In the first scene of the second act there occurs a passage of infinite splendour, which I select for quotation, not solely on that account, but as it affords a fair specimen of the sublime style by which the whole work is distinguished. Speaking of the sun, the poet says,

66

the clouds have past,

And like some mighty victor he returns

To his red city in the west-that now

Spreads all her gates, and lights her torches up-
In triumph, for her glorious conqueror."

In the same act, we have a most mind-stirring and magnificent description of Rome in tumult :

"AURELIA.

You hear the people's shouts !

Rome is all uproar. All the magistrates

Have just been summon'd to the Capitol;

The knights, half-arm'd, are hurrying to the walls;
The people at the corners stand in groups,
Outlying each his fellow,-full of news,
Visions, strange treasons, fearful prodigies,
Till all grow pale and silent with their fear:

Then rides some courier clattering through the streets,

With his spur buried in his panting horse,

And breaks their trance with his swift-utter'd tale.
You'd think another Hannibal was come,

After another Cannæ."

In this act also appears the terrible lamentation of Catiline over his son:

My tree cut down. Why struggle for a name,
That, when I perish, perishes! Pale boy!
My health, wealth, heart, my life is on thy bier!"

The same act is enriched with an awful picture of a fair country ravaged by the oppressor.

"DUMNORIX.

Our fields are desolate,

Loaded with mortgage, and hard usury,
For wine and oil they bear the loathsome weed-
Nightshades and darnels, docks and matted furze.
The plain is now a marsh, breathing blue steams,
That kill the flock; the blossom'd hill a heath;
The valley, and the vineyard, loneliness;
Where the rare traveller sees but mouldering graves,
And hears but brayings of the mountain deer,
That come, unscared, to wanton in the stream."

In the third act, Hamilcar's delineation of the gems, is well worthy of the Muse of Dryden; and so is Aspasia's definition of Love, which finishes with such force and fire:

Your halls shall be a pile of gorgeousness;
Tapestry of India; Tyrian canopies;
Heroic bronzes; pictures half divine,
Apelles' pencil; statues, that the Greek
Has wrought to living beauty; amethyst urns,
And onyx, essenced with the Persian rose;
Couches of mother-pearl, and tortoise shell;
Chrystaline mirrors; tables, in which gems
Make the mosaic; cups of argentry,

Thick with immortal sculptures :-all that wealth
Has dazzling, rare, delicious,-or the sword

Of conquerors can master, shall be yours."

Oh! I could give you fact and argument,
Brought from all earth-all life-all history ;-
* tell of gentle lives,

*

*

Light as the lark's upon the morning cloud,

Struck down, at once, by the keen shaft of Love;
Of hearts, that flow'd like founts of happiness,

Dried into dust by the wild flame of Love;

Of maiden beauty, wasting all away,

Like a departing vision into air,

Love filling her sweet eyes with midnight tears,
Till death upon its bosom pillow'd her;

;

Of noble natures sour'd; rich minds obscured;
High hopes turn'd blank; nay, of the kingly crown
Mouldering amid the embers of the throne ;-
And all by Love. We paint him as a child,—
When he should sit, a giant on his clouds,

The great disturbing spirit of the world !"

many other parts of this

Even this is excelled by a view of rural life, in the fifth act; and equalled in transcendent production.

But it is not exaggera

tion to affirm that Catiline, if thoroughly examined, would be esteemed, by good judges, the pride of modern British literature. It will be so hereafter; yet now-who talks of Croly's Catiline?

Another work by the same hand has always struck me as exhibiting most extraordinary powers; I mean the " Tales of the Great St. Bernard." But it may be said of the writer, as Johnson says of Goldsmith on his marble, that there is scarcely any kind of writing which he has not tried, and that whatever he has produced has come forth embellished by the brilliancy of his genius. Already known as the author of "Salathiel," and many other effusions in prose and verse, and with an established reputation as a poet, a scholar, and a critic, he has, in the "Tales," without the aid of versification, as has been admitted, increased not only his literary, but his poetical, renown, tenfold.

No one who recollects what the definition of true poetry is, can hesitate to assign a very high place indeed, among efforts in the glorious calling of the poet, to these Tales. They abound, especially in the serious portions, in glowing imagery, descriptions the most faithful and vivid, and an adaptation of language to its legitimate purpose, surpassing nearly everything either in prose or verse which these times can show. Extravagant as this assertion may appear to some, I feel convinced that, from the volumes alluded to, I could, without any trouble, save the toil of transcribing, bring forward a thousand instances in support of what I have advanced. But -where beauties are so numerous as, literally, to sparkle in every page, I shall content myself with the above general observations, and refer my reader for proofs to the books themselves.

PERSONAL SKETCHES OF HIS OWN TIMES. BY SIR JONAH BARRINGTON.*

This publication by Sir Jonah Barrington, in two volumes octavo, belongs to the class of autobiography, and is, on that account, entitled to some excuse. Besides, it contains various proofs of talent, much interesting political discussion, anecdotes of eccentric individuals, and many curious miniature likenesses of distinguished public characters. But-it also contains an incalculably greater quantity of downright

*London, 1827.

nonsense, absurdity, and vulgarity than could, perhaps, be found in any other work of its kind in any known language. It is, moreover, carelessly written, and as carelessly printed.

Page 22, vol. i. In making mention of a female relative of his family, his great aunt Elizabeth, Sir J. says, "She contrived besides, a species of defence that I have not seen mentioned in the Peccata Hibernia,' or any of the murderous annals of Ireland." This mistake in the spelling of the word pacata may be intentional: it is too gross to be the effect of ignorance, and strongly resembles the author's manner of being pleasant.

Page 50. "Attachment of the Irish country people to all whom they thought would protect or procure them justice."

A careless or even slovenly style affords no apology for a person, belonging, as Sir J. B. did, to a learned profession, who allows this common, but egregious grammatical blunder, to appear in his page. A well-taught boy of twelve years old would know that whom cannot govern the verb would. The words "they thought," being in a parenthesis, though not so marked, the sentence should have run-" whom they thought likely to protect," &c.

Page 61. "Some of the most distinguished of my contemporary collegians." This is a perfect specimen of Sir J. B.'s general mode of composition. The gentlemen in question might have been his fellow collegians, or his contemporaries when at the