ject is not so much to find fault with the past, as to suggest improvements for the future, I shall content myself with exposing some of the blunders in this pretended scion of the “famous Gloucester;" and I shall then endeavour to shew that you may have a Church, possessing every requisite beauty and accommodation, for half the expence now talked of. With such a mass of incongruity as the plan presents, I am at a loss where to begin my remarks; whether I look at the width, the length, or the height, I am equally astonished that the boldness of any man should attempt to fix on the public mind an idea that the building about to be erected bears the most distant resemblance to the justly celebrated Cathedral of Gloucester. But the unsuspecting Committee, shielding themselves under the comprehensive declaration of the Architects, that the design was "purely Gloucester," never dreamt that, by a promiscuous selection, even from thence, might be derived very palpa. ble inconsistencies; and seem to have been unaware of the imposition practised upon them by this plausible pretext. The tower of the Cathedral is 222 feet high, that designed for St. Martin's 114; in the former turrets at the West end are about 100 feet high, at the East end of the latter they will be little more than 40; the width of this building is 50 feet, of that 144; but, above all, the Cathedral is 420 feet long, and the Church at Oxford about 70.-An impartial reader would be satisfied of the absurdity of such an imitation, if I closed my remarks here; but, lest any should be too much "wedded to the errors" of this said design, for their information, if not their conviction, I will briefly state a few more particulars. To the admirer of antient Architecture, a more insuperable objection could not present itself than the miserable device of including the whole length and width of a Church under one roof; side ailes, so very charac teristic and appropriate to Churches of "Gothic" Architecture, have here been dispensed with, in opposition to the practice of many centuries, during the which that style flourished; a style that displays the most superior genius and science, and will be distinguished to the latest period amongst the noblest productions of human invention. Not to encroach on your columns with many objections to the new design, which might easily be enumerated; let us direct our attention to the venerable fabric which still firmly stands, and which, it is hoped, may long survive the furious attacks of an host of enemies. In the good old Church of St. Martin you are presented with three styles of Windows, but they are not the work of one period; with two styles of Buttresses, but one succeeded the other at the distance of 300 years. Here the Ar. chitect and the Builder will not look in vain for the adaptation of one part to another; and this little building will teach men of science and taste, of "rank and talent," that the venerable and the elegant result not from an injudicious mixture of styles, and a gaudy display of ornaments. That this Church wants reparation, is freely acknowledged; but that total demolition is absolutely necessary for convenience, as well as safety, must be denied. Four out of the six arches are as strong and substantial as when first built; one of the two Easternmost, on the North side, is only slightly injured; and the most Eastern of these is not crippled beyond the power of substantial repair*. But to what are these defects owing? Not to the decay of ages, or the unscientific work of former Architects, but to wanton injury-the injury resulting from burying the dead within the walls of the Church; and so long as this practice is permitted-whilst cart-loads of solid masonry are carelessly allowed to be removed from the foundation †, it cannot be expected that the pillars and arches should remain unshaken. In a word, the present Church may be converted into one of the most uniform, neat, and elegant edifices in Oxford; it may be made an ornament to the magnificent High-street, and an object of admiration and curiosity to the passenger. But should the design before alluded to be adopted, it will stand a monument of disgrace to its Patrons, to the City, and the University. Yours, &c. 'HOMO. *This is the opinion of a most respectable Builder of known skill and integrity. + Most of the inhabitants of the parish know this to be a fact. REMARKS REMARKS ON THE SUBJECTS OF THE HE spirit of discovery, and the ameliorating influences of science, have but rarely been employed in the construction of the Epic Fable-these, as it would seem from the example of the antients, were generally regarded as not more adapted to its purposes, than the arts of peace and the progress of industry. tendency; which are rather calculated for the improvement and comfort of all within its sphere, than to inspire to deeds of arms, and rouze the soul to admiration of the fiercer passions which rule in the human breast. It would obviously require a far greater display of skill (if indeed within human accomplishment) in a Poet equally to sustain sentiments of enthusiasm with the interest and curiosity of his readers in an Epic per Until the time of Camoens, it hard-formance which should sing the vir ly appeared to have entered the human mind, that in the course of terrestrial affairs, there were events worthy of being