not better apostrophize the Bath coach for being so cruel as to carry you safely to the fatal spot of your disenchantment?

Ed. Br. That were, indeed, a theme "unattempted yet in prose or rhyme;" but I must hasten to the conclusion of my observations. Catalani's former simplicity of deportment is not less changed than the style of her singing, Her chaste action is become redundant, her expression exaggerated; her whole manner is grown into a caricature of its former self. When she begins one of those interminable roulades up the scale, she gradually raises her body, which she had before stooped to almost a level with the ground, until having won her way, with quivering lip, and chattering chin, to the very topmost note, she tosses back her head, and all its nodding feathers, with an air of triumph; then suddenly falls to a note two octaves and a half lower, with incredible aplomb; and smiles like a victorious Amazon over a conquered enemy.

Lady M. Would that great singers knew how to spare those eternal flourishes! I have often thought that it would be a good plan if they could be persuaded to come forward at the beginning of a concert, and shew us all they could do in the way of ornament imprimis, and then sing simply for the rest of the evening.

Ed. Br. In such a case, I should beg to be admitted at halfprice. But singers never will correct their faults as long as they get applause by them from the multitude, and are upheld by the flattery of their minor satellites. No sooner does Catalani quit the orchestra, than she is beset by a host of foreign sycophants, who load her with exaggerated praise. I was present at a scene of this kind in the refreshment-room at Bath, and heard reiterated on all sides, "Ah, Madame ! la derniere fois toujours la meilleure!" Thus is poor Madame Catalani led to strive to excel herself, every time she sings, until she exposes herself to the ridicule, most probably, of those very flatterers; for I have heard that on the Continent she is mimicked by a man, dressed in female attire, who represents, by extravagant tones and gestures, Madame Catalani surpassing herself. Nor can the voice of truth reach the poor lady even in the recesses of her own home, for there is that conceited coxcomb, Vallebrêque, offering incense to the idol of the crowd. I was introduced to that puppy, and began to say something in praise of his wife's singing-a very unnecessary compliment indeed; for, seating himself gravely, with an oratorical air, he pronounced the following eulogium, doubtless for the 999th time :- "Madame Catalani certainly is the first singer in the world. She has sentiment

for those who delight in sentimentality. She has bravura for those who are fond of ornament. She has taste, feeling, depth, facility, imagination !!!”

Lest I should seem to conclude in a style of too much severity, I must do Catalani the justice to say, that she is still occasionally all herself. Her Luther's hymn is a masterpiece. She admits into this grandly-simple composition no ornament whatever, but a pure shake at the conclusion. The majesty of her sustained tones, so rich, so ample, as not only to fill but overflow the cathedral, where I heard her, -the solemnity of her manner, and the St. Cecilia-like expression of her raised eyes, and rapt countenance, produce a thrilling effect through the united medium of sight and hearing. When she says,

"The trumpet sounds-the graves restore
The dead, which they contained before,”

One half expects that her voice will indeed " burst the marble fetters of the tomb." Whoever has heard Catalani sing this, accompanied by Schmidt on the trumpet, has heard the utmost that music can do. Then, in the succeeding chorus, when the same awful words are repeated by the whole choral strength, how her voice pierces through the clang of instruments, and the burst of other voices, heard as distinctly as if it were alone! During the encore, I found my way to the top of a tower on the outside of the cathedral, and could still distinguish her wonderful voice.

Lady M. I was amused by a letter, which I received the other day from a young enthusiastic girl, who had just heard Catalani sing, and who had never heard any thing like good music before. "I love music, and Madame Catalani; I felt quite mad with pleasure. Her voice seems too wonderful to be comprehended. Her whole body seems to sing."

Ed. Br. Well, "take her, all in all, we ne'er shall look upon her like again." But I fear that I have detained your ladyship by rather a long-winded discussion. Parlons d'autres choses.

E. B.

4

90

CRUMBS OF CRITICISM.

No. II.

SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE'S EPICS.

In short, my opinion of him has ever been, that he is a very gentlemanly young man, and a most quiet and unoffending individual.-CHRIST CHURCH CONTROVERSY-LETTER OF THE TUTOR.

I sing the Briton, and his righteous arms,
Who bred to sufferings, and the rude alarins
Of bloody war, forsook his native soil,
And long sustain'd a vast heroic toil,
Till kinder fate invited his return,

To bless the isle, that did his absence mourn:
To re-enthrone fair Liberty, and break
The Saxon yoke, that gall'd Britannia's neck.

Tell, sacred Muse, what made the infernal king

Use all his arts, and all his forces bring
The gen'rous Briton's triumphs to oppose,
Afflict his friends, and aid his cruel foes;

Tell, why the angry pow'rs below, combine

T'oppress a valiant prince, and thwart his brave design.

