The cession of the island was followed by the usual French crimes, of sacrilege, murder, robbery, cruelty, and falsehood; by the loss of 50,000 Frenchmen; by their final expulsion by the English; and by a treaty between the English and Spaniards, in which the ships of the former are, upon their entry into the ports of the island, put on the same footing as Spanish ships. Upon the importance of this treaty to our commerce in general, Mr. Walton has some sensible remarks, and brings forward some valuable information. The quantity of mahogany this island is capable of furnishing, is about 10,000 logs, each containing, on an average, 300 feet, or, in all, three millions; but this year it will exceed that quantity. In the

year 1808, the duty paid on mahogany to our government was 26,080/. but, in 1809, it had got up to 46,9277. yet the greatest results of commercial speculation have not yet reached England. One third of the mahogany furnished by St. Domingo goes to the United States; and the remainder comes over to England; but, formerly, there was a considerable demand for this article in Hamburgh, Holland, and the Hanseatick towns; a branch of trade that may revive again, if Buonaparte, or the pregnant empress, become fond of mahogany tables, and include them in the list of importable articles. The following scale will afford an idea of the quantity and prices of those articles which the country affords:

Besides the above articles, there are shipped annually 1,000,000 lb. of coffee; 10,000 hides; and large quantities of satin wood, ebony, cattle, mill, ship, and building timber. The material advantage, however, to be derived from this commerce, is, that whilst, on the main, and in the other Spanish islands, the import duties amount to more than 34 per cent. they here do not exceed 5 per cent. and the export 6 per cent. by which means, this port might be made a depôt for all the west coast of Puerto Rico.

Such is the information afforded by Mr. Walton, respecting the present state of St. Domingo. His second volume contains his observations on the settlement of the Spanish continent. But in this part of

L. 48,756 0 0

his work, there seems to be so much of book-making; the Travels of Humboldt, and the Mercurio Peruano, are ano, are so outrageously pillaged, and the obligation so little acknowledged, that we have no kind of temptation to pursue our criticism any further. The whole work is the production of a very ordinary man, who has had his notes upon St. Domingo furnished up in the row; and deemed it necessary, that the little he had to say should be said with as much parade and embellishment as possible. That the island of Santo Domingo will ever be regarded with a wistful eye by France, there can be no doubt; but we scarcely see any probability of her regaining it, unless, indeed, she is destined to absorb every thing in her empire.

St. Domingo cannot be given up at a peace; for what have the French to offer, but the nominal manumission of some of their European slaves? If we were to speculate upon the future destiny of St. Domingo, we should conjecture, that the Spa

nish slaves would rise upon their masters, and supply fresh spirit and aliment for a long and bloody contest between the savages of every colour, race, and denomination. Savit toto Mars impius orbe,

WE admire the genius of Mr. Southey; we reverence the lofty principles, and we love the tenderness of heart, that are visible in all his productions. But we are heartily provoked at his conceit and bad taste, and quite wearied out with the perversity of his manifold affectations. Not many poets, dead or living, have given proofs of a finer fancy, or drawn more copiously from the stores of a rich and cultivated imagination. Still fewer have maintained a sublimer tone of sentiment; or pictured, in more enchanting colours, the simple and innocent affections of our nature; and none has ever made these rich gifts poor" by such an obstinate strain of childish affectation: or so perversely defrauded the world of the delight, and himself of the glory, which they were intended by nature to produce.

It is this mixed feeling of provocation and delight, that has given that contradictory character to our observations on Mr. Southey's former productions; which, we fear, may have brought our judgment into disrepute with the more uncharitable part of our readers. Our praise and our blame, we suspect, have appeared to be both too strong, to be justly applicable to one and the same performance; and we have been accused, alternately, of malice and of partiality, by those who will not understand, that a long poem

may afford matter both for just ridicule, and for just admiration. Mr. Southey's case, indeed, we have always considered as an extreme one; and, however awkwardly the censure and applause may stand together in our pages, we must be permitted to say, that nothing could be more sincere and conscientious than our expression of both these feelings; and that it appears to us, that no other expressions could have done full justice to the extraordinary performances by which they were excited. It is Mr. Southey himself that is the grand inconsistent; and the more truly we are charmed by the brilliancy of his imagination, and the truth and delicacy of his feelings, the more we must be offended by the wilful deformities by which he has rendered vain the combination of so many beauties.

