personal injury and oppression. der, for instance, he would reason in Hence then it is an obvious posi the same way. It has been rention, that every intelligent being dered sufficiently plain, that society must necessarily possess a suffi- 'cannot be materially injured by the cient standard of political discrim- death of one individual: for the ination. Can the obstinacy of scep- most barbarous and violent deeds ticism demand still farther illus- will be the most open to detection. tration ?" No, no, illustrious Tu. Why then should punishment be nis, the “ obstinacy of scepticism" inflicted on a murderer? Will the is a weak, shivering victim beneath confinement of my body within a the scymeter of such logick. It prison, will chains or the gallows doubts of nothing while you rea render me a better man? Will son, although you should attempt such severity be calculated to conto prove the muddiness of your ciliate my affections towards soown brain. ciety? or will it be likely to inIn page 171 are the following spire me with lasting resentment? sentiments, which comes fresh and If I have been guilty of wilful strong' from the school of God- murder, let corroding Envy, sickwin. " It has been rendered suf- ening Jealousy, and vulture pasficiently plain, that a virtuous gov- sions torture and prey upon my ernment cannot become materially heart. Believe me, I should be injured by misrepresentation ; for punished by misery more aggrathe most acrimonious and violent vated, than all the horrours of invectives will be the most open to hemp” ! ! ! detection. Why then should pun Such are the torrents of nonishment be inflicted ? Will the sense, which a man, who calls confinement of my body within a himself a counsellor, is capable of prison, or the removal of my pro- pouring forth, as a subject closely perty to the publick treasury, ren- connected with his professional der me a better man? Will such studies. severity be calculated to conciliate Believe us, Mr. Counsellor, if my affections towards the govern- these be your sentiments, the cap ment? or will it be likely to inspire and bells would become you more me with lasting resentment? If I than the long robe, and you would have beer guilty of malicious de- shew better in Bedlam, than the traction, let corroding Envy, sick- Forum. ening Jealousy, and vulture passions torture and prey upon my heart. Believe me, I should be ART. 56. punished by misery more agravat. The Lay of the Last Minstrel, a ed, than the horrours of an inquisi- proemi, by Walter Scott, Esq.tion.” Hugh Maxwell, Philadelphia. This is genuine. The disciple 12mo. 1805. has excelled the master. These sentiments are too good to die with This work is neatly and accera first reading. Let us view them rately re-printed, and is a good in another shape. The doctrires, specimen of the rapid progress, which Tunis so ingeniously applies which this country is making toto cases of malicious libel, must be wards typographical excellence. equally applicable to other trans- European Reviewers have so gressions of the law. On mur- 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, tlian 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. And an uncertain warbling made— the beautiful and sublime, will be Those, who have any relish for charmed with his description of Melrose abbey. If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moon-light; And each shafted oriel glimmers white; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave; Then go-but go alone the while P. 33. But the imagery and language in the following pages are awful and terrifick in the extreme, when William of Deloraine, who was sent to the monk of St. Mary's aisle, opens the tomb of the cele brated Michael Scot, to take from His hoary head in silver rolled, He seemed some seventy winters old ; With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, The pillared arches were over their Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea: head, His left hand held his book of might; And beneath their feet were the bones A silver cross was in his right : of the dead. The lamp was placed beside his knee: High and majestick was his look, At which the fellest fiends had shook ; -Still spoke the monk, when the bell And all unruffled was his facetolled one! They trusted his soul had gotten grace. I tell you that a braver man P. 43-46. Than William of Deloraine, good at need, Against a foe ne'er spurred a steed! After this scene of horrour, the Yet somewhat was he chilled with imagination is gradually composed, dread, and soothed with the tenderness And his hair did bristle upon his head. of love and beauty. Where are two figures to be found more happily “Lo, warrior ! now the cross of red Points to the grave of the mighty dead ; the mighty dead; designed, and finely contrasted, Within it burns a wonderous light than Margaret of Branksome, and To chase the spirits that love the night : « Baron Henry, her own true That lamp shall burn unquenchably, knight" ? Until the eternal doom shall be." Slow moved the monk to the broad A fairer pair were never seen flag-stone, To meet beneath the hawthorn green. Which the bloody cross was traced He was stately and young and tall ; upon ; Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall : He pointed to a secret nook ; And she, when love, scarce told, A bar from thence the warrior took ; scarce hid, And the monk made a sign with his withered hand, Lent to her cheek a livelier