mpudent cock, is a Templar, who having read all the modern comedies and farces, the Spectators, Dryden's prefaces and dedications, and having once squeez'd out a prologue to a play that was damn'd, sets up for a critic and a wit. His cat-call is generally heard the first in the pit; he is the Coryphæus of those unmannerly disturbers of the public. He is the most despicable thing that ever disgraced humanity. He rises at twelve at noon, Saunters to some coffee-house till one, dresses and has dined by four, then to the coffee-house again, after that to the play for two acts, after that takes a round through all the bagnios and brothels in Covent Garden, kicks whores, and gets drunk with arrack punch, staggers home at three in the morn ing, quarrels with the watch, and breaks lamps. Hæc est vita salutorum. And this is a complete and exact journal of that kind of animal, which by the bye pretends to have a soul, called a Templar. One of the ladies he is talking to is extravagantly fond of cats and lapdogs; a large hound that she hugs and kisses all day, has the honour to lie with her all night. She is a lady of great benevolence to the brute creation. She at this time carries a squirrel in her pocket, and if you observe, has just put in her finger, that the dear little favourite may give her an amorous bite. The other is a prodigious devotee, and a great reader of Thomas a Kempis: she has had thoughts of retiring from the world into some grotto in a desert, and to carry nothing with her but a lamp and a death's head: I wonder to see her here, but I suppose she comes to make grave reflections on the vanity of all pleasures and earthly amusements. She constantly frequents a church in the City, where there is a handsome young lecturer, who preaches prettily, has a graceful lisping delivery, and abounds in the most smart antitheses, most elegant and ingenious conceits, and the best turned periods imaginable. He never frightens his fair audience with the mentioning any of my fraternity, but if I may so say, strews the

path to Heaven with flowers. But hold a little: by

borne so great a part with so much reputation. I immediately determined that your name should be mentioned, but the paper having been some time written, Mr. Hawkesworth, I suppose, did not care to disorder its text, and therefore put your eulogy in a note. He and every other man mention your papers of Criticism with great commendation, though not with greater than they deserve.

But how little can we venture to exult in any intellectual powers or literary attainments, when we consider the condition of poor Collins. I knew him a few years ago full of hopes and full of projects, versed in many languages, high in fancy, and strong in retention. This busy and forcible mind is now under the government of those who lately would not have been able to comprehend the least and most narrow of its designs. What do you hear of him? are there hopes of his recovery? or is be to pass the remainder of his life in misery and degra |dation? perhaps with complete consciousness of his calamity.

You have flattered us, dear Sir, for some time with the hopes of seeing you; when you come you will find your reputation encreased, and with it the kindness of those friends who do not envy you; for success always produces either love or hatred. I enter my name among those that love, and that love you more and more in proportion as by writing more you are more known; and believe that as you continue to diffuse among us your integrity and learning, I shall be still with greater esteem and affection,

'Dear Sir,

Your most obedient

and most humble servant, SAM. JOHNSON.'

In another he reverts to the same subject, in the most impressive manner :

him a letter which he never answered. I suppose

What becomes of poor dear Collins? I wrote

Proserpine, I spy yonder the very man I am speaking of; 'tis he with a smooth round face, and a writing is very troublesome to him. That man is no common loss. The moralists all talk of the unneckcloth so white and so well plaited under his florid double chin. Ile preach'd last Sunday in a certainty of fortune, and the transitoriness of silk gown, with a lawn handkerchief in his hand, beauty; but it is yet more dreadful to consider and a fine diamond ring upon his finger, upon this that the powers of the mind are equally liable to well chosen text; And why take ye thought for change, that understanding may make its appearraiment? He bows so well, and flatters so smoothly,ance and depart, that it may blaze and expire,' and has so little spirit or honesty, that he will cer tainly be a dean.'

We have heard that Mr. Wool intended to

publish a second volume of letters of the same description, and long as well as the public for their appearance. Truth has come pelled us to be rather severe in our observations, but let him avoid the errors into which he has already fallen; he possesses a fund of instruction and powers of execution, which, if properly regulated, may one day turn our

But the most captivating part of the whole work is the last, which contains letters from many of the most distinguished characters in the republic of letters; and out of which Mr. Wool might have easily formed a tissue of the most useful and interesting information. One of those written by Johnson, will, we have no doubt, be read with melancholycensure into praise, and crown his brow with

satisfaction.

fame.

E. R

BALLADS AND LYRICAL PIECES.