Mr. Southey, of course, despises equally our censure and our advice; and we have no quarrel with him for this. We have been too long conversant with the untractable generation of authors, to expect that our friendly expostulations should have any effect upon them; except as exponents of the silent, practical judgment of the publick. To that superiour tribunal, however, we do think ourselves entitled to refer; and while we, who profess the stately office of correcting and instructing, are yet willing, in most things, to bow to its authority, we really cannot help

thinking, that a poet, whose sole object is to give delight and to gain glory, ought to show something of the same docility.

There is, indeed, another and a final appeal to posterity; from the benefit of which, we are very far from wishing to exclude any unfortunate persons, whose circumstances may reduce them to rely on it. But the cases, we believe, are wonderfully rare, in which that mysterious and inaccessible judge has ever reversed the unfavourable sentences of the ordinary jurisdictions; and there seems even to be great reason for thinking, that such reversals will be still fewer in time to come. Without resting much upon the superiour intelligence of the present age, we believe we may safely pass a large encomium on its indulgence; and may be fairly allowed to doubt, whether any time is at all likely to come, in which every sort of merit will be so sure of being detected and extolled, in spite, and sometimes in consequence, of the incongruities and deformities with which it may be associated. Things are wonderfully changed in this respect, since a licentious and illiterate age with held from Milton the fame which its successour was so proud to bestow. Poetry is read now, we suppose, by very nearly ten times as many persons; and fifty times as many think themselves judges of poetry; and are eager for an opportunity to glorify themselves as its patrons, by exaggerating the merit of some obscure or dubious writer, in whose reputation they may be entitled to share, by contributing to raise it. Thus, in our own time, we have had Mrs. H. More patronising Mrs. Yearsley, the milkwoman; and Mr. Capel Loft bringing forward Mr. Bloomfield, the shoemaker; and Mr. Raymond Grant challenging immortality for Mr. Dermody, the drunkard; and sir James Bland Burgess, and sir Brooke Boothby; and Miss Aikin, and Miss Holford, and fifty others,

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patronising themselves, and each other, with the most laudable zeal and exemplary activity. Now, whatever may be its other effects, it is certain that all this competition for patronage and discovery ensures notoriety, and a certain viaticum of praise, to almost every poetical adventurer; and takes away almost the possibility of that neglect, which, in former times, stood so often in the way, not merely of reputation, but of fair trial. That a great deal of false reputation will be raised, under such circumstances, and various lots of undeserved and perishable praise be awarded, by vanity, partiality, and caprice, cannot, indeed, be doubted; but it is not so easy to conceive, that any real merit should escape detection, or miss honour, in this sanguine search after excellence; that the active manure which quickens so many colder seeds, should not stimulate the more sensitive fibres of genius; or that the bright sun, which gilds, with a passing glory, the idle weeds of literature, should fail to kindle into beauty the splendid blossoms of poetry.

But, leaving Mr. Southey the full benefit of his chance with posterity, it is enough for us to observe, that his appeal to the present generation has now been made with sufficient fulness and deliberation; and that the decision, as we understand it, has not only confirmed, but outgone all that we had predicted as to the fatal effects of his peculiarities. During the last fifteen years, he has put forth (besides the present work) three very long poems; none of which, we think, can be said to have succeeded. That they have all had some readers, and some admirers, we do not mean to dispute. Nay, there are many who pass for tolerable judges in such matters, who think that they had a very strange and unaccountable success. But the author, and his admirers, and his booksellers, are not by any means of that opinion; and we, for our

parts, have no hesitation in saying, that they have not had nearly so much success, as it appears to us that they deserve. There have been three editions, we believe, of Joan of Arc; two of Thalaba, and one only of Madoc; though the last has been six years in the hands of the publick; and of a publick which has called, during the same interval, for more than ten editions of the Farmer's Boy, and five or six, if we do not mistake, of the Wanderer of Switzerland.

This, we think, is pretty strong testimony against the taste of a poet, whose genius, we believe, was never lowered, even among those who neglect him, to a comparison with that of Mr. Bloomfield, or Mr. Montgomery. But the inference is still stronger, when we consider the circumstances under which this testimony has been given. Mr. Southey is no longer in his noviciate. Though still in the vigour of life, he has been a full fledged and industrious author for nearly twenty years; and has not wanted, as we ourselves can testify, for advice and admonition, both laudatory and vituperative. With all these advantages, however, and means of improvement, we are afraid that he is rather less in favour with the publick, than he was at the beginning of his career. His first poem was decidedly more successful than his second; and his second than his third. Yet his genius certainly is in no degree impaired; and his judgment and powers of execution may be fairly presumed to have received some improvement. When we find him rather on the deeline, therefore, in publick estimation, and discover that his fame, instead of gathering brightness, as his course is prolonged, seems rather to waste away and wax dim, it is difficult to suppose that this proceeds from any thing but the misapplication of acknowledged powers, and the obstinacy with which he has persisted in errours, of which he re

