Hitherto the instances have been few, in which it has spoken the truth to either. This subject is extensive, and it may be resumed. The literary resources of England are of incalculable variety, opulence, and vigour. The number and talent of her public writers, admirable as a class, and as such fully justifying her claim to a new Augustan age, may give but a faint impression of the means which she hides within her bosom for the day of soliciting her treasures. What she now shows, are perhaps but the indications, the jutting fragments of silver that are to lead the eye to the inexhaustible ore buried in the caverns of the intellectual Potosi. For the general purposes of the Association, it has been determined, 1. To establish a Fund, by the voluntary contributions of the members, at such rate as each individual may think fit. 2. To appoint a Committee for conducting the business of the Society. 3. To adopt a system of Correspondence with those members who live at a distance, and with such Associations as may be willing to co-operate in promoting the same objects. The purpose of the plan is beyond all praise. It has already succeeded in obtaining a large portion of public confidence, and the diffusion of the principle may be among the highest hopes of national preservation. POEMS BY THOMAS GENT, ESQ.* ed jest, and unwearied ridicule of the affected-the common-place and the presuming, has hitherto had no successor, or has found it in the present writer. None of the poems before us are in the peculiar measure of that ingenious profligate; but our impression is strong that Mr Gent would be secure of popularity in that career. THIS is a collection of verses, chiefly tone of written wit, and he evades the of the lighter kind, on the various oc- grossness that is the besetting sin of casions that stimulate writers who have humorous poetry, with the tact of a other employment in the world than gentleman. It would be no honour to the discussion of their own objects and inherit the morals or the manners of opinions, under the form of couplets or Peter Pindar's poetry; but its humour stanzas. Mr Gent's brief and neat pre--that natural quaintness, unlabourface tells us something of this, in his allusion to previous publications. "I cannot omit this opportunity of thanking those writers who have honoured me by reviewing my verses. I owe them my warm acknowledgments for measuring my poems by their pretensions. They have looked at them as they really were-as the amusements of the leisure hours of a man, whose fortune will not favour his inclination to devote himself to poetry; and, conceiving a favourable opinion of them in that character, have kindly expressed it." There are sixty of those poems in the volume; and they of course give considerable opportunity for display. A few graver topics are honoured with an occasional sonnet; and there are some very graceful and expressive stanzas to the memory of the Princess Charlotte, a sainted memory, and worthy of all the offerings of national sorrow and national genius. But the writer's spirit scems to turn with a natural propensity, to the joyous and the poignant. His sallics are in that style of lively simplicity which is perhaps the true We give our extracts as the book opens. The very first poem supplies an instance of the sly and easy satire of the author's vein. It is a lucubration on the dreams of an inexperienced candidate for the laurel. After some lines in which the young aspirant details his ambition, he thus proceeds to enjoy its fruits in vision :— Then while my name runs ringing through reviews, And maids, wives, widows, smitten with my muse, Assail me with platonic billet doux ; Shall shew the whole nobility my friends; * 12mo. Warren, Old Bond Street. That happy host with whom I chuse to dine, Shall make set parties, give his choicest wine; And age and infancy shall gape to see, Whene'er I walk the street, and whisper, "That is he !" Poor youth! he prints and wakes, to sleep no more, The world goes on indifferent as before; And the first notice of his metric skill Comes in the likeness of his printer's bill; To pen soft notes, no fair enthusiast stirs, Except his laundress, and who values her's? None but herself; for though the bard may burn Her note, she still expects one in return. The luckless maiden, all unblest shall sigh; His pocket tome hath drawn his pocket dry; His tragedy expires in peals of laughter; And that soul-thrilling wish to live hereafter, Gives way to one as hopeless quite, I fear, And far more needful-how to live while here. Where are ye now, divine illusions all! Cheques, dinners, tomes, admirers great and small! Chang'd to two followers, terrible to see, Who dog him when he walks, and whisper, "That is he." The subject of the following extract is rather citizenish, for it is nothing more remote or romantic than Hornsey Wood, eminent for tea-gardens