ret heard of the disaster, she exclaims, "Well, he is dead, And what should Margaret do in the forest?" This is sensible enough: she determines to go back again to John, and take him for better and worse; and she continues, "Pardon me, thou spirit of Sir Walter, Who, in compassion to the wretched living, Have but few tears to waste upon the dead." She arrives at Woodvil Hall, and makes her appearance just as her dear Johnny is dressing himself in his mourning garments. Johnny is sadly sorrowful that Margaret should come to witness his disgrace; however, she is a good soul, and pours the balm of consolation upon his wounded spirit. "O Woodvil, those were happy days When we two first began to love; when first, Under the pretence of visiting my father, You came a wooing to his daughter, John." Ah, Johnny was a sly rogue then, but he is not in the right mood for a joke now; and he is monstrously dull at a hint. He reproaches himself in a most dolorous ditty for his unkindness; and Margaret, who has a sweet tooth, longs for a piece of wedding cake, and heighhoes to be married, perpetually interrupts his repentance, by reviewing the faded images of old times. "Dost yet remember the green arbour, John?" And so on, and so on, and so on. Margaret at length begs a boon upon her knees, namely, that he will think more nobly of himself: Johnny says, very truly, "O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts!" ret. In return he asks a favour of Marga "Will you go with me, Margaret? MARGARET. (Rising). "Go whither, John? JOHN. "Go in with me MARGARET. "Wilt go to church, John? JOHN. "I have been there already. MARGARET. "How canst say thou hast been there already. 'Tis not yet ten o'clock." The fact is, that as Johnny had not been at church for two whole years, he thought his presence might offend a Christian congregation, so he got up knelt down upon the little hassock, early in the morning, and went all alone, cried twice, and then prayed. Poor Margaret is left in the lurch, for without any matrimony thus endeth the story of Johnny Woodvil-A TRAGEDY! After this heart-wringing tragedy, follows a ballad, from the German, Helen, a poem of half a dozen stanzas, and some fragments, in which the quaint manner of Burton is successfully imitated. We shall extract the balad; the word is affectedly spelt. "The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening, And ever the forest maketh a moan; Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching; Thus by herself she singeth alone, The world is empty, the heart is dead surely, In this world plainly all seemeth amiss; To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one, I have had earnest of all earth's bliss, Living lovingly.” What precious nonsense! but this is a specimen of that canting, whining style, or rather slang of poetry, which is now-a-days offered to us as the very essence of simplicity and pathos! We have given an extended notice of "John Woodvil," a tragedy, for the same reason that we have transcribed this right pitiful plaint; for the purpose of holding up to ridicule that affectation of plainness and simplicity, which is the flimsiest covering for incapacity that was ever assumed. It is well known that with children And pray for the peace of our unquiet the exercise of the saving is a favourite minds? MARGARET. "That I will, John." (Exeunt.) By and by they hear some bells chiming, which, upon inquiry, prove to be the church bells of Saint Mary Ottery. amusement; when they reach the highest point of elevation, an arc of the suc cumbent circle is instantly and involuntarily described; they reach the opposite extreme, and repeat the movement. "Men," says the poet," are but chil dren of a larger growth:" their tastes and their opinions certainly proceed and retrograde from one extreme to its opposite, following very analogously the pendulous motion of this swing. A school of poetry has within a few years been set up by Mr. Lamb, and some others, whom it would be indecorous to enumerate, as their works are not before us, where all harmony of numbers is despised, all the regularities of rhythm, and variety of cadence, are disregarded, and from which all the graces of language are contemptuously banished. This har mony of numbers, these regularities of rhythm, and variations of cadence, have, it is true, in many instances, been more attended to than chastity of sentiment, and vigour of expression. Disgusted, probably, that these ornaments should have been distributed with an ill-judged profusion, this school, in order to reform the taste of the age, and enamour it with the charms of simplicity, not content with stripping poetry of her superfluous embellishments, and arranging tastefully those which would really adorn her per. son, and set off her beauties, has abso lutely deprived her of the common decencies of dress. The nymph is now always pouting, always melancholy, always discontented and fretful; she may well be ashamed of her nakedness, for she really is not fit to be seen. In this