovernable passions, which transform those abilities that would have conferred honour upon the possessor, into the most destructive weapons of his earthly tranquillity.

Lady Hamilton has published a statement which there is no reason to discredit; and, from the contents of her pages, no candid mind will for a moment hesitate to say that she has claims on the consideration of the country. The writer cannot refrain from adding, that he feels the more grieved for her situation, as in private life her generosity has been unbounded, and thus left her, he fears, to make those appeals to others which were so successfully made to herself during the season of prosperity.

Mudford prefaces his Life of Cumberland with a correspondence which took place between himself and Sir James, Bland Burges, the result of which is not very flattering to the character of the latter; who, after volunteering his services to the biographer in the progress of his labour, never thought proper to act up to the professions thus made. As an unbiassed delineator of facts, Mr. Mudford claims every credit; his style is unaffected and easy, his notes appropriate, and his criticisms, which constitute the leading feature of the work, are obviously the productions of a gentleman of sound judgment and classical taste. The admirers of Cumberland may, in some instances, call him fastidious; but the lovers of truth will respect him for his honesty.

We would advise Mr. Northcote to relinquish the pen; as an artist he cannot fail to shine, but his literary acquirements are not of a nature to gain him that celebrity which, in the walk of painting, he has so long and deservedly acquired.

Few men ever possessed the power of condensing into a small compass the biographical sketches of celebrated characters like the late Mr. Granger; wherefore we are the more surprised that, with such an original before him, Mr. Noble could so far diverge from the track pointed out. As for the last named individual recorded on Sir Noodle's page, it would be loss of time to descant upon such a farrago of egotism and folly; it is only fit for one purpose and no other—doubtless the reader will comprehend my meaning.

By way of addenda to the above note, relating to existing writers of this class, I deem it necessary to subjoin Mr. Lodge, who has acquitted himself very creditably in his account of the Casar family, and Illustration of British History. The Royal and Noble Authors of Parke, though not of a high literary class, prove that gentleman to be possessed of plodding industry. To these might be added the names of many personages whose skill consists in expertly handling the scissars and paste; but to load my page with book-makers would too far derogate from Sir Noodle's great plan,

The following Hudibrastic delineation is so applicable to the subject, that I must claim the reader's indulgence for its insertion under the present head.

Venalis populus, venalis curia palrum. The people are venal, and the senate is equally venal.

Joe Miller's Jests being in the mouth of every child, no further notice need be taken of them; but with regard to Spiller, who has not acquired so much publicity, it may perhaps be requisite to acquaint the reader that he was a celebrated comedian, who, like most of the sock, indulged too freely with the bottle, which reduced him to poverty and a jail; he was, as frequently proves the case with such characters, a very facetious and witty potcompanion.

This gentleman, of whom I may well say, when referring to his deceased friend,

I refer my reader to the lucubrations of Mr. Godwin, in order to attain a complete insight as to speculative ideas of this nature.

Through the medium of Cobbet's Register, and other periodical reviews, the lucubrations of this staunch champion of parliamentary reform have frequently met the public eye, independently of which, I have been informed that he has more than once figured in a literary point of view, which has allowed him the present claim upon my consideration. With regard to Peter Porcupine, alias Mr. Cobbet, he is one of those hocus pocus writers, or weathercock politicians, that so frequently appear in this land of liberty; though I believe it would be no easy task to find a parallel with the individual here quoted. Having spoken thus much of the man, it will be necessary to say a few words respecting his abilities as a writer, which are of the most singular cast. He is perspicuous without elegance, and possesses an energy of style which can only be the result of an inherent talent, as no writer among his several imitators has been at all felicitous in the assumption of his mode of expression. Should any reader, however, prove desirous of fully appreciating the text of this writer, let him refer to those numbers of the Weekly Register which made their appearance during the investigation of the Duke of York's conduct, and I think sufficient broof will appear of the terse reasoning and incontrovertible mode of argument pursued by Mr. Cobbet, with whom logic is a joke, and the practices of the schools a mere jargon beneath his consideration. Among other living political writers, Mr. Canning has made no inconsiderable figure; the Marquis of Wellesley has no less had recourse to the printing art for the promulgation of his sentiments, though, in most instances, made under an assumed signature; to these personages may be added Lord Castlereagh, our great diplomatist; while in Mr. Redhead Yorke, lately deceased, whose early career of literature was devoted to the promulgation of liberty, the friends of the Pitt system had to boast a vigorous advocate, possessing talents that never debased the cause he so strenuously advocated.

