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and in anxious expectation awaited the completion of the performance, On viewing it he was overcome with joy ; "You are Van Dyck," cried he, embracing him, "for he alone is capable of painting thus ;" and the two artists formed a friendship under the singular circumstance above related; but Van Dyck was unable to prevail on the painter to follow him to England, Hals declaring he was too happy among his friends at Haarlem to quit them; that ambition had no charms to repay him for their loss; and that he desired no other lot than what it had been his fortune to enjoy there.”—P. 103.

He

which was a tolerably large price at that time. was so satisfied with the remuneration, that he resolved not to return home on foot-the mode of travelling by which he had reached the Hague-but departed in the diligence, elated with joy at being able to announce the good news to his parents. Fearing to lose his money, he would not descend from the vehicle when the passengers stopped on the road to take refreshments, but remained alone in the coach, when the horses, being left free, took fright and ran away to Leyden, and on his alighting at the inn where the animals were accustomed to stop daily, everyone was astonished that young Rembrandt, travelling without a coachman, had arrived in safety. Declining to give any explanation of what had happened, he left the coach and hastened to his father's habitation, which was situated at a short distance from the city."—P. 5.

"Rubens, being constantly occupied throughout the day, sought the recreation of a walk almost every evening; during this absence, his scholars never omitted the opportunity of viewing the progress he had made in the course of the day, which the old servant of Rubens, named Valveken, enabled them to do, with the understanding of his receiving some emolument from the young men for the permission: this was annually given. By these means they had the advantage of studying the way in which their master prepared his works and his manner of finishing them. On one occasion, the young artists were so eager to view the progress of a picture, that, in pressing forward for closer examination, they pushed Diepenbreck against the painting, when part of the arm and the face, which Rubens had just finished, were unfortunately much injured. The greatest consternation seized them, and, dreading the displeasure of their master, John Van Hoeck, with admirable presence of mind, said, "My dear comrade, there is not a moment to be lost; by some means we must endeavour to repair this unlucky accident; we have still three hours left; the most able among us must take the palette, and strive to do his best. For my part, I vote that Van Dyck undertake it; for he is the only one likely to succeed. This was instantly and unanimously approved of. Van Dyck, the only one diffident of his own success, took the pencil with fear and hesitation, but restored the injured parts so inimitably that several writers state even Rubens, on seeing his picture the following day, observed, in the presence of some of his pupils, "This arm and face (alluding to those repainted by Van Dyck) are not the worst part of my performance yesterday." The anecdote may be true; but that Rubens should have taken Van Dyck's work for his own appears to me a matter of doubt. I am more inclined to believe that, having received information of the circumstance, and admiring the talent displayed by Van Dyck, he took this delicate method of complimenting his gifted scholar."-P. 103.

"Van Dyck having determined on visiting England, resolved to take Haarlem in his way, that he might introduce him to Hals, and prevail upon him, if possible, to accompany him on his voyage. Having arrived at Haarlem, and found the dwelling of the painter, he learnt he was at the tavern, and despatched a message there to inform him that a person was waiting to have his portrait taken. On this, Hals immediately returned home, when Van Dyck observed that he was a stranger remaining but a short time in the city, and could not spare more than a couple of hours to sit for his picture. "That will be quite enough," answered Hals, and taking the first canvass that came in his way, began his task with such spirit, that before the time agreed on had elapsed, he requested the stranger to see how he had proceeded with his work. The sitter experienced great satisfaction, and was astonished in how short a period he had produced so exact a likeness. "In truth," continued he, "painting appears to me a very easy matter-I have a strong desire to try if I can take your portrait; do me the favour of taking my place." Tals, surprised, sat down, without well comprehendis meaning; he soon discovered, however, that anger was not a novice in the use of the palette,

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My aunt had made a party to go and visit Madame du Deffaud with Madame de Bourbon Busset, and they expected to find her unhappy, as Monsieur de Pont de Verle was dying, and he had been for twelve or fifteen years in her good graces. After the first compliments were over, Madame de Bourbon Busset, who always acted the part of a woman of great feel

ings, asked her after the dear invalid. "Ah, hea

vens! I was thinking of that," said the old marquise directly, "but I have only one footman here at present, and I was going to send one of my women to inquire after him."—" Madame, it rains in torrents," replied the other, "and I beg you will let her go in my carriage."-"Ah! you are too good. I thank you," replied the marquise, with a delighted air of courtesy. "Annette," she said, to a femme-dechambre, who answered the bell, "go and inquire after our poor invalid. The Comtesse de Bourbon Busset will allow you to go in her carriage on account of the rain. You will tell her servants this, and, of course, you will not allow either of her footmen to take the trouble of going with you. I am very grateful, and much affected by your kind interest in my favourite," she added; "he is very amiable, clever, lively, tender, and affectionate. You doubtless know it was Madame de Châtelet who procured him for me." The two friends looked at each other, and did not dare to reply to such ill-timed words and confidence. The carriage returns. "Well, how did you find him!"-" As well, madame, as possible."-" Did he eat to-day?"—" He wished to amuse himself by biting an old shoe, but Monsieur de Lyonnais would not allow it."—" What an odd fancy for an invalid," said my aunt. "Does he walk now?" replied the marquise. "Ah, that I cannot say, madame, for he was rolled round; but I saw today that he knew me, for he wagged his tail?" "Monsieur de Pont de Verle!" said her visitors. “No, no, it is my little dog I am speaking of; but," added she, addressing her servant in a harsh and cross tone, "you must not forget to send and inquire after

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the Chevalier de Pont de Verle."-Memoirs of the Marchioness de Créquy.-[It is to be recollected, however, that Madame du Deffaud was an object of envy for her wit, and her powers of conversation; and these jokes, however good, may have been inventions.]