school too, she has been taught such an abominable lesson of affectation! instead of those high-bounding spirits, that animated eye, that healthy, generous, and open countenance, on which every passion, as it arose, was faithfully pourtrayed; the affected little minx is always sighing and crying, her eye is always downcast, her look demure, and countenance deceitful. Her character is in every respect changed for the worse; and it is for the sole purpose of rescuing her from the further ill effects of such detestable tuition, that we have been induced thus loudly to plead in her behalf, and to express our hopes that the school may be speedily broken up and forgotten. ART. XXXIX. A Tale of Mustern; a Melodrama, as performed at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden. By THOMAS HOLCROFT. 8vo. pp. 51. THE "Tale of Mystery" is a tale of horror, the effect of which must be greatly heightened by the accompaniments of music, and appropriate scenery. Indeed there is a good deal of serious pantomime introduced; so numerous, and so minutely detailed, are the instructions to the performers, that the printed play seems rather addressed to the manager of a theatre than to the public at large. "I cannot," says Mr. Holcroft, "forget the aid I received from the French drama, from which the principal incidents, many of the thoughts, and much of the manner of telling the story, are derived. I exerted my self to select and unite masterly sketches, that were capable of forming an excellent picture; and the attempt has not failed." This last remark we should have made ourselves, but Mr. H. has anticipated us. The dialogue is animated, the inci dents striking, and, as the event has proved, calculated, with the aid of Doctor Busby and Messrs Phillips and Lupino, to produce an impression upon the audience. By ART. XL. The Bedouins, or Arabs of the Desert; a comic Opera, in three Acts; as it was performed at the Theatre Royal, Dublin; with Corrections and Additions. EYLES IRWIN, M.R. I.A. 12mo. pp. 60. THE Bedouin who plunders a traveller in the desert, will protect him in the tent, and the rights of robbery never interfere with the laws of hospitality. This singularity is exhibited in the character of Abdallah, a portrait which Mr. Irwin has drawn from life; although an imperfect, he says, it bears a faithful resemblance of Osman Abu-Ali, the great sheick of the Arabs, in Upper Egypt, when the author passed through that country. The dialogue of the drama wants spirit, and we should have thought the sentiments and conduct of Zeleika extremely extravagant, but that we cannot put our knowledge of the Arabian character in competition with that of Mr. Irwin. ART. XLI. The Poor Gentleman; a Comedy, in five Acts; as performed at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden. By GEORGE COLMAN, (the Younger). 8vo. pp. 83. THE galleries of Covent Garden theatre have loudly applauded the low, the very low humour of this comedy. It was not very wise, on the part of Mr. Colman, to remove his cause from a court which was so favourably disposed to him. ART. XLII. A Trip to Bengal; a musi- "And can lins, demons, vampires, and apparitions of The plot, then, is to make Manfred fall in love with Urania as an ethereal spirit: she descends from a cloud, 'midst the soft music of the spheres, with all the celestial beauty of an angel. The hero is entranced, and he marries as a woman her whom he loved as an immortal. The dialogue to the underplot is managed with considerable humour: Pietro, the servant of Manfred, falls in love with Jaquelina, who is already engaged to Roderigo, the Princess's gardener. SCENE. ACT II. ART. XLIII. Chains of the Heart; or the Slave by Choice, in Three Acts, performed at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden. By PRINCE HOARE. The Music composed by Mazzinghi and Reeve. 8vo. pp. 92. THE intent of this opera was to intro. duce anew to the stage, and give a proper scope to the talents of two favorite singers, whose accomplished eminence leaves, in their own line, all competition at a distance. Mr. Prince Hoare is excessively irritated at the open-mouthed and violent cries of the critics: we will avoid his mighty wrath, and at once, for his sake and our own, let him pass muster. ART. XLIV. The Wife of a Million, a Oh Jaquelina! that you, whom I thought Comedy, in five Ads, as performed by his the sweetest and the purest of flowers, should Majesty's Servants of the Theatres Royal, sowed the seeds of love in the hot-bed of my turn out such a venomous weed;—you first Norwich, Lincoln, and Canterbury. By heart, brought them forward with the sunFRANCIS LATHOM. 