The very laconic manner in which the great Sir Noodle slurs over the above topics of literature Pprompts me to form a shrewd surmise, that he is no better acquainted with surgery and physic than myself; although, from consulting the Reviews, I am fully enabled to catalogue some names that are universally regarded with the highest consideration by every practitioner in their respective professions. After having thus candidly confessed my inability to appreciate these works from actual perusal, I shall beg leave to enrol the name of Bell, who has written upon Anatomy, together with Foote, Abernethy, Monro, and Aikin; Baillie on morbid Anatomy; Farre on Diseases of the Liver; Bree on the Chest, and Pemberton on the Bowels. While, as physicians, Letsom, Jenner, Kerrison, Latham, and Powel, have no less exerted their abilities to disseminate that useful knowledge for the benefit of the human race, which long practice and experience have enabled them to perform.

In medicine, we have treatises, written in the 18th century, to prove that a salt meat diet is good for the gout; and that colds do not proceed from damps or moist clothing.

A physician at Lyons published a dissertation on beards and mustachios, affirming that they promote strength; and that the present age might not be without men as strong as Sampson were they permitted to grow.

According to the Greek historians, we are informed that Alexander upon his death-bed uttered the following exclamation:

Pero turba medicorum. I die by the help of too many physicians.

I believe the number of my departed countrymen who could have joined in this chorus would be nearly as countless as the stars in the heavens, or the grains of sand in the sea.

Burton, in his Anatomy of Melancholy, says, “Where there be many lawyers, and many physicians, it is a manifest sign of a distempered melancholy state, as Plato long since complained.”

No creature breathing stands better with himself than Doctor Busby: there is but one personage left, when he departs these terrestrial regions, who can possibly fill up the vast vacuum in perfectibility which must attend his exit, and that individual, O reader! is the doctor's son! But to be serious: this writer has very lately presented to the world his translation of Lucretius, which from the specimens I have read (for, to be candid, I have not perused the work throughout) is written in that pompous style which might be expected to flow from the writer in question. It cannot, however, be denied, that the doctor understood his original well, and upon the whole this labour will not disgrace his name. Of the rejected Address I shall say nothing; for as the conduct of our author has been sufficiently before the public on a former occasion, it would only be reviving an old grievance. In his harmonic vocation Dr. Busby some years back published a musical dictionary, which is concise and ably executed; but whatsoever may be his talents as a composer, I will not undertake to say further than that the music published under his name has never excited those emotions which the notes of a Jackson, Shield, Birnie, and Stevenson, never fail to excite in my breast.

The late Mr. Wyatt, although possessing a considerable share of talent, had very glaring defects; indeed, I do not wish to be invidious, but it appears to me, generally speaking, that if a grand idea happens to strike any living architect, it is not the effect of study, but rather flashes across the mind in a moment as by mere chance. I was once favoured with the sight of a design for a public building, by a young student of the name of Bond, which, for classic taste, I never saw surpassed; of this promising genius, however, though some years have now transpired, not a syllable has been said. Another architecturalist I must also record, in the person of Mr. Edward Aiken, some of whose compositions have fallen under my inspection that were testimonials of his worth, and the assiduous attention he had paid to all the leading principles of his profession.