A HOUSE FULL OF NOBLESSE.

My father ordered me some jam and bread, and then we set off from the Hotel de Breteuil, which was, and is still, opposite to the garden of the Tuilleries, a situation that seemed to me so enchanting, that I screamed with joy, which made them say that I was as natural as possible. This pretty house is composed, as you know, but of seven or eight rooms on each story, but all these rooms are decorated and gilded with the greatest richness, and this is the way the apartments were distributed between the Breteuils. The Marquise de Breteuile Sainte Croix occupied the same ground floor, of which she had reserved two or three rooms for her mother the Marechale de Thomonde, who was maid of honour

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to the Queen of England (James the Second's wife) and elder sister of the Marechale de Berwick. The mother and daughter had a magnificent lodging in the new castle at Saint Germain's, and the one she gave them at the Hotel de Breteuil was only as a resting place at Paris. My aunt, the Baronne de Breteuille Preiully, lived in the first story of her hotel with her husband, whose library had usurped three rooms. The second. was occupied only by the Dowager Comtesse de Breteuil Charmeaux, my other aunt, who was the elder sister of the baronne, and one of the Fronlays by birth, as well as her sister and me. She would not share her beautiful apartments with anyone, and always thought that the Breteuils did not do enough for her. The third story was inhabited by the Commandeur de Breteuil Chanteclér, who gave a lodging to the Bishop de Rennes (Messire Auguste de Breteuil Conty) whenever this one thought to have business at Paris, which did not fail to happen often. My aunt's five children occupied the fourth story, and my cousin Emily, who was afterwards the Marquise de Châtelet (Voltaire's friend), was obliged to give me up her apartment, which looked on the Tuileries. They changed hers into three little rooms, which looked upon the rue Dauphine, and this (en passant be it said) she never forgave me.-Memoirs of the Marchioness de Créquy.-[Emily's non-forgiveness of her cousin may have been a figment of the marchioness's brain. People of an ill-regulated temper, or breeding, are continually mistaking the fancies of their own egotism for facts, to another person's disadvantage.]

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LONDON JOURNAL.

TO ASSIST THE INQUIRING, ANIMATE THE STRUGGLING, AND SYMPATHIZE WITH ALL.

WEDNESDAY, FEB. 25, 1835.

THE WEEK.

BIRTH-DAYS AND OTHER ANNIVERSARIES.

CHARACTERS OF HANDEL MONTAIGNE -MARTIAL (with a banter upon him)-SHROVE TUESDAY, AND

ITS PANCAKES-WALLER-DAVENANT-OTWAY.

FEBRUARY 24 (accidentally omitted last week), 1684. At Halle, in Saxony, George Frederick Handel, the Jupiter of music; not the less warranting that title, from including in his genius the most affecting tenderness as well as the most overpowering grandeur for the father of gods and men was not only a thunderer, but a love-maker. Handel was the son of a physician; and, like Mozart, began composing for the public in his childhood. He was the grandest composer that is known to have existed, wielding, as it were, the choirs of heaven and earth together; and as Mozart said of him, " "striking you, whenever he pleased, with a thunderbolt." His Hallelujahs open the heavens. He utters the word "Wonderful," as if all their trumpets spoke together. And then, when he comes to earth, to make love amidst nymphs and shepherds (for the beauties of all religions found room in his breast), his strains drop milk and honey, and his love is the youthfulness of the Golden Age. We see his Acis and Galatea, in their very songs, looking one another in the face in all the truth and mutual homage of the tenderest passion; and poor jealous Polyphemus stands in the background, blackening the scene with his gigantic despair. Christian meekness and suffering attain their last degree of pathos in He shall feed his flock,' and He was despised and rejected.' We see the blush on the smitten cheek mingling with the hair. Handel had a large, heavy person, and was occasionally vehement in his manners. He eat and drank too much (probably out of a false notion of supporting his excitement), and thus occasionally did harm to mind as well as body. But he was pious, generous, independent, and, like all great geniuses, a most thorough lover of his art, making no compromises with its demands and its dignity for the sake of petty conveniences. There is occasionally to be found a quaintness and stiffness in his style, owing to the fashion of the day; and he had not at his command the instrumentation of the present times, which no man would have turned to more overwhelming account; but what is sweet in his compositions, is sweeter in no other; and what is great, is greater than in any.

