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information respecting the Grecian stage, we may challenge Dr. Clarke to produce a single instance in which the departure of the soul, under the guidance of Mercury and Charon, is mentioned as being represented on that stage in the manner which he supposes, or in which any of the distinctive peculiarities of Harlequin appear to have found a place in the spectacles of the ancient mimi or comedians. As for the whimsical delineation which, properly castrated, he has transferred from D'Hancarville and Winkelman to the head of his fourteenth chapter, we are persuaded that if he himself will once more examine it, he will perceive, as all the world perceived before, that the bearded figure with the ladder on his neck, is marked out, by the kingly crown which he wears, as no less a personage than Jupiter himself,—that the lady at the window is Alcmena, -and that the whole caricature is taken, indeed, from the Grecian stage, but from a play in which neither Momus, Charon, nor Psyche was of the dramatis personæ.

The eastern part of Thrace resembles the steppes of Russia, and, to add to the similitude, there are here tumuli precisely similar to those of Tartary. Such tumuli, indeed, are always most abundant in countries of this description, as a visit to our own downs may convince us. Not that open plains were peculiarly selected for these kind of sepulchres, but because that which was the most ancient form of sepulchre every where, has remained in these situations unlevelled by the plough and unconcealed by the growth of brushwood. Our travellers ascertained the site of the ancient Heraclea to be not at Eski Eregli as generally supposed, but at Buyuk Eregli, about two hours distant,—and on January the 12th passed, for the second time, through Constantinople in their way to their former lodgings at Pera.

of Pera, its climate, its water, its society, Dr. Clarke speaks in terms at least sufficiently unfavourable:- the fountains are conducted through cemeteries, and charged with all the impurity which such a medium implies,--the sudden changes of temperature from heat to cold place a man in hourly risk of a fever or a locked jaw,—the streets and houses swarm with rats like a rabbit-warren, and yet cats are so abundant and so much in the habit of entering the houses through their ill-made roofs, that the bed-chambers smell much more offensively than dunghills. It is true that Dr. Clarke was, at the time, in a state of health which was likely to quicken his apprehension of the disagreeable. But his description of the streets, the markets, and manufactures, and, above all, the antiquities of Constantinople, is full of novelty and strength of colouring, not the less entertaining for being tinctured with the same species of humour which we find in Smollet's Matthew Bramble. It should be above all observed, that so zealous is Dr. Clarke for the increase


of knowledge, and so much is he at home in the works of ancient and modern travellers, that where he himself has made no discovery, he often gives directions, by the observance of which succeeding adventurers may be more fortunate, and we know not whether most praise is due to his description of what he has seen, or his hints for further discovery.

Dr. Clarke's volume does not end here, though it is here that he concludes the second part of his travels. A Supplement follows, containing a hasty journal of his progress through Wallachia, Transylvania and Hungary, to Vienna; and copious remarks on the mines of Nagybania, Cremnitz, and Schemnitz. But for this part of his journey we have no space. His mineralogical observations are not of a kind to bear abridgment, and he had in Hungary little leisure or inclination for other inquiries. He arrived at Vienna, May 29th, and thence continued his journey through Germany and France to England. In the Appendix is given a translation, by the Rev. G. Browne of Trinity College, Cambridge, of the famous fragment of Nicetas the Choniate, describing the well know'n devastations of the Franks when they took Constantinople, A.D. 1205. A list of the plants collected during the tour, containing no less than sixty new species; a diary of the temperature of the atmosphere in the different regions which he visited in Europe, Asia, and Africa; and an itinerary of his course from Athens to Boulogne, together with a map of his journey, on too small a scale to be useful, and two plans of Constantinople and the sea of Marmora, conclude the volume, of which our opinion may be gathered in part from the strictures which it has called forth, though it would be an act of great injustice to appreciate its merit from those strictures only. It has been often supposed to be the delight of critics to find fault. It might, with more truth, be said to be their peculiar and most urgent employment, and the more necessary does it become in proportion to the general ability and previous reputation of the writers under their scrutiny. But while we can say with great truth that we have not knowingly passed over a single mistake in Dr. Clarke's long work, without its due reprehension, we should despise ourselves if we were to represent such errors as detracting in any serious degree from the general value and authority of his statements; or if we were slow to acknowledge that an equally careful selection of those passages which have pleased and instructed us would have far exceeded the limits of our Review. Few men have seen so much as he bas done, still fewer have described what they have seen so well; and we hardly know any writer with whose character and feelings we become so well acquainted from the perusal of his work, or where, bating a little prejudice, peevishness and impetuosity, the impression is more thoroughly favourable.


Art. VIII.-Paris in 1815. A Poem. 8vo. pp. 75. London.

1817. THIS is the work of a powerful and poetic imagination ; but

the style and expression are of very unequal merit. sionally uncouth, and frequently obscure, they nevertheless are often, perhaps we might say generally, suitable to the ardent inspirations which they are destined to convey.

The subject of the poem is a desultory walk through Paris, in which the author observes, with very little regularity, but with great force, on the different objects which present themselves. It is evident that he visited Paris already well imbued with the local history of the town, and more particularly with that of those most interesting events which for five-and-twenty years have rendered that capital equally the object of horror and curiosity.

The bias of the author's mind, both in religion and politics, is strongly adverse to the revolution and the revolutionists, and when he enters the scenes on which so many atrocious crimes have been committed, his descriptions are tinged with the deep and mellow colours of an enthusiasm against which no reader, we think, can easily defend himself.

