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The same distinction applies to the mimicry, if it may be go called, of an author's style and manner of writing. To copy his peculiar phrases or turns of expression—to borrow the grammatical structure of his sentences, or the metrical balance of his lines—or to crowd and string together all the pedantic or affected words which he has become remarkable for using—applying, or misapplying all these without the least regard to the character of his genius, or the spirit of his compositions, is to imitate an author only as a monkey might imitate a man—or, at best, to support a masquerade character on the strength of the Dress only ; and at all events, requires as little talent, and deserves as little praise, as the mimetic exhibitions in the neighbourhood of Port-Sydney. It is another matter, however, to be able to borrow the diction and manner of a celebrated writer to express sentiments like his own—to write as he would have written on the subject proposed to his imitator—to think his thoughts, in short, as well as to use his words—arid to make the revival of his style appear but a consequence of the strong conception of his peculiar ideas. To do this in all the perfection of which it is capable, requires talents, perhaps, not inferior to those of the original on whom they are employed—together with a faculty of observation, and a dexterity of application, which that original nii;rht not always possess; and should not only afford nearly as great pleasure to the reader. as a piece of composition,—but may teach him some lessons, or open up to him some views, which could not have been otherwise disclosed. The exact imitation of a good thing, it must be admitted, promises fair to be a pretty good thins in itself; but if the resemblance be very striking, it commonly has the additional advantage of letting us more completely into the secret of the original author, and enabling us to understand far more clearly in what the peculiarity of his manner consists, than most of us should ever have done without this assistance. The resemblance, it is obvious, can only be rendered striking by exaggerating a little, and bringing more conspicuously forward, all that is peculiar and characteristic in the model: And the marking features, which were somewhat shaded and confused in their natural presentment, being thus magnified and disengaged in the copy, are more easily observed and comprehended, and their effect traced with infinitely more ease and assurance ;—just as the course of a river, or a range of mountains, is more distinctly understood when laid down on a map or plan, than when studied in their natural proportions. Thus, in Burke's imitation of Bolingbroke (the most perfect specimen, perhaps, which ever will exist of the art of which we are speaking), we have all the qualities which distinguish the style, or we may indeed say the genius, of tliat noble writer, as it were, concentrated and brought at once before us; so that an ordinary reader, who. in perusing his genuine works, merely felt himself dazzled and disappointed —delighted and wearied he could not tell v. hv. is now enabled to firm a definite and

precise conception of the causes of those opposite sensations.—and to trace to the nobleness of the diction and the inaccuracy of the reasoning—the boldness of the propositions and the rashness of the inductions—the magnificence of the pretensions and the feebleness of.the performance, those contradictory judgments, with the confused result of which he had been perplexed in the study of the original. The same thing may be said of the imitation of Darwin, contained in the Loves of the Triangles, though confessedly of a satirical or ludicrous character. All me peculiarities of the original poet are there brought together, and crowded into a little space; where they can be compared and estimated with ease. His essence in short, is extracted, and separ rated in a good degree from what is common to him with the rest of his species;—and while he is recognised at once as the original from whom all these characteristic trails have been borrowed, that original itself is far better understood—because the copy presents no traits but such as are characteristic.

This highest species of imitation, therefore, we conceive to be of no slight value in fixing the taste and judgment of the public, even with regard to the great standard and original authors who naturally become ils subjects. The pieces before us, indeed, do not fall correctly under this denomination :—the subject to which they are confined, and the occasion on which they are supposed to have been produced, having necessarily given them a certain ludicrous and light air, not quite suitable to the gravity of some of the originals, and imparted to some of them a sort of mongrel character in which we may discern ihe features both of burlesque and of imitation. There is enough, however, of the latter to answer the purposes we have indicated above; while the tone of levity and ridicule may answer the farther purpose of admonishing the authors who are personated in this exhibition, in what directions they trespass on the border» of absurdity, and from what peculiarities they are in danger of becoming ridiculous. A mere parody or travestie, indeed, is commonly made, with the greatest success, upon the tenderest and most sublime passages in poetry—the whole secret of such performances consisting in the substitution of a mean, ludicrous, or disgusting subject, for a touching or noble one. But where this is not the case, and where the passages imitated are conversant with objects nearly as familiar, and names and actions almost as undignified, as those in the imitation, the author may be assured, that what я. moderate degree of exaggeration has thus made eminently laughable, could never have been worthy of a place in serious and lofty poetry.—But we are falling, we perceive, into our old trick of dissertation, and forgetting our benevolent intention to dedicate this article to the amusement of our readers.—We break off therefore, abruptly, and turn without fa'ther preamble to the book.

