enough to purchase his copyright) why then, as I cannot hope for many purchasers: they who do buy shall make up for those who do not." Very well. Thank heaven, we have not to sigh over the loss of half a guinea, and we pity those who have. It is nothing less than a literary fraud to print a volume as this is printed, many of its pages containing nothing more than what the author albeit scrupulous of polluting our pages with mere insipid dullness, we will exhibit a specimen or two. How sweetly sir John warbles his elegiack strains let the following declare: "With horrour dumb, tho' guiltless, stool The hapless wretch who made the blood facetiously pleases to call an epi-Give me thy hand; loved friend, adieu !' gram, of two lines! Perhaps our knight hopes to soften the reader's indignation by the display of his own face as a frontispiece. We will honestly confess that his countenance is an accurate index of what the contents of the volume must be. as Our next objection is, of course, to these contents. They are various in their nature as can be engendered by vanity upon folly: by vanity that thinks itself equal to all, and folly that proves itself unequal to any. Sir John's muse is like a train of gun-powder: it takes fire at every thing. If a lady wears a muslin veil, he tells her immediately, that "little stars," meaning her eyes, were never made to shine through "misty skies," meaning her veil. [p. 64] If he sees a fool in a corner holding a broom (we do not mean to say that sir John writes with a looking glass before him) his muse tells us that his broom is "his wife, his child, his prize," [p. 33] thus ingeniously connecting, at once, matrimony and the "lucky lottery office," and conveying a delicate intimation that marriage is a prize. If a lady wears a diamond cross upon her bosom, he is so enraptured, that his muse ambles through eight lines without any meaning at all. [p. 29] Nothing can escape him. No, not even Bedlam; for the sight of its dilapidated walls reminds him of a "cracked head," and at that moment a strange, unaccountable sympathy suggested to him that his own might be prefixed to the present volume. Such and so various are the topicks of this volume: and now, The generous sufferer cried! Sir John has a charming felicity writing what he calls epigrams and impromptus. Ex. Gr. in "JEU D'ESPRIT, Of course, no maiden would like a Upon a very pretty Woman asking the Author ghost for a husband, so she his Opinion of Beauty. Madam! you ask what marks for beauty pass: Require them rather from your looking glass!" Our readers should be informed that each of these epigrams occupies a page to itself! Whether this be done as illustrative of their own emptiness; or whether, from a high and proud belief on the part of the author, that even his own poetry placed in juxtaposition with such bright and dazzling irradiations of wit would but obscure their glory, it is not for us to decide. Certain it is, that they stand alone: and so standing, they remind us of a pig in a flower garden; more conspicuous in their deformity from their singleness. At p. 14, there is a story of a certain maiden called Rebecca, who, as was very natural to maidens, and very much like all young maidens, wished to know who her husband was to be. What did she do to find it out?Why "Rebecca heard the gossips say, • Alone from dusk till midnight stay Within the church porch drear and dark, Upon the vigil of St. Mark, And, lovely maiden you shall see Well, she did so. And what happened? Oh! something very horrible. What was it? Patience, and you shall hear. There was a "roguish scout,' ycleped Paul, who slyly guessed what she was going to do at " St. Stephen's church;" so, when poor Rebecca had stood till midnight, and had undergone a reasonable quantity of "wild fears," "cold blood," "fast pulses," and had heard a sufficient number of "screech owls" and "bats," Mister Paul dressed like a ghost, "all so grim," did rise up from a grave "Sent forth a hideous shriek, and died!" And then comes the moral, which is: "Fright not fond youths the timed fair;" and so ends the story of Paul and Rebecca. We have often heard, that a poet's visions are very unlike those of common men; and it must be so; for sir John has seen, mirabile dictu! the sea "in a flutter." [p. 50] How pleasant it is to observe great things compared with small: and what a lively image a cockney must have of the ocean, if he has ever seen his own mother in a flutter at the unexpected arrival of a guest to dinner just as the family were sitting down to suet dumplings and sugar sauce. It is this happy art of illustrating the vast which bespeaks the true poet. But sir John abounds in these felicities of diction. At p. 2, he tries to "rear a feeling" in the mind of a nymph: at p. 5, "every bosom thrills colder than marble:" at p. 6, the moon is converted into a lamplighter, for she "trims up her waning lamp:" p. 101, the nightingale is called a "dark warbling bird;" but whether the author means to say that she warbles in the dark when the moon shines (for the first line says that this luminary "bespangled the murmuring wave") or whether he would express a very singular, but no doubt a poetick idea, that she sings dark, is really beyond our comprehension. At p. 209, sir John indulges his philological erudition with the use of "captivations.” Thus far we have done due honour to sir John's language: let us now consider his sentiments. He wanted to picture a lady's modesty and