Some years back there was a glimmering of hope that Britain would have produced a second Cleomenes, if not a Phidias, in the person of Mr. Proctor; but as his modesty was as great as his merit (and there exists no genuine talent without it), and his misfortunes being greater than both, he suffered himself to pine in want, rather than acquire comfort at the expense of what he deemed the dignity of his condition. At length Mr. West discovered him in a garret, in a state of starvation, modelling the calamity of Diomedes with all the fire of the Greek school: Mr. Proctor thus became relieved, and was favoured with the protection of Sir Abraham Hume; but the solacement came too late: the thread of nature was exhausted, and the unfortunate artist became a prey to death while preparations were making to send him to Rome.

Perraut, who has gained immortal reputation as the great architect of the Louvre at Paris, was nevertheless subjected to the satirical lash of Boileau, merely because he happened to be brother of a very learned member of the French academy, between whom and the satirist there had been some literary wrangling, and for this alone has Boileau most ungenerously transmitted the name of Perraut to posterity with the character of a light and paltry architect.

I have very rarely had cause to impeach the liberality of Sir Scribblecumdash, but I must confess that the above lines, as containing nothing but reprehension of the present topic, do not place the poet in that point of view which, as a candid critic, should have been the ultimate intention of his metrical essay. I will certainly grant that many productions of the above nature do not tend either to instruct or amuse the reader; nevertheless such writers as Strutt, Brand, Douce, &c. cannot fail to demand that attention from the public which is due to intense reading, and the most ardent wish to illustrate the darker periods of British history, together with the manners and customs of our uncultivated progenitors. As we are upon the subject of ancient literature, I will here subjoin some anecdotes analogous to the point in question, for the information of individuals interested in this branch of literature.

The unrolling and explanation of the manuscripts found in Herculaneum are pursued with much industry by Messrs. Rosini, Scotti, and Pesette: they have, under the patronage of the government, published some fragments of a Latin poem upon the war between Mark Antony and Augustus, and a considerable portion of the second book of Epicurus upon Nature. The above gentlemen do not despair of finding the whole treatise of this author. There has also been committed to the press a moral work of Pisistratus, the celebrated disciple of Epicurus; likewise some fragments of Colote upon the Lycidias of Plato, and of Caniscus upon Friendship. The entire work of Phylodemus upon Rhetoric is now nearly completed.

Count Rzewuski, of Vienna, is said to have in his possession an Arabic manuscript, written in the time of the Crusades, which records some curious particulars relative to the use of gunpowder in war, &c. and which also contains a genuine receipt for the Greek fire.

Among the precious MSS. of the Oriental Library of Monte-Casino, which may be considered as the cradle of sciences and letters, after the barbarism which followed the destruction of the Roman empire, there has just been found a Greek MS. of Apollonius Evander, the nephew of Apollonius of Rhodes. Among other important objects which this MS. contains, is a very detailed account of the eruption of Vesuvius, in the reign of Titus. A learned Hellenist will soon give us a translation of this work, with the opposite to it.

We are told by Menage, that the tutor of a young French nobleman, while one day engaged at a game of tennis, chancing to cast his eyes upon the racquet in his hand, perceived some writing upon the parchment which covered it, and having perused it with attention, found it to be part of one of the lost books of Livy: he immediately inquired for the racquet-maker, but found, to his great mortification, that what he had seen was the last remains of a collection of manuscripts, which were all made up for racquets, and dispersed over the kingdom.

Messrs. Jones and Thelwall, at the early period of the French Revolution, supported with ardour the cause of the freedom of the people, not only by holding forth, as orators, the Divine Rights of men in public assemblies, but also furthering the cause through the medium of the press; of these gentlemen little now is known but their names. Mr. Thomas Hague, who was once honoured with the confidence of one of the R—l Brothers, in opposition to another branch of the same exalted Stock, has produced both poetry and prose; the former being made the vehicle of notes in a pamphlet, entitled Transubstantiation; while the latter, though in many instances replete with matter of fact, is not famous either for the correctness of its style, or a due attention to the principles of composition and the rules of grammar.

As for Mary Ann Clarke, now suffering imprisonment for a libel, she may be esteemed the Pandora of pamphleteers; and such is her predilection for the pen, that I much doubt whether even the present state of durance will tend to check that virus which seems to have taken full possession of her mental qualifications.

