To prove, if they will be admitted as proof, that I have some reason for the commendation bestowed upon this writer, I shall content myself with quoting two poems, in two very different tones of feeling, and which, I think, contain all the characteristics of which I have been speaking.

HESTER.

A FAREWELL

Roses, violets, but toys
For the smaller sort of boys,
Or for greener damsels meant ;
Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind,
Filth of the mouth, and fog of the mind,
Africa, that brags her foyson,
Breeds no such prodigious poison,
Henbane, nightshade, both together,
Hemlock, aconite.-

Nay, rather,

Plant divine, of rarest virtue;
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.
'Twas but in a sort I blam'd thee;
None e'er prosper'd who defam'd thee;
Irony all, and feign'd abuse,
Such as perplext lovers use,
At a need, when, in despair,
To paint forth their fairest fair,
Or in part but to express
That exceeding comeliness
Which their fancies doth so strike,
They borrow language of dislike;
And, instead of Dearest Miss,
Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,
And those forms of old admiring,
Call her Cockatrice and Siren;
Basilisk, and all that's evil,
Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,
Monkey, Ape, and twenty more;
Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe,
Not that she is truly so,
But no other way they know
A contentment to express,
Borders so upon excess,
That they do not rightly wot
Whether it be pain or not.

Or, as men, constrain'd to part
With what's nearest to their heart,
While their sorrow's at the height,"
Lose discrimination quite,
And their hasty wrath let fall,
To appease their frantic gall,
On the darling thing whatever,
Whence they feel it death to sever;
Though it be, as they, perforce,
Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee,
Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave
thee.

For thy sake, Tobacco, I
Would do any thing but die,
And but seek to extend my days
Long enough to sing thy praise.
But, as she, who once hath been
A King's consort, is a queen
Ever after, nor will bate
Any title of her state,
Though a widow or divorced,
So I, from thy converse forced,
The old name and style retain,
A right Katherine of Spain;
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys
Of the blest Tobacco boys;
Where, though I, by sour physician,
Am debarr'd the full fruition
Of thy favours, I may catch
Some collateral sweets, and snatch
Sidelong odours, that give life
Like glances from a neighbour's wife;
And still live in the by-places

And the suburbs of thy graces;
And in thy borders take delight,
An unconquered Canaanite.

I would not have quoted to such a length, if I had known how to have broken the preceding poems into parts. But it is so perfectly continuous and one throughout, that such anatomy was impossible. I do not remember any thing so near the swing and flow of L'Allegro and H Penseroso, as the lines printed in italics. The same fusion of ideas, couched in the same long drawn out melody, is conspicuous in both poets; I question if the diction only be very much superior in Milton: every thing else is out of the comparison entirely.

It is foreign to the purpose of these letters to consider the prose works of the authors whose poetical merits I have alone taken upon me to discuss; yet so small is the sum total, verse and prose, of Lamb's publications, that perhaps I shall be pardoned, if in conclusion I take some notice of his pretensions as a critic upon Shakspeare and Hogarth. With respect to the former, he is possessed with all that vehement admiration of our immortal Bard, which was first introduced, in its present form of devout enthusiasm, by the Lake School; he is particularly anxious in proving the spirituality of his characters; i. e. that essence of the Poet's own soul in them all, which makes them different from all

* Published in 1818.

others in kind as well as degree; and hence he denies the possibility of acting these plays, without materializing the creations of Imagination, and reducing Shakspeare, as far as he was Shakspeare, differing from all mankind in intenseness of thought, to a level with the commonest productions of modern talent.

"The truth is, the characters of Shakspeare are so much the objects of meditation, rather than of interest or curiosity as to their actions, that while we are reading any of his great criminal characters-Macbeth, Richard, even Iago-we think not so much of the crimes which they commit, as of the ambition, the aspiring spirit, the intellectual activity, which prompts them to overleap those moral fences."

"So to see Lear acted,-to see an old man tottering about the stage with a walking-stick, turned out of doors by his daughters in a rainy night, has nothing in it but what is painful and disgusting. We want to take him into shelter and relieve him. That is all the feeling which the acting of Lear ever produced in me. But the Lear of Shakspeare cannot be acted. The contemptible machinery by which they mimic the storm which he goes out in, is not more inadequate to represent the horrors of the real elements, than any actor can be to represent Lear: they might more easily propose to personate the Satan of Milton upon a stage, or one of Michael Angelo's terrible figures. The greatness of Lear is not in corporal dimension, but in intellectual: the explosions of his passion are terrible as a volcano: they are storms turning up and disclosing to the bottom that sea, his mind, with all its vast riches. It is his mind which is laid bare. This care of flesh and blood seems too insignificant to be thought on; even as he himself neglects it. On the stage we see nothing but corporal infirmities and weakness, the impotence of rage: while we read it, we see not Lear, but we are Lear; we are in his mind, we are sustained by a grandeur which baffles the malice of daughters and storms; in the aberrations of his reason, we discover a mighty irregular power of reasoning, immethodized from the ordinary purposes of life, but exerting its powers, as the wind blows where it listeth, at will upon the corruptions and abuses of mankind. What have looks or tones to do with that sublime identification of his age, with that of the heavens themselves, when in his reproaches to them for conniving at the injustice of his children he reminds them that they themselves are old! What gesture shall we appropriate to this? What has the voice or the eye to do with such things? But the play is beyond all art, as the tamperings with it show: it is too hard and stony; it must have love-scenes and a happy ending. It is not enough that Cordelia is a daughter; she must shine as a lover too. Tate has put his hook into the nostrils of this Leviathan, for Garrick and his followers, the showmen of the scene, to draw the mighty beast about more easily. A happy ending!-as if the living martyrdom that Lear had gone through,-the flaying of his feelings alive,-did not make a dismissal from the stage of life the only decorous thing for him. If he is to live and be happy after, if he could sustain this world's burden after, why all this pudder and preparation,-why torment us with all this unnecessary sympathy? as if the childish pleasure of getting his gilt robes and sceptre again could tempt him to act over again his misused station, -as if at his years, and with his experience, any thing was left but