and trellises, and all the calamitous clippings of shears, educated east of Temple-Bar. Yet there is beauty in trees, and green shrubs, however they may be tortured, and the poet for a while discusses their captivations with obvious partiality. He then runs into pleasant ry. Oh! ye who pine in London smoke immur'd, With spirits wearied, and with pains uncur'd, With all the catalogue of city evils, Colds, asthmas, rheumatism, coughs, blue devils! Who bid each bold empiric roll in wealth, Who drains your fortunes, while he saps your health; So well ye love your miry streets and lanes, Ye court your ailments and embrace your pains. And scarce ye know, your spectacles between, If corn be yellow, or if grass be green. Why leave ye not your smoke-obstructed holes, With wholesome air to cheer your sickly souls ? In scenes where Health's bright goddess wakes the breeze, Floats on the stream, and fans the whisp'ring trees, dare, Nor" waste his sweetness on the desert air," But when, electric on th' astonish'd wight, Retreats" to ponder on the thing he is." cur'd. But critics, hear! an angel pleads for me, That tongueless, ten-tongued cherub-Modesty. THIS Novel consists chiefly of a se ries of adventures, which are supposed to befal the natural son of a Sicilian actress. It takes its name from the events of the story being connected with the earthquake which destroyed Messina. The general outline of the story is well conceived; but, owing to a want of that progressive interest experienced, when the mutual derivation of events is all along made sufficiently intelligible to the reader, the pleasure felt in the perusal of the book as a narration, is not in proportion to the merit of the outline. The incidents are often trivial and disagreeable, and have an excessive tendency towards scenes of mere horror and disgust, which have no alliance to the nobler emotions of tragic horror and pity, but are only shocking like night-mare dreams. For, the pic ture of what is painful and terrible to be contemplated, is only valuable in proportion, as the shock awakens the mind to the internal feeling of moral truth and beauty. But many scenes of this Novel are fitted to produce that effect. It does not corrupt the mind by dwelling upon the delights of the passions, but hastens throughout to shew the ruin they produce. The design of 'the book seems to be to shew the mental degradation and perplexity produced by guilt, and to exemplify the painful commotions of a spirit naturally generous, but which has lost as it were its moral freedom by the commission of crimes. The mind of Castagnello, the hero, is seen alternately struggling to rise into integrity and nobler hope, and again drawn back into dismal opa city by the predominance of sensual habits, despondency, and downwardtending passions. But the tone is too desponding throughout, and, if the ascendancy of good in the mind of Castagnello had ultimately been greater, the moral would have been better. Throughout the narrative, there frequently occur observations not only original and indicative of earnest thought, but also finely expressed, and the whole narration shews an ample power of expression. The chief fault is the want of scenes directly agreeable to the imagination, and of a more interesting progression in the incidents. The following quotation is from the conclusion. "We have simply endeavoured to delineate a character not uncommon in the world; who abandoning himself to the impulses of passion, unchecked by any impressed sentiment or principle, yet in the main possessed of the rudiments of many virtues, acts throughout life, with as little self-respect, and equally exposed to ignomi"y, as the libertine, who is as it were natu rally vicious and artificially fraudulent. "It is wicked to palliate crime, (as it has been done in some instances, with wonderful success, by German authors, of surprising talent) and it is not a good taste that would ingraft interest on any fiction, by adopting incidents calculated to revolt the common sympathies of mankind, as in some late instances nearer home has been the case; but it cannot be detrimental to a jutinctive characteristics of guilt and error. In dicious benevolence, to discriminate the disthe foregoing pages, Castagnello appears to have touched the edge of the grossest iniquities, and in more than one instance to have been spared from the commission of A Tale; by the author of "The Ayrshire Legatees," 3 vols. 12mo. William Blackwood, Edinburgh; and T. Cadell and W. Davies, London, crime, by the intervention of circumstances over which he had no controul. But in all these particular situations, we have endeavoured to mark the difference between the error of yielding to temptation, and the viciousness of seeking opportunities to sin. We conceive it quite probable indeed, that there may be many in the world for whose misconduct it would be difficult