6

-28. 1533. At the chateau of Montaigne, in Perigord, of a noble family, Michel de Montaigne, the father of modern essay-writing, and one of the most original of thinkers. His father, to help him to an equable turn of mind, used to have him waked during his infancy with a flute. He was a philosopher of the material order, and as far sighted perhaps that way as any man that ever lived, having the temperament between jovial and melancholy, which is so favourable for seeing fair play to human nature; and his good-heartedness rendered him an enthusiastic friend, and a believer in the goodness of others, notwithstanding his insight into folly, and his living in a coarse and licentious age, of the freedoms of which he partook. But for want of something more imaginative and spiritual in his genius, his perceptions stopped short of the very first points, critical and philosophical. He knew little of the capabilities of From the Steam-Press of C. & W. REYNELL, Little Pulteney-street.]

No. 48.

the mind, out of the pale of its more manifest influences from the body; his taste in poetry was logical, not poetical; and he ventured upon openly despising romances (Amadis de Gaul,' &c.) which was hardly in keeping with the modest wisdom of his motto, Que sçais-je? (What do I know?) Montaigne, who loved his father's memory, always rode out in a cloak which had belonged to him, and would say of it, that he seemed to feel "wrapped up in his father" (il me semble m'envelopper de lui). Some writers have sneered at this saying, and at the deductions drawn from it respecting the amount of his filial affection; but the truth is, it does him as much honour as anything he ever said, for depth of feeling as well as vivacity of expression.

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"

His very best epigrams, in our opinion, are some of his grave ones,—those which answer to the original meaning of the word epigram,—an inscription. We here give a translation of one from the Indicator.' It is a "favourable specimen" of the best part of his nature, and furnishes a relief to such of his readers as stumble upon the loathsome indecencies permitted by the license of his age.

EPITAPH ON EROTION.

Hic festinata requiescit Erotion umbra,
Crimine qui fati sexta peremit hyems.
Quisquis eris nostri post me regnator agelli,
Manibus exiguis annua justa dato.
Sic Lare perpetuo, sic turba sospite, solus
Flebilis in terra sit lapis iste tua.

Underneath this greedy stone
Lies little sweet Erotion,
Whom the Fates, with hearts as cold,
Nipp'd away at six years old.
Thou, whoever thou mayst be,
That hast this small field after me,
Let the yearly rites be paid
To her little slender shade;
So shall no disease or jar
Hurt thy house, or chill thy Lar;
But this tomb here be alone,
The only melancholy stone.

As to some inconceivably pointless and twaddling epigrams, written by Martial, such as would appear to have been concocted by the dullest of old gentlemen and diners-out, and overseemingly carried about in his pocket, they have been admirably bantered by our friend, Mr Egerton Webbe, in the following imitations; which, however, have this drawback, that being good jokes upon bad ones, they cannot possibly convey the same impression. Mr Webbe has not forgotten the solemn turn of the heads-'De Flavio' - De Eodem '-'Ad Antonium de Lepido'-&c. nor

PRICE THREE HALFPEnce.

the ingenious art with which the epigrammatist contrives to have a reason asked him, for what he is bent upon explaining. We think these imitations so good, that liking to enjoy good things in company, we have not only been reading them (like the supposed old gentleman) to everybody at hand, but have been fancying ourselves present with all the friends whom we have been in the habit of relishing such passages with; and we venture to add, that Blackwood's ediThe tor, the best anthologist living, will like them. scholarly reader need not be reminded, that the lines must be read with due deliberation, and as if in solid foretaste of their pungency.

CONCERNING JONES.

Jones eats his lettuces undressed; D'you ask the reason? 'tis confessed,That is the way Jones likes them best.

TO SMITH-CONCERNING THOMSON.

Smith, Thomson puts no claret on his board; D' you ask the reason?-Thomson can't afford.

TO GIBBS-CONCERNING HIS POEMS.

You ask me if I think your poems good;
If I could praise your poems, Gibbs,-I would.

CONCERNING THE SAME.

Gibbs says his poems a sensation make;But Gibbs, perhaps, is under a mistake.

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Not to eat pancakes on a Shrove Tuesday is a sort of irreligion: even though, like confession, it may go against some stomachs of a criminal weakness, especially in these sedentary times. Delicate pancakes, not too thin, tossed up by a proper hand (for they ought to be literally tossed in the pan, otherwise part of the old charm is wanting), brought up hot and hot, rolled up on one's plate, slightly touched with an acid, and cut across in that state, lump by lump, are to our taste the finest possible eating, of the paste or pudding order. We think we could dine, the whole year round (supposing the gods would provide us with such goods at all seasons) upon a pancake for our pudding, a bird for the meat, and old port for the drink. But what matters this epicureanism to our sedentary faculties? We thrive better on water than wine; cannot eat a bird with the right pleasure, unless sure that it was handsomely killed; and would fain, with beloved Shelley, see all the world eating vegetables, and getting as harmless and strong, as horses do on their hay-diet. There would be enough mortal necessity remaining, to strengthen our thoughts and hinder us from growing effeminate. The barbarous custom of throwing at cocks on this day, has gone out, thanks to the progress of knowledge; yet

nobody supposes the resolution of Englishmen to be a bit the less vigorous.

