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lucent as they glance over some classic stream? What can vie with that alabaster skin but marble temples, dedicated to the Queen of Love? What can match those golden freckles but glittering sun-sets behind Mount Olympus P Here, in one corner of the room, stands the Hill of the Muses, and there is a group of Graces under it! There played the NINE on immortal lyres, and here sit the critical but admiring Scottish fair, with the catalogue in their hands, reading the quotations from Lord Byron's verses with liquid eyes, and lovely vermilion lips—would that they spoke English, or any thing but Scotch –Poor is this irony! Wain the attempt to reconcile Scottish figures with Attic scenery ! What land can rival Greece P What earthly flowers can compare with the colours in the sky? What living beauty can recall the dead? For in that word, GREEcE, there breathe three thousand years of fame that has no date to come ! Over that land hovers a light, brighter than that of suns, softer than that which vernal skies shed on halcyon seas, the light that rises from the tomb of virtue, genius, liberty Oh! thou Uranian Venus, thou that never art, but wast and art to be; thou that the eye sees not, but that livest for ever in the heart; thou whom men believe and know to be, for thou dwellest in the desires and longings, and hunger of the mind; thou that art a Goddess, and we thy worshippers, say dost thou not smile for ever on this land of Greece, and shed thy purple light over it, and blend thy choicest blandishments with its magic name P But here (in the Calton Convening room, in Waterloo Place, close under the Melville monument—strange contradiction 1) another Greece grows on the walls—other skies are to be seen, ancient temples rise, and modern Grecian ladies walk. Here towers Mount Olympus, where Gods once sat—that is the top of a hill in Arcadia—(who would think that the eyes would ever behold a form so visionary, that they would ever see an image of that, which seems only a delicious vanished sound 2) this is Corinth--that is the Parthenon—there stands Thebes in Boeotia—that is the Plain of Plataea, yonder is the city of Syracuse, and the Temple of Mi
nerva Sunias, and there the scite of the gardens of Alcinous.
Close to the gate a spacious garden lies, From storms defended, and inclement skies; Tall thriving trees confess the fruitful mould, The reddening apple ripens here to gold. Here the blue fig with luscious juice o'erflows, With deeper red the full pomegranate glows; The branch here bends beneath the weighty ear, And vo. olives flourish round the year. The balmy spirit of the western gale Eternal breathes on fruits, untaught to fail; The same mild season gives the blooms to blow, The buds to harden, and the fruit to grow.
. This is Pope's description of them in the Odyssey, which (we must say
is very bad, and if Mr. Williams ha
not given us a more distinct idea of the places he professes to describe, we should not have gone out of our way to notice them. As works of art, these water-colour drawings deserve very high praise. The i. ing is correct and characteristic: the colouring chaste, rich, and peculiar; the finishing generally careful; and the selection of points of view striking and picturesque. We have at once an impressive and satisfactory idea of the country of which we have heard so much ; and wish to visit places which, it seems from this representation of them, would not bely all that we have heard. Some splenetic travellers have pretended that Attica was dry, flat, and barren. But it is not so in Mr. Williams's authentic draughts; and we thank him for restoring to us our old, and, as it appears, true illusion——for crowning that Elysium of our schoolboy fancies with majestic hills, and scooping it into 1. winding valleys once more. Lord Byron is, we believe, among those who have spoken ill of Greece, calling it a “ sand-bank,” or something of that sort. Every ill-natured traveller ought to hold a pencil as well as a pen in his hand, and be forced to produce a sketch of his own lie. As to the subjects of Mr. Williams's pencil, nothing can exceed the local interest that belongs to them, and which he has done mothing, either through injudicious selection, or megligent execution, to diminish. Quere.
A Letter from Mrs. Winifred Lloyd, to her Friend Mrs. Price, at the Parsonagehouse at —, in Monmouthshire.
MY DEAR MRs. PRICE,--This is to let you know that me and Becky and little Humphry are safe arrived in London where we have been since Monday. My darter is quite inchanted with the metropalus and longs to be intraduced to its satiety which please God she shall be as soon as things are ready to make her debutt in. It is high time now she should be brought into the world being twenty years old cum Midsummer and very big for her size. You knows, Mrs. Price, that with her figure and accumplishments she was quite berried in Wales but I hopes when the country is scowered off she will shine as bright as the best, and make a rare havoc among the mail sex. She has larned the pinaforte and to draw, and does flowers and shells, as Mr. Owen says, to a mirikle, for I spares no munny on her to make her fit for any gentleman's wife, when he shall please to ax her. I took her the other day to the Bullock's museum to see Mr. Martin's expedition of picters because she has such a pretty notion of painting herself, and a very nice site it was, thof it cost half a crown. I tried to get the children in for half-price but the man said that Becky was a fullgrown lady and so she is sure enuff, so I could only beat him down to
take a sixpence off little Humphry.