sung besides those of war, rapine, and devastation. Whether it be from the perversion of the human heart," observes a critic of a foreign soil," the weakness of the understanding, or from custom, mankind seem to be habituated to regard those things only as grand and wonderful, or interesting, which tend to their destruction.' "Because Homer and Virgil," he proceeds, "have made their poems to consist of the actions of the destroyers of mankind, who are termed heroes, is it not allowable to introduce the peaceful benefactors of the human race? men who have devoted their lives to immense and useful labours. Must we for ever see a stream of human blood in order to conceive a great action?" It must, however, here be suggested, that as the Epic Fable, or the events upon which it is constructed, must be so far in unison with the exigencies of human feeling or sympathy, as to elevate it far above its ordinary level or range of thought-no great ness of moral views, on the other hand, or rectitude of purpose, as in the hero of the tale, will atone for the want of personal bravery and magnanimity of soul, which incites to the commission of daring acts of enterprize. For example, it might perhaps be traced to that predominence which the passions too often obtain over the sober dictates of the understandjag, that heroic achievements, if displayed under dazzling and brilliant circumstances, although destitute of moral worth, and of real benefit to the species, have greater charms even for the thinking part of mankind, than actions of useful and elevated tues, the humanity, the elevated views of a Las-Casas or a Ximenes, as in another who should record, in all the pomp of numbers, the imposing conquests achieved by the Spaniards under Cortez, or the still more bloody and remorseless career of Pizarro. The splendid fabric of empire once raised in Europe by the sword, and perpetuated by acts of tyranny and military despotism by Buonaparte, would, probably, if events of such a nature could by any stretch of genius be rendered subservient to the rules of epic narrative, have had, even in our times, its numerous and its enthusiastic admirers as a subject for the epopee, while the benevolent exertions of a Howard, although unprecedented in their extent, and incomparably more pure (and consequently in a strict abstract sense more great), although unprecedented in their end and object, would as certainly as the habits of mankind are at present constituted, remain neglected, · and, possibly, a monument of the weak judgment of the author who wished to enoble in song things evidently unfit for its purposes.-Things, however, on the other hand, which involve the exertions and the views of a whole people, such as the expeditions of the Portuguese, have been deemed not inappropriate to the Epic character, though they depend for their interest nearly as little upon that eternal succession of battles, sieges, and combats (which amuse in the Iliad), as the benevolent labours of the Philanthropist. Many, doubtless, formed by na-. ture for the execution of noble designs, but whose names have never found a distinguished place in the annals of fame, encouraged by the example and success of Camoens, have turned their views towards the discovery, conquest, and colonization of of America, as an event in the history of the world of equal, or even greater importance than the discovery of the Indies. The voyage of Columbus alone, like that of Gama, is capable of imparting to poetry scenes of the Inost impassioned, invigorated, and eventful interest. These scenes, it may be observed, are not necessarily connected (though they each form respectively part of an amazing whole) with the scenes of carnage, devastation, and perfidy, (which, if they have by some been dignified by the epithets of lawful conquest, in reality have fixed an indelible stain in the history of the nation by whom they were perpetrated,) which followed close upon the introduction of the Spaniards into the Western hemisphere. Such an expedition, attended with all its interesting circumstances, if formed to song by an elevated genius, would of itself involve an epopee of the most momentous nature. The unprecedented boldness of the enterprize, as concerted in the mind of its intrepid author, the new and amazing scenes of discovery which open upon the voyagers, the episodical views of future greatness which might with propriety and effect be introduced, would respectively add a high influence to its fable or narrative. Homer has himself shewn, in the Odyssey, that deeds of arms, and the noise and splendour of warlike encounters, are not the sole materials upon which the mind is wont to build the highest pleasure, and are by no means essential to the deep interest involved in the Epic. The intrepidity of Ulysses in circumstances of danger, his constancy and resolution in adversity, his piety, wisdom, and conjugal virtue, are capable of inspiring and sustaining emotions, although somewhat different, yet to the full as strong as he, who, by his martial prowess and personal valour was able to make his way through whole armies of adversaries. It has been said of Pope, that he once meditated an Epic Poem, and that the landing of Brute the Trojan in Britain was to be the fable. The action here, from its nature, we may with reason suppose, was not solely dependant