daily attacks of military deists and infidels, who are but too numerous in that line, and too succesful in gaining proselytes to their party.

We cordially recommend this little volume to persons of every degree and profession who have any scruples upon so important a subject. The dialogue is easy and natural, the style perspicuous, and the arguments conclusive and convincing.

The Poetical Register, and Repository of Fugitive Po etry, for 1805, 12mo. Rivingtons, 1806, 10s. 6d.

1807.

This

This is the fifth volume of a work which, besides its recommendation as an elegant Repository for the numerous Lyric Effusions that, in the course of a twelvemonth, find their way into the daily prints and other perishable publications, presents a variety of articles, not before published, of extraordinary merit. will be readily believed, when we mention the names of Miss Seward, Mr. Park, Dr. Drennan, Rev. Mr. Boyd, Rev. J. Whitehouse, Rev. Dr. Stevens, Professor Richardson, Dr. Leyden, Mr. Bridges, Mr. Preston, Rev. Mr. Maurice, Mr. Montgomery, Mr. Davenport, and others, as among the contributors. The Original Poetry of the present volume occupies upwards of 200 pages. We shall take the liberty of extracting the following article, of which, in addition to its poetical merit, the thought is original, and the point exceedingly happy.

THE COMPLAINT OF CORSICA.
Indignant Corsica, the world's disdain,
And hardly notic'd amid Europe's train,
Scorn'd early by a poet and a sage

Whose name immortaliz'd the injurious page
Harshly dictated by an exile's * rage;

She who in modern times long groan'd the slave
Of Genoa, mistress of the ambient wave;
And from her hands, all impotent to hold,
Pass'd to a monarch's, for the dross of gold;
Rous'd by a series of successive wrongs,
Thus claim'd the justice, that to states belongs;
And at the foot of Jove's etherial throne,
Sued not in vain, in this undaunted tone.

* Seneca.

"Look'st thou not down with equal eyes on all,
"Both men and states; and see'st them rise and fall,
"Not by rude chance, nor left to fortune's hand,
"But by thy just and merciful command ?
"What then is Corsica, immortal Jove,
"That she partakes not thy paternal love?
"Is there in all the dark decrees of fate
"No glory destined for so mean a state?
"Sprung from my loins, is never man design'd
"To lord it universal o'er his kind;

"To wash in Europe's blood my servile stains,
"And rivet France and Genoa with my chains?
"O, from thy throne, amid the starry skies,.
"Look down with juster and minuter eyes.
"Scorn'd, as I was, and as I am, oppressed,
"Let me find favour in my maker's breast:
"And bid thy thunder teach the unthinking states,
"Justice retributive on kingdoms waits."
She spoke and Jove with eye reluctant saw
Her pray'r was good; and that it must be law.
Then for the Book he call'd, in which are told
Things past, and things the future shall behold:
His firm hand traced a long career of fame
And o'er the page inscribed Napoleon's name.

Sc.

The Editor appears to possess the proper requisites for this useful undertaking: diligence, judgment, and taste. Collections of verses are easily formed, but to select good poetry it is almost necessary to be a good poet, an appellation, if we are not misinformed, which very justly belongs to the Editor of the Poetical Regis

ter.

The Pleasures of Human Life; investigated cheerfully, elucidated satirically, promulgated explicitly, and discussed philosophically, in a dozen dissertations on Male, Female, and Neuter Pleasures. Interspersed with various Anecdotes, and expounded by numerous Annotations. By Hilaris Benevolus, and Co. Fellows of the London Literary Society of Lusorists. Embellished with five illustrative Etchings, and two Head-pieces. 12mo. 8s. Longman, &c. 1807.

One fool they say makes many. It may be said, likewise, that in these times, one BOOK makes many. Mr. Beresford's very ingenious and original publication bearing the title of the Miseries of Human Life, soon produced More Miseries, a little volume not inferior to its predecessor in point and vivacity: The Comforts of

Human Life followed next; its Pleasures are now exhibited, and a second volume of Miseries, by the author of the first, is said to be in the press. Ohe! jam satis! many will exclaim; but this is a fine book-making age, and what is better for the trade, though not very fortunate for literature, there is no lack of purchasers.

The author of the present volume has assumed the firm of Hilaris Benevolus, and Co. but he deals more in satire than good humour, and notwithstanding his title-page, and the merry face he exhibits, furnishes little food for laughter. His aim has been to be witty, and he is often successful. But we grow somewhat tired, as we proceed, with the continual effort to be sprightly. It is the production, however, of no common pen. The writer (for the assertion that it is written by several, we consider to me merely lusory, or rather illusory,) is familiar with the several pursuits of literature, law, fashion, and politics; and their Pleasures, that is, the eccentricities, follies, and absurdities which they engender, are smartly and ludicrously touched upon as they pass before our "folly flogging Satyrist."

