Mr. Macgill has put together some useful information respecting the currency, weights, and measures of Tunis, as compared with those of other countries. The Spanish dollar is worth at par 3 Tunisine piasters. The principal exports are corn, oil, wool, hides, wax, dates, senna, madder, coral, a small quantity of excellent oil of roses, some ostrich feathers, and the manufactures of woolen stuffs, morocco leather, soap, and the noted crimson caps-which are made on a peculiar plan which Mr. M. describes are composed chiefly of Spanish wool-and ornamented with a tassel of blue silk. The shepherds, in some parts, drive about their flocks for some days previous to the shearing, so as to load the fleece with sand, and almost double its apparent weight! The export of woolens is chiefly to Turkey and the Levant. Some valuable instructions are given to traders, relative to the articles of import most in request at Tunis, and the mode of supplying them to advantage. In spite of Mahamed, 1000 pipes of wine are annually drank in that capital; the Bey grants his tascare or licence for the introduction of it, under the pretence of its being vinegar.

We hardly need add any commendation of this respectable little book. If it had been rather more extended, by illustrations of the domestic habits and political erudition of the Tunisines, it would have been still more valuable; and possibly Mr. Macgill may possess materials to avail himself of this hint, in case a second edition should be required.

FROM THE LITERARY PANORAMA.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage-a Romaunt, by Lord Byron. 4to. Murray,
London: 1812.

WHATEVER gratuitous bays formerly bound the temples of a man of rank and influence who condescended to court the Muses, it cannot be said that, in latter times, noble authors have been much indulged with unearned wreaths. From the days of Pope, it has been the fashion to identify inanity of composition with the very sound of a title. That irritable satirist having ridiculed the attempts of a weak man of fashion, and stamped the character with an effeminate name, Paul Whitehead, the feeble imitator of Pope's measure and manner, and after him others, generalized the poison of the satire; and, to be nobly born, was quite enough to exclude a writer from Parnassus. Wh ther this illiberal sentiment, diffused throughout the writings of petty critics and minor poets, has had any effect in smothering poetical genius among the nobility, or whether the all-absorbing vortex of politics to

which youth destined to public life, are directed, weakens at once that desire and the power of ascending the sacred hill, it is a fact that the last century has scarcely produced a titled poet, whose works are likely to interest posterity. As statemen, political writers, and literary men, there have not been wanting in that period, distinguished characters among the nobility; but, with the exception of George, Lord Lyttelton, we distinguish no poet. When the noble author of the poem before us, yielding to the laudable ambition of becoming a successful votary of the Muses, ventured, while yet a boy, to put forth his tender leaves of hope,' and published his primitia,* he was assailed on every side. Some of the Reviewers were not content with attacking his Juvenile poems: they rummaged the receptacles of calumny, converted youthful eccentricity, into grave error, personally abused, and insultingly advised him. He that is born a poet, far from being overwhelmed by such attacks, rises the stronger from the opposition. It has been the lot of the loftiest names in the Temple of Fame. Lord B. did not treat these trite insults with silent contempt: while his volume of poems which had drawn them upon him, was going through a second edition, he prepared his revenge, and, before he was of age to take his seat in the House of Peers, he published a Satire on the Poetasters and Reviewers of the day, of which the lash possesses a keenness, and the versification a nerve not surpassed, and rarely equalled, since the day of Pope. That work being noticed in a former number of the PANORAMA, when it first appeared, we shall not here repeat our opinion of it.f It has gone through many editions, and is very generally known.

We have risen from the perusal of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage,' delighted, and confirmed in our opinion, that Lord B. is a genuine poet of the highest order. In declaring this, however, we do not mean to say, that the poem now under consideration, is regular and perfect; but, that it manifests the writer's genius to be equal to any poetical task on which he may think proper to employ his time and talents.

The author entitles his poem a Romaunt consistently with the measure, (Spencer's) and with the phraseology which he has thought proper to adopt, but to which his matter can scarcely be allowed to give it a right. A Romaunt, or Romance, requires fictitious characters, conducted through a progress of wild adventures: it deals in involvements and extrications, in vivid passions, in alternate joy and wo: in short, it is a tale in verse, a species of composition, the taste of former times, neglected in the brilliant era of poetry, but which has lately been very much in vogue. This is not the character of Lord B's poem. He has, indeed,

Compare Panorama, Vol. III. p. 273. Vol. XL. [Lit. Pan. March 1812.] Compare Panorama, Vol. VI. p. 491.

introduced a fictitious patronage; but merely, as he apprizes the reader in his preface, for the sake of giving some connection (he might have added, life and action) to the piece, but without pretending to regularity.' In a less strict sense, however, and somewhat figuratively used, the word 'Romaunt,' far from being unaptly, is ingeniously applied to obviate the intrusion of egotism in the narrative: nor should we have thought it necessary to make these remarks but for the purpose of explaining to our readers, that it is not a metrical Romance; not that we have any objection to such compositions in the hands of men of genius; but it cannot be denied that even in their hands, and when they have occupied writers of the most brilliant powers, they may pall on repetition.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, is a poem in which narrative, feeling, description, sentiment, satire, tenderness, and contemplation, are happily blended; it is adorned with beautiful imagery, expressed in animated and harmonious verse; and to this we may add, that the subjects of it are of the most interesting nature, and, if not in themselves altogether new, they are treated in a manner combining novelty and exactness.