upon a train of military events, and under the hands of such a Master would have been prolific in classical incidents of fiction, whilst his elegant mind would doubtless have unfolded in prospective a long series of interesting speculations as connected with our history. Upon the subject of the Manners and Machinery of an Epic poem, it has been thought by critics of classical habits and taste, that with regard to the compositions of antiquity, the mode of warfare, the declamatory tone of defiance which often preceded their personal combats, together with the poetically beautiful mythology which was artfully interwoven in the destinies and actions of their heroes, gave them the superiority over the modern manners and usages of war, an observance of which must, in a certain degree, guide the poet of modern times. "It has been said," observes Mickle, "that the buckler, the bow, and the spear, must ever continue the arms of poetry." This peculiar adaptation, as it would seem, to the genius of the epopee of heroism and romance, which belonged to the remote ages, is chiefly, if not entirely, the result of custom. We see in the productions of the Poets of Greece and Rome, and likewise of Tasso, (who notwithstanding the difference which propriety required him to preserve between Christian and Pagan heroes, has presented us, in his "Gierusalemmi" with a "handsome copy of the Iliad,")—all the imposing characteristics of bravery and conduct blended and associated with the manners of the times by the skill and the judg ment of these great masters; and bccause we are scarcely yet (with the exception of the Lusiad) in possession of modern tactics and customs, as delineated in heroic verse, it is Datural enough to conceive a preference for the former. The failure of Milton, in his attempt to introduce the use of artillery in the celestial conflict with the rebel angels, is pretty generally acknowledged; but this failure was not so much occasioned by its inaptness for subjects of poetry, as from its being improperly introduced in circumstances where the laws of his action, and the manners of the fable, made it incongruous and improper. If in Barlow's Columbiad (the only American Epic which has appeared) the description of these deadly engines of modern warfare be thought not not altogether consonant with the dignity of Epic-it may here be generally asserted, that his failure in this respect is nothing extraordinary, and that whatever be the particular beauties or excellencies of that Poem, its aggregate merits are by no means such as to preclude fresh efforts upon the great and eventful subject, or damp the emulative aspirings of future sons of genius, who, allured by its splendour and novelty, shall tune their invigorated muse to celebrate at once the unparalleled circumstances which attended its discovery, and the assemblage of every thing sublime in creation which America holds out to view. In the entirely or completion of their actions (or, in the phraseology of Aristotle and the Schools, in the beginning, the middle, and the end-a point likewise insisted upon by the learned), it must be evident to the classical student, that Milton and Camoens have been as eminently successful as in their greatness. The forfeiture of Paradise, with its consequences, as well as the discovery of India, with the momentous, signal, and interesting circumstances connected with it, or dependent on it, are plainly foretold or anticipated; while, if it be objected that, in respect of the termination of the action of the latter, the author transgresses, as its period if extended to the establishment of an empire in the East, seems indefinite, it may be premised that this in fact is no infringement of the true proportions of the epopee; as Bossu has very justly observed, it is the duty of every Epic writer to conform his time with adequate reference to the developement of his fable. Of the merits of our own version of the Lusiad, these remarks cannot be closed with greater propriety than by observing that they yield precedency to few literary undertakings of a similar kind in our own language. This performance, in conjunction with numerous others, eminently exemplify our proud superiority over our European neighbours in a knowledge of the principle and the successful accomplishment of translation. The English Lusiad, whilst it exhibits the richness and variety of our native tongue, adds yet another instance of the copiousness, flexibility, and peculiar strength of expression which it possesses, when employed as the vehicle or the intrument for transplanting fruits of another soil into English ground. In many atmospheres, to continue the figure, foreign to that in which they were first reared, these exotics droop and die, especially when removed by unskilful hands; but it may form the just boast of our literature, that under the Northern sun of our island, the greater part, when subject to the advantages of English culture, have thriven in pristine beauty and vigour. In a general point of view, the work in question may be said to present a high specimen of the compass and capacity of the language, and of the genius and the taste of the translator. Mickle's choice of words, the general dignity of his metre, his bold sublimity of description, and his happy conception of the spirit and design of his author; all concur