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The admirable imitation of Cobbett in the Rejected Addresses ought, we think, to have warned the author off these premises. He has only succeeded in catching the coarsest feature of that popular writer-his vein of abuse: when he attempts any thing beyond it, he sinks into a mere plagiarist. A paper called "Grimm's Ghost" professes to be "by the other author of Rejected Addresses. We have read with pleasure some of Mr. James Smith's paranomasiac effusions, and are extremely sorry to find him here represented as perpetrating such puns as settee for city, Rind for Rhine, and other enormities of the same description.

A dull letter on "Romeo and Juliet" is intended to imitate Professor Wilson, a writer whose peculiarities are so easily caricatured, that we cannot conceive how even such a writer as the author of "Rejected Articles" overlooked them.

Of the remaining attempts at imitation which occupy this volume, we have only to say that if they had been offered as 'articles' for insertion in any periodical work of the day, the editor would deserve the fate of Sisyphus who would not have marked them as 'rejected.'

ART. XVI. Tales round a Winter's Hearth. By Jane and A. M. Porter. 2 Vols. 12mo. 168. London. Longman and Co. 1826. THE authoresses of these volumes have been long known as indefatigable novel-weavers, who have contrived, between them, to furnish the circulating libraries with upwards of forty volumes of chivalry and sentiment. There are so few of our readers who have not, at some time of their lives, read Thaddeus of Warsaw, the Scottish Chiefs, the Hungarian Brothers, or some other novel out of the long list of the works of these ladies, that we need not tell them what they have to expect from the announcement of this new series of tales. There is one thing, however, very remarkable about them: we mean their brevity; which we cannot help noticing as a peculiar merit. They are four in number: 'Glenrowan,' a Scottish legend, which details the adventures and escape of a young lady who had shut herself up by accident in a subterranean cave, into which she had gone alone to seek money to support the Pretender: the next is 'Lord Howth,' a wonderful story of an Irish peer who was attended by a sort of spirit that assumed the disagreeable form of a rat-which is killed by his lordship in a fit of passion. After this distressing occurrence Lord Howth was no longer the same animated and animating person: the dying look and dying cry of his poor little pet haunted his sleeping and waking hours, alloying those intellectual pleasures, which of all men Lord Howth was the best fitted to find and to enjoy on the classic ground of Italy and Greece. He wandered beneath the giant shadow of the Coliseum, and stood on the silent plain of Marathon, with feelings withered and blighted by self-condemnation.'-Vol. i. p. 104.

On first reading this piece of fine writing we really thought that Miss Porter meant by her rat the kind of animal peculiar to the House of Commons, and that Lord Howth had actually killed a member of parliament: but we were consoled on reading farther to find that all his lordship's absurd remorse was caused by having killed one of the more ordinary and less disgusting of the tribe.

By far the best tale in these volumes is that entitled 'Jeannie Halliday.' It details the virtuous and violent struggles of a young man with his hopeless passion for the betrothed of another-his tender friendship after she became the wife of his rival-and the final sacrifice of his happiness and life to her and to her children. We cannot afford room for quotation: but few things can be more affecting than the simple-hearted affection and devotion of Alan Forsyth, or the details of his gradual decay.

The last story, which occupies the whole of the second volume, is not so much to our taste. It is a tale of the days of the crusades, and is called "The pilgrimage of Berenice.' It contains some pieces of rather brilliant description: but its structure is uninteresting and improbable, and the plot is rendered unnecessarily obscure by the abrupt breaks in the story which the reader perpetually encounters.

ART. XVII. Field Flowers; being a Collection of Fugitive and other Poems. By the Author of " 'Odes," "Portland Isle," &c. 12mo. pp. 182. 78. London. Relfc. 1826.

