one

Condens'd their scatter'd rays, they would not form a sun."

Perhaps, however, there is no pasage in this poem more truly expressive of that quality of our author's genius, which we are now illustrating, than the following description of the earthquake which occurred unheeded while the armies of Rome and Carthage were engaged in the memorable battle of Thrasimene.

"I roam By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles Come back before me, as his skill beguiles The host between the mountains and the

shore,

Where Courage falls in her despairing files, And torrents, swoln to rivers with their

steer

Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters! And most serene of aspect, and most clear; Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters

A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters!"

It is not merely, however, in the description of the more terrible feelings of the human heart, or of the softer scenes of external nature, that this author excels. There are, in the volume before us, many passages which shew that Lord Byron is gifted with the most enviable sympathy with the beautiful and the affecting in moral nature; and, perhaps, no words could have more feelingly expressed this sympathy, than the following, which commemorate the filial piety of that Roman daughter who sustained her father's life by the milk of her own breast.

"There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light

What do I gaze on? Nothing: Look a

gain!

Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight

Two insulated phantoms of the brain:
It is not so; I see them full and plain-
An old man, and a female young and fair,
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein
The blood is nectar ;-but what doth she

there,

With her unmantled neck, and bosom

We apprehend that the following stanzas, relating to that most melancholy event which lately overwhelmed the inhabitants of this island in sadness, may be regarded as another instance of the same kind. It was indeed to Lord Byron that we looked for words adequate to express the feeling that has since oppressed the heart of every native of this country. We well knew that he alone had the power of shadowing forth those secret griefs which the ordinary language of man is not capable of expressing; and as we have not till now seen any thing worthy of the occasion, it is with infinite satisfaction that we find this memorial of our common emotions embodied in a work which we have no doubt will be read with delight as long as the language in which it is written exists.

"Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds,

A long low distant murmur of dread sound,

Such as arises when a nation bleeds

With some deep and immedicable wound; Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground,

The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the

"These might have been her destiny;

but no,

Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair,

The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best."

The poem is concluded with something like an acknowledgment, on the part of the author, that he considers this last canto as not quite equal to those which have preceded it. We have already said that there is not the same quantity of terrible or morbid emotion in this part, as in its fellows, and we have hinted that we believe this to have chiefly proceeded from the more happy state of the author's mind, of which also " Beppo," now openly acknowledged as his, affords a very extraordinary evidence. At the same time it ought not to be forgotten, that this poem is suited to the scenery which it is employed in describing, and that, as in painting the fallen fortunes of Greece, he has executed his task with a spirit worthy of him who sung

"Cold is the heart, fair Greece, that looks

ping of the critic's toil,”—and partly because the extraordinary popularity of Lord Byron's poetry has rendered every reader acquainted with his peculiarities and defects. Yet it is not proper that great transgressions should ever be completely hidden by their accompaniments,-and we may therefore remind our readers, that, in this, as in all the previous works of the same author, they will have to make a large allowance for the obtrusive egotism, which has yet had the advantage of concentrating our sympathies upon a real character, rather than upon a mere creature of fancy;for that bitter scorn of the whole human race, which has yet given a kind of Satanic grandeur to the author's courage; for those gloomy views of the destinies of our nature, which have only been rendered tolerable by the evidence afforded of their own falsity in the sublime talent which their description has developed; and lastly, for much occasional harshness in the structure of the verse, and in the present work, particularly, for a too frequent straggling of one stanza into one or more which follow it. With all these defects, however, and had they occurred in the case of any other author, they would have sunk his work "down to the centre," we have yet hailed the accomplishment of this poem with a feeling in no ordinary degree resembling that with which we been impressed at its close ;—and aimagine the author himself must have midst the many works of doubtful destiny, though of high talent, which are daily appearing, we have learned from this performance what is that singular feeling with which we naturally contemplate the completion of a work, which, by the infallible signs that every eye can read, is plainly destined to live for ever.

Northanger Abbey: and Persuasion. By the Author of Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, &c.; with a Biographical Notice of the Author. 4 vols. London, Murray, 1818.

WE are happy to receive two other novels from the pen of this amiable and agreeable authoress, though our satisfaction is much alloyed, from the feeling, that they must be the last. We have always regarded her works as possessing a higher claim to public

3 N

estimation than perhaps they have yet attained. They have fallen, indeed, upon an age whose taste can only be gratified with the highest seasoned food. This, as we have already hinted, may be partly owing to the wonderful realities which it has been our lot to witness. We have been spoiled for the tranquil enjoyment of common interests, and nothing now will satisfy us in fiction, any more than in real life, but grand movements and striking characters. A singular union has, accordingly, been attempted between history and poetry. The periods of great events have been seized on as a ground work for the display of powerful or fantastic characters: correct and instructive pictures of national peculiarities have been exhibited; and even in those fictions which are altogether wild and monstrous, some insight has been given into the passions and theories which have convulsed and bewildered this our" age of Reason." In the poetry of Mr Scott and Lord Byron, in the novels of Miss Edgeworth, Mr Godwin, and the author of Waverley, we see exemplified in different forms this influence of the spirit of the times, the prevailing love of historical, and at the same time romantic incident, dark and high-wrought passions, the delineations, chiefly of national character,-the pursuit of some substance, in short, yet of an existence more fanciful often than absolute fiction, the dislike of a cloud, yet the form which is embraced, nothing short of a Juno. In this raised state of our imaginations, we cannot, it may be supposed, all at once descend to the simple representations of common life, to incidents which have no truth, except that of universal nature, and have nothing of fiction except in not having really happened, yet the time, probably, will return, when we shall take a more permanent delight in those familiar cabinet pictures, than even in the great historical pieces of our more eminent modern masters; when our sons and daughters will deign once more to laugh over the Partridges and the Trullibers, and to weep over the Clementinas and Clarissas of past times, as we have some distant recollection of having been

See Review of Frankenstein in our March Number.

able to do ourselves, before we were so entirely engrossed with the Napoleons of real life, or the Corsairs of poetry; and while we could enjoy a work that was all written in pure English, without ever dreaming how great would be the embellishment to have at least one half of it in the dialect of Scotland or of Ireland.