The scope of the poem is briefly this: Harold, the imaginary character, dissatisfied with his life at home, resolves to quit Eng. land and visit other countries. He embarks, and landing at Lis bon, travels through a part of Portugal and of Spain; he re-embarks at Cadiz, and after staying awhile in the Maltese islands, passes by several of the Grecian islands, visits Albania, and lastly, makes excursions in Greece. If the poet deals not in the usual enchantments of magicians, dragons, and the long et cetera of the marvellous, it cannot be denied that he has trodden on enchanted ground-on ground enchanted by magical recollections, to say the least.

Never was Muse more modestly invoked, or rather not invoked:

1.

Oh, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth,
Muse? form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will,
Since sham'd full oft by later lyres on earth,
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill;
Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill,
Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine,
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
Nor more my shell awakes the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale-this lowly lay of mine.

The ten following stanzas are employed in delineating the character of Harold, which is done with a master's hand. No part of the whole poem is more highly finished, and did it not

exceed our limits, we should extract the entire picture. We must be content to give one stanza:

IV.

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noon-tide sun,
Disporting there like any other fly;

Nor deem'd before his little day was done

One blast might chill him into misery.

But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by,

Worse than adversity the Childe befell;

He felt the fulness of satiety :

Then loath'd he in his native land to dwell,

Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell.

Harold's character, is exquisitely drawn; it announces a mind which, from youthful excesses, had fallen into a melancholy state of gloominess. The author, notwithstanding, contrives to interest us for him:

VI.

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee:
Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,
And from his native land resolv'd to go,
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;

With pleasure drugg'd he almost longed for woe,

And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.

When the love of virtue, and the practice of vice, meet in the same person, as they sometimes do,-video meliora, proboque, deteriora sequor,-condemnation in the observer is associated with pity approaching to affection: His virtues and his vices are so mingled," says Ventidius of Mark Anthony, 'as must confound God's choice to punish one and not reward the other.' We become too more reconciled to Harold, notwithstanding his faults, when at sea we find him seizing his harp, and singing a 'good night' to his country.

The occurrences in the progress of his voyage, the making land, the approach to the Tagus, the beauty of the distant view of Lisbon, with the contrast of the interior of the town, are admirable; and the picturesque scenery of Cintra is very fine. Here his lordship indulges his vein for Satire at the expense of the Convention signed in that town,

"Where policy regain'd what arms had lost."

The Satire is keen, but we were gratified in seeing that the author does justice to Lord Wellington in a note to this passage, which, as connected with it, we insert. Says Lord B,

"The convention of Cintra was signed in the palace of the Marquese Marialva. The late exploits of Lord Wellington have effaced the follies of Cintra. He has, indeed, done wonders: he has, perhaps, changed the character of a nation, reconciled rival superstitions, and baffled an enemy who never retreated before his predecessors." (Notes p. 115). No finer compliment was ever paid to a military character.

On Harold's leaving Portugal, we meet with another stanza which makes a new impression on our hearts in his favour :

XXVII.

So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he
Did take his way in solitary guise:

Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee,
More restless than the swallow in the skies:
Though here awhile he learned to moralize,
For Meditation fix'd at times on him:
And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise
His early youth, mispent in maddest whim;
But as he gaz'd on Truth his aching eyes grew dim

XXVIII.

To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul;
Again he rouses from his moping fits,
But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl.
Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage;
And o'er him many changing scenes must roll
Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage,

Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage.

The entrance into Spain, the scarcely discernible boundaries of the two kingdoms, the allusion to the battles fought between the Christians and the Moors on the banks of the Guadiana, the apostrophe to Spain, the battle heard at a distance, and the sight of hostile armies in gorgeous array, are beauties to which we can only refer; as indeed, we must say of many more. But it is impossible to omit the apostrophe to Spain.

XXXV.

Oh, lovely Spain! renown'd, romantic land!
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore,
When Cava's* traitor-sire first call'd the band
That dy'd thy mountain streams with Gothic gore?
Where are those bloody banners which of yore

Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pelagius preserved his independence in the fastnesses of the Asturias, and the descendants of his followers, after some centuries, completed their struggle by the conquest of Gre

nada.