cant. There are some atrabilarious, bitter poor devils to be sure, who are the essence of spite, but they are only to be despised, for their power is limited by that very circumstance. The majority who criticise, do so to raise the wind, not caring whether they are right or wrong; or they are fellows of fun, who cut up an author with whom they would sit down five minutes after over a bowl of punch; or men who cannot bear to see Insufficiency swaggering away, and imposing on the weak-minded as a Great Grandee. As to people being killed by it, that is the greatest trash of all. Southey began this nonsense in late years. Some stupid fellow, in the Monthly Review, who, pressed by hunger, had to fill in a little Balaam, in order to fill his belly with some cheap food, wrote half a page of trash about moping Kirk White, who, had he lived, would have been an affected humdrum body; and this, quoth the Laureate, contributed to his death. What a tender creature! And lately, Johnny Keats was cut up in the Quarterly, for writing about Endymion what no mortal could understand, and this, says Mr Shelly, doctored the apothecary. And we had then an immensity of fine things said in Cockaigne, on "infant genius nipped in the bud," or "brutal criticism blighting the nurslings of Parnassus;" or "the chilling hand of ridicule freezing the fine flowers of poetry," and other fooleries, too ridiculous to think of. Is there any man who believed such stuff? Keats, in publishing his nonsense, knew that he was voluntarily exposing himself to all sort and manner of humbugging; and when he died, if his body was opened, I venture to say that no part of his animal economy displayed any traces of the effects of criticism. God rest him, to speak with our brethren of the Church of Rome-I am sorry he is dead, for he often made me laugh at his rubbish of verse, when he was alive. In fine, if Mr Halls' picture is good, it will live in spite of all the abuse of all the abusers in the king's dominions; if bad, not all the puffers from the days of Eolus to Tom Bish, will keep it alive. Pindar, we see, is in general looked on in schools, universities, and other such places, as very passable Greek-though that vast scholar, and mighty learned authority, "Classic Hallam," declared in a most erudite critique, that his language was barbarous, having mistaken the Beotian for R. P. Knight, Esq.; and the right merry and conceited history, written and composed by the late Right Honourable Charles James Fox, anent James the Second, has sunk calmly to the grave of all the Capulets, in spite of all the sonorous blasts of all the sonorous penny trumpets of all the sonorous Whig sages of the North in its favour. Let this comfort Mr H., who, I confess, has only served me as a peg to hang a dissertation critical upon. Let him dispatch his claret, or his port, or his brandy and water, or whatever his drink may be, in quietness, despising critics. Not that I am at all against voies de fait. I should have highly enjoyed the kicking down stairs of that pursy Abbot, who despised Michael Angelo, and I think Tasso a gentleman for doing it so handsomely; provided always that Michael Angelo was his friend, for otherwise it was rather taking a liberty. I can tell you a case in point. I remember I wrote a tragedy three years ago, which was a masterpiece in its way. It had a shipwreck in it, like Bertram-a lot of statues, like Evadne children and mothers, like Bellamira -&c. &c. &c. In short, it was a fine affair. I put breaks in my speeches, for Kean to make faces through, and I gave him four fencing matches, and two leaps over battlements. What could a man do more? Every thing went on charmingly-rehearsals perfect-actors au fait-friends enraptured-until the night of acting. The first two acts went off pretty well. Some slight disapprobation was expressed at a bear eating an elderly gentleman in rather a summary way, while he was making a soliloquy on the slave-trade, over a glass of rum toddy, in his front parlour, but the audience finally swallowed it. The third act opened with a storm; I blew strong, thunderingly strong, and dashed about lightning, hail, and rain, with the utmost liberality. A young lady was standing on a battlement, looking over the boiling flood for her lover, just in the natural way of all play-heroines, quite unconcerned. At last an aged domestic appears, of whom she makes ardent inquiries, which he, taking his hat off in the middle of a snow-storm, answers-Gods! what an answer!-I Shine like dead eyes of cod scattered about. At which, would ye believe it? there arose a universal hiss;-ay, I say a hiss-as if every man in the pit was transformed into a Lernæan hydra, hissing horribly. Who could stand it? I could not. So singling out one vociferous viper, I tweaked him fiercely and valiantly (Tasso's mode of critique) by the nose. He at last shook himself out of my grasp, and looking savage, "Sir," says he, "do you mean that as personal?""First, sir," said I, "let me introduce myself to you as the author of the piece, and then ask you, if you mean your hissing my play as personal?""Not I, upon honour," he replied." Nor then, sir," said I, “ did I, on my honour, intend any thing personal in pulling your nose. So let's go sup together." We got reconciled in a moment, like the Dukes of Bedford and Buckingham, stept into the next hotel, demolished our supper, and a couple of bottles in great comfort, as forgetful of my play, as Mr Lambton of his motion; and as his motion was damned while he was regaling himself over good cheer, so even, in the same way, was my tragedy. Yet I value myself on my finger-and-thumb critique. With respect to newspaper criticism, I cannot complain on that occasion: I had it all my own way; for, to oblige a friend who had promised to cut it up for the Morning Chronicle, I gave it a woeful and quite reprehensible dressing in that valuable print; and to oblige myself, I extolled it most magnanimously in the Courier. Shall I go on? No-no-no, Mr Tickler - No. You have been tedious enough in all conscience already.-C. N. DALE'S IRAD AND ADAH.