ceived very early warning. The publick is naturally disposed to be very kind to the errours of youthful genius; and was entitled, in this case, to look for the speedy correction of faults, for which mere inexperience could scarcely at any time be received as an apology. If such faults, therefore, are long persisted in, their indulgence will be gradually exhausted. What was at first ascribed to inadvertence, will now be referred, with some appearance of justice, to bad taste and perversity; and the reader will turn away, disappointed and disgusted, from an ostentatious display of absurdities, that are no longer original.

There is one other peculiarity in the state of Mr. Southey's poetical reputation, from which, we think, that he should take warning, while it is yet time. His admirers, we fear, are not the very best sort of admirers. In so far as we have been able to gather, there are but few persons of cultivated taste and sober judgment in his train; and his glories are celebrated, we think, chiefly by the young, the enthusiastick, and the uninstructed; persons whose fancies are easily captivated with glitter, exaggeration, and novelty, and whose exuberant sensibility is apt to flame out at the approach even of the false fire of bombast and affectation. Not many of the admirers of the ancient or the modern classicks are admirers of Mr. Southey; and many of those who applaud him the most warmly, can discover no merit in those celebrated performances. We do not propose, by any means, to deny, that there are many dull and weak persons among the professed admirers of Homer and Virgil; and that there is much natural feeling in the description of readers whom we have supposed to take delight in Mr. Southey. But it is not of good augury, we think, for his future fame, that his supporters should be all of this description; and that almost all

those should be against him, who have any decided relish for what has hitherto been found enduring in poetry. So, however, we take the case very nearly to be. Almost all nice criticks and fastidious judges, and the greater part, indeed, of men of improved and delicate taste, not only refuse to admire Mr. Southey and his colleagues, but treat them with absolute contempt and derision; wonder at such of their friends as profess to think favourably of their genius; and look upon the circumstance of their having made a kind of party in the literary world, as one of the most humiliating events in the recent history of that great society. For our own part, we are a good deal less difficult; and shall continue to testify in favour of Mr. Southey's talents and genius, as resolutely, as against his peculiarities and affectations; considering it, indeed, as our chief duty, in this matter, to counteract the neglect into which he seems to be falling, both by endeavouring to correct the faults by which it is provoked, and by pointing out the excellences by which those faults are at once enhanced and redeemed.

But, though we cannot sympathize with the undiscriminating scorn and sweeping reprobation which Mr. Southey meets with in very respectable quarters, we think we can see very clearly how such feelings should have been excited; and are very ready to enter into sentiments, which we think, at the same time, have, in this instance, been carried greatly too far. Mr. Southey's faults are peculiarly glaring; and, to all improved understandings, we admit, peculiarly offensive. But they are combined, in him, with great gifts and great acquirements; and ought not to be alone remembered, in his final accounting with the publick. We have said enough of these faults on former occasions; and shall not enter again at large upon the invidious

task of classing or illustrating them. If we were to express them all in one word; that word should be childishness, and, indeed, it is very curious to trace the effects of this quality, in all the departments of his poetry.

His taste in description is as remarkably childish, as his powers of execution, in this branch of his art, are rare and admirable. Every thing, in his pictures, is gaudy and glittering, and fantastically exaggerated and contrasted. His landscapes are full of coloured light, and gems; and metallick splendour; and sparkle with such portentous finery, as to remind us of the oldfashioned grottos and shellwork of the last generation, or the gilded caverns and full lighted transparencies of the opera-house. His excessive love of the marvellous and gigantick, is a symptom not less decisive; and his delineations of persons, and of affection, are still more strongly marked with the same infantine character. He seems to think grown men and women too corrupt and hardened for poetical purposes; and, therefore, all his interesting personages lisp like sucklings; and his unamiable ones are, as nearly as possible, such sort of monsters as nurses imagine to frighten naughty boys into obedience. There is little other passion in his poetry, than what arises from the natural affection of fathers and daughters, or brothers and sisters; and from that calm, pure, subdued sort of love which may be indulged by dutiful children under the immediate inspection of their parents. All their pleasures, and pastimes, and occupations, too, are evidently borrowed from the same age of innocence; and the picture of society that is offered to us, rarely extends beyond the domestick privacy of a small, secluded family.

We do not say, that all this may not be very sweet and interesting; or even that Mr. Southey does not of