ART. XI.

Conversation: A Didactic Poem, in three Parts. By William Cooke, Esq. of the Middle Temple, Barrister at Law, &c. &c. The fourth Edition, revised and enlarged, with Poetical Portraits of the principal Characters of Dr. Johnson's Club. Small 8vo. pp. 136. Un

derwood.

THE author of the volume before us, as will be seen from his title page, is not a new and trembling candidate for public favour. He has already been well received; and it must be owned that he is not undeserving of the reception which he has experienced. His work will occupy a respectable place among didactic poems. Not that we believe it to be practicable by any rules to teach the nice and difficult art of conversing with propriety and elegance. To shine in conversation, requires a rare union of talents, taste, knowledge, and judgment. Still, though rules must be inadequate to confer the power of attaining excellence, they may be so far useful as to prevent the commission of glaring faults. In this point of view, Mr. Cooke's poem may be of service to its readers. His precepts are sound, and the characters by which he illustrates them are drawn with a considerable share of spirit. The following specimen will give a tolerable idea of the general tone of the volume:

"Press none to contest on his favourite art,
Nor in your own assume the critic's part.
The first is rude, and fruitful of disgrace,
For who with skill the several arts can trace?
The last is flippancy's perpetual sign,
And shows the pedant in the lowest line.

"Nor turn from him whose habit and address,
No modish forms, no brilliancy express;
To science bred-perhaps no grace was there,
To mould his form, or give the polished air,
The soft assenting look, the yielding head,
Which nods alike to every thing that's said;
Yet far superior to the outward show,
He claims the higher privilege to know→→→
To know, and act in virtue's honour'd cause,
The guardian and exemplar of her laws.
Such claim respect-hence, let discretion guide,
And spite of fashion's undiscerning pride,
Glean from his mind whate'er that mind will lend,
Exchange your knowledge, and engage a friend.
"To such, behold, how cool Sir VAPID shews!
Who measures man by feather, hat, and clothes.

See

See how he eyes him with forbidding stare!
Then, indolently turning on his chair,

Retails some trash, the last new batch of plays,
Or, what's still worse, the little wits who praise,
What nymph's best practised in the mazy dance,
Where vicious attitudes her charms enhance;
What philosophe religious duty flouts,

And braves the Sabbath with her crowded routs ;
What peeress opes her gates for midnight pay,
To aid some new-blown bubble of the day,
Or introduce some demirep of fame,

To prove that virtue's but an empty name;
What coxcomb, void of true poetic fire,

Prowls through the wards of Bedlam for his lyre,
Makes demons, goblins, sprites, converse in rhyme,
The very mania of the false sublime;

Or who retails the poison of his muse,
In novels worthy the Italian stews.
What does Sir VAPID get by this? disdain,
From all beside the profligate and vain.
What does he shew? a slavish itch to chime

In all the modish vices of the time."

Should this volume reach another edition, Mr. Cooke will do well to correct many slovenly lines, which are so many blots on his composition. The following lines, among others, have no further pretensions to the name of verse than that which they derive from being composed of ten syllables. A very slight degree of trouble will remove this defect.

"How now inelegant they wound the ear."

**

"Where pleasure and religion are combined."

**

"And pupil to the sage he scoff'd became.”

"Who must as often as he's nam'd have praise.”

**

"And to communicate the same around."

We must also once more enter our protest against the vile practice of cutting out the vowels, in places where it is impossible to read the verse without either pronouncing them, or rendering it completely ridiculous. Do those who write T'embase, and dang'rous, mean that we should pronounce Tembase, dangrous? If they do not, on what ground do they defend their practice?

Авт.

ART. XII. Sir Wilibert de Waverley; or, The Bridal Eve. A Poem. By Eliza S. Francis, Author of "The Rival Roses," &c. Small 8vo. pp. 87.

THIS tale is an amplification in verse of a romantic sketch in one of the first chapters of " Waverley." Sir Wilibert, in early youth, loves a lady, who, as ladies sometimes will do, proves false to him, and marries another knight. The knight is slain, and his wife dies of grief, leaving a daughter, for whom she implores the protection of the deserted Sir Wilibert. As this daughter, Lady Geraldine, grows up, she becomes so like her mother, in person, that her guardian falls in love with her; and as he has always been her friend and companion, and she, having been "immured as in a convent's cell," has seen few men, she innocently believes that she loves him with equal fondness. The author, however, judiciously declares, and we are rather of her opinion, that

"He was not a lover meet,

For one so young, so gaily wild;
His age her father's years might greet,.
And she appear his blooming child."

Besides, which was still worse, though not unnatural,
"He was grave-aye, jealous too!"