THE 'flowers' which the author has presented to us in this collection, are indeed of the character he has so modestly given them-' field flowers.' A few possess some fragrance, but it is wild and perishable, while the greater number have no odour at all, and are scarcely to be distinguished from weeds. The author says, he writes to please himself, and while away the ennui of his leisure hours, and that so far he has been successful. But he should recollect, that if he publishes what he writes, he should endeavour also to please his readers, and that verses which sound agreeably enough to the ear, may make no impression on the understanding. In this predicament, we fear, stands the Bandit's Bride,' a tale of nearly two hundred lines, which, though occasionally smooth enough, we found it difficult to comprehend. Other pieces in this collection might be specified as destitute both of melody and sense, but as the author assures us that his design will be amply fulfilled.' if but one frail favourite flowret should be selected from his little nosegay by each fair reader,' we, fair in one sense, though not in another, trust that it may afford him sufficient encouragement to proceed in his excursions, if we detach one specimen from his bouquet.

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'LA BELLE BORDELAISE.

'It matters not where first I heard thy voice's melting tone,
Or whether on the Arno's banks, or by the beauteous Rhone;
Whether where flows the poplar'd Loire or Tiber's classic pride,
Or where, beneath yet bluer skies, the Vistula's blue tide.

It was not that thine every step betrayed an innate grace,
It was not that thy very soul shone mirror'd in thy face-
Nor was it beauties few could boast, save angel forms above,
Whose mighty spell enchain'd my heart, and bade it bow to Love.
I am not one to sit and gaze unmoved on female charms—
Tho' past the summer noon of life, Love still my bosom warms;
Or if the passion that I feel springs less from the bright eye
Than when 'tis dimm'd with sorrow's tear, perchance 'tis sympathy.

By whatsoever name 'tis call'd, whatever it may be,

Fair, grateful stranger of Bordeaux, 'twas that I felt for thee;
I knew not what the passion was, I little cared to know-
It was enough, I saw thee weep, and shared thy load of woe.

Myself a stranger in a clime, its language scarcely known,
Far from my native land away, dull, desolate, alone,-
What wonder that 1 clung to one whose every word and look
Bespoke the mind that gave them birth skill'd but in Nature's book.

At times she'd smile-how sweetly smile!-to hear me tell of Truth
And firm Fidelity that crown'd the plighted vows of Youth;
And then again-as some dark thought, like fancied shades in sleep, ·
Obscured the sun-beams of the soul-she'd press my hand and weep.
For she, like me, had loved, and he she loved was far away,
Where quiver'd Persia's turban'd bands salute the God of day;
While she, who oft my throbbing brow had pillow'd on her breast,
Watch'd haply each white sail that near'd the green Isle of the West.
Tell, tell me, ye who boast to know the workings of the soul,
What magic spell two stranger hearts could thus alike control!
"Twas with a sigh supprest we met, but yet we knew not why,
And when we parted, still, alas! we parted with a sigh.

We met as thousands may have met, but never till that hour
Felt I how more than mortal seem'd dear woman's soothing power;
And oh! if there's on earth one gift more than another rare,
It is when woman's lip pours forth, for him she loves, a prayer.
Nor need we ask what genial sky matured her tender frame,
Since woman still, whate'er her clime, is mentally the same;
Whether where snowy bosoms heave amid the Western main,
Or where bright eyes, Love's twin stars, light the orange groves of Spain.

All that in life we mostly prize 'tis her's alone to bring,

In her the way-worn pilgrim quaffs the desert's crystal spring—
In her the exile finds a friend-the man of many woes

In her fond bosom pity seeks, in her fond arms repose.

Where breathes, amid the wide, wide world, that isolated one
Who, spurning Woman's social smile, would rather live alone?
For what is life deprived of her? a long, dull, dreary tale—
A sea whose billows ebb nor flow-a ship without a sail.

I've marked her in each varying change of woe as well as weal,
Seen Love's bright glance flash from her eye-the tear-drop from it steal;
I've dwelt, with feelings how intense, on each capricious mood,
'Mid the gay crowd of city life or rural solitude.