Approaching from Mont Martre, the first object that strikes our poetical traveller is the British flag which, from that remarkable eminence, floated over the haughty capital of France.—The hurried fortifications raised here by Buonaparte, symbols of

What terror on the boastful land has been, are well delineated; but the stanzas, which describe the feelings of the British army when they first scaled Mont Martre, and glutted their eyes with the view of conquered Paris, appear to us to be of a still higher strain :

• War has its mighty moments:—lleart of Man!
Have all thy pulses vigour for a thrill
Prouder than through those gallant bosoms ran
When first their standards waved above that hill?
When first they strove their downward gaze to fill
With the full grandeur of their glorious prize-
Paris! the name that from their cradle still

Stung them in dreams ; now, glittering in their eyes,
Now won—won by the Victory of Victories !


• For this, had bled their battle round the world ;
For this, they round the world had come to war;
Some with the shatter'd ensign that unfurld
Its lion-emblems to the Orient star;
And some, the blue Atlantic stemming far;

And his eyes.

And some, a matchless band, from swarthy Spain-
With well-worn steel, and breasts of many a scar;

But all their plains to their last conquering plain

Were sport, and all their trophies to this trophy vain.'—p. 5, 6. Before we proceed, we must take the opportunity of stating, once for all, that the author is sometimes extremely negligeut in the construction of his Alexandrines. It requires more management than he is entitled to demand, on the part of his readers, to modulate the closing lines of the two stanzas just quoted (and there

others ejusdem farinæ) into any thing like verse. This is a fault which no authority can sanction, and which, therefore, like the errors of Hamlet's strolling players, should be reformed all-together.

On entering Paris, the author changes bis metre, (on which we shail say a word hereafter,) and gives the following striking picture of the first impressions created by a sight so new

* The barrier's reach'd-out reels the drowsy guard ;
A scowl-a question-and the gate's unbarr’d.
And this is Paris! The postilion's thong
Rings round a desert, as we bound along
From rut to deeper rut of shapeless stone,
With many a general beave, and general groan.
Onward, still darker, doubly desolate,
Wincis o'er the shrinking head the dangerous strait :
The light is lost ; in vain we peer our way
Through the dark dimness of the Faubourg day;
In vain the wearied eyeball strains to scale
That squalid height, halt hovel and half jail :
At every step the struggling vision bar
Projections sudden, black, and angular,
Streak'd with what once was gore, deep rent with shot,
Marks of some conflict furious and- forgot!
Grim loneliness !-and yet some wasted form
Will start upon the sight, a human worm
Clung to the chapel's wall--the lank throat bare,
The glance shot woejul from the tangled hair,
The fleshless, outstretch'd arm, and ghastly cry,
Halt forcing, half repelling charity.
Or, from the portal of the old hotel,
Gleams on bis pust the victor-sentinel,-
Briton or German,-shooting round bis ken,

From its dark depth,-a lion from his den!'-pp. 12, 13.

, as we suspect, this passage should remind our readers of Mr. Crabbe, the following description of the lodging of one of Buonaparte's last-stake ruffians, the fédérés whom he attempted to arm in 1814, less in his own defence than for the overthrow of all order, will press the resemblance more strongly upon them.

• Heavy

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* Heavy that chamber's air ; the sunbeams fall
Scattered and sickly on the naked wall;
Through the time-crusted casement scarcely shown
The rafter'd roof, the floor of chilling stone,
The crazy bed, the mirror that betrays
Frameless, where vanity yet loves to gaze;
And still, the symbols of his darker trade,
The musquet, robber-pistol, sabre blade,
Hung rusting, where around the scanty fire
His squalid offspring watch its brands expire.
His glance is there;-anoiher, statelier spot
Has full possession of his fever'd thought;
In the fierce past the fierce to-come he sees,
The day returned of plunder'd palaces,
When faction revell’d, mobs kept thrones in awe,

And the red pike at once was King and Law.'--p. 16.
We regret that our limits do not permit us to give the whole of
the vivid and energetic passage in which the author describes the in-
famous Abbaye, and exhibits the horrors of the massacres of Sep-
tember, 1792. The contrast between the present appearance of
the building, and the recollections which it inspires, are finely con-
ceived and forcibly expressed.

But pause! what pile athwart the crowded way.
Frowns with such sterner aspect? The Abbaye !-
Gay in the sight, the shadow of that pile,
The meagre native plays bis gambol vile.
Above, tolls out for death the prison knell,
Below, dogs, monkies, bears, the jangling swell;
The crack'd horn rings, the rival mimes engage,
Punch in imperial tatters sweeps the stage;
The jostling mob dance, laugh, sig, shout the rhyme,
And die in ecstasies the thousandth time.
And look! around, above, what ghastly row
Through bar and grating struggle for the show,
Down darting, head o'er head, the haggard eye,
Felons! the scarcely 'scaped,- the sure to die!
The dungeon'd murderer startles from his trance,
Uplistening hears the din, the monkey-dance,
Growls at the fate that tix'd his cell beneath,
And feels the solid bitterness of death.
Yes, 'twas the spot !-where yonder slow gendarme
Sweeps from his round the loitering pauper-swarm;
Where up the mouldering wall, that starveling vine
Drags on from nail to nail its yellow twine;
For ornament! Still something for the eye;

Prisons, nay grates, have here their foppery.'--pp. 19, 20.
He then proceeds to a more detailed description of those dread-
ful nights ;—it is all good, particularly the account of that mosť


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