The picters are hung in a parler up stairs (Becky calls it a drawing room) and you see about a dozen for your munny, which brings it to about a penny a piece and that is not dear. The first on the left hand as you go in and on the right coming out is called Revenge. It reperesents a man and woman with a fire breaking out
at their backs—Becky thought it was the fire of London—but the show gentleman said it was Troy that was burned out of revenge, so that was a very good thought to paint. Then there was Bellshazzer's Feast as you read of it in the Bible with Daniel interrupting the handwriting on the j"...it. the cunning men and the king and all the nobility. Becky said she never saw such bewtiful painting, and sure enuff they were the finest cullers I ever set eyes on, blews and pinks and purples and greens all as bright as fresh sattin and velvet and no doubt they had court sutes all span new for the banket. As for Humphry there was no getting him from a picter of the Welsh Bard, because he knew the ballad about it and saw the whole core of Captain Edwards's sogers coming down the hill with their waggin train and all, quite natural. To be sure their cullers were very bewtiful, but there was so many mountings piled atop of one another, and some going out of sight into heaven that it made my nec
ake to look after them. Next to that there was a storm in Babylon * but not half so well painted, Becky said, as the rest. There was none hardly of those smart bright cullers, only a bunch of flowers in a garden that Becky said would look bewtiful on a chaney teacup. Howsomever some gentlemen looked at it a 'i while and called it clever and sai
they prefeared his architecter work to his painting and he makes very handsome bildings for sartain. They said too that this picter was quieter than all the rest but how that can be God he knows for I could not hear
"The storming of Babylon: Mrs. Lloyd must have got her Catalogue by hearsay.
a pin's difference betwixt them—and besides, that it was in better keeping which I suppose means it is sold to a Lord–The next was only a lady very well dressed a walking in a landskip, but oh Mrs. Price how shall I tell you about the burning of Herculeum ! Becky said it put her in mind of what is written in the Revealations, about the sky being turned to blood, and indeed it seemed to take all the culler out of her face when she looked at it. It looked as if all the world was going to be burnt to death with a shower of live coals!—Oh dear! to see the poor things running about in sich an earthquack as threw the pillers off their legs! and all the men of war in distress, beating their bottoms and going to rack and ruin in the arbour ! It is a shocking site to see only in a picter, with so many o in silks and sattins and velvets aving their things so scorched and burnt into holes Oh Mrs. Price! what a Providence we was not born in Vesuvus, and there are no burning mountings in Wales' — Only think to be holding our sheelds over our heads to keep off the hot sinders and almost suffercated to death with brimstun. It puts one in a shiver to think of it. There is another picter of a burning mounting with Zadokt hanging upon a rock—Becky knows the story and shall tell it you—but it looked nothing after the other, though the criketal gentlemen you knows of, said it was a much better painting. But there is no saying for people's tastes as Mr. Owen says, the world does not dine upon one dinner—but I have forgot one more and that is Mac Beth and the three Whiches, with such a riginent of Hilanders that I wonder how they got into one picter. Becky says the band ought to be .." bag Pipes instead of kittle drums, but no doubt Mr. Martin knows better than Becky, and I am sure from what I have heard in the North that either kittles or drums would sound better than bag Pipes. We are going tomorrow to the
play and any other sites we may see you shall hear. Till then give my respective complements to Mr. Price with a kiss from Becky and Humphry and remane Your faithful humble sarvant WINIFRED Lloyd. P. S. I forgot to say that after we had seen Mr. Martins expedition, we went from the Bullock's to the Bonassus, as it is but a step from wan to the other. The man says it is a perfect picter, and so it is, for sartain, and ought to be painted. It is like a bull, only quite different, and cums from the Appellation Mountings. My Humphry thought it must have been catcht in a pound and I wundered the child could make sich a materal idear, but he is a sweet boy, and very foreward in his larning. He was eyely delited at the site you may be sure but Becky being timorsome shut her eyes all the time she was seeing it. But saving his pushing now and then, the anymil is no ways veracious and eats nothing but vegeatables. The man showed us some outlandish sort of pees that it lives upon but he give it two hole pales of rare carrots besides. It must be a handsum customer to the green Grocer and a pretty penny I warrant it costs for vittles. But it is a wonderfull work of natur, and ought to make man look to his ways as Mr. Lloyd says. Which of our infiddles could make a Bonassus, let them tell me that Mrs. Price I would have carried him home in my eye to describe to you & Mr. Price, but we met Mrs. Striker the butcher's lady and she drove him quite out of my head. Howsomever as you likes