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ters in the path of the benighted Thane, so annoy him, even when seated on that throne of human felicity, a tavern-chair, as to make it a moot point whether it was worth his while to wade through the blood of so many animals to attain it.

Mark what Alixis, a Greek poet

says:

Oh, that Nature Might quit us of this overbearing burthen,

This tyrant god, the belly! Take that from us,

With all its bestial appetites, and man, Exonerated man, shall be all soul.

A truce, however, to these unpalatable reflections, and let us revert to more agreeable topicks. The due arrangement of a dinner table is not so easy a matter as some folks imagine. Every one recollects the anecdote of the Gray's-Inn Student, who entertained his guests, consisting of two pining old maids and a bilious nabob, with boiled tripe at top, boiled tripe at bottom, and a round of beef, garnished with parsnips, in the centre. Any man possessed of mo

Apple Sauce.

ney, may give a dinner, but, to give a proper one, requires both taste and fancy; and as those two ingre dients are not always discernible in the tout ensemble of a son of Plutus, our authoress has kindly supplied their place, by inventing a scale of dinners suited to all pockets; loading the stomachs of her readers, as Lock. it clogged the ankles of his customers, with fetters of all prices, from one guinea to ten. An abridgment of this part of the work could only have the effect of lopping off its me rits; I shall content myself, therefore, with touching the two extremes; extracting, in the first place, that sort of plain, family dinner which a man produces when he means to treat you like a friend, though, alas! it has more the appearance of treating you like an enemy; and, in the next place, I shall lay before my readers a collection of good things, which might compose a lord mayor's feast, worthy to be given by the late to the present in

cumbent.

Five Dishes.

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A very indifferent repast, at all events; but take heed to the roasting of your pork, for Tom Browne, of facetious memory, made a dinner for the devil, in which he gave him undone-pork for his top dish.

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It is now time to close the present thing but the extreme importance of article, for the length of which, no- the subject can atone. With a trem

bling pen, I have ventured to touch
upon the science of luxurious eating,
of which, it must be confessed, my
knowledge is derived rather from
theory than practice, and in which,
therefore, it is highly probable I have
committed some mistakes. Shades
of Apicius, Darteneuf, and Quin, for-
give me if I have erred! Our jour-
ney, gentle reader, has been through
a delightful country, recalling to our
recollection the juvenile tale of Mi-
randa, or the Royal Ram; inasmuch
as we are credibly informed, that the
air within the blissful domains of that
woolly potentate, was darkened with
showers of tarts and cheesecakes.
Let me entreat thee to repair, with
out loss of time, to the shop of Mr.
John Murray, of Fleet Street, where, From our blest altars.

for seven shillings and sixpence,
thou mayest purchase the work of
which I have furnished thee with a
sort of hashed analysis. Then, if
thou art a man of taste, thou wilt
order a dainty repast, after the fa-
shion of one of those enumerated
within the precincts of pages 312
and 320; and then, when thy envi
ous covers are snatched off by a skil
ful domestick, and a steam ascends
which might gratify the nose of Jove
himself, and make him lean from
Olympus to smell, I hope thou wilt,
as in duty bound, exclaim in the
words of the pious king Cymbeline:
Land we the gods,

And let the crooked smoke climb to their nostrils

FROM THE QUARTERLY REVIEW.

Woman; or, Ida of Athens. By Miss Owenson, author of "The Wild Irish Girl," "The Novice of St. Dominick," &c. 4 vols. 12mo. London, 1809.—Philadelphia, republished by Bradford and Inskeep, 2 vols. 12mo. 1809.

"BACHANTES, animated with Or

phean fury, slinging their serpents in the air, striking their cymbals, and uttering dithyrambicks, appeared to surround him on every side." p. 5.

"That modesty which is of soul, seemed to diffuse itself over a form, whose exquisite symmetry was at once betrayed and concealed by the apparent tissue of woven air, which fell like a vapour round her." p. 23.

"Like Aurora, the extremities of her delicate limbs were rosed with flowing hues, and her little foot, as it pressed its naked beauty on a scarlet cushion, resembled that of a youthful Thetis from its blushing tints, or that of a fugitive

Atalanta from its height," &c. &c. p. 53. After repeated attempts to comprehend the meaning of these, and a hundred similar conundrums, in the compass of half as many pages, we gave them up in despair; and were carelessly turning the leaves of the volume backward and forward, when the following passage, in a short note "to the Reader," caught

* For another review of this work, taken from the Monthly Review, and giving a less unfavourable account of it, see vol. 1. of the Select Reviews, p. 394.

our eye. "My little works have been always printed from illegible manuscripts in one country, while their author was resident in another." p. vi. We have been accustomed to overlook these introductory gossipings: in future, however, we shall be more circumspect; since it is evident, that if we had read straight for ward from the title page, we should have escaped a very severe headach.