red ; When the half sigh her swelling breast When her blue eyes their secret told, With beating heart, to the task he Though shaded by her locks of gold, went ; Where would you find the peerless fair His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone With Margaret of Branksome might bent ; compare ! P. 48. With bar of iron heaved amain, Till the toil-drops fell from his brows When arrived at this part of like rain. It was by dint of passing strength, his lay, the old Minstrel breaks off, That he moved the massy stone at and observing the interest he had length. excited in female bosoms, he says, I would you had been there to see, How the light broke forth so gloriously; And now fair dames, methinks I see, Streamed upward to the chancel roof, You listen to my minstrelsy ; And through the galleries far aloof! Your waving locks ye backward throw, No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright: And sidelong bend your necks of snow. It shone like heaven's own blessed light; And issuing from the tomb, Ye ween to hear a tender tale Shewed the monk's cowl, and visage pale ; Danced on the dark-brow'd warrior's Alas! fair dames your hopes are vain ! mail, My harp has lost the enchanting strain : And kissed his waving plume. Its lightness would my age reprove; My hairs are gray, my limbs are old, Before their eyes the wizard lay, My heart is dead, my veins are coldAs if he had not been dead a day : I may not, must not, sing of love. P. 49. -But after resting himself, and to be newly invigorated and transquaffing heartily some generous ported with fresh enthusiasm ; eiwine, his spirits were so exhilirated ther bursting upon us with wild that he begins the next canto in abruptness, or stealing on the ear the following animated strain. in strains of melting tenderness. At the conclusion of the third, And said I that my limbs were old ; something, which the ladies obAnd said I that my blood was cold, served, recals to the Minstrel's And that my kindly fire was Aed, memory the fate of his only son, And my poor withered heart was dead, who gloriously fell in battle, and And that I might not sing of love ?How could I, to the deärest theme, he begins the fourth in such strains That ever warmed a minstrel's dream, of simple and genuine pathos, as So foul, so false, a recreant prove ! powerfully awaken the reader's How could I name love's very naine, sympathy. Nor wake my harp to notes of flame ! Sweet Teviot ! on thy silver tide, In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's The glaring bale-fires blaze no more ; reed ; No longer stecl-clad warriors ride In war, he mounts the warrior's steed; Along thy wild and willowed shore ; In halls, in gay attire is seen ; Where'er thou wind'st by dale or hill, In hamlets, dances on the green. All, all is peaceful, all is still, Love rules the court, the camp, the As if thy waves, since Time was grove, born, And men below, and saints above ; Since first they rolled their way to For love is heaven, and heaven is love. Tweed, Nor started at the bugle-horn. Unlike the tide of human time, beautiful lines. Which though it change in ceaseless Aow, Retains cach grief, retains each crime, -True love's the gift which God has Its earliest course was doomed to given know ; To man alone beneath the heaven. And, darker as it downward bears, It is not Fantasy's hot fire, Is stained with past and present tears. Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly ; Low as that tide has ebbed with ne, It liveth not in fierce desire, It still reflects to memory's eye In dead desire it doth not die ; The hour my brave, my only boy, It is the secret sympathy, Fell by the side of great Dundee. The silver chord, the silken tie, Why, when the volleying musket playWhich heart to heart, and mind to mind ed In body and in soul can bind. Against the bloody Highland blade, Enough—he died the death of fame; Lest attention should tire or a Enough—he died with conquering bate, the poet frequently varies his Græme. P. 76. 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 poet, 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 flags, yet at the be- onis of the universal philanthropists 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. 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 Breathes there the man, with soul so pester the publick with so many 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. That day of wrath, that dreadful day, When heaven and earth shall pass away, What power shall be the sinners stay? How shall he meet that dreadful day? When, shrivelling like a parched scroll, The flaming heavens together roll; When louder yet, and yet more dread, Swells the high trump, that wakes the dead; O! on that day, that wrathful day, When man to judgment wakes from clay, Be thou the trembling sinner's stay, We pretend not to say we have selected the most beautiful passages of this delightful poem, but they struck us as possessing great force and beauty; nor do we fear, that those, who can feel with the poet, will think our quotations too long, or numerous. If our admiration, warmly expressed, can induce many to read the book, it may kin 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 af fords 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, kepa them behind the scenes. It might seem unjust to condemn this volume altogether; and no doubt it will appear so, particu larly 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 |