THE RHYMING REVIEW FOR THE MONTH.

LET us write a review; but as every one knows,
None now-a-days reads them when written in prose;
Suppose, for a freak, we should try to rehearse
What was scribbled last month in a handful of verse.

First, then, of our novels-at once there steps forth,
Sir Walter,* in mask, from the realms of the North;
As careless as usual,-more careless, perhaps
As many great beauties-as many short naps.-

Tis lost time to critique him-at all that is said
About haste, or confusion, he just shakes his head;
He dashes on still, without heeding a word,
And the critic's forgotten-the novel adored.

But all must allow that his pen is more bright,

When it runs upon scenes long removed from our sight;

When the Templars + in chivalrous glory appear,

When the voice of Queen Bess seems to ring in the ear.

* Red-Gauntlet. A Tale of the 18th Century, by the Author of Waverly. Master go on, and I will follow thee

To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty--As you Like It.

3 Vols. Constable, Edinburgh.

When Claverhouse sweeps in full vengeance along,
Or whent Jacobite chiefs round their Chevalier throng;
Then, then, is he splendid, he's never absurd,

Till he writes on the days of good King George the Third.

In Red-Gauntlet the hero of course is a goose,
And a law-suit occurs-'tis his general use,

Of the heroine's perfections we have no great hantle,
Except that she's dressed in a pretty green mantle.

There's a Jacobite agent as usual at work,
As dark as the midnight, as stern as a Turk.
And the bore of the volume is Poor Peter Peebles,
Whose senses, black law and bright brandy enfeebles.
But the grandeur and obstinate pride of the Stewart,
The heart-breaking tale of the lost Nanty Ewart,
The good quiet quaker, though coloured too broadly,
The hypocrite Turnpenny, drunken and godly;

Father Crackenthorpe jovial, and stuffy, and swilly,
And the tale and the music of wandering Willie,
Are touches of nature, with truth or good sense,
Which our grandsons will talk of a hundred years hence. I

To pass from Sir Walter-another bring quick, sir,
Ha! here is R. Gillies's Devil's Elixir,§

A high German story, some pathos, much stuff,
Diablerie plenty of horrors quant. suff.

A sort of Saint Leon, mixed up with the monk,

A story as hard to untwist as old junk;

A style rather crabbed-digressions misplaced,

In the middle of magic, a lecture on taste;

Or when murder and incest are filling our skulls,

A bungling collection of hack Irish bulls,

Give the picture of this-but, good reader, there still is,
Much matter to praise in these volumes of Gillies.

The lady Aurelia is charmingly drawn,

From the time that we hear of her passion's first dawn,

Through the dark maze of fate which she's destined to tread,
Till murdered she bows at the altar her head.

Had we time in the text, we should add that there are
Some fine Tenier's touches of Scotland's old bar;

For instance that glimpse, which, with so much precision,
Gives Monboddo the blethering droll metaphysician.

We may also inform our readers, in prose, that we have received a tiny note from a Correspondent, which we cram in here.

Sir.-In Red-Gauntlet I noticed the following slips of the pen, which are at your service.
In vol. 1. P. 24. "Unstable as water he shall not excel," said my father, or as the Sup
TUAGINT hath it, Effusa est sicut aqua-non crescat.

Now with all deference, the Septuagint is in Greek; therefore could not contain this quotation from the Latin vulgate.

In vol. 2. p. 83. Darsie Latimer says, that he "was transported in one of the light carts of the country then called tumblers."

Now this journal was written two or three days after the events it relates, and the name of "tumblers" was scarce changed in the interim, so as to allow Darsie to talk of what they were then called; there certainly is some alteration now-in 1824.-A small critic.

§ The Devil's Elixir. From the German of E. T. A. Hoffmann. In diesem jahre wandelte auch der.-DEUVEL. Offenllict auf den Strassen von Berlin.-Haftit Microc. Berol. p. 1043.

In that yeare, the Deville was also seene walking publiclie on the streetes of Berlin.

2 vols. Blackwood, Edinburgh.

Query, Why does Mr. Gillies mispell year, devil, seen, publicly, streets, in the above transla. tion. He may believe us that bad orthography does not make old English.

