6

"No one had a truer nomenclature than Mr. Fitzosborn, when he spoke of virtue and vice in which he had no share: he was unacquainted with, and would not have understood, the modern vocabulary. He knew not what was meant by an amiable weakness.' He had no conception that an unfortunate passion' explained the premeditated invasion of the peace and honour of a husband, or 'indiscretion' the grossest act of unfaithfulness in a wife. He knew nothing of vows which registered in heaven,' annulled those registered on earth; of the union of hearts' which superseded all other union; nor could he better understand that seduction was 'gallantry,' or murder a point of honour.' He did not know that a little derangement meant a bankruptcy,' or the settling one's affairs' was depriving one's creditors of half their due. He was not aware that candour was the toleration of every vice; or 'freedom from prejudice,' infidelity." Vol. ii. p. 65.

We do not however think that the writer has been happy in the choice either of the characters or circumstances by which he proposes to shew the evils arising from the misuse of language: we can well conceive that a widow might so far deceive herself as to think that habitual grief was a duty, or that the offended authority of a recluse might mistake unrelenting severity for inflexible justice; but it must be something more than an error of judgment, or a misconception of principles, that could make Lord Enville hear with such calmness of the ruin of his son, or stifle the conscience of Mr. Fitzosborn, while plundering his daughter with such barefaced rapacity. In fact, the character of Mr. Fitzosborn is altogether overdrawn: it is not that of a man who could appear even to himself to be hurried into vice by thoughtlessness or misconception, but that of one to whose conduct no courtesy or self-flattery could be so prostitute as to assign any name but that of villainy. With respect to the character of Mr. Fitzosborn the elder (whose nomenclature we have extracted), it is one of that class in which more than in any other the hand of a master is required. A man 66 of a reasonable good wit" may pourtray a good or a bad, an amiable or a hateful character, but to depict one "just within the verge of liking" is not so easy. In less able hands the hero of La Mancha would have been only ridiculous. With respect to the general plot of the work we have little to say. We have, of course, a heroine who falls in love, is long in finding it out, and when she does, sees a great many lions in the way. So far is customary, and novel readers will perhaps add, natural; but at this period of her history, we meet with a circumstance for which we certainly were not prepared. We should not have been surprised if she had had recourse to the leap of Sappho, the asp of Cleopatra, or the sword of Dido; she, however, instead of putting an end

to herself, her lover, or her history, takes the singular resolution of "dying a bachelor." (Vol. ii. 179.) This certainly is a turn which we did not expect, and it is our opinion, that the author has displayed more originality in this one circumstance than in all the rest of his work. We scarcely need add, that she is diverted from her merciless purpose, by a gentleman who has no intention of "dying a bachelor," and that the whole concludes with the utmost festivity.

We confess our ignorance of the double use of this word bachelor, and can only presume that there is some singular propriety in this extension of its application to be accounted for, as in the play of the Clouds Strepsiades is convinced by Socrates, that pullet is both male and female. But we leave it to wiser heads than ours to determine whether this is calling things by their right names.

For the rest of the characters we refer our readers to all the novels that ever were written, as indeed we might have done for that of our heroine, had it not been for the singular resolution which we have adverted to.

With respect to our author's style, we cannot but wonder at his skill and intrepidity in the use of long and compound epithets, which savours so strongly of the pathetic language of some of our never-enough-to-be-admired daily papers. By way of specimen we extract the following:

"At present alienated property;' from his well-reported schooldays to his now full meridian of well-deserved reputation;' strength-bestowing meals;' evergrowing displeasure;' ' never to be broken gratitude;'. newly-regained sedateness;' ' actiondirecting heart-seated religion;'' snow-souled automatons.” ”

It is but seldom that this writer indulges in poetical phraseology, and when he does we cannot always congratulate him upon the choice of his metaphors; for instance, "the incense of affection exhales a sweeter perfume than otto of roses." The rose has been poetical ever since there were poets; it has found a place in almost every poem from the Song of Solomon to the rhymes of Rokeby; it leads us to the paradise of Milton, the bower of Petrarch, and the Gulistan of Sâdi; we associate with it the garniture of the groves, the whispers of the breeze, the blush of modesty, and the bloom of health; but otto of roses is so identified with the cosmetics of the shop, that the wings of imagination, clogged with pomatum and wash-balls, refuse to waft us out of the smoke of the capital.

It is very opposite to our habits to censure or ridicule what is seriously and sincerely well meant, as every thing in this novel ap

pears to be. But there is a way of describing a virtuous mode of living with a sort of pompous particularity of detail, that lays it open to the sarcasms of those who are always on the alert to extract pleasantry out of that which should engage our esteem. The domestic economy practised at the house of the heroine's uncle, Mr. Fitzosborn, is not a natural or tasteful representation. We do not know that it is saying much for the proprieties of a ménage, that "the table was spread with a profusion which, if according to the modern idea, it excluded elegance, fully answered the ancient notion of magnificence." Nor have we a very definite idea of what that cookery was which was "equally apart from the refinement of luxury, and the roughness of rusticity:" and to be plain, there is something too much like what a description of persons whom we greatly dislike, and who delight in words of very mischievous use, would denominate cant, in what follows-" all was excellent in its kind, but all was substantial; and having been but little diminished by the regulated and moderate appetites of Mr. Fitzosborn and Caroline, furnished many wholesome and strength-bestowing meals for the poor." After making the above comment on this passage (which might be extended to others that occur in this work), let us declare our admiration at the boldness of this author, who has been the first novelist that has ventured to talk of his heroine's appetite, and who has suffered his readers to surprise her in the coarse em ployment of eating and drinking. Neither does it seem that this author thinks it necessary to sustain the fair Caroline with nectar or ambrosia. It is a remark made by her young cousins, the daughters of Lord Enville, that " she does not care whether the eggs she eats are new laid or not; and is not afraid of eating them when they are old." For our own parts, we are depraved enough to think that a young lady would not be the more interesting or agreeable for having proved her philosophy in this

way.

