personal injury and oppression. Hence then it is an obvious position, that every intelligent being must necessarily possess a suffcient standard of political discrimination. Can the obstinacy of scepticism demand still farther illustration?" No, no, illustrious Tunis, the "obstinacy of scepticism" is a weak, shivering victim beneath the scymeter of such logick. It doubts of nothing while you reason, although you should attempt to prove the muddiness of your own brain. In page 171 are the following sentiments, which come fresh and strong' from the school of Godwin. "It has been rendered sufficiently plain, that a virtuous government cannot become materially injured by misrepresentation; for the most acrimonious and violent invectives will be the most open to detection. Why then should punishment be inflicted? Will the confinement of my body within a prison, or the removal of my property to the publick treasury, render me a better man? Will such severity be calculated to conciliate my affections towards the government? or will it be likely to inspire me with lasting resentment? If I have been guilty of malicious detraction, let corroding Envy, sickening Jealousy, and vulture passions torture and prey upon my heart. Believe me, I should be punished by misery more agravated, than the horrours of an inquisition." This is genuine. The disciple has excelled the master. These sentiments are too good to die with a first reading. Let us view them in another shape. The doctrines, which Tunis so ingeniously applies to cases of malicious libel, must be equally applicable to other transgressions of the law. On mur der, for instance, he would reason in the same way. "It has been rendered sufficiently plain, that society cannot be materially injured by the death of one individual: for the most barbarous and violent deeds will be the most open to detection. Why then should punishment be inflicted on a murderer? Will the confinement of my body within a prison, will chains or the gallows render me a better man? Will such severity be calculated to conciliate my affections towards society? or will it be likely to inspire me with lasting resentment? If I have been guilty of wilful murder, let corroding Envy, sickening Jealousy, and vulture passions torture and prey upon my heart. Believe me, I should be punished by misery more aggravated, than all the horrours of hemp"!!! Such are the torrents of nonsense, which a man, who calls himself a counsellor, is capable of pouring forth, as a subject closely connected with his professional studies. Believe us, Mr. Counsellor, if these be your sentiments, the cap and bells would become you more than the long robe, and you would shew better in Bedlam, than the Forum. ART. 56. The Lay of the Last Minstrel, a poem, by Walter Scott, Esq.Hugh Maxwell, Philadelphia. 12mo. 1805. THIS work is neatly and accurately re-printed, and is a good specimen of the rapid progress, which this country is making towards typographical excellence. European Reviewers have so justly displayed the beauties, and appreciated the merits of this interesting composition, that we have little, if any thing, to add to their remarks; but we cordially join them in praising a poem, which has afforded us exquisite pleasure, and which has raised its author to a permanent rank among the classical poets of his country." In towns, where trade occupies every thought, at all times and seasons, and in every company monopolizes the greatest share of conversation; where its maxims and spirit pervade every class of society, and would confine all mental exertion within its own contracted sphere; it must be peculiarly gratifying to the few, whose faculties are not shackled and be numbed, to read of other times, of other manners, of other men ; with different objects in view, with more ardent, as well as nobler passions; and whose vices, while they neither exceeded in number or enormity those of later times, were balanced by many virtues ; among which unbounded generosity, steady friendship, faithful love, and heroick valour, shone conspicuous. It is therefore with great satisfaction, that we strongly recommend, to the rising generation particularly, this vivid effort of genius and learning; but as it is probable more attention will be paid to samples, than to mere recommendation, we shall select a few specimens, and vouch for the goodness of the whole. The introduction is poetical and interesting in the highest degree. An aged Minstrel, wandering near the Castle of Branksome, was admitted by the Dutchess of Buccleugh, and, after being hospitably treated, to gratify her and her ladies, he sings to his harp a tale of arms and chivalry, in which the names and actions of her ancestors are commemorated. Amid the strings his fingers strayed, the beautiful and sublime, will be If thou wouldst view fair Melrose Go visit it by the pale moon-light; When the broken arches are black in And each shafted oriel glimmers white; When buttress and buttress, alter nately, Seem framed of ebon and ivory; and die; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, brated Michael Scot, to take from thence his book of magick. The pillared arches were over their