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speare died, a century and a half since Milton died; and Pope has been familiar to every English reader for nearly a century. Gray supplied a model of finished poetry 50 years a go. Goldsmith and Cowper improved our poetry and our taste. But, of late, enormous additions have been made, not to our standing army, but to the establishments of excise and customs, and the annoying class of taxgatherers and collectors of revenue. In our poetical senate, we can well suppose the member for Aberdeen making a speech to this effect: "I grudge not their salaries to the Noble Lord, or the Right Honourable Baronet, but I complain that their influence corrupts the administration of poetical justice, and that their patronage crowds the poetical offices with persons who do no service to the public. Really, Sir, if reduction and economy are to be seriously practised, we ought not to vote a single page for those sinecure scribblers who make no return whatever for such an expence, It would be invidious to take this occasion for alluding to individuals. I really hope that their own sense of shame will suggest to them the propriety of resigning before the estimates of the next year are made up. We are now in the third century of peace, and yet what enormous burdens do we not bear? Here is now, in the documents laid on the table, one John Hamilton, with 175 pages of poetry, besides 16 pages of dedication, advertisement, and contents. (Hear, hear.) Now, I should like to know what services he performs for an allowance so enormous. This, alone, is but a trifling item, but it is the principle of it that calls for the interference of Parliament." (Hear, hear, hear.)

We fear much that Mr John Hamilton is incurably in love with silly conceit and unpoetical rhyme. We form this opinion from the perverse imbecility of the volume before us, notwithstanding that Mr Hamilton promises to "give up drawling verse for drawing leases.' It may arise from the strong antipathy of our fancies to his eyes and muscles, but we confess that we are not free from apprehensions of being visited by Mr Hamilton's ghost, after his present body shall be mouldering in oblivion.

In his case we have no doubt of some-
thing like a transmigration, (we were
going to say of soul, but soul has it
none,) of the vaporous inflation which
poems inflicted upon the
produced the
Never
public by Mr John Hamilton.
was the honest severity of criticism
more loudly called for. Immortal
verse" is the very highest gratification
of the human mind. Let it not be
neutralised by versified senilities. But
we must support our decision by im-
partial references. We quote the fol-
lowing lines of the dedication, as suf
ficiently characteristic of this John
Hamilton, and as excessively con-
ceited and silly.

This book is thine-this record of past
hours;

This chronicle of feelings gone for aye: Thon't find a line or two about the flow,

ers,

And words of welcome to the Lady May; Think not with these I now abuse my

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day.

These are old follies-as the time increases,
I give up drawling verse for drawing leases.

Verses of this sort might serve the purpose of inspiring slumbers fully as well as the wind whistling through a key-hole. Yet the author dreams of alarming the world by threatening to divorce himself from his lily;

I have but to request the world will view
The lily and myself henceforth as two!

We could believe that the follow

ing verse was written by a coxcomb,
who amused himself by making love
to an old maid, and who was in re-
turn flattered into a thorough belief
in his own infallible inspiration.

But thy advice is law-so farewell, fairies!
My soul against your glowing haunts I

must ice;

Fate at a word my course of study varies,
And brings me books in which a deal of

dust is.

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we have given extracts, we admit the justice of the enactment. Very weak tea is never a pleasant beverage, but to be tasted in its best condition, it should be drank in its tepid state. If it be kept for nine years, it would require a better stomach than ours to approach it. We think, notwithstanding, that port-wine and brandy are much improved by being kept for some time. But to our dreary toil.The first of the poems is "The Garden of Florence from Boccacio." The tale is short and improbable. A wealthy youth falls in love with a poor girl, and is accepted with sordid gratitude. While they are discoursing of love in the agonies of lassitude and drowsiness, he tastes a sage-leaf and dies. She is accused of his murder, and when explaining the manner of his death, she too chews the sage-leaf

and dies.

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She met Pasquino, just as the fair sun
His golden Sabbath-light had richly spun,
Like a fine woof over the mellowing leaves,
Of the autumnal trees.

"Very like a whale." But let the reader prepare to be affected: She lean'd within his arm, on that day, And looked content to lean her life away. The phrases and images of this modern Horace are as novel as his poetry. We find Pasquino" loosing his playful wit ;" and "each tongue noises for vengeance;"-we hear a voice" that seemed like sound inurn'd;" and we are told that "his very look could sway the people kind." Simonida, a mute young thing," goes gasping all convulsedly for breath." As Horace has been super

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-sister young

Toscatter silver sounds his listening thoughts among.

The poetical author of the "Essay on Truth" would have scarcely ventured to sing of Edwin,

That he did love to lie and be alone,

To creep from out his bed when night was blind.

Nor would that elegant culler of fit and sweet words have said that

-the unwearied brook Told wooing stories as it coil'd along. We sometimes hesitated whether to believe John Hamilton to be an archwag, who burlesques the puling childishness of " modern poetry," and in enthusiast sing this salutary spirit makes his young

O melon-scented lily!