beauty. What did he do? Read and learn: "I looked the fragrant garden round For what I thought would picture best Thy beauty and thy modesty; A lilly and a rose I found, With kisses on their leaves imprest, The hoary hag, who crossed thee so, Deceit shall never wring thy heart, And baffled hope awake no sighs; Then long enjoy thy battered broom, After all, here was a subject which a mind possessing true genius, might have made something of. It is sir John's praise, that he can make nothing of any thing. It is generally believed by the peasants of Devonshire, that idiotcy is produced by the influence of a witch. Und wüsten wir, wo jemand traurig läge, him are acquainted with that; for Wir gäben ihm den wein,* his epigraph, it is as follows: Non ulla Musis pagina gratior, And for his preface, it plainly shows, FROM THE UNIVERSAL MAGAZINE. THE SONS, OR FAMILY FEUDS. A Tragick Play. In Five Acts. By T. Jones. 1809 THERE is nothing which surprises us more, in the course of our literary function, than that perpetually recurring phenomenon, an author pertinaciously writing without one qualification for composition. A man who knows nothing of painting, never attempts to present a picture to the publick; nor does he, who is ignorant of the gamut, presume to compose an air. But an author is restrained by none of these delicacies of mind. They who can, and they who cannot write, all strive and do their best To make as much waste paper as the rest. Mr. Jones, who has heard, we presume, of a certain Shakspeare, thought he could write a play. It was a most unlucky thought for himself, and for us too. That it was unlucky for himself, we have little doubt he will confess when he gets in his printer's bill: and that it was unlucky for us, need not be told; for we have read his book. One specimen will suffice for a display of Mr. Jones's powers of writing tragedy. A lady, called Almira, has an incli * The literal meaning of these lines is, nation to poison herself; so in she comes, with a cup of poison in one hand and a taper in the other, necessary, we imagine, to light the cup to her mouth. But madam Almira is far from greedy, and she is very anxious to share this delicious coffee cup of arsenick with a friend of hers called Olivia, who, however, has no partiality to such drams, and, therefore, is not to be found. It was very allowable, therefore, in Almira to drink it all herself, since she could find no friend to drink with her. Who would not do the same? Before she swallows this delightful dose, she talks a little to herself; our author herein showing his deep knowledge of human nature, by making a woman talk, even at the point of death. Thus she bursts forth: "And knew we where one sorrowing lay, Annals of Great Britain, from the Ascension [Accession] of George III. to the Peace of Amiens. 3 vols. 8vo. 14 78. boards. Edinburgh. disjecta membra of the man of imagination and genius are apparent; and if we cannot pronounce that he is likely to be distinguished, either for comprehensive knowledge, or for profound research, he may pro mise himself success, in a more elaborate performance, from the popular qualifications of animation and elegance. We cannot avoid remarking, in limine, that this work begins with the epoch at which a historian, who is solicitous to found his narrative on official and genuine documents, would desire to bring it to a close. So long as the recollection of disputed points is fresh in the publick memory, and so long as the principal actors or their immediate descendants are alive, and liable to be affected, either in feeling or in fortune, by explicit disclosures, it is in vain to expect that the records of authentick information will be open ed to the literary investigator. Actuated, probably, by this impression, the author of the present volumes has been led to publish them in the unambitious shape of Annals, and to forego all claims to the reputation of a finished history. In adopting this cautious determination, we think that he has acted judiciously; but with satisfaction we add, that in thus leaning to the negative side, we are influenced more by the unfitness of the subject for history, on account of its recency, than by an apprehension of inadequacy on the part of the writer; since, imperfectly as the present design is executed, enough has been performed to show that the author, with due pains, would be equal to higher productions. In the midst of haste and inaccuracy, the The arrangement of this production is extremely simple, being a narrative, in forty chapters, of the principal events of the present reign, to the end of 1801; and the chapter's are not classed into books, although this eventful period appears to us to be characterized by circumstances sufficiently distinct to furnish conspicuous marks for subdivision.— The time preceding the American war, that war itself, the subsequent interval of peace, and finally, the contest with France, might each have supplied separate heads of discussion, and have presented to the philosophick observer the materials of distinct and appropriate reflections; yet the author has not only forborn to attempt these general views, but has even abstained from dwelling on any protracted event till it was brought to a close. Confining himself strictly to the plan of "Annals;" he is even accustomed to break off his narratiye of a course What an amusing thing it must be to see the lady's head describing a circle, and the lady herself running after it! VOL. III. |