Citoyen comme vous, sous la règle commune (A Valérie, en s'approchant d'elle.) METELLUS, entrant-Du peuple convoqué les diverses tribus SYLLA J'achève un grand destin, j'achève un grand ouvrage ; Ne m'accusez jamais dans la postérité, Romains, de vous avoir rendu la liberté!' The line, 'I'ai gonverné sans peur, et j'abdique sans crainte,' as it is supposed to be a pointed and direct allusion to the last political act of Napoleon, is received with tremendous applause. It is difficult to translate this line with precision, because the words peur and crainte are so nearly synonimous that the difference can only be appreciated by those who are intimately conversant with the language. The scene of the slumber and that of the abdication of the tyrant, are doubtless the best parts of the tragedy, and those upon which the author has bestowed the greatest labour. The character of Syila is that on which the whole plot hinges. When Sylla is withdrawn from the scene, the story languishes for want of interest; the tale of Faustus' friendship, Claudius' conspiracy, and Catiline's love, being not worthy even of the name of episodes. The poetry appears to us more than usually smooth and melodious, and the sentiments are seldom eked out into puerilities and frivolous dialogues, as too often happens even in the chef-d'œuvres of Racine, and the other boasted dramatists of the French. It has been remarked, that Talma, in the adjustment of his bair and dress, has endeavoured to imitate Napoleon in his imperial costume. The shade of his hair is black, small in quantity, cut close, and laid flat on every part of the head, the manner in which the emperor is said to have worn it. The neck, breast, and arms also, which are all left bare, remind the spectator, by their full and vigorous proportions, of the casts and busts of Napoleon. The general contour of Talma's face, too, is not unlike his. In fact, the engraving which represents Talma repeating the line just quoted, in order to render this similitude more exact, and to second the popular taste and feeling, has given him a prominent Roman nose, whereas it is in reality aquiline and rather small in proportion to his full oval face. ART. XI.-Bracebridge Hall, or The Humourists. A Medley, by Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. 2 vols. 8vo. pp. 690. C. S. Van Winkle, New-York, 1822. WE commenced the perusal of this work with no ordinary anticipations. We recollected that the author was not only an American, but a citizen of our own state. Our national pride, therefore, and our local partialities, were alike enlisted in his favour. We recollected too, that he had already been admired for the beauty and grace of his compositions, his humorous delineations of character, and the general simplicity of his style-and what was still more, that he had found favour in the eyes of the English literati, and had been tolerated, if not praised, by the Scotch Reviewers. We confess, also, that the appearance of the volumes, (two handsomely printed octavos,) and the price the author is said to have received for the manuscript, (to say nothing of the price of the volumes themselves,) had no little agency in excit ing our imagination as to the merits of the work. We took up the book, therefore, predisposed to admire, and almost predetermined to applaud. But a perusal, we are compelled to say, has in some measure shaken our faith, and abated the ardour of our feelings. But, let us not be misunderstood. The book has, indeed, fallen short of our expectations, but is nevertheless a very considerable book; and we doubt not, will be read by many with eagerness, if not with delight: For fashion is as arbitrary and as capricious in the library, as she is at the toilet, and often influences the mind, while she disfigures the body. If, however, we did not consider the work before us, as possessing a merit independent of fashion; as containing something to admire as well as to cen sure, we should suffer it to pass without the labour of a com ment. There was an error, we think, in not giving to it the name of its predecessor; for it is formed of the same sort of materials, and is in shape and character and substance the same. Bracebridge Hall is, indeed, nothing more nor less than a continuation of the Sketch Book. Its title, therefore, is injudicious. It leads the reader to anticipate something new; and, to the votaries of fashion at least, a disappointment, in that particular, is apt to be fa tal. It seems to be a conceded point, that the reputation of a living author cannot be stationary. He must advance in merit, or he will be supposed to decline. In other words, he cannot sustain his reputation, by barely equalling, in the same line of composition, that which he has already produced. He must either cultivate a new field, or produce a richer harvest from the old. Our author has done neither. And of this fact he appears to have been sensible. For in his introductory chapter, he anticipates no praise on the score of novelty; and endeavours to apologise for his travelling over beaten ground, and dwelling upon topics that are trite and common place, by urging his peculiar fondness for things "which he had read so much about in the earliest books, that had been put in his infant hands," and the overflowing delight, with which he contemplates every object of the old world, whether it be Fentern Abbey, Conway Castle, or Mr. Newberry's print shop! This introductory chapter, by the bye, is the worst in the whole book. It has too much of the nursery in it, too much of artificial feeling and laboured simplicity. I Is it possible, that in this world of books; in this age of genius and novelty, and prose and poetry, with all the antients upon our shelves, and all the moderns upon our tables; with Barthelemi and Fenelon and Cervantes and Le Sage and De Holstein, on the one hand, and Richardson and Fielding, and Smollet and Goldsmith, and Sterne and Brooke, and Burney and Ratcliffe, and Edgeworth, on the other; to say nothing of the Hoggs and Scotts and Campbells and Moores and Byrons, reposing in calf and kid upon our toilets and sofas ; nor of the piles