VOL. I.

F

And th' events hurry on, that, though hard to discover,
What the tale is about till you have read it twice over,
Yet the interest is such that, small faults little heeding,
You would sit up all night to continue the reading.

Besides, ere you read half a sheet you determine,
That Mr. R. G. is a capital German;

That he gets through Alt-Deutsch very much con amore,
As we knew long ago from his beautiful Horæ.*

"Some account of the life of the late Gilbert Earle,"
Is a tale where a man falls in love with a girl,
Who, unlucky to say, has a husband already,
But proves to her faith somewhat little unsteady.

She pines and she dies-and he homeward soon ranges,
[The scene of the Novel is placed near the Ganges];
Is mournful and gloomy, sees strange alteration
In country, town, faces,-in short, all the nation;

Writes pretty good sentiments-sighs with an air,
In sentences tuned after dear Adam Blair;
Tells stories and scenes full of pathos and pity,
Shows much knowledge of ton, and some tact of the city.
In a word, makes a book, which is destined to grace
A lady's boudoir, in a smart wat❜ring place;
Then dies--and if Jordan's gazette may be credited,
Leaves his volume to be, by young St. Leger, edited.

Next, comes swimming on with a dignified carriage,
With a puff from Sir Walter, the author of Marriage.
We must always love talent, and shrewdness, and merit, hence
We always must love her new work the "Inheritance." +

How easy, yet caustic, the flow of her chat-
How delicious a bore is loquacious Miss Pratt―
How splendid a contrast the pompous old peer-
How delightful is Gertrude, the warm and sincere.

The story is piddling, but that is the fashion;
Our novelists now only think how to dash on-
Make the tale but the peg, for hanging up sketches
Of great men or small men, fine people, or wretches.

Yet, perhaps, if H. Fielding's old plan § were revived,
Our novels would be, after all, more long-lived;
If a story-to which every sentence should tend,
With a middle, as well as beginning and end,

The Hora Germanicæ, in Blackwood's Magazine, are understood to be from the pen of Mr. Gillies, and in general beautiful things they are.

+ Some account of the life of the late Gilbert Earle, Esq. written by himself.

But when returned the youth? the youth no more

Returned exulting to his native shore;

But forty years were past, and then there came
A worn-out man.-Crabbe.

London, Knight, 1 vol.

The Inheritance, by the Author of Marriage,

Si la noblesse est vertu, elle se perd par tout ce qui n'est pas vertueux; et si elle n'est pas vertu c'est peu de chose.-La Bruyere.

3 vols. Edinburgh, Blackwood.

§ See, particularly, Tom Jones. Heaven forefend, however, that we should panegyrize the execution of all the details. We are only recommending the admirable epic unity of the plan.

Were arranged with due care-and no one opportunity
Permitted to break up its regular unity;-

No character useless-no episode such

As to draw our attention away overmuch.

Perhaps, we repeat it, with all due respect,

The thing, as a whole, would have much more effect;
And a lot of smart characters now-a-days squandered,
Would condense in one work-and that work be a standard.

But we wish not to blame the sharp elderly madam,*
(We thank her too much for Miss Bess and Old Adam)
She, in fact, is less faulty in this way than many,
And could, if she tried, plan it better than any.

Why then, let her try, and we wager upon it,
Her next story will be the best flower in her bonnet;
And we'll all feel obliged if she still, as her use is,
Her cousins and friends for her butts introduces.t

Clorinda is written, we're told, by Lord Dillon,
As silly a book as was wasted a quill on,
From bottom to top just a bundle of havers,§

A companion, in fact, for Sir Richard Maltravers.

What d'ye think of the brains of a man who should bid us
Deem it right for the Brahmins to burn all the widows?
Why nothing: but pray that his visage so ugly,

Should be ducked, for his pains, in a pool of the Hoogly.

Enough then of these 'twere lost time, we conceive,
To regard such dull filth as is "Adam and Eve."||
To slay dead "Rosalyiva," in manner inhuman,**
Or to rummage the cases of Squire A. K. Newman.

Mr. Swan has translated-good reader look o'er 'em,-
That storehouse of stories, the Gest. Romanorum,††
To which bards of our own from Geof. Chaucer to Scott,
Are indebted they'll own it-for many a plot.