The pamphlet which passed under the name of Major Hogan was written by Peter Finnerty, who has lately been liberated from Lincoln Jail, for a libel.

Some years back, a statement of facts was ushered into the world by one Major Hogan, the purport of which was to vilify certain proceedings of the Commander in Chief, who then was, as the major wished to infer, under the influence of some chere amie. Of Sir Richard Phillips's pamphlet I have before spoken, and shall therefore pass on to The Delicate Investigation, a volume which, perhaps, excited more curiosity, and, when published, gave rise to speculations as manifold as ever yet followed the appearance of a new work. Of Lady Perceval's ebullitions, and the fracas between that dame and Messrs. Mitford and Phipps, it would be superfluous to speak, the subject having been so recently before the public in all the diurnal prints, and also made the topic of legal investigation. As pamphlets are so very frequently rendered the vehicles of abuse and libel, I shall terminate this note by relating an anecdote, which, as a novel method of giving publicity to slander, may not prove altogether uninteresting to the reader of this volume.

A blind man of Paris, retiring in the dusk to his hovel, after the day had been spent in begging with little success, was accosted by a person, who told him, that if he would go home with him he should find his account in it. The blind man joyfully consented to be conducted to his new friend's house, and was thus addressed by him: “I am not rich, and yet wish to show charity to the poor, which I have no other possibility of doing, unless by giving them parcels of tales and novels, which I compose, to sell at a very moderate price for their own benefit. Here, my friend, is a good parcel of them, which you shall dispose of at the rate of twopence each, although they are intrinsically worth thrice the money.” The poor fellow, after expressing his gratitude, groped his way home exulting, and sallied out early the next morn, to enjoy the profits of his benefactor's productions. He cried his pamphlets by the title of A New Novel, as he had been directed, and for some time had no custom; but one of his books having been purchased and examined, the rest met with a most rapid sale, and the blind man returned homewards with his pockets well loaded. His pleasant ideas were, however, soon checked, by his finding himself in the custody of an officer of the police, who told him that the book which he had sold was a most virulent and impudent satire against a person of rank. The poor blind man protested his innocence and told his tale, which, luckily for him, was believed; but he could give no information which could lead to the contriver of this very ingenious and new way of spreading abroad scandal with impunity.

The Diversions of Purley, by the late Mr. Horne Tooke, is one of the most erudite productions that has issued from the British press, and is a convincing proof of the capacious mind and elaborate study of the writer; indeed Mr. Tooke does not scruple to affirm, that Doctor Johnson himself was but a child, when considered in the light of a writer possessing any knowledge of the root of all languages. Had Mr. Tooke lived to complete the work, upon which he had been long engaged, there is little reason to doubt but he would have produced a labour unparalleled in the annals of lexicographian literature. An edition of Johnson's Dictionary, with the annotations of Horne Tooke, was knocked down, at the sale of that gentleman's effects, to Major James for two hundred pounds; which sufficiently testifies the high consideration in which those strictures were held by the bidders for the work in question. As a writer of the above class, Dr. Rees is with justice universally esteemed; and although by no means an elegant composer, yet the labours of Dr. Watkins have met with the greatest encouragement. I shall now wind up my note with an anecdote, which may be relied upon as matter of fact, and as appertaining to so extraordinary a character may perhaps afford some share of entertainment.

The Emperor Napoleon was one day giving directions to the minister of the marine, and consulting him upon the feasibility of some action of importance: as the views of Bonaparte did not, however, coincide with the ideas of this personage, he started several objections, and the better to turn the emperor from putting his plans into effect, informed him that it was morally impossible to secure success; when Napoleon replied, with a smile, “Erase the word impossible from your dictionary; it is a term, sir, I never admit into mine.”

The following curious particulars relating to the sale of Horne Tooke's copy of Johnson's Dictionary may be relied on as fact.