Same day. 1605. At Colshill, in Hertfordshire, of an ancient family, Edmund Waller, the poet of the court. Pope said of him, that he would have been a better poet had he entertained less admiration of people in power. But surely it was the excess of that propensity which inspired him. He was naturally timid and servile; and poetry is the flower of a man's real nature, whatever it be, provided there be intellect enough to bring it to bear. Waller's very best pieces are those in praise of sovereign authority and of a disdainful mistress. He would not have sung Sacharissa half so well, had she favoured him. Same day. And same year (according to Chalmers), most probably at the Crown Tavern in Oxford, of which his father was proprietor, Sir William Davenant, the restorer of the stage in his time, and the last of the deep-working poetical intellects of the age that followed that of Elizabeth. His epic poem of Gondibert,' though not a great poem, is a storehouse of reflection and solemn wit, delivered in heavy lines overloaded with spondees. He gave out that he was a natural son of Shakspeare, but furnished no proof of it; unless there be something in the overreflectiveness of his narrative poetry, which calls to mind a similar fault in the Venus and Adonis,' and 'Rape of Lucrece,' of the immortal dramatist. His vein is sometimes very noble and affecting. Mr Lamb, in a note of his Dramatic Specimens,' instances "the male and female skeleton in Gondibert," as "the finest lecture of mortification which has been read from bones":

C

verse.

diæresis and apheresis, and all the pleasant ways of With him the art of poetry was the art of polishing and refining, the art of spinning a given quantity of language into the finest thread of metre and verse that the material would allow; the art, not of engaging the ear in order to delight the mind, but of engaging the mind in order to feast the ear. I might multiply passages without end in illustration of this passages in which poetry and the composition of poetry, are almost always alluded to under some figure of speech drawn from the operations of manual labour, and verses the article of manufacture-attributed successively to every trade in the register. He talks of hammering them, and building them, and turning them, and shaping them, and planting them, and spinning them! He is very fond of making them use their feet for the sake of the joke; and, in reference to this locomotive faculty, occasionally chides them or commends them, by the use of epithets implying laziness or activity; but whatever else he says, "polish" is still the burthen of his song. Of sublimity or passion, as ingredients in the poetical compound, he nowhere seems to make any account; they form no item in his recipe; or, perhaps, he merely left them out as the cookery books omit pepper and salt, as things that might be added afterwards, if required, according to the taste and discretion of each individual cook; or, perhaps, the more likely tale is, that he knew them to possess a certain effervescing power, mightily given to disturb the even process of his mixture, directly inimical to the repose of syllables long and short, the equanimity of cæsuras and the general otium cum dignitate of that gentlemanly muse he adored, and so had not the conscience to recommend them to others.

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Same day, 1651-2 (it is curious to find three such men born on the same day). At Trottin in Sussex, the son of a clergyman, Thomas Otway, the author of Venice Preserved' and other dramas, the poet of sensual pathos: for affecting as he sometimes is, he knows no way to the heart but through the senses. His very friendship, though enthusiastic, is violent, and has a smack of bullying. He was a man of generous temperament, spoilt by a profligate age. He seems to dress up a beauty in tears, only for the purpose of stimulating the will. The story of Otway's being choked by a piece of roll, which he was swallowing half- famished, has been shown to be doubtful; but it is agreed that a set of patrons, worthy only of the worst part of his genius, allowed him to die in indigence.

HORATIANA,

BY EGERTON WEBBE.

(Second and concluding paper.)

[We put the former part of this article at the head of our paper. In putting the conclusion elsewhere, we mean no disparagement to remarks in which our accomplished friend has shown no abatement of talent; but we discovered, some time back, that the readers of periodical works like the sight of a new subject when they take up a new number, whatever would be their regret at not having the finish of an older one; and hence we begin this time with the promised paper of another valuable correspondent, whose sequel is upon a different subject from his introduction.]

Ir is evident, I think, from what has been said, that Horace's enthusiasm, though none could be more genuine as far as it went, was rather the selfsatisfied delight of a finished artist than the holy rapture of a great poet; an enthusiasm doubtless for noble imagery and sublime sentiments in a great measure, but also in a more particular manner for dactyls, and spondees, and iambuses, for harmonious quantities and neat cæsuras, for syncope and apocope,

With these views of poetry, added to his satirical talent, and the uncompromising hostility to innovation which I think may be inferred from the general spirit of his writings, I cannot conceive a more formidable critic, in private or public, than Horace. As for the two sons of Piso, to whom these instructions were addressed, when I read of his offering to peruse any of their effusions they may choose to intrust him with, I confess I cannot help trembling for the poor boys! Certainly they must have been extraordinary lads for their age, if they ventured to submit their lucubrations to Horace, after the experience of his sneering propensities which the “ Art” afforded them.