in proclaiming his endowments for the task he has accomplished, and the care which he has bestowed on its execution. It may likewise not perhaps be foreign to the nature of the present critical speculation to add, whilst on the subject of Mickle, that in the introductory chapter, which announces, explains, and illustrates the Lusiad, and the circumstances in which it originated, he takes a brief view of a variety of topics growing out of his work. It is not too much to say, that these highly interesting and finished disquisitions must continue to be read with a degree of eagerness and pleasure inferior perhaps only to that with which we peruse the poem itself. Of talents, improved by extensive reading and reflection, Mr. M. shines at once in the distinct characters of the philosopher and the man of taste. That Christian philanthropy which extends to the whole human race occupies a considerable place in his speculations. Mild and benignant in his opinions concerning the moral and political relations of his fellow-creatures, he has rendered his style a fit vehicle for the sentiments which emanate from his pen. His language is mellifluous and rich, and in general classically pure; it may be said, indeed, to possess the rare endowment of presenting to the casual reader an attractive source of intellectual amuse ment, ment, whilst at the same time it fails not in administering a more studious repast to the man of more fastidious judgment and severer critical attain ments. As a critic, Mickle occupies a very distinguished placé, not inferior in many respects to those high acknowledged authorities in our literature, whom to name is to command respect. Whilst he is ever vigilant in supporting established rules in literature, where they are consonant with sound criticism, he is eminent for a delicacy of sentiment, and an intelligent good sense, which never advances a position in which his appeals to our moral feelings, no less than the clear dictates of understanding, are not successfully inade! His political and philosophical opinions may be assumed to be rather those of a mind predisposed by nature and habit to contemplate things as they exist under their most favourable aspect, than of a genius fond of bold theories, and of an original turn of thought; they are not laid down with confidence and asperity; they are submitted with modesty, temper, and firmness. CURIOUS COATS OF ARMS, CRESTS, MOTTOS, AND CORONET DEVICES. (Continued from p. 32.) ON THE PART OF KING CHARLES THE FIRST. LIENT. COLONEL CARRIL MO LYNEUX figured a rein-deer's head (the rein-deer being the Earl of Essex's crest) supported by five bands, alluding to the five members, and for motto, AD QUID EXALTATIS CORNU?— To what purpose do ye elevate the horn. Another figured the Parliamenthouse with two dead men's heads upon it, and the motto, UT EXTRA, SIC INTUS-As outside, so within. Lieut. Colonel Henry Constable, in imitation of the Emperor Constantine, took for his crest a cross, with this motto, IN HOC SIGNO VINCES-Under this standard thou wilt conquer. Another, pointing at the citizens of London, had no more figure in his coronet than a scroll wreath in several folds, upon which were inscribed these words, QUIS FUROR, O CIVES!What madness, O citizens! Another, to express his magnanimity, had a single soldier pourtrayed with a sword in hand, daring a whole body of enemies, with this motto, QUANTUMVIS LEGIO NOMEN-Although your name is legion. Sir William Compton, brother to the Earl of Northampton, seemed to contemn sordid vulgarity, when, with out figure, his device was only embellished with this motto, ODI PROFANUM VULGUS ET ARCEO-I hate the unhallowed vulgar, and keep them at a distance. Another depainted a Cavalier vanquishing and disarming a Roundhead, with IN QUO DISCORDIA CIVES!-Behold, O citizens! the result of discord. Sir Edward Widdrington, saying little, implied much in his coronetonly thus, DEO ET CESARI-To God and the King. Another represented a rout of rascally people in a furious posture against Church and State, with this motto, QUARE FREMUERE GENTES? &c.-Why do the Heathen so furiously rage together, and why do the people imagine a vain thing? Another represented a Roundhead on horseback, with short hair, riding away without a hat, (for that is supposed to have been lost in the scuffie) and crying, " Quarter," " "Quarter,” pursued by a Cavalier with a drawn sword ready to smite him, the motto, QUI SEQUITUR VINCIT-The pursuer conquers. Colonel Thomas Dalton figured a cloud, whence streamed forth a representation of glory, and with it an armed hand and sword, with this motto, EXORTUM EST IN TENEBRIS LUMEN RECTIS CORDE-Light has arisen in darkness to the true-hearted. Another represented a mitre pierced by a sword, with a crown imperial upon the point of it, and the hand of an enemy discharging a pistol at both, with this motto, TANTUM RELIGIO POTUIT SUADERE MALORUM? Can religion have been the instigu tion of so many wicked actions ?· Another exhibited a disgusting specimen of the laxity in morals which prevailed among the Cavaliers before the Restoration as well as after it-he bore for his device a naked man with sword in hand, the motto, IN UTRUMQUE PARATUS-Ready for eitheraut Martem, aut Venerem. When Archbishop Usher was with the King at Oxford in April 1644, he preached before his Majesty, and in |
