for cottagers, after having planted their potatoes, to leave home on a begging excursion, and continue their tour till harvest.

Having completed our abstract of Mr. Dewar's observations, we must fulfil the less pleasing task of animadverting on his style. It often falls to our lot to regret the obstacles which are thrown by authors in the way of their own popularity, by neglecting to digest and arrange their composition; and the measure of our disappointment is doubled when the value of the matter, as in the present case, is such as to possess a considerable claim on the public attention. Mr. Dewar is probably a young anthor; his name being unknown to us in the list of literary labourers, and his composition bearing evident marks of an unpractised hand. Like many other writers, he seems to have taken up the pen, full of warmth for his cause, and of arguments in its behalf, but with no clear conception of the course in which these arguments should be presented to his readers. He appears accordingly to have written straight forwards; and to have gone to press without being aware how much he would have gained by a revision, or rather recomposition of his materials. The author who expects extensive circulation or permanent favour for his work, must arm himself with a very different disposition, and have no scruple in cutting down, with merciless severity, the first effusions of a warmed imagination. It is not enough to possess an ardent zeal, or even a store of ideas on the subject on which he writes; that zeal should be chastened, and those ideas be meditated, corrected, and arranged, before they are submitted to the tribunal of the public. The chief fault of Mr. Dewar consists in want of compression. We have heard it stated as the practice of a veteran analyzer of the principles of law, that he marked in his manuscript each new idea by an arithmetical figure; excluding with rigid scrupulosity, as a useless accumulation of words, all expressions which failed to come under his conception of new thoughts or new illustrations. What an extraordinary deduction in the bulk of volumes would be accomplished by a practical application of this severe edict! How many examples would it afford to Mr. Dewar, that the idea introduced in one paragraph had been repeated with no change, but that of words, in the next; and that it reappeared a third time, at no great distance, in a succeeding chapter. In the case of this publication, indeed, the printer appears to have been in as vehement haste as the author. Not only do we find an acknowledged irregularity in the enumeration of the pages, the numbers beginning afresh in the middle of the book, but, in the words serving to connect different pages, anomalies occur which are not usual among our typographers. Mr. D. promises an additional work on the Poetry, Customs, and Superstitions of the Native Irish; to which we shall willingly direct our attention, in the hope of finding proofs of the same liberality which does honour to the present performance, without equal cause of animadversion on the score of com position.

Hours of Idleness: A Series of Poems, Original and Translated. By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a Minor. 8vo. pp.

200.

[The dispute between Lord Byron and the Edinburgh reviewers has made great noise in the literary world. His caustic retaliation on those writers has gone through two American editions; but the following review, which was the original provocation, has never, we believe, been republished in this country.]

THE poesy of this young lord belongs to the class which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with so few deviations in either direction from that exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below the level than if they were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation of this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward in pleading minority. We have it in the title page, and on the very back of the volume; it follows his name like a favourite part of his style. Much stress is laid upon it in the preface, and the poems are connected with this general statement of his case, by particular dates, substantiating the age at which each was written. Now, the law upon the point of minority, we hold to be perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the defendant; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him to put into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if judgment were given against him, it is highly probable that an exception would be taken, were he to deliver for poetry the contents of this volume. To this he might plead minority; but as he now makes voluntary tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the price in good current praise, should the goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the law on the point, and we dare to say so will it be ruled. Perhaps, however, in reality, all that he tells us about his youth, is rather with a view to increase our wonder than to soften our censures. He possibly means to say "See how a minor can write! This poem was actually composed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one of only sixteen!" But, alas, we all remember the poetry of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve; and so far from hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor verses were written by a youth from his leaving school to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this to be the most common of all occurrences; that it happens in the life of nine men in ten who are educated in England; and hat the tenth man writes better verse than Lord Byron.

His other plea of privilege our author rather brings forward in

order to waive it. He certainly, however, does allude frequently to his family and ancestors-sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes; and while giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care to remember us of Dr. Johnson's saying, that when a nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consideration only that induces us to give Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, beside our desire to counsel him that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn his talents, which are considerable, and his opportunities, which are great, to better account.