6

Indeed, to shoot folly as it flies,' forins his principal sport: and, among other game which he starts as he courses over "the manors of ignorance, impudence and vice," he levels his fowling piece at Mr. Kemble's vicious pronunciation; and in this instance the marksman has certainly brought down his bird.

"Barber: We have ventured to revive this word lest our readers should be put to any difficulty, by the late disputes concerning the true pronunciation of the more common word beard; which that great master of elocution, Mr. J. P Kemble, has lately confounded with the word bird. A wit, it is said, upon hearing him talk of his beard in the new style of pronunciation asked him whether his bird was not a black-bird

"We cannot omit here to justify the great actor for his very correct and classical delivery of the phrase, "I'll fill thy bones with aches," which last word he pronounces aitches. It is clear that Pro pero intended some dreadful punishment to Caliban; and how could he punish him more severely, than by filling his bones with aitches i. e. making all the bones in his body aitch-bones?"

The etchings are by Rowlandson, but they are scarcely worthy of him.

VOL. I.

An Historical Account of Corsham House in Wiltshire ; the Seat of Paul Cobb Methuen, Esq. with a catalogue of his celebrated Collection of Pictures; by John Britton; embellished with a View and Plan of the House, 12mo. 5s. Longman and Co. 1806.

This is a most noble collection, and Mr. Britton deserves much praise for the pains he has taken in arranging the catalogue, and obtaining every interesting particular respecting each picture. The dedication to the BRITISH INSTITUTION manifests his affection for the Arts. His Historical Essay on Painting; and a brief account of the different schools: and a review of the progressive and present state of the arts in England, is well drawn up, and contains much useful information in a small compass. The Catalogue is followed by BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES of the painters whose works constitute the Corsham house collection.

The Peasant's Death; and other Poems; by John Struthers, author of the "Poor man's Sabbath," &c. Glasgow, M. Ogle. London, R. Ogle, 12mo. pp. 112. 1806.

The Poor Man's Sabbath has given to Mr. Struthers a considerable degree of reputation as a poet, and in the publication now before us, that reputation is not ill supported. On the contrary, the performance is highly creditable to his muse. In confirmation of this opinion, however, we shall offer a few extracts. The subject of the poem is proposed in these lines:

"I who ere while in artless numbers sung,
The Sabbath service of the simple swain,
Whence Peace, Content, Delight, for ever young,
And heavenly Hope, rose smiling in his train:
Now to the trem'lous sorrow-breathing strain,
With faltering hand attune the rustic lyre:
How sick Dejection, Poverty, and Pain,

And weeping Sympathy, in death, conspire

To dash his high-formed hopes, and quench his heavenly fire." The poet then presents us with a beautiful description of a storm, presaging "winter's eve." The hall of wealth and merriment, in such a night, is contrasted with the humble dwelling of the peasant, the victim of sickness and poverty. His former happy state is adverted to, and the cause of his melancholy situation, painted in glowing language. The evening meal is next described. The father beholds his disconsolate family from the bed of anguish :

"To hide the grief that in his bosom burns,
The melting magic of their looks to shun,
Round from the light his faded face he turns,

And o'er his cheeks the tears in silence run."

The industry of the mother till the usual hour of rest; and her tender care of her children, are also depicted.

"Then, solitary, all the long night o'er,

She counts the lagging minutes one by one,

Listening, at times, the wild wind's stormy roar,
At times, her husband's feeble, weary groan,

Which, as it rises slow, she mingles with her own."

The night becomes more tempestuous-the rattling hail, the echoing winds, the "unwonted" crowing of the cock, &c. circumstances generally accounted ominous among the Scottish peasantry, affect her mind to such a degree, that

"Her task unable longer to pursue

She rises up to go-she knows not where,

Walks round the floor, as something she would do,
Which yet she cannot for the blinding tear.
Out to the night she looks; there all is drear,

No silver moon nor starry clusters rise,

Terrific Winter rides the groaning air,

With somb'rous wing he, sullen, shades the skies,
While thick the shapeless drift tempestuous flies."

Her wandering thoughts are recalled by the awaking of her husband, who seems anxious to perform the ac customed duty of family worship, which is particularly described; -The exertion overpowers him, and he falls back on his couch; his mind greatly agitated with those fears and hopes that may reasonably be supposed to exercise even a good man in the prospect of speedy dissolution.

For the sake of brevity, we must pass over many affecting circumstances, which the poet has related with great simplicity and feeling. The poor man dies, he

-"hath pass'd that portal drear,

Whence never back shall traveller return,

"Till on the clouds of heaven the throne appearThe great white throne, with ensigns angel-borne,

Whose streamy blaze shall meet yon bright sun's golden urn."

"His widowed wife" hangs over him in speechless agony. By the kind attention of her friend, her grief