The matter seems now sufficiently clear. The printer having to produce four volumes from a mannscript, of which he could not read a word, performed his task to the best of his power; and fabricated the requisite number of lines, by shaking the types out of the boxes at a venture. The work must, therefore, be considered as a kind of overgrown amphigouri, a heterogeneous combination of events, which, pretending to no meaning, may be innocently permitted to surprise for a moment, and then dropt for ever.

If, however, which is possible, the author, like Caliban (we beg Miss

Owenson's pardon) "cannot endue her purpose with words that make it known;" but, by illegible, means what may be read, and is, consequently, in earnest; the case is somewhat altered, and we must endeavour to make out the story.

Ida of Athens, a Greek girl, half ancient and half modern, falls desperately in love with a young slave; and, when he is defeated and taken prisoner, in a fray more ridiculously begun and ended than the wars of Tom Thum the Great, marries a "Disdar-aga," to save his life. This simple personage, instead of taking possession of his bride, whom he has "placed on an ottoman of down," couteur de rose,rushes from the apartment "to see a noise which he heard:" and has scarcely thrust his head out of the street door, when, to his inexpressible amazement, it is dexterously sliced off" by an agent of the Porte;" and Ida, without waiting for her thirds, runs joyfully home to her father. Meanwhile the Greek slave, who had, somewhat unpolitely, look ed through the Disdar-aga's " ment," and seen Ida in his arms, very naturally takes it in dudgeon, and enrolls himself among the Janissaries. Ida, on her side, having no engagement on her hands, falls in love with an English traveller, who offers her a settlement, which she very modestly rejects. A long train of wo succeeds. Her father is stripped of his property, and thrown into a dungeon; from which he is delivered by the Janissary on duty (the prying lover of Ida) who, without making himself known, assists them to quit the country, and embark for England. "They launch into the Archipelago, that interesting sea, so precious to the soul of genius;" iv. p. 45, and after many hair-breadth 'scapes, arrive in London. Here they are cheated, robbed, and insulted by eve.

case

Wrong-he turns sick as he is running after the Capadilger Keayassa," and dies in a ditch.-See vol. iii. p. 143. Printer's Devil

VOL. II.

ry body; and the father, after being several days without food, is drag. ged to a spunging house, where he expires! Ida runs frantically through the streets, and falls into the arms of the English traveller, who is now be come a lord, and very gallantly renews his offers, which are again rejected. In consequence of an advertisement in the publick papers, Ida discovers a rich uncle, who dies very opportunely, and leaves her "the most opulent heiress of Great Britain."

The fair Greek abuses her prosperity; but before her fortune and reputation are quite gone, the slave makes his appearance once morenot as a Janissary, but as a general officer in the Russian service; and being now convinced that the familiarity of the Disdar-aga led to no unseemly consequence, marries his quondam mistress for good and all, and carries her to Russia," a country congenial by its climate to her delicate constitution and luxurious habits; and by its character, to her tender, sensitive and fanciful disposition!" iv. p.

286.

Such is the story, which may be dismissed as merely foolish; but the sentiments and language must not escape quite so easily. The latter is an inflated jargon, composed of terms picked up in all countries, and whol`ly irreducible to any ordinary rules The former of grammar or sense. are mischievous in tendency, and profligate in principle, licentious and irreverent in the highest de gree. To revelation, Miss Owenson manifests a singular antipathy. It is the subject of many profound diatribes, which want nothing but meaning to be decisive. Yet Miss Owenson is not without an object of worship. She makes no account, indeed, of the Creator of the universe, unless to swear by his name; but, in return, she manifests a prodigious respect for something that she dignifies with the name of Nature, which, it seems, governs the world; and, as

B

we gather from her creed, is to be honoured by libertinism in the wo-, men, disloyalty in the men, and atheism in both.

This young lady, as we conclude from her introduction, is the enfante gaté of a particular circle, who see, in her constitutional sprightliness, marks of genius, and encourage her dangerous propensity to publication. She has evidently written more than she has read, and read more than she has thought. But this is beginning at the wrong end. If we were happy enough to be in her confidence, we should advise the immediate purchase of a spelling book, of which she stands in great need; to this, in

due process of time, might be added a pocket dictionary. She might then take a few easy lessons in "joinedhand," in order to become legible. If, after this, she could be persuaded to exchange her idle raptures for common sense; practise a little selfdenial; and gather a few precepts of humility from an old-fashioned book, which, although it does not seem to have lately fallen in her way, may yet, we think, be found in some corner of her study; she might then hope to prove, not indeed a good writer of novels, but a useful friend, a faithful wife, a tender mother, and a respectable and happy mistress of a family.

FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW.

Reliques of Robert Burns, consisting chiefly of Original Letters, Poems, and Critical Observations on Scottish Songs. Collected and published by R. H. Cromek. 8vo. pp. 450. London. 1808.-Philadelphia, republished by Bradford and Inskeep, 1809.

BURNS is certainly by far the greatest of our poetical prodigies from Stephen Duck down to Thomas Dermody. They are forgotten already; or only remembered for derision. But the name of Burns, if we are not mistaken, has not yet "gathered all its fame;" and will endure long after those circumstances are forgotten which contributed to its first notoriety. So much, indeed, are we impressed with a sense of his merits, that we cannot help thinking it a derogation from them to consider him as a prodigy at all; and are convinced that he will never be rightly estimated as a poet, till that vulgar wonder be entirely repressed which was raised on his having been a ploughman. It is true, no doubt, that he was born in a humble station, and that much of his carly life was devoted to severe la bour, and to the society of his fellow labourers. But he was not himself either uneducated or illiterate; and was placed, perhaps, in a situation more favourable to the development of great poetical talents, than any

other which could have been assigned him. He was taught, at a very early age, to read and write; and soon after acquired a competent knowledge of French, together with the elements of Latin and geometry. His taste for reading was encouraged by his parents and many of his associates; and, before he had ever composed a single stanza, he was not only familiar with many prose writers, but far more intimately acquainted with Pope, Shakspeare, and Thomson, than nine tenths of the youth that leave school for the university. These authors, indeed, with some old collections of songs, and the lives of Hannibal and of sir William Wallace, were his habitual study from the first days of his childhood; and, cooperating with the solitude of his rural occupations, were sufficient to rouse his ardent and ambitious mind to the love and the practice of poetry. He had as much scholarship, we imagine, as Shakspeare, and far better models to form his ear to harmony, and train his fancy to graceful in. vention.

We ventured, on a former occasion, to say something of the effects of regular education, and of the general diffusion of literature, in repressing the vigour and originality of all kinds of mental exertion. That speculation was, perhaps, carried somewhat too far; but if the paradox have proof any where, it is in its application to poetry. Among well educated people, the standard writers of this description are at once so venerated and so familiar, that it is thought equally impossible to rival them, and to write verses without attempting it. If there be one degree of fame which excites emulation, there is another which leads to despair; nor can we conceive any one less likely to add one to the short list of original poets, than a young man of fine fancy and delicate taste, who has acquired a high relish for poetry, by perusing the most celebrated writers, and conversing with the most intelligent judges. The head of such a person is filled, of course, with all the splendid passages of ancient and modern authors, and with the fine and fastidious remarks which have been made even on these passages. When he turns his eyes, therefore, on his own conceptions, they can scarcely fail to appear rude and contemptible. He is perpetually haunted and depressed by the ideal presence of those great masters and their exacting criticks. He is aware to what comparisons his productions will be subjected among his own friends and associates; and recollects the derision with which so many rash adventurers have been chased back to their obscurity. Thus, the merit of his great predecessors chills, instead of encouraging his ardour; and the illustrious names which have already reached to the summit of excellence, act like the tall and spreading trees of the forest, which overshadow and strangle the saplings which have struck root in the soil below,-and afford shelter to nothing but creepers and parasites.

There is, no doubt, in some few individuals, "that strong divinity of soul," that decided and irresistible vocation to glory, which, in spite of all these obstructions, calls out, perhaps, once or twice in a century, a bold and original poet from the herd of scholars and academical literati. But the natural tendency of their studies, and by far the most common operation, is to repress originality, and discourage enterprise; and either to change those whom nature meant for poets, into mere readers of poetry, or to bring them out in the form of witty parodists, or ingenious imitators. Independent of the reasons which have been already suggested, it will, perhaps, be found too, that necessity is the mother of invention in this as well as in the more vulgar arts; or, at least, that inventive genius will frequently slumber in inaction, where preceding ingenuity has in part supplied the wants of the owner. A solitary and uninstructed man, with lively feelings and an inflammable imagination, will be easily led to exercise those gifts, and to occupy and relieve his mind in poetical composition; but if his education, his reading, and his society supply him. with an abundant store of images and emotions, he will probably think but little of these internal resources, and feed his mind contentedly with what has been provided by the industry of

others.

To say nothing, therefore, of the distractions and the dissipation of mind that belong to the commerce of the world, nor of the cares of minute accuracy and high finishing which are imposed on the professed scholar, there seem to be deeper reasons for the separation of originality and accomplishment; and for the partiality which has led poetry to choose almost all her favourites among the recluse and uninstructed. A youth of quick parts, in short, and creative fancy, with just so much reading as to guide his ambition, and rough-hew his notions of excellence,--if his lot

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