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high expectations. Another breakfast was appointed, at which all particulars were to be settled-when, to the bitter disappointment of the poet and his friends, Garrick told them that he had reconsidered the play, and was afraid it was not calculated for stage-effect; a profusion of compliment and professions followed, and the tragedy ended in a farce of adulation.' It was understood afterwards, that Mrs Garrick thought the tragedy wanting in pathos, and Hayley suspected that he was indebted for some ill offices on this occasion to one of his literary acquaintance, who, if we guess at him rightly, has the reputation of having done more malicious things than any of his contemporaries."

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In 1778 Hayley published a poetical Essay on Painting,' in two epistles addressed to Romney the painter. In 1780 appeared his Essay on History; and, in the following year, his Triumphs of Temper.' The latter work was very successful, and-such was the low ebb of poetical literature in England-he the popular poet of the day. Leigh Hunt says of it: "There is something not inelegant or unfanciful in the conduct of Mr Hayley's Triumphs of Temper,' and the moral is of that useful and desirable description which, from its domestic familiarity, is too apt to be overlooked, or to be thought incapable of embellishment; but in this as well as in all his other writings, there is so much talking by rote, so many gratuitous metaphors, so many epithets to fill up and rhymes to fill in, and such a mawkish languor of versification, with every now and then a ridiculous hurrying for a line or so, that nothing can be more palling or tiresome. The worst part of Mr Hayley's style is that smooth-tongue, and over-wrought complimentary style in addressing or speaking of others, which, whether in conversation or writing, has always the ill fortune, to say the least of it, of being suspected of sincerity. His best part is his annotation. The notes to his poems are amusing and full of a graceful scholarship; and two things must be remembered to his honour,-first, that although he had not genius enough to revive the taste in his poetry, he has been the quickest of our last writers to point out the great superiority of the Italian school over the French; and secondly, that he has been among the first and the most ardent of them all in hailing the dawn of our native painting. Indeed, with the singular exception of Milton, who had visited Italy, and who was such a painter himself, it is to be remembered to the honour of all our poets, great and small, that they have shown a just anxiety for the appearance of the sister art;

And felt a brother's longing to embrace

At the least glimpse of her resplendent face.'

It would appear, from some specimens in his notes, that Mr Hayley would have cut a more advantageous figure as a translator than as an original poet. I do not say he would have been equal to great works; for a translator, to keep any thing like a pace with his original, should have at least a portion of his original spirit; but as Mr Hayley is by no means destitute of the poet, the thoughts of another might have invigorated him, and he would, at any rate, have been superior to such rhymers as Hoole, for instance, who with the smallest pretensions in their own persons, think themselves qualified to translate epics. In the notes to his Essays on Epic Poetry,' there is a pleasing analysis, with occasional versions of twenty or thirty lines of the Aurancana of Alonzo

every thing by the wide limits of his own understanding, and forgets that to speak to all men with success and power, he must bring himself down to their level, and make himself still more a man than they. He forgets the constitution of things, and follows blindly the light of his own mind, and the light of his own impulses, he regards every thing in its connexion with his imaginative world, and

'As if a man were author of himself,

And owned no other kin,'

he endeavours to suggest and illustrate, by noble passages and fine trains of thought, a certain system of philosophy and feeling, which belongs not to them, but rather to his own imagination. He' hopeth against hope' recklessly on, and seeing that the world will not become what he so ardently thirsts for, he builds himself, in his vague abstraction, a world of nonentities and contingencies, and bids defiance there to the old security and sanctity of what he calls superstition and injustice. Such are the faults of the constitution of this singular poem; its beauties are above all praise. Grandeur of imagery, depth of sentiment, an intense feeling of nature, with an enthusiastic and buoyant hopefulness which might well teach us to mourn over the infinite longings and small acquirings of man."

