It is as we predicted: the stage has at length fairly roused the attention of powerful writers,-and we trust that booksellers' and managers' attention to their own interests,and a public, enlightened enough to appreciate genius, and liberal enough to reward it, will still continue to afford sufficient encouragement for the success of literature, in all its departments of independent and honourable exertion, without calling in suspicious allies. It is not long since we saw 66 a fine old Roman story," admirably dramatized, and welcomed with a quick and true feeling, that did great credit to the judgment of our audiences. Our Dramatic Report for this month records another instance of victory, equally creditable to him by whom it has been won, and those by whom it has been awarded. The advantage of these honourable events, will soon be more fully experienced, in their effect on our dramatic literature. A poet, who possesses an unusual command over nervous and energetic diction, combining this power with a rapid and glowing imagination, that rushes amongst the various rich elements of moral and external beauty,-seizing and combining them into fair and noble creations, has, we hear, just finished a tragedy, on a subject, which, in such hands, excites our expectations in no common degree. Catiline is the name of this piece; and it suggests the idea of gigantic grandeur. Mr. Croly, for he it is who has adventured on this arduous task,-has, we trust, well felt of how much such a theme is capable, and how much it demands. Ben Jonson has treated it--but not successfully; though there are splendid passages in his piece. Its opening with the appearance of Sylla's ghost, uttering words of dreadful portent, and pointing to Catiline in his study, is very striking. In this play we find a passage, which must have suggested, to Addison, the well-known com

mencing lines of his Cato,-" The dawn is overcast, &c." Ben Jonson makes Lentulus say,

It is, methinks, a morning full of fate! It riseth slowly, as her sullen care Had all the weights of sleep and death hung at it ! Her face is like a water turn'd to blood, And her sick head is bound about with clouds,

As if she threatened night e'er noon of day!

We think the original morsel the best of the two. The following, also, is a noble passage in this play :-Catiline is recommending secrecy and silence to the conspirators, till the moment comes for action.

-Meanwhile, all rest Have bound up brooks and rivers, forced Seal'd up and silent, as when rigid frosts

wild beasts

Unto their caves, and birds into the wood, Clowns to their houses, and the country sleeps:

That when the sudden thaw comes, we may break

Upon 'em like a deluge, bearing down Half Rome before us, and invade the rest

With cries and noise, able to wake the urns Of those are dead,—and make their ashes

fear.

Jonson's play, however, is in general heavy in its harangues, and often ranting, and absurd in style.Mr. Croly, we hear from the persons who have necessarily seen his piece, may be at least said to treat Catiline well. He takes him as a Colossus, under whose mighty stride the majesty of Rome is made to pass. His character is that of a lofty and stern mind,-with sudden ebullitions of softness gushing out, like springs in the great desert. He is exhibited in that situation of dreadful interestfluctuating for a time, with conspiracy before him :-then he plunges into the gulph, and perishes.-It must be admitted, that this is the way to set about the subject; and we long to see what the poet has been able to execute.

The following eulogium we think just.

To dwell for ever on the same subject; to give endless variety to that which appears to common eyes always the same; to find language for the most transient and hidden movements of the heart; to reflect these images with a clearness, in which not a speck disturbs the transparency; seems to be a proof, (if any proof of this can be admitted) that poetry is really inspiration! This will appear, to the taste of many, extravagant praise! But it is not said without long and leisurely consideration. The French have no sympathy for these simple effusions of what is properly called pure poetry; and they, and their followers, will more especially deny it the merit of purity, on account of the occasional conceits with which some of the least excellent of the poems are deformed. (Page 4.)

We are pleased to see our author support the reality of Laura, and the reality and purity of Petrarch's passion: we have always been inclined to savoir mauvais gré to that cold earth-levelling spirit, which has attempted to throw doubt and ridicule on these subjects: they have a favourite romantic corner in our hearts, from which we should with sorrow see them expelled. To divide the name of Laura from Petrarch, would be like dividing the names of Hero and Leander, of Abelard and Eloise, names which, from our infancy, we have been accustomed to hear together, and which are rendered sacred, in their union, by long and delightful association. To disclose to us that Petrarch's love had no higher character than a common amour, would be to destroy one of our most cherished romantic feelings of which, alas! at present not many remain.*

We wish the worthy Baronet had, in his black letter researches, found more supporting arguments, for we would defend these subjects with a triple wall of brass: what he says, however, has its value. Our Baronet, though not Hercules, triumphs, on these points, over Mr. Hobhouse, whose notions are always grovelling.