The first piece, under the name of the loyal Mr. Fitzgerald^ though as good, we suppose, as the original, is not тегу interesting. Whether it be very like Mr. Fitzgerald or not, however, it must be allowed that the vulgarity, servility, and gross absurdity of the newspaper o is well rendered in the following lines :

“Gallia's sterm despot shall in vain advance
From Paris, the metropolis of France;
By this day month the monster shall not gain
A foot of land in Portugal or Spain.
See Wellington in Salamanca's field
Forces his favourite General to yield, [Marmont
Breaks through his lines, and leaves his boasted
Expiring on the plain without an arm on :
Madrid he enters at the cannon's mouth,
And then the villages still further south !
Base Bonaparte, filled with deadly ire,
Sets one by one our playhouses on fire:
Some years ago he pounced with deadly glee on
The Opera House—then burnt down the Pantheon:
Nay, still unsated, in a coat of flames,
Next at Millbank he cross'd the river Thames.
Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise?
Who fills the butchers' shops with large blue flies 2
Who thought in flames St. James's court to pinch
Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady #."
Why he, who, forging for this Isle a yoke,
Reminds me of a line I lately spoke,
“The tree of Freedom is the British oak.’”

The next, in the name of Mr. W. Wordsworth, is entitled “The Baby’s Début;" and is characteristically announced as intended to have been “spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child’s chaise, by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.” The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry: But has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his Alice #. and the greater part of his last volumes —of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering imitation. We give a stanza or two as a specimen:— “My brother Jack was nine in May, And I was eight on New Year's Day; So in Kate Wilson's shop Papa (he's my papa and Jack's) Bought me last week a doll of wax, And brother Jack a top.

“Jack's in the pouts—and this it is,
He thinks mine came to more than his,
So to my drawer he goes,
Takes out the doll, and, oh, my stars!
He pokes her head between the bars,
And melts off half her nose!”-pp. 5, 6.

Mr. Moore’s Address is entitled “The Living Lustres,” and appears to us a very fair imitation of the fantastic verses which that ingenious person indites when he is merely gallant; and, resisting the lures of voluptuousness, is not enough in earnest to be tender. It begins:—

“O why should our dull retrospective addresses
Fall damp as wet blankets on Drury Lane fire
Away with blue devils, away with distresses,
And give the gay spirit to sparkling desire!
Let artists decide on the beauties of Drury,
The richest to me is when woman is there;
The question of Houses 1 leave to the jury;
The fairest to me is the house of the fair.”-p.25.

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are very emojth, and very nonsensical—as was in tended: But they are not so good as Swift's celebrated Song by a Person of Quality; ai.d are so exactly in the same measure, and on the same plan, that it is impossible to avoid making the comparison. The reader may take these three stanzas as a sample :—

"Lurid smoke and frank suspicion,
Hand in hand reluctant dance;
While the god fulfils his mission,
Chivalry resigns his lance.

"Hark! the engines blandly thunder,

Fleecy clouds dishevell'd lie;
And the firemen, mute with wonder.
On the son of Saturn cry.

"See the bird of Ammon sailing,

Perches on the engine's peak,

And (he Eagle fireman hailing,

Soothes them with its bickering beak."

"A Tale of Drury,» by Walter Scott, is, upon the whole, admirably executed ; though the introduction is rather tame. The burning is described with the mighty Minstrel's characteristic love of localities :—

"Then London's sons in nightcap woke!

In bedgown woke her dames;
For shouts were hoard 'mid fire and smoke,
And twice len hnmlrfîd voines spoke,

'The Phyhouse is in flames!'
And lo! where Catherine Street extends,
A fiery tail its lustre lends

To every window pane:
Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,
And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,
And Covent Garden kennels sport,

A bright ensanguin'd drain;
Meux's new brewhouse shows the light,
Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height

Where patent shot they sell:
The Tennis Court, so fair and tall.
Partakes the ray with Surgeons' Hall,
The ticket porters' house of call.
Old Bedlam, close by London wall,
Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal,

And Richardson's Hotel."—pp. 46, 47.

The mustering of the firemen is not lese meritorious :—

"The snmmon'd firemen woke at call
And hied them to their stations all.
Starting from short and broken snoose.
Each sought his pond'rous hobnail'd shoes;
But first his worsted hosen plied.
Plush breeches next in crimson dyed.

His nether bulk embrac'd;
Then jacket thick, of red or blue,
Whose massv shoulder gave to view
The badge of each respective crew,

In tin or copper traced.
The engine« thunder'd thro' the street,
Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete.
And torches glared, and clattering feet

Along the pavement pared."—p. 48.