head, And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead. -Still spoke the monk, when the bell tolled one ! I tell you that a braver man Than William of Deloraine, good at need, Against a foe ne'er spurred a steed! Yet somewhat was he chilled with dread, And his hair did bristle upon his head. "Lo, warrior! now the cross of red Which the bloody cross was traced With bar of iron heaved amain, Till the toil-drops fell from his brows like rain. It was by dint of passing strength, That he moved the massy stone at length. I would you had been there to see, Danced on the dark-brow'd warrior's mail, And kissed his waving plume. Before their eyes the wizard lay, As if he had not been dead a day : His hoary head in silver rolled, Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea: His left hand held his book of might; A silver cross was in his right: The lamp was placed beside his knee : High and majestick was his look, At which the fellest fiends had shook; And all unruffled was his faceThey trusted his soul had gotten grace. P. 43-46. After this scene of horrour, the imagination is gradually composed, and soothed with the tenderness of love and beauty. Where are two figures to be found more happily designed, and finely contrasted, than Margaret of Branksome, and "Baron Henry, her own true knight"? When arrived at this part of his lay, the old Minstrel breaks off, and observing the interest he had excited in female bosoms, he says, And now fair dames, methinks I see, Alas! fair dames your hopes are vain! My harp has lost the enchanting strain: Its lightness would my age reprove; My hairs are gray, my limbs are old, My heart is dead, my veins are coldI may not, must not, sing of love. P. 49. to be newly invigorated and transported with fresh enthusiasm ; either bursting upon us with wild abruptness, or stealing on the ear in strains of melting tenderness. At the conclusion of the third, something, which the ladies observed, recals to the Minstrel's memory the fate of his only son, who gloriously fell in battle, and he begins the fourth in such strains of simple and genuine pathos, as powerfully awaken the reader's sympathy. Sweet Teviot! on thy silver tide, The glaring bale-fires blaze no more; No longer steel-clad warriors ride Along thy wild and willowed shore; Where'er thou wind'st by dale or hill, All, all is peaceful, all is still, As if thy waves, since Time was Since first they rolled their way to Had only heard the shepherd's reed, Unlike the tide of human time, Which though it change in ceaseless Retains each grief, retains each crime, know; And, darker as it downward bears, Fell by the side of great Dundee. Why, when the volleying musket played Against the bloody Highland blade, Lest attention should tire or abate, the poet frequently varies his measure, but it is always sweet and melodious, judiciously adapted to The sixth canto commences the different parts of his poem, and with the indignant effusions of real shews, that though possessing the patriotism, which every true lover phrenzy of a poct, he has not neg- of his country will repeat with lected the subordinate art of versi- pride and pleasure, but which can fication. Though his powers nev- find nothing congenial in the boser appear to flagg, yet at the Le-ams of the universal philanthropistə ginning of every canto he seems of the present day, who call all those countries theirs, in which their own chimerical notions of liberty have turned the people's brains with specious and mischievous absurdity. Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, For him no minstrel raptures swell; After introducing the ballads of three different bards, he finely concludes with the following hymn for the dead. dle the pure and ardent flame of native genius in bosoms, where the spark now lies dormant ; and the view of its rare excellence may repress the presumption of obtrusive poetasters, who would not pester the publick with so many vapid rhymes, clumsily strung together, did they not mistake pertness and self-conceit for brilliant talents and uncommon powers. ART. 57. The Dramatick Works of William Dunlap, in ten volumes, vol. I. containing the Father of an only Child, Leicester, Fontainville Abbey, Darby's Return. Philadelphia, printed by T. & G. Palmer, 116, High-street. 1806. THIS volume contains what the author seems to imagine dramatick performances; but, in truth, it affords only four farragos of nonsense, in which the most essential laws of the drama are altogether violated, and the rules of composition disregarded. In these four "plays" for the stage, made worthy of it by "eighteen years" "revision and attachment," taste, wit, and sentiment take no part; they do not once enter during their whole performance-for Mr. Dunlap has very ingeniously, and in a manner peculiar to himself, kept them behind the scenes, It might seem unjust to condemn this volume altogether; and no doubt it will appear so, particularly to the author, who "cannot see the propriety of condemning en masse," and conjectures, that "his readers may perhaps be tempted to lament, that he has soared so often into the heaven of invention." But we believe, it would be more unjust to weary our readers, by |