strictest boundary of decorum, never seeking aid from the excitement of the corrupt passions, or of raising a laugh at the expence of one virtuous emotion. In the article of wit punning has no share-it is genuine, original, and none the worse for a flavour of the antique. The satire is exquisitely keen, and pointed at many of the prevailing follies of the day, although with a pardonable inconsistency as to time and place.

It would be impossible for us to do justice to this production without such an analysis as would occupy too much of the space we can devote to productions of this class. We will, however, present our readers with a few "membra disjecta," by which they may judge of the vigour of the style and the pangency of the satire.

Paulo. Fie, Laura, fie, he is a nobleman Of fair repute.

Laura. Yes, but I fear the world Deems a man's honour like a lady's face, The fairer for a few black spots. This lord Is one who trifles with so light an air, As if he had no other thought but joy, And life were one long jest; yet is he selfish To his heart's core, and to attain his end, The fancied object of the hour, will plod More gravely than the drudging citizens,

Whose toil he loves to mock at; then for

malice,

He'd sooner spare at play some wealthy dupe, Whom youth and wine and trait'rous cour

ness;

54. Wallenstein; a Dramatic Poem, from the German of Frederick Schiller. 8vo. 2 vols.

SCHILLER was a blazing star that shot across the firmament, and men wondered at it: the poetical atmosphere was calm, when suddenly he burst forth.-The sublime, the terrible, and the heroic, appeared in the Robbers, and man was made God and

devil, and grand beyond description in the soul of Charles Moor ;-Virtue became melancholy mad-followed the beckoning of Suicide, and sullenly walked into hell.-Such were our feelings when we first perused the Robbers, thirty years ago, and wrote poetry. In truth, a mighty mind, in awful situations, has a very tremendous character. Who could have beheld Samson when he was rocking the columns, which fell and buried the Philistines in death and ruin, without feeling that there was something then in his soul

they purpose

To travel in the dirt.

Painter pourtray his horrid look, or the Poet describe it? Oh, no!-We have heard a shriek uttered when a deathwound was received, and cannot describe the horror of it-it had nothing natural, and was very terrible. To such feelings have we in our early days been roused by Schiller, when he wrote in all his wildness.-It has been

said, that he wrote better afterwards; but it is our lot to think, that poetry cannot excite emotion too strong, and we do not want it to be gauged by critical excisemen; we want it to keep our minds in continual excitement make us toss our heads like Bacchants,

and burst out into such flighty ejaculations, as those with which we have commenced our review. "Insanire lubet" is our motto when we read poetry.

But Wallenstein is pronounced his best work. So they may think who imagine that Gibraltar would be improved by being chisseled, smoothed, and cut into pattern like a marble chimney-piece. Such critics would, in our judgment, shave off a lion's mane, crop his ears, and call it improvement. Luckily, nothing could spoil Schiller; and we see his gigantic soul still animating Wallenstein. The following soliloquy, when he first turned traitor, is equal to Milton on Samson Agonistes, and that must be our apology for an extract so long.

The slow deliberate purpose of my mind;
"Twas but an airy thought that haunted it—
A vision born of freedom and of power.
Was it a crime, if fancy did build up
The glittering phantom of a kingly throne?
Was not the will still free within my bosom,
And saw I not the path beside me ever
That left the choice still open for return?
What sudden step hath led me on, where all
Backward lies dark and trackless, and a wall,
By my own acts uprear'd, behind me tow'rs
Insuperably high, and hems me in?

[He remains musing.]

I wear the face of guilt. "Twere vain to struggle

Against the charge-I cannot cast it from me,
The mystery of my life will speak against me;
And even the sacred fountain of pure deeds
The venom of suspicion will empoison.
If I had been the traitor I am deem'd
I would have courted fair appearances-
I would have drawn the veil more closely
round me,
[knowing
And given no voice to my complaints; but
My heart was pure, my will was guiltless,
therefore

gave my humour and my passion play. Rude were my words, because my deeds were gentle.

Now every thoughtless action of my life Will seem a link of one wide-reaching plan; The idle words, that Pride and Anger spoke

How different was it, when my soaring spirit
Alone allured me to the deed, which now
Safety and strong necessity compel!
Stern is the aspect of necessity;
Nor without shuddering does the hand of man
Dip into Destiny's mysterious urn.

own;

In mine own breast my deed was still mine But, once escaping from that dark conceal[ment, The heart's recess, its own maternal home, Let it but wander forth to light and day, And it belongs to those capricious powers, Whom man still strives, but strives in vain, to soften.