12mo. pp. 93. shine of your eyes-and now comes the frost THIS is one of those mediocre of your unkindness, to nip all my hopes! ductions, to praise which would be flat--My eyes run over like a watering-pot, and tery, and to censure it would be severity. my heart swells like a bulged cabbage. Then to leave me, who sprung on her own native soil, for this exotic Pietro-a canker on him! if I could see him I would root him out like a dock. (Works.) pro ART. XLV. Urania; or the Illuminé: a A MILD and very well-managed satire of the prevailing belief in Germany of supernatural visitations, of the exist ence and agency of ghosts and hobgob The Garden of the Castle. Enter RODERIGO the Gardener. Roderigo. Enter PIETRO, reading a Letter. Pietro. Oh! bless thy mal-spelling, kindhearted, lovely Jaquelina-the Princess has promised thee five hundred sequins if thou marriest a worthy man.-I am a worthy man, and thou wilt marry me: ergo, the five hundred sequins are thine; and ergo they are mine. O sweet-looking pot-hooks, up and down-up and down, like the jacks of an harpsichord playing a jig. Then for my rival what does the dear creature say, (reading) "I like a single word of yours better than all Roderigo's famous speeches." Rod. (looking up.) Roderigo's famous peaches? Did your honour wish for some of my famous peaches? Indeed, I believe there are no finer in all Italy, they all grow on a south wall; and, as I suppose your honour is the young Prince who is come after our Princess, I shall be proud to offer you of the very best. Pietro (aside.) Egad! this is my rival himself; he has never seen me, and my fine air makes him take ine for the Prince-this will do. Hem! indeed, are you Roderigo? the most renowned gardener that ever put dung to a cucumber? I am happy to make your acquaintance. I was just reading one of my letters from Rome, wherein my friend desires me to taste Roderigo's famous peaches. Red. Your honour's greatness is very flattering to be sure to be sure, I believe no gardener ever produced a finer shew of fruit, or flowers either; then, to be sure, I have studied in botany, and know how to call every plant by its long name. But now, your honour, I must give all up-I must give it all up--and all, begging your pardon, owing to your honour. Pietro. Give up your profession, owing to me? how so, Signor Roderigo? Rod. Is not your honour the master of one Pietro? Pietro. Why-why, yes, in some degree, his master; Pietro generally does every thing that I wish him to do. Rod. Now then, if your honour would only wish him to hang himself, perhaps he might obey you, and all would be well with me again. Pietro. Why, faith, I never thought of forming such a wish for Pietro. There was once, indeed, some idea of Pietro's being hanged; and it gave me such a confounded odd feel about the neck, that-I have never liked to think of it since. Rod. Oh! I see your honour's heart is as tender as a medlar, and therefore I may venture to mention Jaquelina. Pietro. Jaquelina! Oh dear-I like that name; pray mention it as often as ever you please Rod. Well then, your honour, this Ja AxT. XLVI. quelina is daughter to Signor Carlos, who lives here, hard by. Pietro. Ah! I know him. Kod. Why then, this Jaquelina, please your honour, used to come here into the Princess's garden, and after moistening her mouth with some of my peaches, that your honour has heard so much about-(I ́will get your honour some of them by dinnertime)-I used to teach her the long names of the plants, and tell her a little about grafting and propagation, and such like; and then we talked about plants loving each other, and- Pietro. Oh, I understand you; talking about the fashionable system of vegetable matrimony. Plants that cling together, hotbeds, nurseries, suckers, and so forth, put you in mind of--- Rod. Just so, your Honour, put me in mind of classing her and myself according to the Linnean system. Pietro. Faith, Roderigo, nothing could be more natural. I dare say you have found all the ladies more frequent visitors to your garden since this systein has become prevalent. Rod. In truth, all the ladies who come to the castle do say that botany has lately become a most interesting pursuit. Pietro. To be sure it has; in my country there is scarcely a girl of twelve years old, who cannot tell you every vegetable intrigue, from a rose-tree down to a cabbage-plant: the sphere of love,and of scandal too,is removed from the play-house to the kitchen-garden. Rod. True, very true, your honour-if you could but see here sometimes the Countess Hortensia, with her two pretty daughters, Signora Rosa and Signora Myrtilla, how they do handle and figure every flower that they meet with! Dear mamma, says one, do see this plant, it looks rather withered and drooping; do you think it is in love, mamma? Lord, child, says she, that's a tetrandrian plant, which has got four husbands, you know--poor thing, no wonder it looks drooping, (she adds, with a sigh ;) four husbands must be a great deal to bear with!! Pietro. In truth, Signor Roderigo, botanical loves are interesting, or disgusting, according to the nature of the parties-an amorous myrtle may give a pleasant idea, but a gallant parsnip-oh, fie !-Linnean amours may be pleasing among geraniums, in a green-house, but they are d-n'd low among sow-thistles in a ditch. But Jaquelina— Folly as it Flies: a Comedy, in Five Acts; as performed at the Theatre, Royal Covent-Garden. By FREDERIC REYNOLDS. 