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If Horace had lived in these days, he would have been a writer in the Edinburgh Review;' he would have contributed those poisonous criticisms, those cool extinguishers on young poets' first attempts, that used to disgrace that publication; criticisms that united murder to ridicule, cracking jokes and breaking hearts through the same sentence, and stabbing while they laughed. He would have sneered at Wordsworth, and the article on Lord Byron's Hours of Idleness' would have been attributed to him.

And this reflection leads me to the conclusion of my remarks on the Ars Poetica. For what a cruel, what a merciless attack on mad poets, as he contumeliously designates them, do we find at the end of this extraordinary essay! It is really an abominable affair. Now I have no doubt whatever that there were many poets of superior merit in Rome at the very time, victims of misfortune, as all poets of superior merit have been, in straitened circumstances and unhappy in their minds, against whom this heartless lampoon was levelled; men, I dare say, endowed with the highest gift of genius and imagination, far above Horace's limited comprehension, and perhaps altogether "in advance of the age," who were thus held up to contempt by him because they did not happen to belong to his artificial school; nay, possibly were left by an ungrateful country to starvation and a garret, in consequence of his ridicule! Why, if he had had a spark of feeling about him, he might have known that a certain intenseness of thought, often producing eccentricities of deportment, is the natural and necessary companion of great genius. But because it seems some persons chose to play the

fool, going about in dirty shirts, with chins in a condition to make barbers inconsolable, endeavouring to cheat the world, in fact, with an affectation of poetical abstraction, Horace-unable to discriminate between the false and the true enthusiast—thinks proper to involve them all in one common anathema. There is no term of reproach however insulting that the does not employ against this most outraged tribe of men whom he calls mad poets; he compares them to persons under the visitation of the most odious diseases, the jaundice, the itch, &c., likens them in one place to baited bears, ready to devour everyone they meet; in another place, to bloodsuckers and vampyres! He even goes so far as to intimate that if one of them, while in the act of reciting some sublime poetry (dum sublimes versus ructetur is the insolent expression) should have the misfortune to stumble forwards into a ditch or well, he would by no means help him out, nor would not advise anybody to do so. He might exclaim "Heigho!" he says, as loud as he would, but in vain. "For," he adds, with unfeeling levity, "for aught I know, he might have done it on purpose, for sake of display, and to cut a figure in the newspapers, and I am sure I should be a great fool to save him against his will; besides if I did, I doubt much whether it would have the effect of reclaiming him, or making him behave himself like a gentleman, after all. He would go and commit suicide for glory some day, depend upon itbetter to let him die at once. Then, again, how can I tell what secret cause of remorse, what dreadful crime, may be at the bottom of all this? Take my word for it, people don't go poetising, that fashion, with nothing on their conscience." And then he goes on to insinuate things so scandalous, that I should be ashamed to translate them into the mother tongue. "Oh, no!" he says, "poets ought to be allowed to perish; every facility should be afforded them!!"-Now, I ask, is not all this very horrible? Is it not perfectly barbarous? Good God! this is the respect he pays to unfortunate merit! I should not wonder if he had to answer for the death of some poor fellow.

I begin now to suspect that Mævius and Bavius were men of genius, for the very reason that they were so run down, and by the persecuting spirit of Horace most of all. I dare say they were modest, retiring men of merit, too good for this contentious world, whose only fault was that they had not confidence enough, and could not combat against the insolence of their enemies, but suffered themselves to be sacrificed like meek and unresisting lambs at the altar of envy and abuse. Mævius, I can conceive, was a sort of Kirke White. No doubt he was a nervous and reserved youth, having the misfortune to combine a genius for poetry with too great a share of sensibility, and, alas! to know no Southey for a patron!

sea.

If I am right then in my estimate of Mævius, I leave the reader to imagine, for I am sure I cannot describe, how the unhappy man is likely to have been affected by that most inhuman ode of Horace which is addressed to him on the occasion of his going to As the most outrageous specimen of rancour, spite, and all uncharitableness, that ever found its way into iambic or any other metre, it is certainly a curiosity; and if I can spare a little time for the task, I will endeavour to give some idea of it in translation at the end of this paper. Horace, it may be observed, because he would have Mævius drowned, thinks nothing of drowning the whole crew besides! Oh, Horatius Flaccus! I would not be in your shoes, my boy, at the day of judgment for something!

But, to be serious,-as an orator once said to his audience, who not knowing that he had been facetious, were so startled by the expression as suddenly to come forth with the very laugh that ought to have

I, the Printer's Devil, have looked into Horace's Art of Poetry,' and I find the exclamation there is "Io!" and not "Heigho!"

"licet succurrite longum Clamet Io! cives," &c.