The procession of the engines, with the badges of their different companies, and the horrible names of their leaders, is also admirable—but we cannot make room for it. The account of the death of Muggins and Hiiginbottom, however, must find a place. These are the two principal firemen who suffered on this occasion: and the catastrophe is described with a spirit, not unworthy of the name so

venturously assumed by the desc-riber. After the roof fails in, there is silence and great con steruation :—

"When lo! amid the wreck uprrar'd
Gradual a moving head appear'cl,

And Eagle firemen knew
'Twas Joseph Muggins, name rever'd,

The foreman of their crew. Loud shouted all in sign of woe, * A Mviggins to the rescue, ho!'

And pour'd the hissing tide:
Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain,
And strove, and struggl'd all in vain,
For rallying hut to tall again,

He tottor'd. sunk, and died!
Did none attempt, before he fell,
To succour one they lov'd so well Î
Yes, Higginboltom did aspire,
(IIÍH fireman's soul was all on fire)

His brolhcr chief to save;
But ah! his reckless generous ire

Serv'd but to share his grave.!
Mid bla/.ing beams and scalding streams,
Thro' fire and smoke he dauntless bruke,

Where Mugeius broke before.
But sulphury stench and boiling drcnr-h,
Destroying sight, o'erwhelm'd him quite;

He sunk to rise no more! •Still o'er his head, while Fate ho brav'd, His whizzing water-pipe he wav'd; 'Whitford and Mitiord, ply your pumps! 'You, Clutterbuck, come etir your stumps, 'Why are yon in such doleful dumps Î 'A fireman, and afraid of bumps! 'What are ilu-y fenr'd on. fools ? 'od rot 'em!' Were the. last words of Higginbottom."

pp. 50—52.

The rebuilding is recorded in strains as characteristic, and as aptly applied :—

Didst mark, bow toil'd the busy train
From mnrn to eve, till Drury Lane
Leap'd like a roebuck from the plain Î
Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again,

And nimble workmen trod.
To realize hold Wyatt's plan
Rush'd niauv a howling Irishman,
Loud elailerM many a porter can,
And many a ragamuffin clan,

With trowel and with hod."—pp. 52. 53.

"The Beautiful Incendiary," by the Honourable W. Spencer, is also an imitation of great merit. The flashy, fashionable, artificial style of this writer, with his confident and extravagant compliments, can scarcely be said to be parodied in such lines as the following :—

"Sobriety ceaee to be sober,

Couse labour to dig and to delve!
All hail to this tenth of October,

One thousand eight hundred and twelve!
Hah! whom do my peepers remark?

'Tis Hohe with Jnpitpr's jug!
Oh, no! 'tis the pride of the Park,

Fair Lady Elizabeth Mueg!
But ah! why awaken the blaze

Those bright burning-glasses contain.
Whose lens, with concentrated rays,

Proved fatal to old Drnry Lane!
'Twas all accidental, ihoy cry:

Away with the flimsy humbug!
'Twas fir'd by a flash from the eye

Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg!

"Fire and Ale/' by M. G. Lewi?, is not less fortunate; and exhibits not only a faithful copy of the spirited, loose, amf flowing versification of that singular author, but a very just representation of that mixture of extravagance ami jocularity which has impressed most of his writings with the character of a sort of farcical horror. For example :—

"The fire king one day raihcr amorous felt;

He mounted his hoi copper filly; His breeches and boots were of tin ; and the belt Was made of cast iron, for fear it should melt

With the heat of the copper colt's belly. Sure never was skin half so scalding as his!

When an infant, 'twas equally horrid,
For the water whf n he was bapiiz'd gave n fizz,
And bubbl'd and sinmirr'd and Planed off, whizz!

As soon as it sprinkl'd his forehead.
Oh then there was slitter and fire in each eye,

For two livinir coals were the symbols;
His teeth were cab-in'd, and his tongue was so dry
It rallied against them as though you should try

To play the piano in thimbles."—pp. 68, 69.

The drift of the story is, that this formidable personage falls in love with Miss Drury the elder, who is consumed in his ardent embrace ! when Mr. Whitbread, in the character of the Ale King, fairly bullies him from a similar attempt on her younger sister, who has just come out under his protection.

We have next "Playhouse Musings,"' by Mr. Coleridge—a piece which is unquestionably Lakish—though we cannot say that we recognise in it any of the peculiar traits of that powerful and misdirected genius whose name it has borrowed. We rather think, however, that the tuneful Brotherhood will consider it as a respectable eclogue. This is the introduction :—

"My pensive Public! wherefore look you sad?
I had a grandmother ; ehe kept a donkey
To carry to the mart her crockery ware,
And when that donkey look'd mein the face,
His face was sad! ana you are sad, my Public!

Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October
Again assembles us in Drury Lane.
Long wept my eye to see the timber planks
That hid our ruins: many a day I cried
Ahme! I tear they never will rebuild it!
Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve,
As alone Charles Street I prepar'd to walk,
Just at the corner, by the pastry cook's,
I heard a trowel tick against a brick!
1 look'd me up. and strait a parapet
L'prose, at least seven inches o'er the planks.
Joy to ihee, Drttry! to myself I said.
He of Blnrklriars Road who hymn'd thy downfal
In loud llo>annahs, and who prophesied
That flames like those from prostrate Solyma
Would scorch the hand thatventur'd to rebuild thee,
Has prov'd a lying prophet. From that hour,
As leisure otfer'd, close to Mr. Spring's
Box-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders."

pp. 73, 74.

Of "Architectural Atoms." translated by Dr. Busby, we can say very little more than that they appear to us to be far more capable of combining into jood poetry than the few lines we were able to read of ihe learned r>oc!or's ¡renuine address in the newspapers. They miiiht pass, indeed, for a very tolerable imitation of Darwin :—as for instance :—

"I sing how casual bricks, in airy climb Encounter'd casual horse hair, casual lime; How rafters borne through wond'ring clouds elate, Kiss'd in their slope blue elemental slate! Clasp'd solid beams, in chance-directed fury, \nd gave to birth our renovated Drury."

pp. 82, 83.

And again :—

"Thus with the flames that from old Drury пи
Its elements primaeval sought the skies,
There pendulous to wait the happy hour.
When new attractions should restore their power
Here embryo sounds in aether fie conceal'd
Like words in northern atmosphere crmgeal'd.
Here many an embryo laugh, and half encore,
('lings to the root, or creeps along the tloor.
By puffs concipient some in aithf г flit.
And soar in bravos from the thund'nng pit;
While some this mortal life abortive mis»,
Crush'd by a groan, or murder'dby ahiss."—p.87.

"The Theatre," by the Rev. G. Crabb?. we rather think is the best piece in the collection. It is an exquisite and most masterly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, bot of the taste, temper, and manner of description of that most original author; and car. hardly be said to be in any respect a caricature of that style or manner—except in the excessive profusion of puns and verbal jingles —which, though undoubtedly to be ranked among his characteristics, are never so thicksown in his original works as in this admirable imitation. It does not aim, of course, at any shadow of his pathos or moral sublimity; but seems to us to be a singularly faithful copy of his passages of mere description. It begins as follows :—

"'Tie sweet to view from half-past five >o six,
Our long wax candles, with short cotton wicks,
Touch'd by the lamplighter's Promethean art,
Start into light, and make the lighter start!
To see red Phccbus through the gallery pane
Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane,
While gradual parties fill our widen'd fit,
And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they su.

"At first, while vacant seats gire choice and ease,
Distant or near, they settle where they pie»*;
But when the multitude contracts the span.
And seats are rare, (hey settle where they can.

"Now the full benches, to lale corners, doom No room for standing, mijcall'd tlanding ream.

"Hark! the check-taker moody silence break«. And bawling ' Pit full,' gives the check he takes."

pp. 116, 117.

The tuning of the orchestra is giren with the same spirit and fidelity; bat we rather choose to insert the following descent of a playbill from the upper boxes:—

"Perchance, while pit and gallery cry. 'hauoff,'
And aw'd consumption cheeks his chuied coa^h.
Some giggling daughter of the ojieen uf lore
Drops, reft ol pin, her play-bill Irom above;
Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,
Soars, ducks, and dives in air, the printed scrip:
But. wiser far than he, combustion tears.
And, as it flies, eludes ihe chandelier»;
Till sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,

; It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl;
Who from his powder'd pate the intruder strike?.

j And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spike»."

P. m

The quaintness and minuteness of the following catalogue, are also in the very spirit of the original author—bating always the члdue allowance of puns and conultl to which we have already alluded :—

11 What various swains our motley wslfs contain' Fashion from Moorfields. honour from Chick Lane: Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort. Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Cour:;

The lottery cormorant, the auction shark,
The lull-price master, and the half-price clerk;
Boys who long linger at ihe gallery door,
With pence twice five,—they want but twopence
Till some Samaritan (he twopence spares, [more,
And sends them jumping up the gallery stairs.
Critics we boast who ne er their malice baulk,
But talk their minds,—we wish they'd mind their
Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live, [talk!
Who give the lie, and tell the he they give;
And bucks with pockets empty as their pate,
Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait."

pp. 118, 119.

