amidst constant interruptions from the plundering Arab tribes, in the short space of twelve days. We do not, however, wish to be understood, as wondering that, so much printing could be got up in so short a time. Sir John Carr, or M. Kotzebue, we dare say, would have compiled twice the quantity in half the allowance, with all imaginable ease; and in reading even Dr. Clarke's book, we have seldom occasion to lament that he had not longer opportunity of observation. With him, as with less eminent men, first impressions, however vivid and distinct, are occasionally inaccurate and partial; but his book is, after all, a very curious example of activity of mind, and enterprise of spirit, successfully directed to the acquisition of useful knowledge. We do not, we think, hazard much in saying, that we know of none of his cotemporaries, with the single exception of Humboldt, who could so well have accomplished such an undertaking. And, although among the numerous travellers whose names are still recorded with respect in the history of English literature, many (as Bruce, and Captain Cook, and Parke) have done incomparably more in extending our knowledge of remote and trackless regions; yet, perhaps, no man has made greater contributions, than the author whose works we have been considering, to that stock of accurate, distinct, and minute information, which forms the surest basis of sound philosophy-no one has surveyed the world with the advantage of more various learning, or has communicated to the public the result of his remarks on mankind, in a style more perfectly free from vulgarity, feebleness, or bad taste, or more distinguished for clearness, elegance, and facility.

After all, however, we are not, perhaps, quite impartial judges in this case; or, at least, had our duty called on us to censure instead of to praise, it would have been a duty which we fear we should hardly have prevailed on ourselves to perform. Critics though we are, CL we are not stocks and stones;" and we will confess that our hearts have warmed towards this distinguished person, ever since we read his noble vindication of the best interests of his fellow men in the mecting of the Bible Society at the University of Cambridge. Though far from the presumption of claiming in any other respect an equality with him, yet in zeal for the great cause among the most eloquent champions of which he is justly numbered, we will not admit even his superiority. His literary eminence will deservedly secure to him the applauses of the few, the comparatively few, who can justly appreciate the extent of his learning and the elegance of his taste: but thousands, and tens of thousands of his poor and ignorant fellow creatures, will have cause to bless, though they may be unable to applaud him.

In the still and solitary moments of life, and in the last awful scene when human praise loses its power to charm, he will, we doubt not, remember with delight, that he has so often diverted his mind from the pursuit of literary glory to engage in the still nobler effort of promoting the happiness of mankind, and unrolling the leaves of that volume, "which discloses to the eye of faith the realities and prospects of eternity."

Rejected Addresses; or, The New Theatrum Poetarum.

[From the Monthly Review, for November, 1812.]

THAT species of humour which consists in imitating the style of well known writers, and in attributing compositions to them which they might have produced, has not been unfrequent in England: but the difficulty of abstaining from caricature in these attempts, and at the same time the necessity of heightening the usual manner of the author with a delicate degree of exaggeration, have proved obstacles to the general success of such endeavours. At present, we do not recollect above four or five instances in which this kind of jeu d' esprit has been popular; especially if we confine ourselves to more modern times. Beginning with the celebrated pamphlet of "Anticipation," in which Mr. Tickell so happily foretold some of the speeches of our greatest orators, we can reckon only five eminently successful productions of the nature in question :viz. "Anticipation," the "Probationary Odes" "The Rolliad," parts of " The Anti-jacobin Newspaper;" and the “Rejected Addresses."

Those of our readers who are not yet thoroughly acquainted with the merits of the little volume before us, will be equally surprised and pleased when they discover the justice of the classification which we have made above, and find that the last in our list of humorous imitations thoroughly deserves to be ranked with its predecessors. That such readers may immediately be enabled to adopt a very general opinion, we shall not delay their amusement by any superfluous remarks of our own: but, after having briefly recorded the origin and design of the publication, we shall proceed to extract rather copious passages, illustrative of the great versatility of talent with which many of our more distinguished versifiers are here imitated.

A prize for poetical contention having been proposed in the address to be spoken at the opening of Drury-Lane new Theatre, the lucky idea of publishing a collection of imaginary VOL. I. New Series. D d

"Rejected Addresses," and of attributing them to popular names, occurred to the present author.* The initials of the supposed Addressers are subjoined to the titles of their respective poems: but, since without this aid the extraordinary spirit and fidelity of the imitation would, in every case, have betrayed the original intended, we see no impropriety in our giving the names at full length.

The first address in the volume is ascribed to W. T. Fitzgerald, Esq.; the well-known loyalty and patriotism of whose poetical effusions, and indeed every other characteristic of his style, (especially that of the hecatomb of sense offered on the single altar of sound,) are most happily hit off. Let the following specimens speak for themselves:

"Hail glorious edifice! stupendous work!
God bless the Regent, and the Duke of York!"

"Gallia's stern despot shall in vain advance
From Paris, the metropolis of France;
By this day month the monster shall not gain
A foot of land in Portugal or Spain.