Surely the author of this article must be a Cockney, who does not know the sound of an h?-P.D.

overdrawn, yet it will be observed, it joins nothing of a comic sort to the rest of its features; so that we have the full scope of its inhuman meaning staring us in the face, without a single flower of wit or humour to conceal its nakedness. We generally find such a subject dressed up in the light strains of satire and raillery, or even more appropriately in the broad colours of burlesque, that however great the ill-will may be, it may at least be saved from the disgrace of barbarity; but here we have nothing of the kind, all appears to be downright and serious; like a man who takes up the gloves, as if in play, and then hits with all his might. It is written likewise with his usual elegance of language, rather elaborately, and with every grace and ornament of poetry to enhance its effect; this I think still more demonstrative of the unchristian spirit which dictated it, since it proves that he bestowed time and care upon it, and therefore wrote, not from the impulse of passion, but from the deliberation of enmity and malice prepense. Such is the original-let me intreat the reader to overlook the piece himself.

faults of the translation.

just subsided--but to be serious, then- Horace ! "with all thy faults I love thee still." Though thou art-first of all-a most dirty-minded individual, insomuch that

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'Through needles' eyes it easier for a camel is To pass, than certain cantos into families," though thou art, next of all, a most consummate coxcomb, and (didst sometimes write with such a spirit of affectation and conceit, that I only wonder some people were not tempted to toss the little man in a blanket to recall him to his senses, though, thirdly, the organ of intolerance and prejudice was somewhat freely developed on thy little sconce,—and though, lastly, thou didst oftentimes labour under many strange fancies and follies of thine own brewing,-yet, take thee for all in all, thou art a jewel, a jem; faithful as a friend, wise and judicious as an adviser, and, as a companion, indubitably the most delightful, affable, and fascinating in the world.

I am conscious of having amused myself here rather unscrupulously at the poet's expense, and that, like persons" on the other side of the house," I have been speaking all on one side of the question, and that the most favourable; so true it is, as our philosophical author himself observes

"Such is the nature of the human mind,

That what provokes our ridicule, we find We learn more soon, more gladly recollect,

" Than all that claims our praise or our respect. How gladly, if time and space permitted, would I atone for my impertinence, how cheerfully-not recant, but-compensate, by dwelling with the same attention and much more delight, upon the merits, charms and excellencies, general and peculiar, of the great lyrist. "Annihilate both space and time, ye Gods, and make two lovers happy," was the speech of some gentle Damon once, about full moon; so say I, for nothing could make me happier than to be able, at this very moment, to present a full and particular account, critical and analytical, of "the beauties" of Horace, as an appropriate set-off against this undutiful article. But alas! neither the pages of this Magazine, I apprehend, nor-gentle reader— your obliging patience is infinite, wherefore I must bring my speculations to a close.

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As a lyrical poet, Horace is unequalled for the elegance of his sentiments and expressions, the peculiar refinement of his language, and the polished ease and exquisite harmony of his numbers. As a satirist he displays an observation of human nature which without being profound or very philosophical, is replete with truth and justice; at the same time that he exhibits himself as a man of wit and a humourist, he never ceases to inculcate the love of virtue and the contempt of vice, and this, not unfrequently, in language so admirable, that we neither question the sincerity of his sentiments, nor refuse to acknowledge, that in the power of expressing them with force and eloquence, he has few superiors. As a critic, Horace is acute, knowing, full of good sense, full of judgment, overflowing with the love of his art, and most comfortably at home; but he neither displays much originality nor much depth of feeling. I believe him never to have experienced a grand emotion; never to have known a lofty passion. He had no natural pathos or sublimity; if a stray gleam flickers here or there, it emanates from a borrowed, not a native light. Hence his partial view of poetry, a view bounded by the horizon of authority, and seen through the mist of artificial restriction; hence his inability to clear from his eyes the fleshly film of this material world; hence his inordinate observance of the outward and perishable frame-work of poetry, and his want of capacity or desire to investigate its hidden principles; hence it is that he preferred playing in the sunshine, on the pleasant banks of the stream, rather than worship the solemn scenery at its fount.

With respect to the ode above-mentioned it is a very remarkable one; for although I think the description I have given of its infamous spirit is not at all "Discit enim citiùs, meminitque libentiùs illud

Quod quis deridet, quàm quod probat et veneratur,"

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EPODON LIBER.

ODE X. IN MEVIUM POETAM.

See from the port the luckless vessel glide,
That bears the wretched Mævius from our shores;
Oh! with thy fiercest blasts lashing the tide
On every side,
Remember South wind! sharply to invest,
Disperse the cables, East wind! and the oars,
Blow, North wind! join thy fury to the rest;
Such fury as the plains attest,
With many a riven oak bespread.
And when his stormy head-
The terror of our ships-
Orion dips,

Then may no friendlier star arise to save,
Nor win the soul a moment from despair,
But still the front of death be there.
Seas not less dreadful rave,

Than opened once an universal grave,
When the incensed Minerva, thunder-armed,
On Ajax and his impious crew
Dealt vengeance due.

Oh, then my Mævius I turn to you;
Your trembling lips apart and sore alarmed,
Methinks I see you then pale shivering stand. ↑
Yea, while the rest undaunted still essay
To keep the wrathful element at bay,
Shriek loudly with dishonourable fear.
And when your shattered bark no more can stay
The hoarse Ionian's rage, you all unmann'd
With clamorous prayers assail the Thunderer's ear,
Who turns his ear away!
Oh! that we soon may hear

Your bones lie rotting on some foreign strand,
Within the searching raven's ken;

Then to the tempest's praise,
A temple will I raise;

The goat, the lamb-what sacrifice too dear
When Gods accord such happiness to men ?—:
Shall reek upon the altar then.*

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CHARACTERS OF SHAKSPEARE'S PLAYS.