[He paces hastily through the chamber, then stops, again musing.] What is thy purpose? Hast thou fairly viewed it [to shake Thyself? Thou seek'st from its broad base The calm enthroned majesty of power By ages of possession consecrate

Firm rooted in the rugged soil of custom-
And with the people's first and fondest faith,
As with a thousand stubborn tendrils twin'd.
That were no strife, where strength con-
tends with strength.

It is not strength I fear-I fear no foe
That with my bodily eye I see and scan,
Who, brave himself, inflames my courage too.
It is an unseen enemy I fear,
Who in the hearts of mankind fights against

me

Fearful to me, but from his own weak fear. Not that which proudly towers in life and strength

Is truly dreadful, but the mean and common,
The memory of th' eternal yesterday,
Which, ever warning, ever still returns,
And weighs to-morrow as it weighed to-day;
For out of common things is man made up,
And clings to Custom, as her foster-son.
Woe then to him, whose daring hand pro-
fanes

The cherished heir-looms of his ancestors!
There is a consecrating power in time,
And what is grey with years to man is god-

like.

Be in possession, and thou art in right; The crowd will lend their aid to keep it holy.

ii. 12-16.

Of course, there are many other fine passages in this poem, because it is Schiller's. We wish that we were able to drink Schiller out of the bottle; and perhaps much of his spirit and flavour may be lost by twice decanting, first into prose, and then into blank verse.

Translations into prose are certainly more faithful pictures of the original; but upon the whole we have no fault to find. The Preface, original writing of the Translator, does him credit.

55. Catalogue of Painted Portraits, comprising most of the Sovereigns of England, from Henry the First to George the Fourth, and many distinguished personages, by Holbein, de Heere, Zucchero, &c. &c. H. Rodd.

ALTHOUGH Catalogues of this description seldom come under our review, we cannot forbear noticing the above as one which stands alone, both as to its size as well as the very amusing manner in which it is made out. The prefatory remarks, although a little too much tinted with commonplace matter, contains a few very useful hints, one of which we give in Mr. R.'s own words.

"There are several Portraits in the following Catalogue, which seem almost to demand a separate allotment or series of themselves; these are the Founders of Colleges and Alms-houses, whose magnificent bequeathment of their wealth has tended to the advancement of learning and science, to the bettering of the condition of mankind, and the relieving the wants of extreme old age. It would be imposing but a slight tax on the affluent, were these portraits occasionally purchased and presented to the common halls and rooms of their endowments; they would not only serve as matters of ornament, but would excite, not unfrequently, a grateful feeling in the partakers of the benefits so liberally bestowed by their respective founders."

Many of the pictures seem to be of family interest only, and we have no doubt, but those persons who wish to adorn their mansions with their ancestors or connexions, may meet with some of them in Mr. Rodd's numerous list. Amongst the most pre-eminent in the Historical Department, stand the notorious Lord Lovat, by the pencil of Hogarth: the very interesting account of this Portrait, leaves us no room to doubt its genuineness, did the very masterly manner in which it is executed not speak for itself. There are several interesting notices dispersed through the Catalogue; and we hope, although aware of the numerous prejudices which exist against the dealers in this branch of the art, and which most justly exists against those who, by altering of portraits or mis

naming them, tend to mislead us by falsifying history, that Mr. Rodd may still continue his course in selling none but such as he can warrant authentic; and we are very sure that, by doing this, he will reap the benefit he seeks by his publication.

56. Whims and Oddities, in Prose and Verse. By Thomas Hood. London. Lupton Relfe.

ON opening this volume we were surprised at the boldness of the author in presuming to treat their High Mightinesses, the Reviewers, with such unbecoming levity, in his dedicatory address; and we felt tempted to arouse our allies, plant our artillery against him, and beat him out of the field. From this, however, in our usual great mercy and forbearance, we have desisted, and are willing to admit him a place among our friends.

The fact of the author of these admirable jeux-d'sprits having assisted in the execution of other works which have obtained a popularity equal to that of any previous volume in the same vein, is of itself sufficient to ensale; but those now presented to us sure the present collection an extensive exhibit his talent in almost every species of composition, both in verse and prose; and, being so cleverly executed, cannot fail of becoming universal favourites. To these he has annexed 40 illustrations "in wood," of exquisite workmanship and design, that are all more or less connected with the Letter-press. Every stroke of the pencil admirably harmonizes with each other, and tends to produce a most pleasing combination of characters; worthy of the head and pencil which produced the grand caricature_illustrative of the " Progress of Cant." Many of them are suggested by the titles of some of the popular songs by Anacreon, junior (who is favoured with a niche among the " Fancy Portraits," at the close of this volume,) the inimitable Burns, and other successful

writers.