When this period arrives, we have no hesitation in saying, that the delightful writer of the works now before us, will be one of the most popular of English novelists, and if, indeed, we could point out the individual who, within a certain limited range, has attained the highest perfection of the art of novel writing, we should have little scruple in fixing upon her. She has confined herself, no doubt, to a narrow walk. She never operates among deep interests, uncommon characters, or vehement passions. The singular merit of her writings is, that we could conceive, without the slightest strain of imagination, any one of her fictions to be realized in any town or village in England, (for it is only English manners that she paints,) that we think we are reading the history of people whom we have seen thousands of times, and that with all this perfect commonness, both of incident and character, perhaps not one of her characters is to be found in any other book, pourtrayed at least in so lively and interesting a manner. She has much observation,-much fine sense, much delicate humour,many pathetic touches,-and throughout all her works, a most charitable view of human nature, and a tone of gentleness and purity that are almost unequalled. It is unnecessary to give a particular account of the stories here presented to us. They have quite the same kind of merit with the preceding works of their author. As stories they are nothing in themselves, though beautiful and simple in their combination with the characters. The first is the more lively, and the second the more pathetic; but such is the facility and the seemingly exhaustless invention of this lady, that, we think, like a complete mistress of a musical instrument, she could have gone on in the same strain for ever, and her happy talent of seeing something to interest in the most common scenes of life, could evidently never have been with

out a field to work upon. But death has deprived us of this most fascinating companion, and the few prefatory pages which contain a sketch of her life, almost come upon us like the melancholy invitation to the funeral of one whom we had long known and loved.

She was the daughter of a clergyman of the name of Austen, a scholar and a ripe one," whose care of her education was soon rewarded by the early promise which she displayed. It was not, however, till after his death that she published any of her works; " for though in composition she was equally rapid and correct, yet an invincible distrust of her own judgment induced her to withhold her writings from the public till time and many perusals had satisfied her that the charm of recent composition was dissolved." She lived a quiet and retired life with her mother and sister, in the neighbourhood of Southampton, when early in 1816 she was attacked by the disease which carried her off. It was a decline, at first deceitfully slow, and which her natural good constitution and regular habits, had given little room to dread. "She supported all the varying pain, irksomeness and tedium attendant on decaying nature, with more than resignation, with a truly elastic cheerfulness. She retained her faculties, her memory, her fancy, her temper, and her affections warm, clear, and unimpaired to the last. Neither her love of God nor of her fellow creatures flagged for a moment." The following passages from a letter written a few weeks before her death, are the best representation of her happy state of mind. "My attendant is encouraging, and talks of making me quite well. I live chiefly on the sofa, but am allowed to walk from one room to another. I have been out once in a sedan chair, and am to repeat it, and be promoted to a wheel chair as the weather serves. On this subject I will only say further, that my dearest sister, my tender, watchful, indefatigable nurse, has not been made ill by her exertions. As to what I owe to her, and to the anxious affection of all my beloved family on this occasion, I can only cry over it, and pray to God to bless them more and more." She then turns off in her lively way to another subject. "You

will find Captain a very respectable, well meaning man, without much manners, his wife and sister all good humour and obligingness, and, I hope, (since the fashion allows it,) with rather longer petticoats than last year."

Such was this admirable person, the character of whose life fully corresponds with that of her writings. There is the same good sense, happiness, and purity in both. Yet they will appear very defective to that class of readers who are constantly hunting after the broad display of religious sentiments and opinions. It has been left for this age to discover that Mr Addison himself was scarcely a Christian: but we are very certain, that neither the temper of his writings, nor even that of Miss Austen's, (novels as they are, and filled with accounts of balls and plays, and such abominations,) could well have been formed without a deep feeling of the spirit of Christianity.

Report for the Directors of the Town's Hospital of Glasgow, on the management of the City Poor, the suppression of Mendicity, and the principles of the Plan for the New Hos pital. Glasgow, 1818.

THIS Report is the work of Mr Ewing, a merchant in Glasgow, chairman of a Committee " appointed to consider and report on the most approved plan, size, regulations and constitution for the New Town's Hospital," the old one having become incommodious and insufficient. It is now printed for the consideration of the Directors, and of all who are interested in this important subject. In the remit to the Committee, their attention was directed to "the past and present state of the mode adopted for supplying the necessities of the poor; a comparative view of the system of providing for them in the hospital, and in their own houses; the expediency of obliging the able poor to work for their own subsistence; and the most efficient method of suppressing mendicity, and preventing the increase of pauperism." The Report accordingly embraces all these points, and contains, besides, much useful information about poor-laws and poorrates generally, as well as regarding