BY WILLIAM HAZLITT.

NO. VII.-JULIUS CÆSAR.

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JULIUS CESAR was one of three principal plays by different authors, pitched upon by the celebrated Earl of Halifax to be brought out in a splendid manner by subscription, in the year 1707. The other two were the King and No King' of Fletcher, and Dryden's Maiden Queen.' There perhaps might be political reasons for this selection, as far as regards our author. Otherwise, Shakspeare's Julius Cæsar' is not equal, as a whole, to either of his other plays taken from the Roman history. It is inferior in interest to Coriolanus,' and both in interest and power to Antony and Cleopatra.' It however abounds in admirable and affecting passages, and is remarkable for the profound knowledge of character, in which Shakspeare could scarcely fail. If there is any exception to this remark, it is in the hero of the We do not much admire the representation here given of Julius Cæsar, nor do we think it answers to the portrait given of him in his Commentaries. He makes several vapouring and rather pedantic speeches, and does nothing. Indeed, he has nothing to do. So far the fault of the character might be the fault of the plot.

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The spirit with which the poet has entered at once into the manners of the common people, and the jealousies and heart-burnings of the different factions, is shown in the first scene, when Flavius and Marullus, tribunes of the people, and some citizens of Rome, appear upon the stage.

"FLAVIUS. Thou art a cobler, art thou?

COBLER. Truly, sir, all that I live by is the awl: I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor woman's matters, but with-al, I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I recover them.

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FLAVIUS. But wherefore art not in thy shop to day? Why do'st thou lead these men about the streets?

COBLER. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Cæsar, and rejoice in his triumph."

To this specimen of quaint low humour immediately follows that unexpected and animated burst of indignant eloquence, put into the mouth of one of the angry tribunes.

"MARULLUS. Wherefore rejoice! quest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive-bonds his chariot-wheels? Oh you heard hearts, you cruel men of Rome! Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you I climbed up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,. Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The live-long day, with patient expectation, To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome : And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made a universal shout, That Tiber trembled underneath his banks To hear the replication of your sounds, Made in his concave shores?

What con

And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out an holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way

That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?

Begone

Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the Gods to intermit the plague, That needs must light on this ingratitude."

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The well-known dialogue between Brutus and Cassius, in which the latter breaks the design of the conspiracy to the former, and partly gains him over to it, is a noble piece of high-minded declamation. Cassius's insisting on the pretended effeminacy of Cæsar's character, and his description of their swimming across the Tiber together, "once upon a raw and gusty day," are among the finest strokes in it. But perhaps the whole is not equal to the short

cause and the assistance of others. Thus it has
always been. Those who mean well themselves
think well of others, and fall a prey to their security.
That humanity and sincerity which dispose men to
resist injustice and tyranny render them unfit to
cope with the cunning and power of those who are
opposed to them. The friends of liberty trust to
the professions of others, because they are themselves
sincere, and endeavour to secure the public good with
the least possible hurt to its enemies, who have no
regard to anything but their own unprincipled ends,
and stick at nothing to accomplish them. Cassius
was better cut out for a conspirator. His heart
prompted his head. His habitual jealousy made him
fear the worst that might happen, and his irritability
of temper added to his inveteracy of purpose, and sharp-
ened his patriotism. The mixed nature of his motives
made him fitter to contend with bad men.
vices are never so well employed as in combating one
another. Tyranny and servility are to be dealt with
after their own fashion: otherwise they will triumph
over those who spare them, and finally pronounce
their funeral panegyric, as Antony did that of
Brutus.

The

scene which follows when Cæsar enters with his train.

"BRUTUS. The games are done, and Cæsar is returning.

CASSIUS. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the
sleeve,

And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you
What has proceeded worthy note to day.

BRUTUS. I will do so; but look you, Cassius-
The angry spot doth glow on Cæsar's brow,
And all the rest look like a chidden train.
Calphurnia's cheek is pale; and Cicero
Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes,
As we have seen him in the capitol,

Being crost in conference by some senators.
CASSIUS. Casca will tell us what the matter is.
CESAR. Antonius-

ANTONY. Cæsar?

CESAR. Let me have men about me that are fat,
Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep a-nights:
Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look,
He thinks too much; such men are dangerous.
ANTONY. Fear him not, Cæsar, he's not dan-

gerous:

He is a noble Roman, and well given.
CESAR. Would he were fatter; but I fear him
not:

Yet if my name were liable to fear,

I do not know the man I should avoid

So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much;
He is a great observer; and he looks
Quite through the deeds of men. He loves no plays,
As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music :
Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort,
As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit
That could be mov'd to smile at any thing.
Such men as he be never at heart's ease,
Whilst they behold a greater than themselves;
And therefore are they very dangerous.
I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd
Than what I fear; for always I am Cæsar.
Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf,
And tell me truly what thou think'st of him."