We shall conclude with Ihe episode on the loss and recovery of Pat Jennings' hat—which, if Mr. Crabbe liad thought at all of describing, we are persuaded he would have described precisely as follows :—

'• Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, But. leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat; Down from the gallery the beaver flew, And spurn'd the one to si-tile in the two. How shall he net ( Pny at the gallery door Two shillings tor what cost when new but fourf Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, John Mullins whispers, take my handkerchief. Thank you, cries rat, but one won't make a line; Take mine, cried Wilson, and cried Stokes take A motley cable soon Pat Jennings tics, [mine. Where ^^pitaЩelds with real India vies; Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted hue Siarr'd, strip'd, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue. Old cahco, lorn silk, and muslin new. George Greene below, with palpitating hand. Loops the last kerchief to ihe beaver's band: I'psoars the prize; the youth with joy unfcign'd, Ki'Saiti'd the tell, and lelt what he regnin'd; \Vhile to ihe applauding galleries grateful Pat Made a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd hat."

The Ghost of Samuel Johnson is not very ¡rood as a whole: though some passages are singularly happy. The measure and solemnity of nie sentences, in all the limited variety of their structure, ia imitated with skill ;—but the diction is caricatured in a vulgar and tinpleasing degree. To make Johnson call a door "a ligneous barricatlo," and its knocker and bell ils "frappant and tintinabulant ap- I peiulages," is neither just nor humorous ;j and we are surprised that a writer who has given such extraordinary proofs of his talent for finer ridicule and fairer imitation, should have stooped to a vein of pleasantry so low, and so long ago exhausted; especially as, in other passages of the same piece, he has shown how well qualified he was both to catch and to render the true characteristics of his original. The beginning, for example, we think excellent :—

"That which was organised by the moral ability of one, has heen executed by the physical effort of many; and Druky Lane Theatre is now complete. Of that part behind the curtain, which has not yet been destined to glow beneath the brush of the varnisher, or vibrale to the hammer of the carpenter, little is thought by the public, and little need be said by the committee. Truth, however, is not to be sacrificed lor the accommodation of either; and he who should pronounce that our edifice has received its final embellishment, would be disseminating falsehood without incurring favour, and risking the disgrace of detection without participating ihe advantage of success.

"Let it not, however, be conjectured, that because we are unassuming, we are imbecile; that forbearance is any indication of despondency, or humility of demerit. He that is the most assured of success will make the fewest appeals tu favour; and where nothing is claimed that is undue, nothing that is due will be withheld. A swelling opening is too often succeeded by an insignificant conclusion. Parturient mountains have ere now produced muscipular abortions; and the auditor n ho compares incipient grandeur with final vulgarity, is reminded of the pious hawkers of Constantinople, who solemnly perambulate her streets, exclaiming, 'In the name of the prophet—figs !' "—pp. 54, 55.

It ends with a solemn eulogium on Mr. Whitbread, which is thus wound up :—

"To his never-slumbering talents you are indebted for whatever pleasure this haunt of the Muses is calculated to afford. If, in defiance of chaotic malevolence, the destroyer of Ihr temple ot Diana yet survives in the name of Herostratus, surely we may confidently predict, that the rebuilder of the temple of Apollo will stand recorded to distant posterity, in that of—Samuel Whitbread."

pp. 59, 60.

Our readers will now have a pretty good idea of the contents of this amusing little volume. We have no conjectures to offer as to its anonymous author. He who is such a master of disguises, may easily be supposed to have been successful in concealing himself;—and with the power of assuming so many styles, is not likely to be detected by his own. We should guess, however, that he had not written a great deal in his own character—that his natural style was neither very lofty nor very grave—and that he rather indulges a partiality for puns and verbal pleasantries. We marvel why he has shut out Campbell and Rogers from his theatre of living poets;—and confidently expect to have our curiosity in this and in all other particulars very speedily gratified, when the applause of the country shall induce him to take off his mask.


Œuvres Inédites de Madame la Baronne de Staël, publiées par son Fils; pi ¡cédées d'une Notie« sur le Caractère et les Ecrits de M. de Staël. Par Madame Necker Saussure. Trois tomes. 8TO. London, Treuttel and Wurtz: 1820.

We are very much indebted to Madame It is, to be sure, rather in the natnre of a Pane

Necker Saussure for this copious, elegant, and gyrie than of an impartial biography—and,

affectionate account of her friend and cousin, with the sagacity, morality, and skill in com 93 Зм2

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