ARTICLE VIII-Ballads and Lyrical Pieces, by Walter Scott, Esq. 8vo Longman,

6

THERE has scarcely been a poem publish- the Rhymer,' The Fire King,' Frederick ed for these several years, which has ob- and Alice,' 'The wild Huntsman,' together tained, and with a great degree of justice, with a few songs which had not before becu so rapid a circulation and so good a charac-published. Of all these Glenfinlas' is in. ter, as Mr. Scott's "Lay of the last Minstrel."|| comparably the best. We hardly know any Of this poem we have formerly given a re-thing in poetry more sublime than the inciview, and we had expected, on turning over dental Description of the Second Sight, or the pages of the present work, a similar plea-more simple and affecting than the manner sure with that which we felt at the perusal in which it it introduced. We will do Mr. of Mr. Scott's first work. It has been our Scott justice where we can. lot, however, to be disappointed; not altogether from finding the present poems inferior to Mr. Scott's other work, but from discovering that they are mere shreds and patches, second hand things, which we have before enjoyed in other collections, and for which, therefore, the reader can, with no justice be summoned to pay again. This is not fair dealing either as a poet or a man. It is an unjust advantage which Mr. Scott has taken of the reputation of his former book; and however it may fill his pockets, it will not help his character.

I

E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe
Where sunk my hopes of love and fame,
bade my harp's wild wailings flow,

On me the seer's sad spirit came.
The last dread curse of angry heaven,
With ghastly sights and sounds of woe,

To

dash each glimpse of joy, was given-

The gift, the future ill to know.

The bark thou saw'st, yon summer morn,
So gaily part from Oban's bay,

My eye beheld her dash'd and torn,

Far on the rocky Colonsay.

Thy Fergus too--thy sister's son,

Thou saw'st, with pride, the gallant's power,
As marching 'gainst the lord of Downe,
He left the skirts of huge Benmore.
Thou only saw'st their tartans wave,
As down Benvoirlich's side they wound,
Heard'st but the pibroch, answering brave,
To many a target clanking round.

I heard the groans I marked the tears,
I saw the wound his bosom bore,
When on the serried Saxon spears
He poured his clan's resistless roar.'

to Lady Anne Hamilton, and opens very happily with an allusion to the antient gran leur of her illustrious family.

In an advertisement indeed Mr. Scott has the following words. "These Ballads," he says, "have been already published in different collections; some in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Barder; others in the "Tales of the Worder," and some in both those Miscellanies." This is candid; it is liberal dealing. What a pity the reader must buy the book We would assign the next place in the colbefore he can come at this piece of intelli-lection to Cadyow Castle.' It is addressed gence. But his half guinea must be spent to read it, and, when he has read it, he then discovers that his half guinea is thrown away Undoubtedly Mr. Scott had a right to collect all his ballads and fugitive pieces into one bundle, and dispose of them as he could; but we ask if it be fair dealing to charge the public twice for a commodity, ani, by a little change of external appearance, to attempt an imposition on their credulity? If Mr.|| Scott answers this question fairly, we leave, the justice of our accusation to his own candour. The contents of this volume are, Glenfinlas,' The Eve of St. John,' Cadyow Castle,' 'The Grey Brother,' Thoinas Supplement-Vol. II.

6

When princely Hamilton's alode

Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers,
The song went round, the goblet flowed,

And revel sped the laughing hours.
Then thrilling to the harp's gay sound,
So sweetly rung cach vaulted wail,
And echoed light the dai cer's bound,

As mirth and music cheered the hall.
Put Cadyow's towers, in rnius laid,
And vaults, by y mantled o'er,
Thrill to the music of the shade,

Or echo Evan's houser roar.

Yer still, of Cadyow's faded faine,
You bid me tell a minstrel tale,

E

ADELGITHA; OR, THE FRUITS OF A SINGLE ERROR,

ARTICLE IX.-Adelgitha; or, the Fruits of a Single Error, a Tragedy in five Acts, by G. Lewis. Second Edition, Hughes, 1807.

the poetical talents of Mr. Lewis .It has not Adelgitha descends the staircase of the palace, with been so successful on the stage as it deserved. We shall enter into no examination of it; but make a copious extract from the last act. It is the finest part of the play, and contains of course, the catastrope. It is to be remembered that Guiscard was the husband of Adelgitha, from whom she labours to conceal her having borne, before her marriage, an illegitimate son; from whose birth her whole My heart... there couldst thou read...