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We know hardly any passage more expressive of the genius of Shakspeare than this. It is as if he had been actually present, had known the different characters and what they thought of one another, and had taken down what he heard and saw, their looks, words, and gestures, just as they happened.

The character of Mark Antony is farther speculated upon where the conspirators deliberate whether he shall fall with Cæsar. Brutus is against it

"And for Mark Antony, think not of him: For he can do no more than Cæsar's arm, When Cæsar's head is off.

CASSIUS. Yet do I fear him:

For in th' ingrafted love he bears to Cæsar-
BRUTUS. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him:
If he love Cæsar, all that he can do

Is to himself, take thought, and die for Cæsar:
And that were much, he should; for he is giv'n
To sports, to wildness, and much company.
TREBONIUS. There is no fear in him; let him
not die:

For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter."
They were in the wrong; and Cassius was right.

The honest manliness of Brutus is however sufficient to find out the unfitness of Cicero to be included in their enterprize, from his affected egotism and literary vanity.

“Oh, name him not: let us break with him; For he will never follow anything,

That other men begin."

His scepticism as to prodigies and his moralising on the weather" This disturbed sky is not to walk in "—are in the same spirit of refined imbecility. Shakspeare has in this play and elsewhere shown the same penetration into political character and the springs of public events as into those of every-day life. For instance, the whole design to liberate their country fails from the generous temper and overweening confidence of Brutus in the goodness of their

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The quarrel between Brutus and Cassius is managed
in a masterly way. The dramatic fluctuation of pas-
sion, the calmness of Brutus, the heat of Cassius,
are admirably described; and the exclamation of
Cassius, on hearing of the death of Portia, which he
does not learn till after their reconciliation, "How
'scap'd I killing when I crost you so?" gives double
force to all that has gone before. The scene between
Brutus and Portia, where she endeavours to extort
the secret of the conspiracy from him, is conceived
in the most heroical spirit, and the burst of tender-
ness in Brutus-

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the dignity of the Roman senator with the firmness of the Stoic philosopher. But what is perhaps better than either, is the little incident of his boy, Lucius, falling asleep over his instrument, as he is playing to his master in his tent, the night before the battle. Nature had played him the same forgetful trick once before on the night of the conspiracy. The humanity of Brutus is the same on both occasions.

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We cannot help thinking this graceful familiarity
better than all the formality in the world. The
truth of history in Julius Caesar' is very ably worked
up with dramatic effect. The councils of generals,
the doubtful turns of battles are represented to the
life. The death of Brutus is worthy of him-it has

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Having stained his youth by flagitious conduct, and suffered, from an injured husband, a punishment which added ridicule to the smart of retributive justice; having hurried, by violence and vexation, an aged father to the grave; from the pangs of selfaccusation, and the resentment of his fellow citizens, he fled into Palestine, a country which once proved a scourge, and afterwards gave a Saviour to the world.

A wanderer, unsettled in life and wavering in opinion, he degenerated into a character not uncommon in modern times, a violent declaimer against those pleasures which he wanted inclination or ability to taste.

At length, stimulated by compunction, novelty, or poverty, he sought repose for mental inquietude in the bosom of Christianity, which first sprung up in the Roman province of Judea, where Peregrinus for a short time resided.

"They are all welcome.

What watchful cares do interpose themselves
Betwixt your eyes and night? ;

But neither the habits nor disposition of the pro

selyte were calculated for fulfilling the conditions of

CASSIUS. Shall I entreat a word? [They whisper.]
DECIUS. Here lies the east: doth not the day

affords no gratification to sensuality, selfishness, or
a dispensation which enjoins purity of life, and
vanity. His conversion exposed him to the reli-

break here? CASCA. NO.

CINNA. O pardon, sir, it doth; and yon grey lines, gious banter of Lucian, who, however well founded

That fret the clouds, are messengers of day.

CASCA. You shall confess, that you are both
deceiv'd:

his suspicions might be as to the mercenary motives
of Peregrinus, evidently mistakes, in his attacks on
the Christian religion, the Mosaic ritual, for the
milder and more cheering doctrines of Christ.

Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises,
Which is a great way growing on the south,
Weighing the youthful season of the year,
Some two months hence, up higher toward the north
He first presents his fire, and the high east
Stands as the capitol, directly here."

Apparently sincere in his professions, he was anxious for the comforts of hope and forgiveness which revelation holds forth to repentant sinners, and received considerable relief from the devout zeal of his patrons, who, estimating the value of their acquisition by the enormity of their transgressions, sympathized with their sorrows, and were edified by his discourses, in which he adorned the doctrines of the gospel by figures, allusions, and expressions, borrowed from the various dialects and elegant mythology of the Greeks.

The sarcasms of the satirist, or the imprudence of the convert, gradually opened the eyes of the Christians; his moderation and abstemiousness were found to be only assumed, for the purpose of impressing on the world an opinion of his superior sanctity, while his non-compliance with the customs of the world was discovered to be a most arrogant and assuming species of pride, which rudely sets at defiance the established opinions and general sense of mankind.

To attract notice at all risks, and to become the subject of general conversation, was the ruling pas

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