The following remarks on Shelley's personal character are equally deserving of attention:-"The eccentricity of genius has, it appears, passed into a proverb-Shelley does not call into question the authority of the adage. His eccentricity, however, proceeded from enthusiasm; an ardent enthusiasm in all things, which cost him, as it usually does, many friends, and found him many foes. He could not, in any matter, leave his favourite region of sentiment and imagination for the sake of raising his worldly wealth or worldly greatness. With a vision deeper than that of most men he did not use it wisely: he refined too much on thought and feeling; he could not endure the necessary trials of human patience; he would have the world, as has been already said, a brave poetical fiction, and he turned dissatisfied from the harsh and dull reality. He was constantly during life regretting that he knew not the internal constitution of other men. 'I see,' he would say, 'that in some external attributes they resemble me, but when, misled by the appearance, I have thought to appeal to something in common, and unburthen my inmost soul to them, I have found my language misunderstood, like one in a distant and savage land. The more opportunities they have afforded me for experience, the wider has appeared the interval between us, and to a greater distance have the points of sympathy been withdrawn. With a spirit ill-fitted to sustain such proof, trembling and feeble through its tenderness, I have every where sought, and have found only repulse and disappointment.' And it was from this disappointment, this withering of his fond conjectures, that many of his faults arose. We have a high authority too, for stating that this unfortunate man of genius' was bitterly sensible, before his early death, of the error and the madness of that part of his career which drew upon him so much indignation and contumely. It is declared that he confessed with tears, that he knew well now he had been all in the wrong.' In his heart there was nothing depraved or unsound,—those who had opportunities of knowing him best. tell us that his life was spent in the con

templation of nature, in arduous study, or in acts of kindness and affection. A man of learning, who shared the poverty so often attached to it, enjoyed from him at one period a pension of a hundred a-year, and continued to enjoy it, till fortune rendered it superfluous. To another man of letters in similar circumstances, he presented fourteen hundred pounds; and many other acts like these are on record to his immortal honour. Himself a frugal and abstemious ascetic,-by saving and economizing he was able to assist the industrious poor,-and they had frequent cause to bless his name. In his youth he was of a melancholy and reserved disposition, and fond of abstruse study. Like the scholar described by old Chaucer, he was accustomed to keep continually

At his bed's head,

A twenty bokes, clothed in black and red,

Of Aristotle and his philosophie.

He was, as his poetry attests, an elegant scholar and a profound metaphysician. We have frequently noticed his intense love of natural scenery, which grew with him from youth upwards. 'There is,' he

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once finely said, 'an eloquence in the tongueless wind, and a melody in the flowing brooks and the rustling of the reeds beside them, which, by their inconceivable relation to something within the soul, awaken the spirits to dance in breathless rapture, and bring tears of mysterious tenderness to the eyes, like the enthusiasm of patriotic success, or the voice of one beloved singing to you alone.' He made his study and reading room, we are told, of the shadowed copse, the stream, the lake and the waterfall. Prometheus Unbound,' a poem of singular vigour, one which strikes the mind like the naked and solitary grandeur of an old sculpture, and which breathes the true spirit of the finest fragments of antiquity, was written among the deserted and flower-grown ruins of Rome. And when he made his home under the Pisan hills, their roofless recesses harboured him as he composed the Witch of Atlas,' a strange and wild production, teeming with vivifying soul. Here also he wrote Adonais,' a fine tribute to the memory of his friend Keats, who died young, but whose infelicity had years too many.' His beautiful and stirring poem of 'Hellas,' was also written here. There is something strange and awful in the thought that he loved fervently, and always gloried in the presence of that sea, whose murderous jaws afterwards closed over his spirit for ever. 'In the wild but beautiful bay of Spezzia,' says one of his friends, the winds and waves which he loved became his playmates. His days were chiefly spent on the water; the management of his boat, its alterations and improvements, were his principal occupation. At night, when the unclouded moon shone on the calm sea, he often went alone in his little shallop to the rocky cliffs that bordered it, and sitting beneath their shelter, wrote the Triumph of Life,' the last of his productions.'

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its fertility, and from the low and neglected state of agriculture, promising amply to repay the attention of the philanthropist and philosopher. He therefore undertook a tour through Ireland, and in 1778, published two volumes, in octavo, consisting of facts and suggestions, relating to the internal economy of that injured country. We design no reflection upon subsequent tourists, nor do we intend to deny that much useful information has since been communicated by several eminent agriculturists and philosophers, who have visited Ireland; but, we believe, we state the opinion of the best judges, when we say, that for useful information, and well-selected facts, Mr Young's work will be found at least equal to any that has subsequently appeared. It is no slight praise to say of it, that the lapse of above forty years since its publication, has not produced any thing which can be said to supersede it, or even to equal it, as a repository of practical information.

Mr Young was now become well-known both in England and America, and on the continent of Europe, though not yet forty years old, as one of the first practical and scientific agriculturists of the age. His reputation had risen gradually, and was now universally confessed. In the year 1784 he commenced his Annals of Agriculture,'-a monthly publication, containing essays, communications, and facts on agriculture and political economy; comprising a most valuable mass of information. This work continued under his superintendence till his death, and consists of forty-five octavo volumes. But Mr Young did not limit his pursuits to the economy of his native land. His ardent thirst for knowledge and science led him to the continent, where he expected to reap a rich harvest of improvement, among the philosophers and economists of France. He also traversed, in pursuit of his favourite subjects, both Spain and Italy; and in 1791 published his travels in these countries, comprised in two volumes, quarto.