When it was knocked down to Major James at the high price already stated, many persons were curious to know what could have induced him to pay such a sum, and especially when they perceived the Major carefully proceeding out of the auction room, with the volumes under his arm. Some few ventured to question him distinctly, whether he had bought the work for himself or for any other person? Major James ironically replied, that “the English nation had never truly appreciated the abilities of Horne Tooke; the only one who knew how to value them was the Emperor Napoleon, and for him he had purchased the volumes.” Astonishment was now at its very height, and all who heard this declaration at once concluded that something prodigiously curious must be connected with the Dictionary. It should be observed that Horne Tooke was an honorary member of the French National Institute, and hence the badinage of Major James appeared the more probable. The motives, however, that induced Major James to make this purchase deserve to be known, as they are highly honourable to his character: they arose from a sincere desire to befriend the daughters of Horne Tooke, for whose benefit his books were being sold; and facts prove that his benevolent object was accomplished. The person who was commissioned to buy the volumes for Sir Francis Burdett ceased his bidding at £50, and the contest then lay between Mr. Rees for the booksellers, and Major James for the cause of humanity. The latter so far prevailed that by his “mad or foolish bidding,” if any choose to call it either, £150 more were obtained for the daughters of Tooke than would otherwise have been had, besides £43 for the cards. Major James had a sincere regard for the father when living, and for his daughters he had thus kindly exerted himself. By the intervention of a common friend the volumes have been confided to the care of Mr. Rees, for the use of Mr. Todd, in his edition of Johnson's Dictionary; Mr. Rees stipulating to pay the £200 that were bid at the auction, and £43 for the cards; the volumes to be returned when Mr. Todd's edition is completed. The public, therefore, will have the benefit of Horne Tooke's labours, and Major James will possess the valuable original without any expense.

Mr. Britton has published, under the auspices of the Marquis of Stafford, a descriptive catalogue of that nobleman's choice collection of pictures, which is not one of this writer's happiest efforts. Mr. Dibdin is engaged in writing a list of the classical library of the Earl of Spencer, which will no doubt be handled with becoming acumen, as the writer in question has so long made ancient and valuable literature his unceasing study. With respect to engravings, a man of the name of Flindal has issued forth a production replete with nothing but errors, while the Chaleographiana, a mere reprint of marked catalogues, with a few annotations on the mania of portrait collecting, has also been ushered forth by Mr. Caulfield, so well known among the collectors and illustrators of Granger, Clarendon, &c. &c. I shall refrain from burdening my page with more writers of this class, who, generally speaking, possess, like Mr. Oldys, but a slender portion of genius or classical learning, but, like the lastmentioned personage long since defunct, are in every respect calculated for index reading, a knowledge of title-pages, and a perfect insight as to every thing connected with scarce English books, their different editions, &c. in which dry walk Mr. Oldys was never surpassed.

The greatest honour is conferred upon the English press, by the production of the multifarious publications wherewith it has teemed, from the pens of both sexes, during the last fifty years; as this topic, however, applies to the following head, as well as that which treats of the expounders of Christianity, I shall, without further comment, dismiss the present note, and proceed to speak of the Lady next adverted to by the poetaster.

The productions of this writer are very numerous, and niformly characterized by an undeviating attention to the principles of religion and morality. Her system of female education is certainly one of the best now extant; and if, as it is asserted, a very high ecclesiastical dignitary frequently lent his aid to further the literary views of this writer, it confers the greater honour upon her endeavours, as the sanction of the good and the learned is the surest test of the sincerity of this lady's professions. If we regard the style of this author's writings, it will be found extremely flowing, while the strictest attention is paid to render the subject comprehensible to the meanest capacity; in which effort she is the more happy, as the end is completely answered, without infringing upon the principles of chaste and elegant literature. As I have, at the commencement of this note, offered a tribute of praise to the system of female education as laid down by Hannah More, I will, for the edification of the female sex, subjoin the opinion of a very clever departed writer, whose mental acumen has, I believe, completely stood the test of criticism.