to die."

Is not this true? and yet Dr. Johnson upholds the profanation of Tate for reasons that are really quite childish; because it made him cry at the last representation! Made him cry! to be

sure it did; was it to make him laugh? But I much fear that Dr. Johnson had about as much poetry in his constitution as he had humility.

Hogarth has at length found in C. Lamb a worthy commentator; one who has felt the marvellous creative powers of that artist, and elucidated them with penetration and eloquence. I perceive that my limits forbid me to enter upon this subject, but I certainly would recommend any one, who wishes to peruse the prints of our illustrious countryman with proper feelings of their ends and intrinsic beauties, to spend an hour upon Lamb's little Essay on the Genius of Hogarth. It is full of ingenious criticism, profound insight into what constitutes Beauty and Deformity, and a congenial train of humorous or gloomy sentiment.

Of C. Lamb himself I would say that he is not great, yet eminent; not profound, yet penetrating; not passionate, yet gentle, tender, and sympathizing. For genuine Anglicism, which amongst all other essentials of excellence in our native literature, is now recovering itself from the leaden mace of the Rambler, he is quite a study; his prose is absolutely perfect; it conveys thought, without smothering it in blankets. I have no business. to meddle with any man's private life; yet, if the tree may be known by its fruits, does it not speak highly for the excellence of a School, if such it may be called, that it is all Christian-Christian in thought, word, and deed? It is, indeed, amazing how a Poet can be a materialist. But of this hereafter-for the present, Adieu!

G. M.

MUSE O'CONNORIANÆ.

LETTER FROM PATRICK O'CONNOR, ESQ.,

Inclosing Metrical Versions in the Greek and Latin Tongues.

DEAR MR. COURTENAY,-It is both a shame and a sin that no attempt is made to perpetuate the memory of those excellent ballads with which the languages of Ireland, England, and Scotland abound. For whereas the said languages are allowed by all men of real taste to be Gothic and semi-barbarous, it is incumbent upon us to endeavour to preserve whatever good they do

When about to exquestion with myself

contain by putting it into another dress. You know Mr. O'Doherty has preceded me in this praiseworthy attempt by his admirable version of Chevy-Chace, "Persaus ex Northumbria," &c., which I have compared with the English Ballad so often, that I can hardly tell which is the original. ercise my talents in this line, I held much whether I should assimilate my metre to that of my original, as is the case in the abovementioned admirable work, or embody the ideas of my author in the rhythm of the ancient Greeks. For of the former design I do not consider myself altogether incapable; in proof of which I inclose a brief specimen of my abilities in this line; viz.-a Song from a M.S. collection of Poems in the possession of John Jackson, Esq.; rendered by Patrick O'Connor, with all the original rhymes miraculously preserved.

"I weep, Girl, before ye,
I kneel to adore ye,
My bosom is torn asunder;
Maiden divine, O,
In generous wine, O,
I pledge thee, Rosamunda!

To a pipe of tobacco,
And plenty of sack, O,

Passions and flames knock under;

I'm hasty and heady,
With lots of the Deady ;-

Hang thyself, Rosamunda!

Premor dolore,
Uror amore.
Anima fit furibunda;
Madeo vino,
Et tibi propino
Salutem, Rosamunda.

Victa tabaco,
Victaque Baccho,

Flamma mi fit moribunda;
Ebrius dedi

Venerem et te Di

abolo Rosamunda.

I trust this sample will be sufficient to convince you, that when I turn my talents to the Monkish style which the author above alluded to has chosen, I shall come very little behind my prototype. For the present, however, I have judged that the Metres of antiquity are more classical, and consequently more worthy of a place in "The Etonian."

With regard to the poem itself, it is not, I believe, generally understood that Looney the hero of it, is the descendant of the celebrated Phelim Mac Twolter, who in the year 1750, A.D. fought that celebrated pugilistic encounter with Patrick Mac Nevis, which is the subject of admiration and encomium in the sporting