Tra.

Why, Do you think me subdued by a Bluc-stocking's eye, So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme What I've told her in prose, at the least, as sublime? Ink. As sublime! If it be so, no need of my Muse. Tra. But consider, dear Inkel, she's one of the "Blues." [say. Ink. As sublime!-Mr. Tracy-I 've nothing to Stick to prose-As sublime!!-but I wish you good day. [wrong;

Tra. Nay, stay, my dear fellow-consider-I'm Town it; but, prithee, compose me the song. Ink. As sublime!! Tra.

I but used the expression in haste. Ink. That may be, Mr. Tracy, but shows damn'd bad taste.

Tra. I own it-I know it—acknowledge it—what Can I say to you more?

Ink. I see what you'd be at: You disparage my parts with insidious abuse, [use. Till you think you can turn them best to your own Tra. And is that not a sign I respect them? Ink.

To be sure, makes a difference.

Tra.

Why, that,

I know what is what: And you, who 're a man of the gay world, no less Than a poet of t' other, may easily guess That I never could mean, by a word, to offend A genius like you, and moreover my friend.

Ink. No doubt; you by this time should know what is due

To a man of--But come-let us shake hands.
Tra.

That it threaten'd to give up the ghost t' other day.
Ink. Well, that is a sign of some spirit.
Tra.

soon

No doubt.

Shall you be at the Countess of Fiddlecome's rout? Ink. I've a card, and shall go : but at present, as [the moon As friend Scamp shall he pleased to step down from (Where he seems to be soaring in search of his wits), And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, I'm engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation, To partake of a luncheon and learn'd conversation: 'T is a sort of re-union for Scamp, on the days Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue and praise.

And I own, for my own part, that 't is not unpleasant.
Will you go? There's Miss Lilac will also be present.
Tra. That" metal's attractive."

Ink.
No doubt-to the pocket.
Tra. You should rather encourage my passion

than shock it.

But let us proceed; for I think, by the hum

Ink. Very true; let us go, then, before they can

come,

Or else we 'll be kept here an hour at their levy,
On the rack of cross-questions, by all the blue bevy.
Hark! zounds, they 'll be on us; I know by the drone
Of old Botherby's spouting ex-cathedrà tone.
Ay! there he is at it. Poor Scamp! better join
Your friends, or he 'll pay you back in your own
Tra. All fair; 't is but lecture for lecture. [coin.
Ink.
That's clear,
But for God's sake let's go, or the bore will be here.
Come, come: nay I'm off.
[Exit INKEL.
You are right, and I 'll follow ;
"T is high time for a “Sic me servavit Apollo.”(4)

Tra.

Ink. That's my bookseller's business; 1 care not Indeed the best poems at first rather fail. There were Renegade's epics, and Botherby's plays, (1)

And my own grand romance

Tra.

Had its full share of praise. Imyself saw it puff'd in the "Old Girl's Review."(2)

Ink. What Review? Tra.

Trévoux ;" (3)

Blues, dandies, and dowagers, and second-hand scribes,

All flocking to moisten their exquisite throttles
With a glass of madeira at Lady Bluebottle's.

[Exit TRACY.

ECLOGUE SECOND.

A clerical work of our jesuits at home.

(1) Messrs. Soutney and Sotheby.-E. (2)My Grandmother s Review, the British." See Moore's Life of Lord Byron. This heavy journal has since been gathered to its grandmothers.-E.

(3) The Journal de Trévoux (in fifty-six volumes) is one of the most curious collections of literary gossip in the world, and the

Port paid the British Review an extravagant compliment when he made this comparison.-E.

(4) "Sotheby is a good man-rhymes well (if not wisely); but is a bore. He seizes you by the button. One night of a rout at Mrs. Hope's, he had fastened upon me-something about Aga memnon, or Orestes, or some of his plays)-notwithstanding my

My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a void,
Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ'd:
The twelve, do I say?—of the whole twenty-four,
Is there one which I dare call my own any more?
What with driving and visiting, dancing and dining,
What with learning, and teaching, and scribbling,
and shining,

In science and art, I'll be cursed if I know
Myself from my wife; for although we are two,
Yet she somehow contrives that all things shall be
In a style which proclaims us eternally one. [done
But the thing of all things which distresses me more
Than the bills of the week (though they trouble me
Is the numerous, humorous, backbiting crew [sore)
Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, and blue,
Who are brought to my house as an inn, to my cost
-For the bill here, it seems, is defray'd by the
host-

No pleasure! no leisure! no thought for my pains,
But to hear a vile jargon which addles my brains,
A smatter and chatter, glean'd out of reviews,
By the rag, tag, and bobtail of those they call
"BLUES;"

A rabble who know not――But soft, here they come!
Would to God I were deaf! as I'm not, I'll be dumb.

Enter LADY BLUEBOTTLE, MISS LILAC, LADY BLUEMOUNT, MR. BOTHERBY, INKEL, TRACY, MISS MAZARINE, and others, with SCAMP the Lecturer, etc. etc.

Lady Blueb. Ah! Sir Richard, good morning; I've brought you some friends.

Sir Rich. (bows, and afterwards aside.) If friends, they're the first.

Lady Blueb. But the luncheon attends. I pray ye be seated, "sans cérémonie."

Mr. Scamp, you 're fatigued; take your chair there,

next me.

[They all sit.