curosities, I shall send his playbill that knows more about him than I do, though there's nothing like seeing him with wan's own eyes. I think if the man would take him down to Monmouth in a carryvan he would get a good many hapence by showing him. Till then I remane once more Your faithful humble sarvant WINIFRED Lloyd. Ricci ARDETTo is an amusing burlesque of the chivalrous poetical romance. It bears, probably, much the same relation to the Orlando Furioso of Ariosto, as Sir Launcelot Greaves does to Don Quixote. Forteguerri (called also by the affected Greek parody of Carteromaco) reversed the experiment of Gay,+who stumbled on genuine pastorals, while aiming at comic travesties, and found himself betrayed into parody, while professedly exemplifying the facility of the romantic epopaea. He received from nature an invincible disposition to pleasantry; of which his unsparing abuse of priests, while himself secretary to the Propaganda, is a standing proof. The ambition of coping with the serious poets, which acted as the original impulse to the creation of this poem, occasionally breaks out in sallies of poetic fancy, such as we meet with in the better parts of Lord Byron's Juan; the hint of which (to say no more) was clearly taken from Ricciardetto.— There are some very pretty tales, which, if they have not all the poetical sentiment of Ariosto, are very similar to those of Boyardo, in the Inamorato. The introductions, or openings, to the cantos, are evident imitations of Berni's Refacciamento of Ariosto; and not unlike the style of the Malmantile of Lippi. There are, however, in Forteguerri, more boldness and less delicacy. He says all that he means to say. Berni always leads us to suspect that he means more than he says, and sometimes the contrary to what the words imply. Forteguerri descends frequently into broad farce, and not seldom into the extreme of vulgarity: there is little of that genteel, refined wit, so conspicuous in Berni. In Ricciardetto we meet with the characters of Ariosto and Boyardo not always placed in the most honourable situations. Forteguerri turns them occasionally into cooks and stable-boys, and gives them many a
* Mrs. Lloyd means Sadak, in the Tales of the Genii.
THE FIRST CANTO OF RICCIARDETTO: TRANSLATED FRoM THE ITALIAN of ForTEGUERRI, By Sylvester (Douglas), Lord Glenbervie.”
drubbing from vulgar hands. But
* Murray, 1822.
Perhaps the humour of the scene is not improved by the novelist (except in the article of the dried pease, and the grimace with which they are swallowed), but the repast undoubttedly is: since Friar Tuck, at length feeling his bowels relent, and his hypocrisy give way, produces, before the enlarging eyes of his guest, a miraculous supply of red-deer pasty.
As the two translators present themselves in unavoidable juxta-position, we shall say a few words of the one just quoted, who preceded the subject of our article, in a version of the two first cantos. The rival translations bear but little resemblance to each other. Lord Glenbervie's is (we whisper it in confidence) a little heavy. His predecessor is impertinently flippant; fond of quaint rhymes, which do not appear to arise out of the matural diction, but are strained and laboured to set off the skill of the translator in this kind of knick-knackery. This is not the case with Lord Byron's imitation of the ottava rima in his poem of Beppo, nor in Mr. Frere's Whistlecraft; which latter it seems to have been the aim of Mr. Merivale to imitate or rival; sed longo intervallo. We take, at random, a few specimens of complete failures in this way; to say nothing of the unwarrantable liberties taken with the author, and the vile taste of foisting English allusions into the poem.
The merit of the translator in these elegant facetiae, is entirely his own. It must, however, be acknowledged, that this is erring on the right side. Where it is a question of the mock-heroic or comic romance, flippancy may offend, but prosiness is intolerable. We know nothing in the annals of heavy facetiousness so remarkable as the following stanza of his lordship (and it is a tolerably fair specimen of the general manner of execution); unless it be the incident of the German, who broke his shins in jumping over the chairs of his apartment, by way of serving an apprenticeship to gaiety. The poor inamorato, thus forsaken, Retired not till compell'd by his compeers; Then struggles with his trusty blade to break in To his uncover'd breast, and, bathed in tears, To send his heart to Stella ; but his bacon Is timely saved, for now the drug appears Doing good work; else had he slain in madness Himself and friends, and fill'd all France with sadness.
The following is more determinately and desperately humorous; but we think the effect still hard and heavy. A low or familiar expression is introduced here and there, with the evident study to appear volatile ; but there is, notwithstanding, an invincible ponderous gravity in the expression as well as in the rhythm:
With this he catches up a piece of a stick, And says, “ your folly shall have this reward: ” Then brandishes the same with air gymnastic; Rinaldo on his knees solicits hard For pardon, in a whining strain bombastic; Mine host does this as cowardice regard And hits him on the nob : the knight grows furious, And takes him by both legs in mode most curious.