At this period his attention, with that of most political speculators and economists, was powerfully arrested by the events which convulsed all Europe, and the influence of which seemed likely to produce very extensive and momentous changes in all the established governments of Christendom. The French revolution was the topic of general conversation, and of a warm public controversy. It was viewed by all parties not as a mere war of power; but of principle. In this controversy, Mr Young appeared as the author of a bold and vigorous pamphlet, entitled, The Example of France-a Warning to Great Britain.' This pamphlet was published in 1792, and in the year following, Mr Young was appointed secretary to the Board of Agriculture-then recently established. From this period he was much engaged in public business, and frequently came forward with small publications on the politics of the day, and on questions of national interest. All his productions, as they flowed from a vigorous mind, and strong feelings, arrested a large share of public attention, and were extensively read out of his own country. Besides his occasional pieces, which were numerous, he continued his Annals of Agriculture' monthly, and published at intervals surveys and reports of the counties of Suffolk, Norfolk, Lincoln, Hertford, Essex, and Oxford. The French Directory, at the suggestion, it is said, of Carnot, ordered all his works, then published, to be translated into French, and published at Paris: and a copy of the translation, consisting of 20 volumes, octavo, was presented to the author.

London, whose arrival at Paris has been announced by the papers, possesses a fine figure, and appears to be about forty years of age. His hair is dark, his features are strongly marked, and he has a physiognomy truly tragic. He understands, and speaks with accuracy, the French language. In company he appears thoughtful and reserved. His manners, however, are very distinguished; and he has in his looks, when addressed, an expression of courtesy, that affords us the best idea of his education. Mr Kemble is well informed, and has the reputation of being a good grammarian. The Comedie Française has received him with all the respect due to the Le Kaim of England; they have already given him a splendid dinner, and mean to invite him to a still more brilliant souper. Talma, to whom he had letters of recommendation, does the honours of Paris; they visit together our finest works, and appear to be already united by the most friendly ties."

On his return to England, he purchased a sixth share in Covent Garden theatre, of which he now became the manager. The destruction of that edifice by fire, in 1808, nearly stripped Kemble of all his property; but, through the kindness of the duke of Northumberland, he was in a great measure indemnified for his losses, and a new theatre was opened on the site of the former one in the course of the ensuing year. The increase of prices on this occasion, of the boxes, from six shillings to seven shillings, and of the pit, from three shillings and sixpence to four shillings, gave rise to the famous O. P. riots. For sixty nights the British public danced rigadoons on the benches of the pit, and behaved with all the well-known turbulence of John Bull when he is incensed. Not a word could be heard from the rise to the fall of the curtain. Every hat was lettered with O. P. Every banner was inscribed with O. P. The dance was O. P. The cry was still O. P. Each managerial heart beat to the truth of Sir Vicary Gibbs' Latin pleasantry, "effodiuntur OPES irritamenta malorum." Mr Kemble appealed to the audience from the stage, in vain. Mr Charles Kemble was hooted for being a brother of Kemble. Mrs Charles Kemble was yelled at, nay, pelted with oranges, for being the wife of the brother of Kemble. Even Mrs Siddons's awful majesty was not a counterpoise to her being of the Kemble blood. At length, however, a compromise was effected; the private boxes were reduced to their number in 1802; the price of admission to the pit was restored to three shillings and sixpence; and the proprietors were allowed the benefit of the advance of a shilling on every admission to the boxes.

On the 23d of June, 1817, Mr Kemble took his farewell of the stage, in the character of Coriolanus. He spent the remaining years of his life chiefly on the continent, and died at Lausanne, on the 26th of February, 1823.

"The Hamlet of John Kemble," says an able writer in the London Magazine,' "was, in the vigour of his life, his first, best, and favourite character. In the few latter years, time had furrowed that handsome forehead and face deeper than grief even had worn the countenance of Hamlet. The pensiveness of the character permitted his languor to overcome him; and he played it, not with the mildness of melancholy and meditation, but with somewhat of the tameness and drowsiness of age. There never was that heyday in his blood that could afford to He was a severe and pensive man in his youth,—at least in his

tame.

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