O water queen of flowers! and then exclaims, in his own sarcastic person,——

It was a pity, so it was, that one
So framed to dwell in golden Arcady,
Should be left naked in a world so lone ;—

thus happily parodying the "white simplicity" of the popinjay— And that it was great pity, so it was, That villanous saltpetre should be digg'd.

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But John Hamilton's treatment of the fairies soon dispelled the respectful illusion, and compelled us to recognize Bottom the weaver with the head of an ass. After celebrating "the white cat,"-" the royal ram,' -and "a honey swell of music," he says, with unrivalled integrity, Much doth it wonder me that I can keep I who do weave this mystic historyMy constancy and ardency from sleep. But our constancy can keep no longer toiling at this teazing soporific, nor can we minutely advert to the homespun phrases of good Mr Bottom, as, "sunn'd romance, books of elder time,"-" skyey turrets,"-" air with arrows laced,"-" cloying the eagle's plumage," patient passion of a snowy pair of doves,"—" a fit of sound," buddingly, "heaved out his soul of song,' lily company,"-" dew-wine brewed,' queen in her boddice,”- -"dull with beauty," and the like." Golden" and silvery" are repeated often enough to satiate the bitterest enemy of paper currency. We might, in deed, contrive to discover some lines of tolerable poetry; but they are so few, and so insignificant, as to merit no such distinction. This volume is altogether a positive deterioration. The author, whoever he may be, and whatever may be his prosaic name, can scarcely be more improperly employed than in weaving such "" mystic histories." Digging pits in the earth, and filling them up again, would be as patriotic, and almost as poetical.

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We cannot refrain from taking this occasion to give a few plain hints to the enamoured admirers of natural scenery and tales of fairies. It may be assumed as an axiom, that scenes may interest and delight the spectator in the highest degree, which can afford little interest or delight in description. The rising and the setting of the sun, the deep gloom of forests, the majestic flow of rivers,

the song of birds, and the magnificence of seas and rocks,-excite the keenest sensations of delight, in the first instance; but, in mere descrip

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And give us, in recitals of disease, A doctor's trouble, but without the fees. This ugly trick" has its origin in the same principles which induce weak admirers of natural scenes to write descriptions of what seems to them so full of interest. The fallacy has been greatly encouraged by rich and highly interesting descriptions in the best poets; but, with them, description is incidental, and for ornament-it is the scenery, not the play. Injudicious writers mistake the cause of our delight, and present us with mere scenery, without either tragedy or comedy. If Homer gives a descriptive epithet to the sea, it is when the indignant priest of Apollo walks sullenly along the shore. If Virgil gives a description of a river, of woods, and of hills, it is when Eneas first sails up the Tiber, penetrates forests that had never witnessed the glitter of arms, and obtains the first view of the seven hills of the "Eternal City." The song of birds awakens Evander and his guest. The darkness of night in his description is accompanied with the early rising of the chaste and careful wife to prescribe their tasks to her maids. The grateful light of morning is presented to our imagination, when neas visits the snow-white corpse of Pallas. The truth of this remark is still more fully illustrated by Shakespeare and Milton, but they are happily too well known to make particular reference necessary. Shakespeare gives more vivid delight by his description of Jacques " under an oak," and of the

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poor sequestered stag," that " stood on the extremest verge of the sweet brook," than the minutest details of the colour of the leaves, the noise of the stream, the tints of the sky, and the changes of the wind, could inspire. There is not one picture in Paradise Lost that owes not its power to our sympathy with Adam and Eve, or with the Devil. Let one instance suffice.

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On his hill top, to light the bridal lamp.

Mere descriptions of nature would never be endured, but for the exquisite felicity of language and composition with which they are sometimes recommended, as in some of the Odes of Horace, the Castle of Indolence, parts of the Minstrel, and considerable parts of the Task. But Cowper generally identifies us with himself; with him we contemplate not in imagination, but we see, hear, and feel.

I again perceive The soothing influence of the wafted strains, And settle in soft musings as I tread The walk, still verdant under oaks and elms,

Whose outspread branches overarch the glade.

We cannot help hazarding a suspicion, that Windsor Forest and the Seasons, at least the descriptive parts, are more frequently praised than read. The traveller, intent on other objects, enjoys nature more than the idle wanderer without an aim. So are the descriptions of nature striking and interesting, when they supply only the scenery which adorns the stage for human actions and feelings.

Of Fairies we have little to say. If they would really interest us, they must possess the feelings and passions of men. They cannot be exempted from this just law any more than angels or devils. If their influence upon the mind of the visionary be the subject of description, that may be highly interesting, without any account of the airy beings themselves. "Sir Eustace Grey" is poetical in the highest degree, without a fiction or supernatural machinery. But if the fairies be expected to excite our sympathy, we must find them affected by our hopes and fears. Shakespeare felt this, and endowed his Oberon and Titania

with all the passions, and more than the poetry of mortal majesty. Milton has availed himself only of their influence on the traveller's mind,

like that pigmean race Beyond the Indian mount, or fairy elves, Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain, some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while over-head the

moon

Sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth Wheels her pale course, they on their mirth and dance

Intent, with jocund music charm his ear At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds.

