gence in general society, and of a sort of conventional language, for the expression of those things, which were still to be formed in the days of these great masters.-It is scarcely necessary to add, except for our duller readers, that this same familiar, lively, conversational poetry, is perfectly distinct both from the witty, epigrammatic and satirical vein, in which Pope will never be surpassed-or equalled; and from the burlesque, humorous and distorted style which attained its greatest height in Hudibras, and has been copied abundantly enough by humbler imitators. The style of which we are speaking is, no doubt, occasionally satirical and witty and humorous-but it is, on the whole, far more gay than poignant, and is characterized, exactly as good conversation is, rather by its constant case and amenity, than by any traits either of extraordinary brilliancy, or of strong and ludicrous effect. There must be a certain allowance of sense and sagacity-and little flying traits of picturesque descriptionand small flights of imagination-and sailies of naïveté and humour-but nothing very powerful, and nothing very long. The great charm is in the simplicity and naturalness of the language

the free but guarded use of all polite idioms, and even of all phrases of temporary currency that have the stamp of good company upon them,-with the exclusion of all scholastic or ambitious eloquence, all profound views, and all deep emotions.

The unknown writer before us has accomplished all these objects with great skill and felicity; and, in particular, has furnished us with an example, unique we rather think in our language, of about one hundred stanzas of good verse, entirely composed of common words, in their common places; never presenting us with one sprig of what is called poetical diction, or even making use of a single inversion, either to raise the style or assist the rhyme-but running on in an inexhaustible series of good easy colloquial phrases, and finding them fall into verse by some unaccountable and happy fatality. In this great and characteristic quality it is almost invariably excellent. In some other respects it is more unequal. About one half is as good as possible, in the style to which it belongs; the other half bears perhaps too many marks of that haste with which we take it for granted that such a work must necessarily be written. Some passages are rather too foolish, some too snappish, and some run too much on the cheap and rather plebeian humour of outof-the-way rhymes and strange sounding words and epithets. But the greater part is very pleasant, amiable, and gentleman

like.

It is not perhaps worth while to give any account of the subject of a work which almost professes to have no subject. But

as it has a name, and a sort of apology for a story, we shall proceed, according to our laudable custom, to teach our gentle readers all we know, by informing them, that after some prolusion about the Carnival, Venice, and Cavaliere Servente, we are informed that a Venetian lady, some forty years ago, had a husband called Guiseppe, or Joseph,-or more familiarly Beppo, which is the Venetian diminutive of that patriarchal name, and answers to our Joe. This Beppo, it seems, was a merchant; and, sailing away on one occasion, forgot to return, and left his faithful spouse a little disconsolate for a year or two. At length, however, she recovers her spirits-takes a Cavalier Serventeand glitters in the fashionable circles as gaily as ever. night at a ball, she is struck, and rather flattered, with the marked attention of a Turk, who stares at her the whole evening; and, on stepping out of her gondola at her own door, with her cavaliere, she is still more astonished to find the Turk waiting to receive her. Her attendant remonstrates against this importunity, when the worthy Mussulman informs them that he is Beppo, who, after playing the part of a renegado for some time with great success in the Levant, is now come home to reclaim his wife, house, and religion. The lady rallies her returning prodigal in a very witty way, on his adventures; and he and the cavalier, and she, all live very happily together till the end of their lives.

This story, such as it is, occupies about twenty stanzas, we think, out of the ninety-five of which the poem consists. The rest is made up of digressions and dissertations at the author's discretion; and these form unquestionably by far the most lively and interesting part of the work, of which we must now give our readers a few specimens-to explain and make amends for our critical disquisitions. We may begin at the tenth stanza. Of all the places where the Carnival

Was most facetious in the days of yore,

For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball,
And mask, and mime, and mystery, and more
Than I have time to tell now, or at all,

Venice the bell from every city bore,
And at the moment when I fix my story,
That sea-born city was in all her glory.

They've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians,

Black eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions still,
Such as of old were copied from the Grecians,
In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill;

And like so many Venuses of Titian's

(The best's at Florence-see it, if ye will),
They look when leaning over the balcony,
Or stepping from a picture by Giorgione.

P.

Shakespeare described the sex in Desdemona

As very fair, but yet suspect in fame,
And to this day from Venice to Verona

Such matters may be probably the same,
Except that since those times was never known a
Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame
To suffocate a wife no more than twenty,

Because she had a "cavalier servente.