We cannot quite approve of the sage Mr. Fitzosborn's method of securing a husband for his niece, by opening his house for the young and gay. (Page 152. vol. ii.). If this was his method, it was no wonder he was disappointed: but his remarks on the characters and manners of the young men who came under his view are such as we can with pleasure recommend. The hero of the tale volunteers the disgrace of having destroyed the peace and innocence of a young lady, to save the character of his friend, whose fortune in life would have been ruined by the disclosure; and this he does not only at the expence of his own.character, but at the risk of forfeiting the hand of Caroline, and the friendship and protection of a rich and respectable uucle, of whom he

VOL. IV. NO. VIII.

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had a reasonable hope of becoming the heir. This is the cardinal event of the story, on which all the distress of situation and development of character turn. We are presented with an outrageous delicacy of friendship bordering upon chivalrous folly, if not a false feeling, which in some degree distorts the morality of the work. The story is ill imagined, and exhibits in the scenes and dialogues to which it gives birth no small quantity of sentimental common place. But after all such parts are rejected as good taste, good writing, and accurate feeling must disclaim, let it be acknowledged with all due respect, that the book abounds in just sentiments, and useful distinctions, and loses no opportunity of placing religion before the reader in a form and attitude becoming her dignity.

ART. XXIII.-Comedies of Aristophanes, viz. the Clouds, Plu - tus, the Frogs, the Birds. Translated into English, with Notes. London. 1812.

EVERY literary composition has its appropriate end*, and demands a certain portion of intelligence in its reader. But it will rarely be found that the motive which acts upon the reader is exclusively that entertainment or instruction which it is the professed object of the author, or the implied object of his composition, to communicate. A curiosity to know what is said, a spirit of criticism, a desire to qualify for business or conversation, or some other extrinsic motive, operates, in general, at least as powerfully as the simple inducement to read a work for its own sake. Works of which the professed end is entertainment appear less than any other to allure readers by these extraneous attractions, and for the enjoyment of comedy in general, of which the subject is common life, the language colloquial, and the plot only a medium to exhibit character under circumstances favourable to its display, no very considerable store of preparatory information is requisite: by most classes of comic writers it has seemed to be well foreseen, that all effort necessary to understand wit and pleasantry is a proportionable diminution of its effect.

The force of this truth seems to have been sufficiently felt by the ancient dramatists. Their humour was not concealed by

πασαν δεῖ ζητειν ηδονην από τραγωδιας, αλλά την οικεία. Arist. A. P. c. 13.

too much refinement; but time, in spite of their broad endeavours to be intelligible, has drawn its veil over their wit, and placed it precisely under the same disadvantage which it was the primary object of their care to avoid. However pungent the dialogue, or ludicrous the incidents, no one, unless he has thoroughly familiarised himself with the history of the period, and the diction of the poet, can be supposed to take up Aristophanes or Plautus for amusement only. As a mirror of manners, indeed, comedy is an agreeable companion of history. Without some knowledge of their dramatic entertainments, we can scarcely aspire to a perfect acquaintance with the character, attainments, or liberties of a people. By those, therefore, who in a spirit of liberal curiosity, have devoted a portion of their time to gain an acquaintance with the history of the most polished people of Greece, without having had the opportunity of acquiring a thorough knowledge of their language, the value of a translation of the plays of Aristophanes will be gratefully acknowledged.

Scarcely any event in ancient history so teems with useful instruction, is so admirably adapted to initiate the youthful statesman or legislator, and has at the same time the advantage of being so authentically narrated, as the Peloponnesian war. With this view the great work of Thucydides has always been studied by the most accomplished public characters: and to understand the Athenian government at this period, we cannot do better than follow the advice of Plato to the tyrant of Sicily, to consult the plays of Aristophanes.

These considerations form a strong collateral inducement, without which very few, from a mere attachment to the drama, would be led to the perusal of these ancient pieces. The occasion and scope of the theatrical exhibitions of Athens sufficiently account for the decay of their interest. Representations of general character are independent of national and local variations; and in proportion as these form the staple of the drama, its victory over time is secured: but the effusions of party and personal satire, the ridicule of habits, opinions, and sects, some faint traces whereof alone remain, and which we know rather by name than quality, can have little more attraction per se, and by direct impression, than the festivals of Bacchus, and the vintage, which are said to have given them birth. Both comedy and tragedy in the time of Aristophanes retained many characteristics of their rude originals. The comic chorus indulged much in lampoonery and grimace, while the tragic interlude was mainly devoted to the praises of the gods and heroes. The whole exhibition rather resembled a modern opera than a play, as the chorusses sung and danced their parts, while the dialogue was pronounced in a loud