But we must pause here. We may perhaps take some future occasion of resuming the subject. In the mean time we entreat of Mr John Hamilton not to attempt a second part of the "Romance of Youth!" "The Ladye of Provence" is too repulsive for criticism.

ITALY, BY LADY MORGAN.

"I TRUST," says Lady Morgan, "that, in a woman's work, sex may plead its privilege; and that, if the heart will occasionally make itself a party in the concern, its intrusions may be pardoned, as long as the facts detailed are backed, beyond the possibility of dispute, by the authority of contemporary testimonies." We have always been accustomed to consider the words "privilege of Parliament” as the most vague and uncertain that the English language, or the English constitution, can boast of. In this opinion we have erred. Lady Morgan has practically demonstrated, that, of all the salvos ever entered, to impose on the credulity, or propitiate the favour, of mankind, that of “ privilege of sex" is the most conveniently and mischievously general and comprehensive. Is a jolterhead of a country member laughed at by an opposition print, wherein his folly, his ig-. norance, his ductility, or his corruption, are animadverted on as they deserve?-He rises in his place-denounces the daring offender-pleads

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privilege of Parliament"-and ends with a motion, which is generally carried, for providing the would-be pa

* In 2 vols. 4to. London, Colburn and Co. 1821.

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triot with cool apartments in New- age; and history, sufficiently vague, gate. Here, however, the matter but better accredited, has peopled its rests. The session of Parliament and Eden plains with confederated tribes; the durance of the patriot terminate and has covered regions with numetogether; and the sinner issues forth rous flocks and plenteous harvests, from his "opprobrious den" to com- where desolation now reigns over pesmit new trespasses, without, perhaps, tilential marshes." Here we have encountering fresh castigation. But "fables" "assigning a golden age to does an "ambulating" scribbler of a peninsula ;" and "history," at once bad novels indite two goodly quartos, "vague" and "accredited," "peoevery page of which, almost, is sprin- pling Eden plains with confederated kled over with more or less of Non- tribes!"—that is, "confederated" besense, Ignorance, Indecency, Irreli- fore they "peopled the Eden plains ;" gion, Jacobinism, and "Premeditat- though where this "confederacy" was ed Perversion of Facts?"-It is im- first entered into, this petticoated ulmediately hoped and "trusted that tra-radical has not deigned to inform SEX may plead its PRIVILEGE, and us. In the sentences that follow in that, if the heart make itself a party continuation, we meet with "Europe in the concern, its intrusions may be subjugated (enslaved) to slavery,”—-› pardoned!" In the former instance, "a race of a mould and fibre swarmthe offence, real or imaginary, meets ing and violating," and "an unwith a punishment in some degree known product from the foundery of a suitable and proper; whereas, in the new creation thinning the ranks of a latter, after every better principle of refined degeneracy!"-In page 3, our nature has been outraged after "conquest" is said to be" consolidatthe laws and institutions of our coun- ed by usurpation." This is one of try, and our religion, have been tra- a thousand instances of inversion of duced and vilified-after the invete- understanding that might be selected rate, the mortal foes of truth, religion, from the volumes before us. We beg and social order, have been held up as to inform Miladi, that conquest' paragons of philosophy, patriotism,"consolidates usurpation," not usurand virtue-after we have toiled pation conquest. Bonaparte was a through blasphemy and Jacobinism, successful usurper, only because he calumny and falsehood,-we are imwas a great conqueror. Where did mediately called upon to respect "the Lady Morgar. discover that "the paprivilege of sex!" and, on pain of be- radise" (Italy we presume) "lured" ing branded with inexpiable coward- (what?)" from the plains of Egypt." ice, to refrain from making a single We dare say there are Gypsies in Itatilt against such an enormous delin- ly as elsewhere; but we really never quent, merely because, forsooth, the heard that Ptolemy had ever reigned "work" is "a woman's!" The age in that country, although we would of chivalry, alas! is gone by; and be understood to speak with great de"a woman's work" against which ference to her Ladyship, who is obsuch grave charges are laid must, no viously very learned in ancient hisless than a man's,-had any man ever tory, having discovered many facts written such a mass of revolting jar- which had totally escaped the more gon and abomination,-submit to the obtuse perceptions of her predecesdissecting knife of criticism. To give sors. In page 7 we are informed that Lady Morgan the full benefit of our "hecatombs of Roman lives were ofstrictures, however, we shall take care fered up on the ratification of this alto be most rigidly methodical. We liance," (that between Eugenius III. begin with the most harmless attri- and the Emperor Frederick Barbarosbute of the goodly work before us, sa,)" on the feast of St Peter and St namely, Paul." What! was this alliance ratified by human sacrifices? We confess we cannot discover a glimpse of meaning in this odd piece of exaggeration and nonsense. There is not a whisper in history to justify such an assertion. We have heard of St Bartholomew, and the Sicilian Vespers,

1. NONSENSE. To convince our readers that we do not dive very deep for examples under this category, we shall transcribe the very first sentence of this monstrous literary abortion. "The fables of antiquity have assigned to the Peninsula of Italy a golden

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