FAME is proverbially a wanton. It would scarcely be believed, without testimony, that a poem consisting almost wholly of such lines as the above was at one time a favourite with the British public*; that its author was considered of sufficient importance for the special hostility of two successive confederacies of wits, each headed by the most celebrated poet and critic of the age; and that the sentence passed on his writings by these potent autocrats was deemed worthy of a solemn reversal by their successor in the literary throne. Such, however, is the fact; and it is a striking illustration

* Among other testimonies to its public reputation the first book was translated into Latin, in better verse than the original, by William Hogg (Hogdus), the first Latin translator of Paradise Lost; who styles the author "vir clarissimus," and his work "opus præclarum." The translation was undertaken at the instance of Bishop Burnet. This custom of translating into Latin such contemporary works as were thought worthy to last (poetry as well as prose) appears to have been common in those times. The latest instance on record is that of Bloomfield's Farmer's Boy. In the age of Blackmore, the notion of the perishableness of modern languages was not yet obsolete; the ancient ones were supposed to have received an exclusive patent of immortality, and the only sure mode of preserving modern works was supposed to be by embalming them in the universal dialect of Rome. Even in our own times, a learned Spaniard has published a treatise, proposing the erection of a Latin colony in the centre of Europe, in which nothing but the Latin language should be spoken, and the translation of Milton, Tasso, Camoens, Racine, &c., into Latin; and a writer of our own, of great but eccentric talent, W. S. Landor, in a Latin essay on the causes of the neglect of modern Latin poetry (one of the most singular productions of the age), has promulgated a similar opinion,

of the state of criticism in those days-of the manner in which men's minds were enslaved to names, forms, and artificial rules. Blackmore's epic was an exact piece of mechanism, duly constructed according to the rules, or what were supposed to be the rules, of Aristotle; divided into twelve books, and garnished secundum artem with battles, sieges, voyages, episodes, views of heaven and hell, speeches, simeies, machinery, a hero, and a moral; every thing, in short, except poetry; and accordingly it succeeded with a generation of readers, with whom the outward form was every thing, and the vivifying spirit nothing. Public taste is certainly improved in this respect; no one would conceive the possibility at this day of a poem absolutely worthless becoming popular under any circumstances. Yet let us not be too confident of our superiority. Our offences have been at least as flagrant as those of our ancestors, in proportion to our increased lights. When one of the two leading critical authorities of the age can style Rogers" a great name," and when its rival, not to be outdone in absurdity, has exalted Mr. Professor Milman to a level with Lord Byron; when a page or two of contemptuous abuse ⚫ is all that can be afforded to Keats' Endymion, by the journal which extols Mr. Barrett's "Woman," (a neat little piece of rhyme-work enough) as a true poem; it is not for us to sneer at the age which admired Sir Richard Blackmore. It is true that Prince Arthur ran through three editions in two years; it is equally true that Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads-but we see our readers manifesting symptoms of alarm at the very name of Wordsworth-so no more of this.

Blackmore's popularity, however, is not to be attributed wholly to his poetry. He was a physician in great practice, a fellow of the Royal Medical College, and apparently not without his weight as a political character; so much at least may be inferred from the manner in which he was distinguished by King William, and from the animosity which the Tory wits manifested against him, and which is too great to be accounted for merely on poetical grounds. Strange as it may seem, Blackmore was the sole poet of the Whigs. The Tories were lords of the ascendant in literature; Addison was yet in his nonage, and Thomson unborn. To this must be added the irritation excited by his attacks on the immoralities of his contemporaries, which he exposed without fear, without ceremony, and without intermission. Reviews were not yet invented; criticism on living authors was conveyed. through the medium of a preface, a dedication, or a set pamphlet. In such ways as these, not to mention the minor shafts of satire, was Blackmore assailed; and against all this storm of hostility he bore up with unruffled equanimity, sheltered in the consciousness of a good cause, and in a profound igno

rance of his own incapacity. At length, by the intercession of a critic whose character and sentiments were congenial with his own, and for whom the subject of his principal poem, and the elaborate accuracy of its construction, possessed some attraction, he was regularly admitted one of the royal corporation of English poets; and his Creation*, recommended by so weighty an authority, has found its way, in company with Paradise Lost, into the collections of most respectable housekeepers as a good book.

There is, as our readers have doubtless experienced, an inexplicable pleasure in exploring recesses which we know no one else ever thinks of penetrating. Such is the kind of caprice which has often led us to diverge from the main street, into the dingy lanes and anomalous by-ways of a great metropolis. There is also in many of us a perverse propensity to question opinions which have been sanctioned by the voice of ages, and to try the cause over again, merely because we were not present at the decision. Actuated by these motives, or whatever else the reader may choose to assign, we have groped our way through the dim obscure of Sir Richard Blackmore's Epic Poems. It is almost needless to say, that we have found no reason to dissent from the opinion of our predecessors in the critical chair. Yet the impression resulting is not one of contempt. It is plain indeed throughout, that the author has palpably mistaken his powers; but this error appears to proceed rather from a natural bluntness of perception, and incapability of discerning his own deficiencies, than from vanity; for there are no traces of egotism or petty conceit in his writings. He stands absolved, as a Romanist would say, on the plea of invincible ignorance. Blackmore, being himself a sincerely religious man, was strongly impressed with the close connexion between literature and morals, and with the delinquencies of his own age in this respect; he believed himself qualified to supply the defect, and accordingly put forth works without number, in history, poetry, science, theology, and polite literature, with the view of reforming the age; and we cannot doubt that his well-meant endeavours met with their due portion of success among that numerous class of readers, whose intellects, being on a level with his own, rendered them

* Dennis calls it "a philosophical poem, which has equalled that of Lucretius in the beauty of its versification, and infinitely surpassed it in the strength and beauty of its reasoning." The encomiums of Addison and Johnson are almost equally high.

The two elaborate poems of Milton and Blackmore, the which, for the dignity of them, may very well be looked upon as the two grand exemplars of poetry, do either of them exceed, and are more to be valued than all the pocts, both of the Romans and the Greeks put together.-Preface to An Essay on Pastoral Poetry, by the Hon. EDWARD HOWARD, brother-in-law of Dryden.