* THE name of Mr Dale is already known to all our readers. Indeed he enjoys, we are aware, great popularity among one very extensive class of those whose patronage is our pride;-we mean the more strictly religious part of the community. But though his name is known far beyond that circle, we believe his productions are not, out of it, so much in vogue, but that we may be doing some good by announcing, very shortly it must be, the publication of a new volume of poems from his pen. It is a volume more calculated, we apprehend, than any of its predecessors, to be generally acceptable. It is, no doubt, full of the feelings of devotion; but it is also full of excellent poetry, and superb versification. A beautiful strain of human feeling mingles throughout the whole web of the composition; the subject is magnificent; the descriptions are true to nature and passion; the language is always that of an accomplished scholar; and we need scarcely add, that those who purchase books for the benefit of their families, cannot lay before young eyes a more pure and instructive page than that of Mr Dale. It must be the fault of the person who reads that page himself, if his heart be not improved, and his taste gratified at the same time. We cannot afford room for an analysis of the fable; nor is there any reason why we should diminish, by analysis, the after-delight of a regular perusal. It is enough to say, that Adah and Irad are a young pair of lovers, who, having wantonly wandered from the true faith, and resisted the prophetic admonitions of the blessed Noah, are involved, although repentant, in the great calamity of the human race, and die together amidst the rising waves of the irresistible FLOOD. It is impossible to deny, that here lie materials for noble poetry; and our opinion is, very briefly but very decidedly, that such poetry has been produced by Mr Dale. The poem is di * Irad and Adah, a Tale of the Flood. Poems. Specimens of a New Translation of the Psalms. By Thomas Dale, of Bene't College, Cambridge. London: J. M. Richardson. 1822. vided into three parts-GUILT, PROPHECY, and JUDGMENT. Our extracts shall be from the last of these divisions. It opens with a long and very poetical description of the gradually deep ening horrors of the encroaching sea, and of the various shapes in which the common passion of terror manifested itself among those doomed to suffer. The following are, we think, very powerful stanzas:— And some were there, in whom each tender tie On his own child, as One remember'd not; And many a Youth, from her whose smile could blot It comes! It comes! The clouds concentring swell, A whirlwind swept the sea, and shook the shore; The boundless firmament, while Death's dark band, Storm, Fire, Wind, Hail, went forth to work their Lord's command. O then what prayers and shrieks and blasphemies Rung mid the din of waters! while the glare Of broad blue lightnings cleft the clouded skies, And answering thunders seem'd to crush the prayer, And bid the conscious criminal despair; Bow'd in the dust, they dared not gaze on high: The arrows of his wrath; to mark him were to die. In sooth, that lightning was no earthly flame, Hurl'd on the troop, who strove with spear and sword Of thunder echoed like that Angel-word, Which shook Creation to the lowest hell, When Thamud's rebel race heard-totter'd-gasp'd-and fell. Midst the wild scene of darkness and dismay, A moment seek we for that maiden fair, Who left her God for love's delusive ray, And found too late it led but to despair Where too is he, whose proffer'd heart to share She madly gave her hope-her heaven-her all- On its unheeding Lord to aid them ere they fall? High o'er the vale a rugged mountain rose, Round whose huge breast impervious vapours threw Crested its brow. O'erhanging forests grew On its green sides, and many a fountain blue, Meandering, murmur'd through the deep-wove shade, Shone tremulous, or tinged the clear cascade, Or kiss'd the pure pale flowers that blossom'd in the glade. Here, on the morn of that appalling day, Wound the steep sides, and gain'd the snow-wreath'd brow; A mightier impulse lived that could not bow To doubt or chill despair that urged him onward now. Love was not changed to hatred, though in gloom In that wild hour of anguish deeply proved On her own head the cup of wrath she drew; Him to arraign, whom yet, if love remain'd, she loved. Bearing his bride, he trod the upward path, Then screen'd his Adah from the whirlwind's wrath While ever and anon the startling swell Of piercing shrieks rose heavier on the blast- Till Memory tottering scarce retain'd her throne, Look they to earth? Though, like a lonely rock While Heaven in thunders dread the raging flood defies. At length o'er all Night drew her ebon veil Of millions maddening in their agony, When each sacred Mother watched her first-born die On the bare rock the lonely lovers lay- When the bold hunter from a pendent bough With noise that drowns his death-shriek-their dark doom They dread the eddying wave, the gulf's deep gloom; But these would pant for Death were nought beyond the tomb. Morn in its wonted round came lingering on, Though morn from night the Sufferers scarce could tell ; Like the lone lamp that lights a dungeon-cell, Or the dim ray that gleams perchance in hell Yet Irad rose, and roused his bride to fly; If flight were vain and hopeless, still he knew He feared no human agonies, but who Can wrestle with perdition? And she too; Is there no mercy for a form so fair?' Thus struggled hope with conscience as they flew, 'O may not deepest penitence and prayer 'Wing to th' Eternal's throne, and win him yet to spare?' No! dream it not. In yon polluted grove And when JEHOVAH warn'd, by earthly love Your hearts were harden'd, and he warn'd in vain. Ye spurned his pleading Prophet with disdain, Or reckless unconcern-and hope ye still By prayers and tears that moment to regain? Is fix'd-and cannot change-He spoke, and shall fulfil. After a time, the poet thus returns to Adah and Irad. The rising of the sun upon their dark misery is awfully given. But upward sped the Lovers, upward still, Yet foot may tread where eye in vain would trace; Ah, what avails the pause that cannot save? 'Tis but a breathing in the onward race Whose goal is death-a moment-ere the wave Rears high its foamy crest to plunge them in the grave. Away! Away ! the fatal word is given ! It had not wrought a wreck so desperate and so dire. With that stupendous crash his footstep reel'd, |