Of the effects of education in women, and the evils resulting from the want of it, De Foe expresses his opinion in the following manner: “A well-bred woman, and well taught, furnished with the additional accomplishments of knowledge and behaviour, is a creature without comparison; her society is the emblem of sublimer enjoyments, her person is angelic, and her conversation heavenly. She is all softness and sweetness, peace, love, wit, and delight; she is every way suitable to the sublimest wish, and the man that has such a one to his portion has nothing to do but rejoice in her and be thankful. On the other hand, suppose her to be the same woman, and deprived of the benefit of education, and it follows thus: If her temper be good, her want of education makes her soft and easy; her wit, for want of teaching, renders her impertinent and talkative; her knowledge, for want of judgment and experience, makes her fanciful and whimsical: if her temper be bad, want of breeding makes her worse, and she grows haughty, insolent, and loud; if she be passionate, want of manners makes her a termagant and a scold, which is much as one with a lunatic; if she be proud, want of discretion (which is still ill breeding) makes her conceited, fantastic, and ridiculous; and from these she degenerates to be turbulent, clamorous, noisy, nasty, and the devil.”

If the rising generation do not greatly excel its predecessors in the knowledge and practice of humanity, every philosopher, divine, and poet, who has glanced upon the subject of education, will have completely failed in his conjecture. Eighty years back it would have been deemed the height of folly in an author to appropriate his talents to the service of an infantile race. The whole juvenile library then consisted of a dry book, entitled “Geography for Children,” and in a set of volumes descriptive of Westminster Abbey and the Tower of London; Mother Goose also added her tales, from which neither instruction nor moral was to be acquired. The ingenious Christopher Smart was the first man of talent who thought the minds and morals of children deserving of literary attention. In his Lilliputian Magazine he inculcated the best principles, but at the same time thought it necessary to introduce into the drama “Woglog the Great Giant,” in order to terrify and amuse by turns. From the success experienced by Smart, a new class of writers appeared, who have exerted their talents to compose histories in common life, which uniformly tend to inculcate suavity of manners, with the practice of morality and religion. Children thus tutored must indubitably retain some portion of the precepts so inculcated, and where the seeds of virtue are early planted there can be no doubt but the procreative soil will expand the ripening germs, and in the end produce a plenteous harvest.

If we continue to dilate upon female tuition, a very striking instance of perfection is handed down to us from undeniable authority, in the family of Sir Thomas More, in the reign of Henry the 8th; upon which subject I shall beg leave to dwell a little, in order to excite emulation in the minds of those who can justly appreciate the incalculable benefits derivable from education.

“Fuit ejus domus,” says Erasmus, “schola et gymnasium Christianæ religionis.”—“The tutors of More's children were John Clements, who was afterwards a Greek professor at Oxford; William Gonellus (or Gunnell), afterwards distinguished at Cambridge; Richard Hertius; one Drus, and one Nicholas,” says Stapleton, Vit. Mori, 221, 2. More's letter to Gonellus, concerning the education of his children (which Stapleton has extracted, p. 224), is full of curious information and great tenderness of sentiment. Most of the learned men of that day, Erasmus, Ludovicus Vives, and Grynæus, celebrated the school of More.

Erasmus, from whom we derive these particulars, and who was often an inmate of that delightful society, greatly captivated with the easy manners, the animated conversation, and the extraordinary accomplishments of More's daughters, could not help owninghimself a complete convert to More's sentiments of female education. Yet while he admired their improvement, and shared in the pleasures it diffused, he could not help remarking one day to his friend, how severe a calamity it would be, if, by any of those fatalities to which the human race is liable, such accomplished beings, whom he had so painfully and successfully laboured to improve, should happen to be snatched away! “If they are to die,” replied More, without hesitating, “I would rather have them die well informed than ignorant.” This reply, continues Erasmus, reminded me of a saying of Phocion, whose wife, as he was about to drink the poison according to his sentence, exclaimed, “Ah! my husband, you die innocent!” “And would you, my wife,” he rejoined, “rather have me die guilty?”— Macdiarmid's Lives of British Statesmen, p. 32. Erasm. Epist.605.