With this view we must beg leave seriously to assure him, that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even when accompanied by the presence of a certain number of feet; nay, although (which does not always happen) those feet should scan regularly, and have been all counted accurately upon the fingers-is not the whole art of poetry. We would entreat him to believe that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, is necessary to constitute a poem; and that a poem, in the present day, to be read, must contain at least one thought, either in a little degree different from the ideas of former writers, or differently expressed. We put it to his candour, whether there is any thing so deserving the name of poetry in verses like the following, written in 1806, and whether, if a youth of eighteen could say any thing so uninteresting to his ancestors, a youth of nineteen should publish it.

"Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think upon glory, and you.

"Though a tear dim his eye, at this sad separation,
"Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret:
Far distant he goes with the same emulation;
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget.

"That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish,
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown;
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish;

When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own." P. 3.

Now we positively do assert, that there is nothing better than these stanzas in the whole compass of the noble minor's volume. Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting what the greatest poets have done before him, for comparisons (as he must have had occasion to see at his writing master's) are odious.Gray's Ode on Eton College should really have kept out the ten hobbling stanzas "on a distant view of the village and school of Harrow."

LORD BYRON'S POEMS.

Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance

Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied;

How welcome to me, your ne'er fading remembrance,

Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied." P. 4.

In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr. Rogers, "On a Tear,” might have warned the noble author off those premises, and spared us a whole dozen such stanzas as the following.

"Mild Charity's glow,

To us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt,

Where this virtue is felt,

And its dew is diffus'd in a Tear.

"The man doom'd to sail,
With the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer,
As he bends o'er the wave,
Which may soon be his grave,

The green sparkles bright with a Tear." P. 11.

And so of instances in which former poets had failed. Thus, we do not think Lord Byron was made for translating, during his nonage, Adrian's Address to his Soul, when Pope succeeded so indifferently in the attempt. If our readers, however, are of another opinion, they may look at it.

"Ah! gentle, flecting, wav'ring sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!

To what unknown region borne,

Wilt thou, now, wing thy distant flight?
No more, with wonted humour gay,

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn." P. 72.

However, be this as it may, we fear his translations and imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron. We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian; and, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. Only, why print them after they have had their day and served their turn? And why call the thing in p. 79. a translation, where two words (Aye) of the original are expanded into four lines, and the other thing in p. 81. where His mot pas, is rendered by means of six hobbling verses? As to his Ossianic poesy, we are not very good judges; being, in truth, so moderately skilled in that species of composition, that we should, in all probability, be criticising some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhap

sodies. If, then, the following beginning of a "Song of Bards," is by his lordship, we venture to object to it, as far as we can comprehend it. "What form rises on the roar of clouds, whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder; 'tis Orla, the brown chief of Otihona. He was," &c. After detaining this "brown chief" some time, the bards conclude by giving him their advice to "raise his fair locks;" then to "spread them on the arch of the rainbow;" and "to smile through the tears of the storm." Of this kind of thing there are no less than nine pages; and we can so far venture an opinion in their favour, that they look very like Macpherson; and we are positive they are pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome.

It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists; but they should "use it as not abusing it;" and particularly one who piques himself (though indeed at the ripe age of nineteen) of being "an infant bard"—("The artless Helicon I boast is youth;")—should either not know, or should seem not to know, so much about his own ancestry. Besides a poem above cited on the family seat of the Byrons, we have another of eleven pages, on the selfsame subject, introduced with an apology, "he certainly had no intention of inserting it;" but really, "the particular request of some friends," &c. &c. It concludes with five stanzas on himself, "the last and youngest of a noble line." There is a good deal also about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on Lachin-y-gair, a mountain where he spent part of his youth, and might have learnt that pibroch is not a bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle.

As the author has dedicated so large a part of his volume to immortalize his employments at school and college, we cannot pos sibly dismiss it without presenting the reader with a specimen of these ingenious effusions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called Granta, we have the following magnificent stanzas.

"There, in apartments small and damp,
The candidate for college prizes,
Sits poring by the midnight lamp,
Goes late to bed, yet early rises.

"Who reads false quantities in Sele,
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle;
Deprived of many a wholesome meal,
In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle.

"Renouncing ev'ry pleasing page,
From authors of historic use;
Preferring to the letter'd sage,

The square of the hypothemuse.