8vo. pp. 65. THE man who beats among the bushes for follies, will at all times find plenty of game; and he must be a bad marksman who does not wing some of them, although perhaps his shot may not bring them to the ground. Mr. Rey nolds is a veteran sportsman, and does not often go out without filling his bag. He is never at a loss; for if he does not always find, he has the art of making game enough for his own purpose. ART. XLVII. A House to be Sold. A Musical Piece, in Fice Acts, as performed at the Theatre-Roa! Drury-Lane. B JAMES COBB. The Music compos.d an and selected by MICHAEL KELLY. 8vo. pp. 56. MR. MESHEC (one of the charac- truly enough observes that it is "put a ters) when he has bought the house, pad pargain." MISCELLANIES. ART. XLVIII. The Arcbian Nights; translated by the Rer. ED. FORSTER, with Engravings from Pictures by ROBERT SMIRKE, R. A. 8vo. 5 vol. pp. 429. and 5 Engravings in each volume. WE are rejoiced to find these interesting stories at length put into a garb worthy of them. The present, like all the former versions of the work, is introduced to our language through the medium of M. Galland's French translation; to its detriment, probably, if regarded as a book of authority, but doubtless greatly to its advantage in point of decorum and literary merit. With the exception of a few, very few, gallicisms, the idiom is compleatly English and the style natural and flowing. The work is printed in a very handsome manner by Bulmer, and is both ornamented and illustrated by the genius of Mr. Smirke: "of whose exertions and success," says our author, in which we entirely coincide with him, "I cannot speak too highly. He has conceived the different styles that were necessary for the humorous, the graceful, and the wonderful, with the mind of a man who knew and felt the beauties of his subject; and has executed them with the hand of a master, who has given the full effect to his own conceptions." ART. XLIX. Gesner's Works. 3 vols. crown 8vo. pp. 711. THE name of Gesner has long been familiar to the English reader, from his very popular work the Death of Abel, which was translated by Mrs. Collyer soon after its appearance. Many of his idyls and other poems have also been presented to the public through the mcdium either of English or French translations, but the present publication is the first complete translation of the works of the German Poet. It is introduced by a well written preface, which contains a biographical sketch of the amiable author. He was the son of a printer and bookseller of Zurich, and though he succeeded to his father's share of the business, he fortunately had partners who left him pretty much to the bent of his own genius. After one or two pastoral poems, he gave to the world his dyls, and in 1758 his Death of Abel, which was eagerly read, and translated into all the European languages. He then published his First Navigator, and made some attempts in the pastoral drama. It is a singular circumstance, that, after having cultivated with so much success the muse of Poetry, he suddenly transferred his attachment to the kindred art of Painting, in which he also attained great excellence. "The poems of Gesner were almost all given to the world before he had completed his thirtieth year. About this period he married," and, as he himself informs us, his father-inlaw, Mr. Heidigner, having a beautiful collection of paintings, consisting chiefly of the works of the great masters of the Flemish school, he devoted his leisure to the study of of their art. Gesner, who in his youth had their beauties, and became deeply enamoured received some lessons in drawing, resumed the pencil, but with a timid hand. At first he ventured only to delineate decorations for curious books printed at his office, but by degrees he rose to bolder attempts, In 1765, he published ten landscapes, etched and engraved by himself. Twelve other pieces of the same nature appeared in 1769; and he afterwards executed ornaments for many publications that issued from his press, among which were his own works, a translation into German of the works of Swift, and various others. The reputation which he acquired hy his pencil, was scarcely inferior to that arising from his pen. He was reckoned among the best artists of Germany; and Mr. Fueslin, his countryman, in his Historical Essay on the Painters, Engravers, Architects, and Sculptors, who have done honour to Switzerland, gives a distinguished place to Gesner, though then alive. "The private character of Gesner was, in a high degree, amiable and exemplary. As a husband, a father, and a friend, his virtues were equally conspicuous. His cast of mind was pensive, and even melancholy; his manners gentle.-In conversation he was mild and affable, and where the subject admitted of it, often highly animated, rising into great elevation of sentiment, and beauty of expression. But in every part of his deportment, there was that unaffected sincerity, that simplicity and modesty, by which trie |