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catastrophe of Lady Leicester is only amplified from a work called Leicester's Commonwealth,' published in 1584, and attributed to Lord Burliegh. In this old book we find the following passage.

'For first his lordship hath a speciall fortune, that when he ' desireth any woman's favour, then what person soever standeth in his way, hath the luck to dye quickly, for the finishing of 'his desire. As for example, when his lordship was in full hope 'to marry her majesty, and his own wife stood in his light, as he supposed; he did but send her aside to the house of his servante 'Forster of Cumner bye Oxforde, where shortlye after she had 'the chance to fall from a paire of staires, and so to breake her 'necke, but yet without hurting her hood which stood upon her 'head. But Sir Richard Varney, who bye commandment, re'mained with her that day alone, with one man onely, and had 'sent away perforce all her servantes from her to a market two 'miles off, he (I say) with his man, can tell how she dyed; which 'man being taken afterwards for a felony in the marches of 'Wales, and offering to publish the manner of the said murder, 'was made away privily in the prison and Sir Richard himselfe 'dying about the same time in London, cryed piteously and 'blasphemed God, and said to a gentleman of worship of mine 'acquaintance, not long before his death, that all the devils in 'hell did tear him to pieces. The wife also of Bald Butler, 'kinsman to my lord, gave out the whole fact a little before her ' death.'

The old ballad of "Leicester's Ghost" contains also an allusion to the same incident.

'My wife she fell downe a paire of staires,

'And breake her necke and so at Conmore dyed,
'Whilst her true servantes led with small affaires,
Unto a fayre at Abingdon dide ryde,

"This dismall happ did to my wife betyde,
"Whether ye call yt chance or destinie,

'Too true yt is she did untimelye dye.'

Our author has, however, very judiciously cleared Liecester from being an intentional accessory to the murder of his wife.

To conclude these remarks: after a candid survey of the merits of the work—and they are many-we wish that Kenilworth had not been published, or, at least, that the publication had been deferred. The author would not, probably, have then introduced the use of mahogany, a century before it was known in England,―or have used the word unscrupulous, which does not belong to the English language. He would have had leisure, to expunge, or alter, the character of the Alchymist; to give more honour to Leicester, and less coarseness to his queen; and

perhaps he might have been more merciful to Amy-or, if she was to die, awarded her a less shocking death. In allowing himself time, he would have corrected the faults, while he retouched the beauties, of his work, and rendered it more worthy the name of the author of Waverley. In short, (as Goldsmith advises critics to pronounce their judgment,) if he had taken more pains, he would have made a better picture.

ARTICLE IX.

PERIODICAL LITERATURE.

Ir is observed in an English Magazine, of some note, that the general diffusion of intelligence through all ranks in England is astonishing; and the editor proceeds to assert, in the triumph of his heart, that a newspaper theatrical critique would put to shame the most elaborate efforts of Johnson on Shakspeare. We have long mourned over the oblivion to which this author seems to be consigned: we have perceived with regret that Addison is no longer a model, and that the Rambler lies neglected on the shelf; and, more in sorrow than in anger, we must take up the cudgels in defence of those old friends, whom we have heard old-fashioned critics rank among the benefactors of literature.

We are very willing to admit, and rejoice in, the fact of that out-spreading of knowledge which is to be perceived, not only in England, but throughout the world. The great number of Reviews, Magazines, and periodical publications-many of them excellent-all above mediocrity-attest the existence of a vast fund of talent in England. But it is second rate talent. When we have named one celebrated groupe, we come to the Colmans the Keats, and the many worthies who swell their list. We do not mean to decry the talents of these writers-we think that they embellish society, and give grace and spirit to light reading -but it is not the productions of such minds that will vie with the works of Johnson and Addison. It were as proper to compare the beautiful, but shallow and sounding cascade which adorns a summer landscape, to one of our majestic, silent, and deep lakes, whose bosom reflects the image of heaven, and whose waves convey from man to man the necessaries and luxuries of life.

Is it a theatrical critique like this, (and this is a fair specimen,) that would put Addison to shame ?

Macready's personation of the noble-hearted outlaw, (Rob Roy,)

though it does not exhibit the more poetical qualities of his acting, has a spell to make the heart gush with strange joy, and to moisten parched eyes with unwonted tears. The power of hills' is visibly upon him. His step, his air, his lofty bearing, are not less than those of a prince-but of a prince who has long had the rocky caves for his pavilion, the heather-clad mountain for his throne, and the brave o'erhanging firmament, fretted with golden fire,' for his canopy."

·

-Or are the graceful, but superficial productions of the Hermit in London, to take precedence of the religion, the morality, the exquisite polish, and the delicate ridicule, of the Spectator? Dr. Johnson, while his cumbrous diction fatigues the ear, rises a giant above our modern authors, in nervousness of expression and strength of thought. The weak points of his character have been the subject of much derision; and men, while they allowed his superior excellence, have taken a secret pleasure in lowering him to their own level. Thanks to the cruel friendship of Boswell-this feeling has been amply gratified. No man was ever a hero to his valet-and never was valet more au fait in his master's domestic concerns, than is the whole world in those of Johnson. The minute details of a long life are laid open-the casual irritations of a moment, accurately numbered-thoughts spoken in confidence, produced in public: not even his devotions were sacred-much less so his imperfections. Few men, we fear, would stand this severe ordeal as well as he did we may smile at his superstition-pity the occasional feebleness of judgment which have been so fondly recorded—but we must reverence the piety and benevolence which breathed through all his actions.