Wilhelm Meister -you know 'twas Old Göethe who penn'd it—
Tho' translated not well, must be still recommended;

For we give it, at once, as our serious opinion,

There are few finer things than the story of Mignon.

There's no poetry written this month-more's the pity,
We should wish for a sample to season our ditty;
But our great ones are silent, and none seems inclin❜d,
To contend for the laurels that they have resigned.

Since the above was written, we have learned that the lady's name is Ferriar.

It is understood that all the characters introduced in these novels are drawn from the relations or acquaintances of the author. We think it gives them poignancy-though it must not a little annoy the good folks concerned.

Clorinda. A novel, in one volume, said to be-but we vouch not for our authority, from the classical pen of Lord Dillon-the conspicuous and sagacious author of Sir Richard Maltravers. In this last work of his, he defends the Indian immolation of women.

Havers. Scotch for nonsense.

Adam and Eve. A Margate Story. Hunts, London. 1 vol.

Rosalviva, or the Demon Dwarf. By Grenville Fletcher. Iley, London. 3 vols.

++ Gesta Romanorum. Translated by the Rev. Charles Swan. 3 vols. H. Colburn, London.

#Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship. Edinburgh, Oliver and Boyd. 3 vols.

Lord Byron is dead, and as dead to the Nine,

Are the bards whom we knew in his spring-tide to shine.
Tom Campbell is yoked to a dull magazine,
Mouthy Southey writes quartos, by nobody seen.

Sam Coleridge drinks gin, and keeps prating and preaching,
Tom Moore to Lord Lansdown is tipsily speeching,
Will Wordsworth's distributing stamps to the Lakers,
Jerry Wiffen-Ben Barton-are nothing but quakers.

Scott is better employed than in looking for rhymes,
Croly's writing critiques for old Stoddart's New Times;
Crabbe and Bowles are with Moduses tickling their fancies,
Sam Rogers makes-PUNS! and James Hogg makes-ROMANCES!

In fact, not to talk in the style of humbug,
Our poets have found out that verse is a drug;
And a drug it will be, in this our British nation,
Until time fills the isle with a new generation.

We have only to say, that a couple of stories,"
In dramatical shape, are now lying before us;
Which are pretty enough for that sort of a job,
The name of the author, is Sullivan-(Bob).

There's a "Loves of the Colours," not much to our palate.
Composed by some bard, with a head like a mallet:
And the Hunts a bad spec., as we venture to tell ye,
Have published some posthumous trash of Byshe Shelly; $

In which you will find, as we found with much sadness,
Some talent-obscured by much maundering madness;
A good line, here and there, in an ocean of drivel,

And a thought, once or twice, sunk in blasphemous snivel.

"Songs of Israel, by Knox, from the Hebrew;"§ pshaw! trash!
Had David been living, O! Knox! what a crash

He'd have made of the lump, which you wear as a head,

For alloying his gold with your compost of lead.

.

Away, then, with verses-what next shall we start?—
Philosophy-science-phrenology—art—

Voyage travel-or history-humbug-or fun,
(Of the latter, alas! my good sirs, there is none.)

It were hard, we're afraid, in this metre of ours,
To discuss mathematics, their doctrines, and pow'rs-
To talk wise, like Sir Humphry, on chemical matter-
On medicine with Duncan or Johnson to chatter.

To rush, sword-in-hand, like a Waterloo trooper,

Right into the quarrel, 'twixt Charles Bell and Cooper- ||

The Silent River, and Faithful and Forsaken. Dramatic Poems. By Robert Sullivan. London, Whittakers. 1 vol.

+ The Loves of the Colours, with a few occasional Poems, and a Trifle in Prose. London, Hookham, 1 vol.

Posthumous Poems of the late Percy B. Shelly, esq. London, Hunts, 1 vol.

Songs of Israel, consisting of Lyrics, founded upon the History and Poetry of the Hebrew Scriptures. By William Knox, Edinburgh. Anderson. 1 vol.

There is a controversy raging now between Mr. Charles Bell and Sir Astley Cooper, Bart. about broken bones, plagiarism, and Borough Billingsgate.