P. 9.

It may be right now to give a small sample of the narrative part, to show how airily the author deals with his story. After Beppo's disappearance, the condition of his lady is thus repre

sented.

And Laura waited long, and wept a little,

And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might;
She almost lost all appetite for victual,

And could not sleep with ease alone at night;
She deemed the window-frames and shutters brittle,
Against a daring house-breaker or sprite,

And so she thought it prudent to connect her
With a vice-husband, chiefly to protect her.' p. 15.

The charms of the cavalier are then described-and the tale

proceeds.

No wonder such accomplishments should turn
A female head, however sage and steady-
With scarce a hope that Beppo could return,
In law he was almost as good as dead, he
Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern,
And she had waited several years already;
And really if a man won't let us know
That he's alive, he's dead, or should be so.
Besides, within the Alps, to every woman
(Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin),
'Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men ;
I can't tell who first brought the custom in,
But Cavalier Serventes" are quite common,
And no one notices, nor cares a pin ;
And we may call this (not to say the worst)
A second marriage which corrupts the first.

• The word was formerly a " Cicisbeo,"

But that is now grown vulgar and indecent;
The Spaniards call the person a "Cortejo,

For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent :

In short it reaches from the Po to Teio,

And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent.
But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses!
Or what becomes of damage and divorces?

But "Cavalier Servente" is the phrase
Used in politest circles to express

This supernumerary slave, who stays

Close to the lady as a part of dress,' &c. p. 18, 19.

At this point the author breaks off into one of those lively digressions which give its charm and its character to this curious little work. Nothing can possibly be better, in its way, than what follows.

For all these sinful doings, I must say,

That Italy's a pleasant place to me,
Who love to see the Sun shine every day,

And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree
Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play,
Or melodrame, which people flock to see,
When the first act is ended by a dance
In vineyards copied from the south of France.
• I also like to dine on becaficas,

To see the Sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow,
Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as

A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow,
But with all Heaven t' himself; that day will break as
Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forc'd to borrow
That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers
Where reeking London's smoky cauldron simmers.
• I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,

Which melts like kisses from a female mouth,
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,

With syllables which breathe of the sweet South,
And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in,

That not a single accent seems uncouth,

Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural,
Which we're oblig'd to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.
I like the women too (forgive my folly),

From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze,
And large black eyes that flash on you a volley
Of rays that say a thousand things at once,
To the high dama's brow, more melancholy,
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance,
Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes,

Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.' p. 20-22.

In these last lines, it will be observed, that the author rises above the usual and appropriate pitch of his composition, and is betrayed into something too like enthusiasm and deep feeling for the light and fantastic strain of his poetry. Neither does the fit go off immediately; for he rises quite into rapture in the succeeding stanza-in which he seems to have caught a spark from the ardent g Byron.

Eve of the land which still is Paradise!
Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire
Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies
With all we know of Heaven, or can desire,
In what he hath bequeath'd us?--in what guise,
Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre,
Would words describe thy past and present glow,
While yet Canova can create below?" p. 22, 23.

This, however, is the only slip of the kind in the whole work-the only passage in which the author betrays the secret which might however have been suspected-of his own genius, and his affinity to a higher order of poets than those to whom he has here been pleased to hold out a model.

The following lines on England form a fair counterpart to the preceding on Italy-though the taste, we think, is less pure, and the style rather too smart and epigrammatical.

6.66

England! with all thy faults I love thee still,"

I said at Calais, and have not forgot it;

I like to speak and lucubrate my fill;

I like the government (but that is not it);

I like the freedom of the press and quill;

I like the Habeas Corpus (when we've got it);
I like a parliamentary debate,

Particularly when 'tis not too late;

I like the taxes, when they're not too many;
I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear;
I like a beef-stcak, too, as well as any;
Have no objection to a pot of beer;

I like the weather, when it is not rainy,

That is, I like two months of every year.
And so God save the Regent, Church, and King!
Which means that I like all and every thing.

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen,

Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt,
Our little riots just to show we are free men,
Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette,
Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women,
All these I can forgive, and those forget,
And greatly venerate our recent glories,

And wish they were not owing to the Tories.' p. 23, 24. There are traits of Lord Byron, again, in the following whimsica verses.

This is the case in England; at least was
During the dynasty of Dandies, now
Perchance succeeded by some other class
Of imitated imitators :-how