To the "recipe for Civilization," which we felt inclined to elevate to the rank of the best imitation of the incomparable Hudibras, is attached a profile of the "Cook's Oracle," olim Dr. Kitchener, alias the homo-genius, or genius of a man. This very worthy personage is honoured with the under

side of what in culinary technicalities is denominated a frying-pan, as a substitute for his head, and the handle forms a tail of no ordinary appearance: a head which, though it defies the Phrenologist from its perfect flatness, yet affords an excellent illustration of the facial angle. In his hand he holds a gridiron, broiling, as they do rumpstakes-some few musical notes. Thus

far for the head. We will give the

author's own account of the Poem:

"In the Poem, his CULINARY ENTHUSIASM, as usual, boils over! and makes it seem written, as he describes himself (see the Cook's Oracle), with the spit in one hand, and the frying-pan in the other,—while in the style of the rhymes it is Hudibrastic, as if in the ingredients of versification, he had been assisted by his BUTLER."

In the "Sea Spell" there is a sublimity of thought and vigour of expression which can only be considered inferior to the Shipwreck in Don Juan. Like the author of that splendid composition, Mr. Hood gradually elevates us to the extremest point of sensibility, and then suddenly precipitates us into the depths of humour; a task, however difficult to effect, and however much it may be admired, is not altogether agreeable to the inclination of the reader's mind at the time he experiences it. Whereas the former grappled with Death in various shapes, and rendered him subservient to his will, the latter has exerted all his extraordinary powers to delineate the fallacy of placing implicit faith in the imagined security of a child's caul. Besides those already noticed there are "The Mermaid of Margate," "The last Man," the Ballads of "Sally Brown" and " Nelly Grey," &c. &c. all equally excellent in their various styles, but we have not room to notice them more minutely.

Of the prose effusions the "Walton Redivivus" is our favourite. It is a dialogue between two sorry auglers on the banks of the New River, named Piscator and Viator. The "Love me, Love my dog," is illustrated by three plates, of admirable design and hu

mour.

Those whose heads Mr. Hood has "brushed at," and hung up in the imperfect gallery annexed to this volume, which at a future season he hopes to complete, are about nine in number. Among them are the " Bard of Hope," "Mr. Bowles," and the "Author of

Broad Grins," represented in bowls of spoons "as in mirrors."

Having thus presented our readers with the author's bill-of-fare, the work will require no other recommendation than its own intrinsic merit to ensure it the well-merited patronage of the public.

The author of "Whims and Oddities" has lately given the public some specimens of his talents in serious and moral compositions, entitled "National Tales," which, as he observes, are a deviation from his former at

tempts. He has shewn that, because he has jested elsewhere, it does not follow that he is incompetent for gravity. Some of these Tales, of which the "Spanish Tragedy" is the principal, are of a chivalrous and romantic character, and generally interesting. Others are of a lighter description, usually connected with love affairs, and, though sometimes rather trivial and destitute of sufficient plot, may afford considerable amusement readers of light productions.

to

57. Early metrical Tales; including the History of Sir Egeir, Sir Gryme, and Sir Gray-Steill. Edinburgh, 1826, Laing.

8vo.

THE early Muse of Scotland was a virgin so chary of her smiles as to have few votaries that left a memento to perpetuate a knowledge of her favouritism. The well-known industry of the Editor of the present volume, who we conclude is the intelligent secretary of the Bannatyne Club, and whose research has explored the most ancient repositories of England as well as Scotland, has not been able to collect more than fourteen pieces as early metrical effusions of the national character of the latter country, after candidly acknowledging some as already printed by recent editors.

The present volume forms a covetable companion to the miscellaneous collections formed by Watson, Kamsay, Pinkerton, and Lord Hailes, which were scarcely to be considered as exhausting the outlays of Scotia's fugitive Muse. Its contents are early metrical tales, which appear to have been collected, when first given to the press, with all the imperfections consequent on a traditionary recital. The first and longest poem, the History of Sir GraySteil, is taken from the earliest edition