It may not be amiss, at this moment, to take a cursory glance at the merits of some of the principal Reviews and Magazines produced by this prolific age-which find their way alike to the study of the learned and the toilette of the fashionable. At the head of these works stands confessedly the Edinburgh Review. This Review has done much for the cause of literature-not in discovering any important truth, or unfolding new ideas-but in giving circulation to the discoveries of others, and in tempting those indolent readers who might be startled by a bulky volume, to reap the benefit of the reviewer's labours in a more condensed form. It cannot be denied, however, that it has been too often led from its high intents, by party spirit or private prejudice. Mr. Jeffrey possesses a keen and penetrating mind: the acuteness he displays in dividing the right from the wrong, and the decision with which he adopts the one and rejects the other, inspire his readers with a confidence in his judgment, which is, we think, seldom unfounded-and is, probably, the great source of his popularity.

His merits are, however, shaded by a cold, sneering manner and a flippant petulance; which, at twenty-five, might have been considered a youthful foible, but, at fifty, must meet with less excuse. Mr. Jeffrey's bearing towards America, and American writers, has been unfriendly and uncandid. It may be thought unforgiving to renew this charge, and sullen to remember abuse which has been atoned for: Without feeling any useless irritation or prejudice on this subject, we must assert that the idea of Mr J.'s atoning to America, is the most insulting which has yet been thrown out. Does this gentleman, or any other English writer, imagine, that after twenty years continued revilings, unfounded calumnies, and distorted representation-the languid praise of one author, and the trashy (to borrow their own phrase) and specious review of another, can cancel reiterated offences ?-as a child, who, after swallowing an unpleasant dose, has a sugar plum given him to take the bitter taste from his mouth. It is not such affected and sarcastic praise, as that bestowed upon the Sketch Book, which we seek,-not that we object that the praise is too sparing—but, that the manner in which it is bestowed, savours too much of condescension. Mr. Walsh's book has been pronounced a tedious one, the contest he entered into, unprofitable; and it has been regretted that he has spent his time and talents in widening a breach which the impartial of both countries must deplore: Still he has brought forward some stubborn facts. It may be said that the retaliating principle upon which he acts, is neither good nor dignified; yet in the prosecution of his plan, he has unquestionably succeeded. He has judged England from the words of her mouth, and brought her own writers to prove her corruptions, he has exhibited a well attested catalogue of evils and crimes, which should cause her sons not only to grieve, but to blush for having reviled other countries. All Mr. Jeffrey's specious words, affected candour, and magnanimous concession, cannot put down this "plain-tale." But the faults of other countries carry with them no consolation or excuse for those of our own. We are aware that America is no Utopia-that her inhabitants have their full share of the evil propensities inherent in mankind-that her constitution, being formed by men, must have its defects-that its administration is often imperfect. We do not contend that our generals are all magnanimous, or that our lawgivers are Solons. We allow that we have not, and we thank God for not possessing, that luxurious refinement-that excess of civilization, which enervates the nobility of England, and lessens the purity of its daughters. To close this confession, we acknowledge that we have inherited from John Bull, his vainglorious disposition-have caught his habit of boasting; and we think he will allow it is no boast to add, that we possess enough of his own strength of arm

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to excuse a little of his own blustering. A fair representation of facts-an unprejudiced view and candid construction of them -is all that America demands, but in vain, from English writers. Mr. Jeffrey has been much blamed by some of his countrymen, for his treatment of Wordsworth. His remarks on this author have been sometimes petulant; but while he has censured the poet's extravagant affectation, he has not failed to give him due credit for genius. There is no reason why a man who writes absurdly should not be laughed at-or, if he perverts great powers, should not be censured. Mr. Wordsworth's friends could scarcely require Mr. Jeffrey to keep his countenance in reading "Betty Joy," or desire him gravely to criticise the sailing expedition of blind Harry, (we believe that was the urchin's name,) who went to sea in a washing tub. The prophesy contained in the Edinburgh Review concerning Lord Byron, was certainly unfortunate; but the work from which the inference was drawn, might have discouraged the hopes of less severe critics. It was impossible, during so long a career, to avoid the commission of many errors: But, though often fastidious, sometimes causelessly severe, the Edinburgh Review must be allowed to have been a vigilant guardian of the public taste.

The Edinburgh Review is not without a rival claimant for the throne of criticism. But though the Quarterly Review is a strong one, and Mr. Gifford is mighty in battle, we think the contest is unequal. The faults of the Edinburgh,-prejudice and party spirit, are committed in a fourfold degree in the Quarterly Review. Mr. Gifford is a man of high and unquestioned talent-but his pages have not that raciness of style, which gives such zest to those of his rival. To us, impartial Americans, -who act the part of posterity to English authors,-when we observe Mr. G.'s pertinacity in defending ministerial measures where there is no defence, the rancour with which he treats any unhappy dissenter from his creed, the unprovoked and unparalleled malice he bears towards hapless America; we cannot but suspect that he "has sold himself"-not to the devil-but to the powers that be. The pitiful spirit evinced in this Review, when speaking of America, is doubtless a disgrace to its pages. The most contemptible journalist is held up as an oracle, if he but speak of us-the most absurd fabrications are accredited, and the most trivial facts afford ground for the most palpable misconstructions. We should, however, consider that it is the reviewer's "vocation." It is for Mr. G. to consider, whether such apparent prostitution of talents and veracity does not tarnish a man's moral, as well as his literary character. We can readily understand why an Englishman loves to rail at France, and ridicule Frenchmen : he thinks it sounds like John Bull; and there have been many VOL. II.

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