Again,

See Wellington in Salamanca's field
Forces his favourite General to yield,

Breaks through his lines, and leaves his boasted Marmont
Expiring on the plain without an arm on:

Madrid he enters at the cannon's mouth,
And then the villages still further south.
Base Buonaparte, filled with deadly ire,

Sets one by one our playhouses on fire:

Some years ago he pounced with deadly glee on
The Opera House, then burnt down the Pantheon ;"--

"Who burnt (confound his soul!) the houses twain
Of Covent Garden and of Drury Lane?
Who, while the British squadron lay off Cork,
(God bless the Regent, and the Duke of York,)
With a foul earthquake ravaged the Caraccas,
And raised the price of dry goods and tobaccos ?
Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise?
Who fills the butchers' shops with large blue flies?
Who thought in flames St. James's court to pinch?
Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady Finch?
Why he, who, forging for this isle a yoke,
Reminds me of a line I lately spoke,

The tree of freedom is the British oak.'

* Or, rather, as we understand, authors ;-two gentlemen of the name of Smith, (of the profession of the law, in the city,) who had before succeeded in some anonymous songs, and minor writings for the stage.

"Bless every man possessed of aught to give;
Long may Long Tilney Wellesley Long Pole live;
God bless the army, bless their coats of scarlet,
God bless the navy, bless the Princess Charlotte,
God bless the guards, tho' worsted Gallia scoff,
God bless their pig-tails, though they're now cut off;
And Oh, in Downing-street should Old Nick revel,
England's prime minister, then bless the Devil!"

"The Baby's Debut" follows: it is spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age; who is drawn on the stage in a child's chaise by her uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes. We have room only for one short extract, which needs not be attributed to Mr. W. Wordsworth. The vacant simplicity of the thoughts, and the perverse silliness of courting the use of vulgar and monosyllabic words in poetry, are self-evident proofs of authenticity:

"What a large floor, 'tis like a town!
The carpet, when they lay it down,
Won't hide it, I'll be bound;
And there's a row of lamps, my eye!
How they do blaze! I wonder why

They keep them on the ground."

The author might have chosen his motto to this address from Cowper :

"A little address

May be followed, perhaps, by a smile:"

but he may have done better in adopting the words of Cumberland, used on a similar subject:

"Nature's true idiot I prefer to thee."

"Cui Bono ?" by Lord Byron, is a most living imitation of "Childe Harold." The verses, in the first place, are very good; and the flow of Spenser's stanza, as written by Lord B., is entirely preserved. The boldness and occasional quaintness of the noble author's phraseology are equally well imitated; and that satiety of pleasure, and wearisomeness of existence, that almost absorbing sensation of the "dull, stale and unprofitable" in life, which pervade his lordship's melancholy but strong effort of genius, are here re-echoed and ridiculed in an unrivalled manner:

"Sated with home, of wife, of children tired,
The restless soul is driven abroad to roam;
Sated abroad, all seen, yet naught admired,
The restless soul is driven to ramble home;

Sated with both, beneath new Drury's dome
The fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine,
There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome,
Scorning to view fantastic Columbine,

Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine.

"Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your way,
To gaze on dupes who meet an equal doom,
Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray,
Like falling stars in life's eternal gloom,
What seek ye here? Joy's evanescent bloom?
Wo's me! the brightest wreaths she ever gave
Are but as flowers that decorate a tomb,

Man's heart, the mournful urn o'er which they wave,
Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave.

"Has life so little store of real woes,
That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief?
Or is it that from truth such anguish flows
Ye court the lying drama for relief?
Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief,
Or if one tolerable page appears

In folly's volume, 'tis the actor's leaf,

Who dries his own by drawing others' tears,

And raising present mirth, makes glad his future years." We must subjoin one other brief specimen, which is as ludicrously solemn as any thing that we recollect.

"Shakspeare, how true thine adage, fair is foul!'
To him whose soul is with fruition fraught,

The song of Braham is an Irish howl,

Thinking is but an idle waste of thought,

And naught is every thing, and every thing is naught."

A prose address by W. Cobbett succeeds. It is spoken in the character of a Hampshire farmer who has rarely visited the theatres, and who declares his intention of doing so as rarely in future, until "that abominable custom of taking money at the doors is discontinued.” He praises the want of ornament in the exterior of the theatre, which, he reminds the audience, is of truly English manufacture," a plain, homely, honest, industrious, wholesome, brown brick play-house." He says to that" most thinking people," whom he addresses," might have sweltered till doomsday in that place with the Greek name," (the Lyceum,)" and neither Lord Castlereagh, Mr. Canning, no, nor the Marquis Wellesley, would have turned a trowel to help you out! Remember that. Never forget that. Read it to your children, and to your children's children." He rejoices to be informed, although he does not

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