conveniently afford. As illustrations, and connected with the perpetual commentary of the dialogue, they are extremely interesting; but, abruptly transferred to our pages, they would lose much of their effect. We find the prose more convenient for citation, and shall trespass on Mr. Collier's stores for the following good 'story' from Sir John Harrington. I remember how not long since a grave and godly lady, and grandmother to all my wives children, did in their hearings, and for their better instruction, tell them a story, which though I will not swear it was true, yet I did wish the auditory would believe it. Namely, how an Hermit being carried in an evening, by the conduct of an angel, through a great city, to contemplate the great wickedness daily and hourly wrought therein, met in the street a dung farmer with his cart full laden, no man envying his full measure. The poor Hermit, as other men did, stopped his nostrils, and betook him to the other side of the street, hastening from the sour carriage all he could; but the angel kept on his way, seeming no whit offended with the savour. At which while the Hermit marvelled, there came not long after by them, a woman gorgeously attired, well perfumed, well attended with coaches and torches, to convey her perhaps to some nobleman's chamber. The good Hermit, somewhat revived with the fair sight and sweet savour, began to stand at the gaze. On the other side the good angel now stopped his nose, and both hastened himself away, and beckoned his companion from the place. At which the Hermit more marvelling than before, he was told by the angel that this fine courtezan laden with sin, was a more stinking savour afore God, than that beastly cart laden with excrements.' The seventh and eighth conversations are miscellaneous, the last containing references to various sources whence Shakspeare may be supposed to have derived assistance in the construction of his plots. The ninth and tenth also relate to the drama, and contain much illiberal abuse of the Puritans for their conscientious opposition to the stage. We do not think it worth while to argue this matter with Mr. Collier; but he must be perfectly aware that ample evidence is to be produced in justification of the harshest strictures on the licentiousness of theatrical exhibitions. Mr. Collier seems to intimate an intention of pursuing his subject. We shall feel much pleasure in again meeting him his resources are abundant; and he is an intelligent and agreeable writer. Art. III. 1. Dramatic Scenes and other Poems. By Barry Cornwall. f.cap 8vo. pp. 166. London, 1819. 2. A Sicilian Story, Barry Cornwall. 1820. with Diego de Montilla, and other Poems. By Second Edition. f.cap 8vo. pp. 176. London, 3. Marcian Colonna, an Italian Tale; with Three Dramatic Scenes and other Poems. By Barry Cornwall. 8vo. pp. 190. London, 1820. WE have designated this gentleman as the poetical rival of Mr. Keats, and, though we do not like the cant phrase, we shall neither displease him, we trust, nor wrong him, in referring him to the same school. There are some persons, we understand, who, indignant at the comparison, will have it that the Keats is unspeakably the loftier poet, the more classical genius of the two. We have no wish to bet very high upon either; but judging of their pretensions simply from the productions which they have lavished upon us, we must remark that, on the one hand, the name of Barry Cornwall has not yet been affixed to any thing half so absurd as Endymion, and that, on the other hand, the Author of Endymion has never yet produced any thing comparable in genuine delicacy, sweetness, and pathos to the following stanzas, which attracted our attention before we ascertained their author. 'Gone from her cheek is the summer bloom, And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye, And the smile that played round her lip has fled, Like slaves they obeyed her in height of power, And the crowds that swore for her love to die, 'Tis Woman alone, with a purer heart, Can see all these Idols of life depart, Man in his uttermost wretchedness.' p. 160. We know that there have been fortunate moments in which small poets have struck off some exquisite trifles, and we should not, therefore, have felt ourselves authorized on the strength of these verses, to rate superlatively high the capabilities of the Author; but there are other good things in that same volume: the Dramatic Scenes are very