At length arrives the time which is to be the source of all Sir Wilibert's trouble and disappointment. He is summoned to join the red-cross bands, under the gallant Edward; and he departs, leaving Lady Geraldine and his mother in heavy sorrow, which, however, the lady gets over, and grows not only composed, but gay and frolicsome. After three years battling with the paynim, Sir Wilibert sails for England. But now his evil genius begins to bestir himself. The knight is taken prisoner, and carried into slavery, in Africa, where he remains for years. Having contrived at last to recover his liberty, it would, we should think, have been most proper for him to hasten home to his Geraldine, especially as he was of a jealous disposition. But, instead of this, he ungallantly turns his back upon home, and resolves to perform a pilgrimage through the holy land. At a shrine he meets Sir Ronald de Merton, who has just concluded his penance, and who very sensibly urges him to be his companion to England. Sir Wilibert, however, obstinately per sists in his design of visiting the "desert lake," and sundry other interesting places, and contents himself with sending a small token of remembrance to the Lady Geraldine. Against such conduct as this, the author enters her protest; in which protest,

we

we beg leave to join. At last, he thinks of visiting his native country, and, on his passage, is seized with fits of impatience to reach his castle, with which it would have been lucky had he been seized a little earlier. In the mean time his mother has died of grief on learning his captivity, and has left Lady Geraldine all alone a dangerous situation for a young and tenderhearted fair. So it proves. The heir of Sir Wilibert, named Sir Alwyn, a young knight, with sunny eyes, clustering curls, and an exquisite face, form, and voice-in short, a being made to be irresistible-visits Lady Geraldine; and she, as was to bo expected, soon becomes enamoured of him, and consequently discovers that what she felt for her guardian was not love. She, however, struggles with her new passion, and finally determines to be faithful to her guardian. At this critical period Sir Ronald appears with the token, is immediately conquered by her charms, and persuades her that she is deserted by Sir Wilibert; a thing which we do not marvel much that she easily credits. He tries to gain her affections; but they are already bestowed on another. As he cannot carry her by sap, he resolves to proceed by storm, and accordingly forces her off from the castle Luckily, Sir Alwyn, just at the nick of time, pays her a visit, catches Sir Ronald in the very fact of bearing her away, and, of course, rescues her. Her consent to receive him for her hus band is ultimately his reward. By this time, the tardy Sir Wilibert has returned, and he arrives at the castle, in a pilgrim's dress, on the bridal eve. He makes himself known, and at first complains bitterly, though not in this instance with much reason, of "women's wiles." But he soon remembers that he may have seemed unkind; and on this ground he excuses Lady Geraldine, and relinquishes her to his rival. Resolved not to be Qutdone in generosity, the lady is on the point of making a rash yow, but is prevented by the despairing language of Sir Alwyn, and the dissuasion of Sir Wilibert; the latter of whom declares his resolution to retire to a convent.

We do not think that the author has made quite as much as she might have done of this story. Her poem, however, is by no means devoid of merit. It is generally elegant, and contains several pleasing passages,

"The Dark Ladye" is intended as a sequel to Mr. Coleridge's fragmentary tale, entitled "Love." We will not say, "O most lame and impotent conclusion!" but we must say that, though it is pretty enough, it is by no means a supplement worthy of the beautiful original.

The following poem will give no unfavourable idea of Miss Francis's talents. It is called "The Farewell," and "addressed to Mrs. W. on her departure."

How

"When Anna's praises woke the song,
How roll'd each high-them'd strain along!-
But now, when I no more can hear
The praise of her, so kind and dear,

To pleasure, poesy, I fear

I now must bid farewell!

"And yet, if Sernia's gales impart
Health to thy frame, joy to thy heart;
Believe me, yes! believe me true,
Though I regret to part from you,
The hour my friendship will not rue,
That I must bid farewell!

"One little boon let Anna give:
I only ask, while we may live,
That THOU, amidst the courtly train,
O'er which a monarch thou wilt reign,
To think on me wilt sometimes deign.
Oh! freight a zephyr with a sigh,
To me the wing'd regret will fly ;
Perhaps 'twill check a stealing tear,
To find I still am something dear

To her whom now I bid farewell!

ART. XIII.

An Index to the Anatomical, Medical, Chirurgical and Physiological Papers in the Transactions of the Royal Society to the Year 1813. 4to. 10s. 6d. Stace.

1815.

THE art of making Indexes has (thanks to the indefatigable dullness of the Germans) arrived at such perfection, that any one, who professing to form an index to any literary or scientific work, shall fail in his object, must be accounted a very careless or a very stupid being. In many cases, indeed, the index is compiled with so much skill, as to become far more interesting, perhaps even more useful, than the work itself. We are sorry,

however,