I may have—in mine hours of mirth or boyish arrogance—
At each or all her foibles hurled keen satire's pointed lance!
Yet have I too-and where is he would not have done the same?
The while I chid those foibles, loved the frailty whence they came,
Then fare thee well, Clotide, farewell! and tho' we meet.no more,
I'll not forget thee 'mong the fair of mine own native shore-

For memory still will sometimes turn, 'mid Beauty's proudest show, To where beneath her vine-bower weeps the fair maid of Bordeaux.'

pp. 73-79. There is another poem, 'The Betrothed,' which might be selected as a companion to this; it is in the same measure, and is by no means devoid of merit. But the extract which we have given may induce the reader to consult the publication itself, and mitigate the judgement which we have been obliged to pass on the other compositions.

ART. XVIII. Smith's new Pocket Companion to the Roads of England and Wales, and part of Scotland. 12mo. 88. London. Smith and Son. 1826.

'Books of the roads' are generally among the least intelligible of those compilations which are imposed as a tax upon inquisitive travellers-a class of men formidably diminished as to our own country since the multiplication of stage coaches. For now who has any apprehension of losing his way in England or Scotland? Where now are to be met those thrifty men who, mounted on sleek roadsters, with well filled saddle-bags carefully packed behind them, explore their obscure way by means of guide-books and maps from town to town, as in days of yore? If any such there be they will find every thing they can desire in this pocket companion. It differs from all former works of the kind, chiefly by being really portable, and calculated to afford all the information which a traveller requires. The roads are described, not in letter-press, as is generally the case, but are clearly laid down in maps, in a manner which a child may understand. It is, however, a serious omission, that most of the indirect or cross-roads are left out, for, in the present state of things, these are almost the only roads that require a guide. Many of these, indeed, are inserted in the maps, and perhaps the portability of the work would have been injured if any attempt were made to comprehend them all. An index is annexed, which considerably abridges the perplexing references so abundant in works of this nature, and points out every route contained in the maps with great perspicuity.

ART. XIX. The Stanley Tales, Original and Select, chiefly collected by the late Ambrose Marten, of Stanley Priory. Part I. 18mo. pp. 180. 28. 6d. London. W. Morgan. 1826.

THIS work is formed upon the plan of the Percy Anecdotes. It is published in monthly parts, and is intended to consist exclusively of tales original and selected. The first number, which is now before us, is decorated with a handsome frontispiece, and is printed in the elegant style of Watts's Literary Souvenir. The tales are supposed to have been col lected by Mr. Marten, who, after living a while in the world, retired to a priory, where he amused his leisure hours in preparing this miscellany. The greater number of the stories are translated, we observe, from the German, and are sufficiently amusing for a publication of this description.

THE

MONTHLY REVIEW.

AUGUST, 1826.

ART. I. A History of the Mahrattas. By James Grant Duff, Esq. Captain in the First, or Grenadier, Regiment of Bombay Native Infantry, and late Political Resident at Satara. 3 Vols. 8vo. 21. 158. London. Longman and Co. 1826.

Ir needed but a single glance at the contents of these volumes to impress us with a high opinion of the importance and novelty of the matter which Captain Duff has here industriously accumulated. The troubled reign of the ancient dynasties of India has ceased; and the last revolutions, which completed the overthrow of the great native powers of the country, have been the recent work of our own times. The extinction of those governments, and the seizure of their capitals, have thrown all the records of their fortunes, and all the state papers-such as they are--of their intriguing cabinets, into the hands of our countrymen; and now, if ever, the materials are to be collected for the past history of Hindostan.

On the magnitude, the singular character, and the various interest of that subject, it would be useless to dilate; and it is obvious that the eager pursuit of historical research has left us few unbeaten paths to explore, which can in an equal degree attract and reward our freshened curiosity. If we regard only the peculiar constitution of its oriental society, if we contrast only the changeless and immutable character of its people, throughout all ages, with the incessant and violent changes of its ephemeral empires, the history of India offers, even in its mere native vicissitudes, a theme for lasting wonder and endless reflection. But to every European, perhaps, and certainly to every Englishman, the Indian annals of the last two centuries are gifted with yet deeper attraction. They exhibit the rise, progress, and consummation, of the most extraordinary empire which the world has ever seen: of an empire established by a mere company of traders upon the vast ruins of a hundred despotisms; founded in humble obscurity, and built up from most unimportant beginnings; joined together piece-meal and

VOL. II. NO. IX.

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