"Mr. Hobhouse next attacks, in harsh terms, De Sade's interpretation of the word "ptubs into purtubus, instead of perturbationibus, as the printed copies have it. But Baldelli has since found an ancient MS. in the Laurentian Library, which decides this question in De Sade's favour: for the MS. writes the word "patubs:" which must be taken to be "partubus," and not "perturbationibus." The passage is in the third dialogue between St. Augustine and Petrarch, De Contemptu Mundi, written in 1343."

Sir Egerton gives ample extracts to gratify the curious reader: we must, however, content ourselves with the single one, so often given

"A. Non hoc quæritur, quantum tibi lachrymarum mors illius formidata, quantumve doloris invexerit; sed hoc agitur, ut, intelligas, quæ semel concussit, posse formidinem reverti, eoque facilius quod et omnis dies ad mortem propius accedit, et corpus illud egregium, morbis ac crebris patubs exaustum, nullum pristini vigoris amisit."

"It seems to me (continues the Baronet, after giving the extracts) most strange, that the account given by the poet, of his passion for Laura, should leave any reader in doubt of its existence; or of its purity, as well as of its force. The birth of two natural children, of whom the name of the mother has not been preserved

and one of them (— a daughter,-) apparently, a few months prior to the date of these Dialogues, is opposed by some critics to the sincerity of this attachment. But Petrarch insists on the unblemished and impregnable virtue of Laura: he admits that he has not been himself blameless. "Cum lorifragum et præcipitem" (me Laura) viderit, deserere maluit, quam sequi.”—“ Incautus in laqueum offendi: amor, ætasque coegerunt. Firmavi jam tandem animum labentem," etc.

"Others represent this love to have been Platonic, because, in their

opinion, such a passion is a ridiculous chimera. Without admitting this presumption, a reader of fancy and sensibility will find both in these extracts, and in numerous passages of the poetry of Petrarch, signs of a temperament sufficiently earthly. Yet a mind gifted by nature, like Petrarch's, and trained as his faculties were, could easily give itself up to that visionary enthusiasm, which appears so improbable to vulgar opinion," &c. (P. 78.)

On the works of Petrarch our author has advanced nothing new. To account for the inferiority of his Latin works, he extracts the following well known passage from "L'Elogio del Petrarca," by Bettinelli.

"Che se dimandassi come fosse il Petrarca si elegante in volgare, e si poco in latino, altro dir non saprei, se non che nel primo fu creator del suo stile da Cino soltanto delineato;

ma nel secondo fu educato dal suo secolo, e dall'esempio de' rozzi suoi costumi, che non distinguevano ne' latini l'oro dali altri metalli."

The objects of this article, the Baronet tells us, are to give the English reader some knowledge of Petrarch, "because (says he) I cannot refrain from thinking, that in the present day, he knows but very little of this great poet: and that little, upon very superficial and tasteless authorities." He would recall the literary world to the study of that great author, and conduct them to the original sources by which his character may be judged of. The biographers and critics of Petrarch he treats rather harshly; the Memoir of Lord Wodehouselee (he says) does the author little honour: Tiraboschi, he says, is dry; Ginguenè retains a French taste; and Sismondi "judges like a Frenchman of Petrarch's Sonnets." Mrs. Dobson's work, he styles," a bungling, gossipping, uneducated abridgement of De Sade,

De

that does not deserve notice." Sade's Memoirs he esteems highly, and regrets that the book is become scarce. The best modern work concerning Petrarch, he affirms to be a life of the poet, by Baldelli† (a Florentine nobleman still living) a book little known in England.

This long, curious, and unconnected article, after insisting on the necessity of recalling the public taste to good old established models, concludes thus:

It is astonishing that living popularity should be taken as a conclusive, or even as a strong proof of merit. In my own time, in the forty years that I have been old enough to make observations, I have seen the poetical taste and fashion change, in England, at least eight times. The two living poets, who held the sway when I first became capable of judging, were Mason and Beattie. Soon after, the reign of Hayley commenced. Then came Cowper, and Burns. Even the Della Crusca school

glittered for its little day. Then came Darwin, whose dominion was as short as it was brilliant. The rest I leave the reader

to fill up, lest I should offend those whom I name, or those whom I omit. Of all things I hate literary warfare the most. I resort to literature as a balm to the mind; as a peaceful refuge from the troubles of the world. To introduce angry and contentious passions here, would be to pour poison into the cup of gentleness, harmony, and delight.

con

We admire and respect the sentiment contained in the last lines; and we hope Sir Egerton may long tinue to enjoy that " balm, and "peaceful refuge," on which he places so great and so just a value.

The article contains literal prose translations of twenty-seven of the most admired Sonnets of Petrarch, and of two of his fine Canzoni, made (as we are informed in a note) by a young lady, the daughter of the writer: they certainly prove all that they were intended to prove, viz. "translate his Sonnets in plain prose, and a high degree of the poetical