spirited imitations of the style of our elder Dramatic writers, and contain some very touching passages; the minor poems, too, are elegant and pleasing; and altogether the volume, though not quite satisfactory as a performance, appeared to us to contain the promise of some future productions of no mean order. The rapidity with which the three publications at the head of this article, followed one upon another, did not, however, tend to confirm this favourable augury. A writer who either cannot afford to keep back the contents of his portfolio, or, not having the excuse of poverty, lacks the discretion that should restrain the eagerness to publish, is not likely to excel his first performance; he has, probably, already done his best. This appears to be the case with the present Author: the contents of his subsequent volumes have disappointed us; and, after reading Marcian Colonna, we are compelled to think much less respectfully of both his taste and his talents than we did when we had read only the earlier specimens. In his first volume, he was the successful imitator of Massinger and Fletcher; in the second, he came down not a little in taking for his model Don Juan, and failing in the attempt; in the third, he is either the imitator or the twin counterpart of John Keats himself. We shall take a specimen from each of the three volumes. The first is from the dramatic sketch entitled The 'broken heart.' The story is from Boccacio. 'Jeronymo was sent from Italy to Paris in order to complete his studies. He was detained there two years his mother being fearful lest he should marry a poor and beautiful girl, (Sylvestra,) with whom he had been brought up from infancy. During his absence his mother contrived to have Sylvestra married. He returned, and, after wandering about her dwelling, succeeded in getting into her chamber, conversed with her, (her husband being asleep,) and, at last, died on the bed before her.' Jeron. So all is hush'd at last. Hist! There she lies, A fragrance, such as April mornings draw From the awakening flowers. There lies her arm, Those bright creations, which the fabling Greeks Could sway the wanton blood, as she did-Hark! · Sylv. Ha! who's there? • Jeron. 'Tis I. Sylv. Who is 't? Jeron. Must I then speak, and tell my name to you? Sylvestra, fair Sylvestra! know me now: Not now? and is my very voice so changed By wretchedness, that you-you know me not? Sylv. Begone. I'll wake my husband if Jeron. Jeronymo! Sylv. Ha! speak. Jeron. Jeronymo. Sylv. Oh! Jeron Hide your eyes: Aye, hide them, married woman! lest you see Sylv. Not me. 'Jeron. Yes Lov'd you like life; like heaven and happiness. Lov'd you and kept your name against this heart, (Ill boding amulet) 'till death. Sylv. Alas! Jeron. And now I come to bring your wandering thoughts Back to their innocent home. Thus, as 'tis said, Do spirits quit their leaden urns, to tempt Wretches from sin. Some have been seen o'nights To stand, and point their rattling finger at The red moon as it rose; (perhaps to turn Man's thoughts on high.) Some their lean arms have stretch'd 'Tween murderers and their victims: Some have laugh'd Ghastly, upon-the bed of wantonness, And touch'd the limbs with death. Sylv. You will not harm me? Jeron. Why should I not?—No, no, poor girl! I come not To mar your delicate limbs with outrage, I Have lov'd too well for that. Had you but lov'd Sylv. I did, I did! Jeron. Away-My brain is well: (Though late 'twas hot.) You lov'd! away, away. This to a dying man? Sylv. Oh! you will live Long, aye, and happily will wed perhaps Jeron. Nay, pr'ythee cease. Sylvestra! you and I Were children here some few short springs ago, And lov'd like children: I the elder; you The loveliest girl that ever tied her hair I still remember how your delicate foot Sylv. I I thought,-speak softly for my husband sleeps, Jeron. Speak again. Was't so indeed? " Sylv. Indeed, indeed. Jeron. Then be it. Yet, what had I done Fortune that she could Though cruelty be busy with our fortunes, Sylv. Alas, alas ! • Jeron. Sweet! in the land to come we'll feed on flowers. I wrote, and wrote, but never heard; at last, • Jeron. Then I Grew moody, and at times I fear my brain And bid you no farewell. Sylv. Jeronymo ! Break not my heart thus: They-they did deceive me. And you had scorn'd your poor and childish love; Sylv. What's the matter? Jeron. Soft! The night wind sounds A funeral dirge for me, sweet! Let me lie • Jeron. So I do. |