Warner, at p. 154, speaking of Margaret Roper, says—Of his two youngest daughters we know nothing, but that they were married to gentlemen; but his eldest daughter, Margaret, the wife of Mr. Roper, and the favourite child of Sir Thomas More, who has been often mentioned in this history, was a woman of extraordinary parts and learning. She wrote declamations in English, which her father and she turned so elegantly into Latin, that it was very difficult to determine which was best. She wrote also a treatise of the “four last things,” with so much piety, judgment, and strength of reasoning, that her father declared it was a better performance than a discourse which he had written himself on the same subject. Erasmus wrote an epistle to her, as to a woman famous, not only for her manners and virtue, but for true and solid learning. And Cardinal Pole was so charmed with the elegance of her Latin style, that it was long before he could be brought to believe that what he read was penned by a woman. In short, she was a perfect mistress of the Greek and Latin tongues, and of all sorts of music, with a great skill in arithmetic and many sciences, and was complimented by the greatest men of the age on that account.

The three daughters of Sir Thomas were born first, which is stated to have given his wife much uneasiness, whose constant prayer was that she might produce a boy; which event at length taking place, and the child proving little better than a fool, Sir Thomas told his wife, “that she had prayed so long for a boy, that she had one now who would be a boy as long as he lived.” Notwithstanding these natural disadvantages, Sir Thomas More did every thing for the improvement of his son's mind, and, although incapable of rendering him a shining figure, and the worthy representative of such a father, he nevertheless displayed the wholesome effects of a good education, and thus made a sterile soil productive of some fruit.

In addition to Hannah More, we have the late Dr. Gregory's Legacy to his Daughters, which I conceive to be very far from correct in many of its dictates. A Mr. Gregory also, who ranked among the dissenters, was as pure in his system of practical education, as he was conspicuous for the virtues of the heart. To the labours of Lindley Murray the rising generation will own itself highly indebted, while the volumes of Mistresses Bonhote and Trimmer will ever be regarded with the most respectful consideration by the instructors of youth. Add to these the names of Butler and Shepherd, together with a variety of others, who, if not chronicled in this note, are not the less honoured by the writer, who conceives that there is scarcely a class of individuals devoted to literature who are more worthy of panegyric than those persons whose meritorious labours are uniformly dedicated to expand the intellect and amend the human heart.

It is not a little surprising to observe, that the best treatise upon the British constitution was written by the French gentleman above named; while the history of England, from whence every later writer has composed his work, has uniformly been that of Rapin de Thoyras, who also owed his birth to France, and which work, although prolix, is completely void of prejudice, and full of learned and amusing annotations.

Although Sir Scribblecumdash has advanced so much in praise of this subject, I must beg leave to remark, that however good the laws themselves may be, it is far otherwise with their Limbs; wherefore that no reader, judging from the above couplets, may be prompted to run headlong into danger, I shall trouble him with the following statements, which having perused, “let him then go to law with what appetite he may.”

Mr. Selwyn, a very sagacious and experienced citizen, (who was formerly a candidate for the office of chamberlain of London, and missed it only by seven votes out of 7000), used to say, that a man who deliberates about going to law should have 1. A good cause. 2. A good purse. 3. An honest and skilful attorney. 4. Good evidence. 5. Able counsel. 6. An upright judge. 7. An intelligent jury. 8. Good luck; without which, with all the other seven, it is odds but he miscarries in his suit.

In Burton on Melancholy, p. 50, he states as follows: “He that goes to law, as the proverbe is, holds a wolfe by the eares, or, as a sheepe in a storme, runs for shelter to a brier. If he prosecute his cause, he is consumed; if he surcease his suit, he looseth all. What difference?”

An advocate of Strasbourg being suddenly taken ill, sent for a brother lawyer to make his will, by which he bequeathed 72,000 florins to the Hospital of Idiots in that city. His brother advocate, expressing his surprise at this bequest, “Why not bestow that sum upon them?” (said the dying man) “You know I got my money by fools, and therefore to fools it ought to return.”