to find any excuse, and yet who retain in their outcast condition the materials and ruins of a better nature. The wildest flights of guilt are often dictated by the despair of virtue, and victims have been consigned to disgrace and punishment by their own sense of humiliation, when the world, even with all its severity, was disposed to overlook their offences. There is no judge, perhaps, so austere, as the indignant conscience of a generous and ingenuous mind; and we know not how often, when we condemn and exclude the wild and reckless, as unworthy of confidence and as traitors to indulgence, we ought rather to court them into a belief that they are less in fault, than their own high notions of purity and honour suggest. "But in proportion to the tenderness which we would inculcate towards the errors that flow from circumstances and situation, is the austerity which we would claim against the propensities of inborn guilt. Few men have had any experience of life, without soon discovering that the world really contains cha racters intrinsically bad, whose very observance of the rites of religion and the obligations of the law, in which they sometimes greatly excel, is a proof either of their consciousness of the evil in themselves, or of that evil being actively in operation to procure the sinister advantages sometimes attained by hypocrisy. Between such characters and the thoughtless, the imprudent, or the passionate, there is an immeasurable difference; and, if we have exhibited the adventures of Castagnello, conceiving that he illustrated the extremest case of the latter class, more fully than those of Corneli, which we have thrown into the back ground, it is because it can never be favourable to correct moral impressions, to excite sympathy towards the condition or the feelings of the criminal, who sacrifices himself untempted. But the moral tendency of a tale or a drama is the last thing considered by a reader; and if we have failed to interest, we cannot presume to hope that we shall be able to instruct; or expect to redeem by general reflections and metaphysical distinctions, the defects of our narrative, or the want of portraiture in our characters." Castagnello is the natural son of an English nobleman, and owing to the situation of his mother, a Sicilian actress, is educated from the beginning in habits and pleasures above his station. Being sent to Rome with a recommenVOL. VIII. dation to Cardinal Albano, he there learns all the modes of dissipation common among the youth of the nobility, so that it soon becomes necessary for the Cardinal to find him a place in the Austrian army. There he rises in esteem and in rank, till it is discovered that he is the son of an actress; after which the officers, according to the aristocratical feelings prevailing in the German army, consider him as an unworthy companion, and he finds his situation so disagreeable that he leaves the regiment. He then goes to Paris where he falls into habits of gaming, and accidentally meets with Bellina, a lady of rank, whom he had formerly loved as his foster sister in childhood. But his visits to her, although innocent, excite the jealousy of her husband; and, one night, after having been completely ruined at the gaming table, his intemperate behaviour at the house of Bellina, causes him to be driven out into the street by her husband and domestics. He then, in despair, embarks for the Fast Indies. He is wrecked on the coast of Africa, and afterwards meets with adventures, which are neither amusing nor at all connected with the story. From Africa coming to Malta, he becomes one of the Knights of St John, and intrigues with the mistress of another member of that holy order. A quarrel ensues, and, the affair becoming public, Castagnello is for the scandal banished from Malta. He then, with some others of the Maltese knights, also banished, goes to Sicily and they become robbers, and have their haunt among the ruins of ancient Selinus. Here an unfortunate Countess Corneli falls into their hands. Her husband, soon after her marriage, wishing to be released again from the bonds of matrimony, had consigned her during her illness to the abbess of a Sicilian convent, to be kept as an insane person, that Count Corneli might act as if she were no longer alive. She, however, escapes from the convent, and in travelling towards the residence of one of her relations, she is deserted by the persons who accompanied her, and falls into the hands of the robbers. Here some scenes ensue in the old-fashioned style of Mrs Radcliffe. They are, however, neither amusing nor written with much taste. The robbers also take Count Corneli, who by accident is travelling that way. But the robbers them 3 L selves are seized by a troop from Palermo. So the husband is again burdened with his wife. The robbers are brought to trial and convicted; but Castagnello is fortunately