Sir Rich. (aside.) If he does, his fatigue is to

symptoms of manifest distress-(for I was in love, and just nicked a minute when neither mothers, nor husbands, nor rivals, nor gossips were near my then idol, who was beautiful as the statues of the gallery where we stood at the time). Sotheby, I say, had seized upon me by the button and the heart-strings, and spared beither. William Spencer, who likes fun, and don't dislike mischief, saw my case, and, coming up to us both, took me by the

Sir Rich. But this place——

Ink.

Is perhaps like friend Scamp's,

A lecturer's.

Lady B. Excuse me—

e-'t is one in "the Stamps;"

He is made a collector. (1)

Collector!

Sir Rich.

How?

What?

Tra.

Miss Lil.

Ink. I shall think of him oft when I buy a new hat: There his works will appear

Lady Bluem. Sir, they reach to the Ganges. Ink. I shan't go so far I can have them at Grange's. (2)

hand, and pathetically bade me farewell; for,' said he, ‘I see it is all over with you.' Sotheby then went away: 'sic me servavit Apollo." B. Diary, 1821.

(1) Mr. Wordsworth is collector of stamps for Cumberland and Westmoreland.-E.

(2) Grange is or was a famous pastry-cook and fruiterer in Piccadilly.

(1) Lord Byron finished the composition of this tragedy on the 16th July, 1820. He at the time intended to keep it by him for six years before sending it to the press; but resolutions of this kind are, in moderu days, very seldom adhered to. It was published in the end of the same year; and, to the poet's great disgust, and in spite of his urgent and repeated remonstrances, was produced on the stage of Drury Lane Theatre early in 1821. Marino Faliero was, greatly to his satisfaction, commended warmly for the truth of its adhesion to Venetian history and manners, as well as the antique severity of its structure and language, by that eminent master of Italian and classical literature, the late Ugo Foscolo. Mr. Gifford also delighted him by pronouncing it “English-genuine English." It was, however, little favoured by the contemporary critics. There was, indeed, only one who spoke of it as quite worthy of Lord Byron's reputation. "Nothing," said he, "has for a long time afforded us so much pleasure, as the rich promise of dramatic excellence unfolded in this production of Lord Byron. Without question, no such tragedy as Marino Faliero has appeared in English, since the day when Otway also was inspired to his masterpiece by the interest of a Venetian story and a Venetian conspiracy. The story of which Lord Byron has possessed himself is, we think, by far the finer of the two,-and we say possessed, because we believe he has adhered almost to the letter of the transactions as they really took place.”—The language of the Edinburgh and Quar-, terly Reviewers, Mr. Jeffrey and Bishop Heber, was in a far different strain. The former says" Marino Faliero has undoubtedly considerable beauties, both dramatic and poetical; and might have made the fortune of any young aspirant for fame: but the name of Byron raises expectations which are not so easily satisfied; and judging of it by the lofty standard which he himself has established, we are compelled to say, that we cannot but regard it as a failure, both as a poem and a play."

Alter an elaborate disquisition on the Unities, Bishop Heber thus concludes:

“Marino Faliero has, we believe, been pretty generally pronounced a failure by the public voice, and we see no reason to call for a revision of their sentence. It contains, beyond all doubt, many passages of commanding eloquenee, and some of genuine poetry; and the scenes, more particularly, in which Lord Byron has neglected the absurd creed of his pseudo-Hellenic writers, are conceived and elaborated with great tragic effect and dexterity. But the subject is decidedly ill-chosen. In the

dern history. It occurred in the year 1355. Every thing about Venice is, or was, extraordinary-her aspect is like a dream, and her history is like a romance. The story of this Doge is to be found in all her chronicles, and particularly detailed in the Lives of the Doges, by Marin Sanuto, which is

main tissue of the plot, and in all the busiest and most interesting parts of it, it is, in fact, no more than another Venice Preserved, in which the author has had to contend (nor has he contended successfully) with our recollections of a former and deservedly popular play on the same subject."

The following extract from a letter of January, 1821, will show the author's own estimate of the piece thus criticised. After repeating his hope, that no manager would be so audacious as to trample on his feelings by producing it on the stage, he thus proceeds:

"It is too regular-the time, twenty-four hours-the change of place not frequent-nothing melo-dramatic-no surprises-no starts, nor trap-doors, nor opportunities for tossing their heads and kicking their heels '-and no love, the grand ingredient of a modern play. I am persuaded that a great tragedy is not to be produced by following the old dramatists-who are full of gross faults, pardoned only for the beauty of their language,—but by writing naturally and regularly, and producing regular tragedies, like the Greeks; but not in imitation,-merely the outline of their conduct, adapted to our own times and circumstances, and of course no chorus. You will laugh, and say, 'Why don't you do so?' I have, you see, tried a sketch in Marino Faliero; but many people think my talent‘essentially undramatic,' and I am not at all clear that they are not right. † If Marino Faliero dont fail-in the perusal-I shall, perhaps, try again (but not for the stage); and as I think that love is not the principal passion for tragedy (and yet most of ours turn upon it), you will not find me a popular writer. Unless it is love furious, criminal, and hapless, it ought not to make a tragic subject. When it is melting and maudlin, it does, but it ought not to do; it is then for the gallery and second-price boxes. If you want to have a notion of what I am trying, take up a translation of any of the Greek tragedians. If I said the original, it would be an impudent presumption of mine; but the translations are so inferior to the originals, that I think I may risk it. Then judge of the simplicity of plot,' and do not judge me by your old mad dramatists; which

copying sugust 16th 17th, 1820, the which copying makes ten mes the toil of composing, considering the weather-thermomeer in the shade-and my domestic duties."- E. Galt says it was planned at Venice, in 1817.