and pyramids of Citizens and Spies and Spectators and Ramblers and Idlers and Adventurers, that stand covered with dust and darkness, in our closets-is it possible, we repeat, that in such an age, and in the midst of such a world of wit and worth and fancy and genius, we can be induced to read, much less to admire, such elaborate trifling, such important nothingness, as the following? Such, for instance, was the odd confusion of associations that kept breaking upon me as I first approached London. One of my earliest wishes had been to see it; I had heard so much of it in childhood; I had read so much about it in the earliest books that had been put in my infant bands; I was familiar with the names of its streets, and squares, and public places, before I knew those of my native city. It was, to me, the great centre of the world, round which every thing seemed to revolve. I recollect contemplating so wistfully, when a boy, a paltry little print of the Thames, and London Bridge, and St. Paul's, that was in front of a magazine; even the venerable wood-cut of St. John's gate, that has stood time out of mind on the title page of the Gentleman's Magazine, was not without its charms for me. How my bosom thrilled when the towers of Westminster Abbey were pointed out to me, rising above the rich groves of St. James' Park, with a thin blue haze about their gray pinnacles. 'I could not behold this great mausoleum of what is most illustrious in our paternal history without feeling all my enthusiasm in a glow; nor can I forbear to mention, on the other hand, the delightful, yet childish interest with which I first peeped into Mr. Newberry's shop in St. Paul's church yard; that fountain head of literature. Mr. Newberry was the first that ever filled my infant mind with the idea of a great and good man. He published all the picture books of the day, Tom Thumb's Folio, Giles Gingerbread, and Jack the Giant Killer; and out of his abundant love for children, he demanded nothing for the paper and print, and only a penny halfpenny for the binding!'-Vol. I. pp. 12, 13. We, however, owe it to justice to acknowledge, that the fact stated in the last sentence, viz. that " Mr. Newberry charged nothing for the paper, and only a halfpenny for the binding," was perfectly new to us. How it escaped D'Israeli, in his Curiosities of Literature, we know not, nor have we now time to inquire. It is impossible, we find, to give any thing like an abridgment, or summary of the work before us. It is neither a history, nor a tale, nor a poem; but possesses advantages unknown to either. It is, for instance, immaterial with which volume you commence, or at which end of the volume. It is a sort of series, or rather a given number, of sketches and descriptions of squires and maids and matrons and bachelors and lovesick girls and schoolmasters and priests and apothecaries and doctors and dogs; intermingled with stories, both long and short, having no other connexion than that of contiguity, and no other order than that of succession. The following extract will furnish the reader with all the information we possess, as to the ground work of the performance, and may perhaps throw some additional light upon the character of the book itself. The reader, if he has perused the volumes of the Sketch Book, will probably recollect something of the Bracebridge family, with which I once passed a Christmas. I am now on another visit to the Hall, having been invited to a wedding, which is shortly to take place. The Squire's second son, Guy, a fine spirited young captain in the army, is about to be married to his father's ward, the fair Julia Templeton. A gathering of relatives and friends has already commenced to celebrate the joyful occasion; for the old gentleman is an enemy to quiet, private weddings.' 6 The family mansion is an old manor house, standing in a retired and beautiful part of Yorkshire. Its inhabitants have been regarded through the surrounding country as the "great ones of the earth," and the little village near the Hall, looks up to the Squire with almost feudal homage. I am again quartered in the pannelled chamber, in the antique wing of the house. The prospect from my window, however, has quite a different aspect from that it wore on my winter visit. Though early in the month of April, yet a few warm sunshiny days have drawn forth the early beauties of the spring. The parterres of the old fashioned garden are already gay with flowers, and the gardener has brought out his exotics and placed them along the stone ballustrades. The trees are clothed with green buds and tender leaves; when I open my window I smell the odour of mignonette, and hear the hum of the bees from the flowers against the sunny wall; with the varied song of the throstle, and the notes of the tuneful little wren. While sojourning in this strong hold of old fashions, I shall be tempted to make some occasional sketches of the scenes and characters before me; mingled with anecdotes and remarks of what I have seen and thought and felt, in the course of my ramblings. In a word, I shall make use of the leisure which is now afforded me, to clear off the motley contents which are apt to accumulate in a traveller's portfolio.'-Vol. I. pp. 12, 19, and 20. es. From the number and variety of the characters introduced, and the acknowledged taste and humour of our author, the reader will naturally anticipate many fine heads and spririted sketchAnd he will not be altogether disappointed: there is some good painting, and many quaint, as well as humorous delineations. But we do think the author has, in a few instances, rather overstept the modesty of nature, and passed from the ludicrous to the absurd. He has certainly embellished his Hall with a number of coarse, if not fantastical portraits, the originals of which, if we mistake not, are much oftener to be met with in the decorations of a barber's shop, than in the walks of real life. They are, indeed, mere caricatures, and if as such they can please, we have no sort of objection. The following are samples: A pampered coachman, with a red face and cheeks that hang down like dew-laps.' |