pardoned at the intercession of an English traveller, Lord Wildwaste. This nobleman turns out to be brother of Castagnello, by the same father, who after leaving his mistress the actress, had gone home and married in England. From Lord Wildwaste Castagnello receives pecuniary assistance. He then resolves upon going to Palermo, and travels thither with a young Sicilian, who had been formerly schoolmaster and poet in a village, but now wishes to try his fortune as a dramatic poet in Palermo. Here Castagnello, being seized with his former passion for gaming, induces poor Salpano, the young poet, to accompany him to the gaming table to look on. Castagnello, finding Lord Wildwaste in Palermo, is engaged for some days with him. Afterwards, upon inquiring after Salpano, he cannot find him at their lodgings. At last he discovers him dying in a miserable house. Salpano had lost all his pittance at the gaming table, and having wandered afterwards through Palermo in a state of wretchedness, till hunger overpowered him, he was carried dying into the house of a charitable mechanic. Castagnello witnesses his death. "The old man gave the following account of Salpano. "About a fortnight ago, Signor, as I was one evening sitting at my door smoaking a segar, and thinking on my past life, as I always do at the close of the day, wondering by what strange turns of fortune I have been so long provided with the means of living, though but in a stinted measure, a young man, with a box under his arm, passed by, with a quick pace and a wild look. Our street is narrow, and it is closed at the one end. He went to that end, and turned back evidently more agitated than before. His appearance struck me: he had a simple recluse look, and he was evidently in great distress. Friend, said I, you seem to have lost your way, and you appear very tired; rest yourself a little beside me, and I will afterwards set you right. At these words he came towards me like a lost dog, that has found one whom he would like for a master. He placed his box on the ground, and taking hold of my hand, kissed it with the reverence of a sinner to a saint. "Where are you going?' said I: but he answered not; he only shook his head, and expanding his arms, looked the very picture of one woe-begone, and wild with despair. Are you a Sicilian?" for I thought he was some stranger, who understood not our language, and at these words he cried, I was, but I know not what I am now! I am lost! I am friendless! Heaven has deserted me: I can only now die.' "I spoke to him kindly, and requested him to sit down beside me, which he did as if he knew not what he was doing, and began to sob and weep bitterly. This, Signor, was very unmanly, but yet at the time, it seemed more to come from the simplicity of his heart than the weakness of his character. "I inquired into the cause of his grief, and he replied, in an incoherent manner, 'O! ask me not-I have been enchanted -I have been in bad company-Satan has had dominion over me-the powers of heaven and hell have been at war with me, and between them I have been lost, for I am innocent of any crime, and yet I am ruined for ever. My fame is destroyed in the bud; the harvest of my glory cut off in the blight that has fallen on my opening! "I allowed him to run on in this manner, until he had so exhausted himself, that he, in consequence, became calmer, and I at gaming table, to which he had been allured to return, in the fallacious hope of recovering his first losses. I invited him to stop all night in my house, and tried what I could to sooth his distress, and appease the upbraidings of his own mind, but without success. Benevolence, however, obliged me to constrain him to remain, but no effort of kindness could recal him from the despondency into which he had fallen. last learnt that he had lost his little all at the I became alarmed for the unhappy youth, for he did nothing but wring his hands, and give way to his forebodings. All the night he lay wakeful, sighing, and wretched; and in the morning, when he rose, instead of being interested by the objects to which the day-light gave cheerfulness, he sat in an obscure corner, dropped his clasped hands between his legs, and hung his head in a state of the most deplorable dejection. "This could not endure long. Towards the afternoon his lips became parched, and his face flushed with fever: a draught of cold water was all he could taste, and with scarcely more sustenance he has continued in the same state ever since; but nature is exhausted; the oil of life is burnt out, and the lamp, by pale and feeble flashes, shows that it will soon expire.' "The old man had, during this narration, conducted Castagnello to his door. Tread softly,' said he, as you enter, lest you disturb the last moments of the miserable youth.' 66 Castagnello needed no admonition to do this. His own feelings were wrought up |
