plied, and will always give pleasure as a melody of a gay and lively caft.' There is nothing particular or meritorious in adapting English words to an Italian air; but let it be remembered that, in Harry Carey's own tunes, there is more real melody To these inthan in all the Ben Spellos' in the univerfe. ftances let there be added the following. We fee the model of all the belt fongs of our own compofers, in looking back to Handel and his fucceffors."

From the impartiality we profefs, we have freely expreffed our thoughts where we differed from Dr. Burney; but, when we diffent from an author who poffeffes fuch fources of information on a professional subject, it is with a due diftrust of, and not a partiality to, our own judgment. We wish to be underfood as recommending this work, as by far the most perfect that has yet appeared upon the fubject in any country or language; and that it contains a greater mass of musical knowledge, as far as the hiftory of the art is concerned, which is all that it profeffes, than feems poffible to be collected by the labour of any one man; a labour, which nothing could fupport but a love of the subject, and conscious ability of being able to execute the task with fuccefs.

The Speculator. A periodical Paper. Vol. 1. 8vo. 55. 6d. Boards. Evans.

HE anonymous writer of a periodical paper, when he firft affumes his office, is almoft unavoidably able to have imagination a little overheated, and his felf-complacency unutually excited. It feems to him, that the friendly cloud of

neas, for which the heart of boyish defire has so often throbbed, is at once his own. Fearless from conviction of fecurity, and fhrouded in impenetrable darkness, he is to go boldly forth among the haunts of men, and gather in, unnoticed, his plenteous harvest of obfervation. His fancy wantons in the ideal profpect, that activity is now to be gratified in excurfiveness, which no impediment can reprefs, and the purfuit of truth ren dered certain, when the fearching fpirit of philofophy is joined to the coolness of a mere fpectator. While, as the glow of his imagination continues to increafe, ftrange phantoms are conju ed up, by the creative hand of felf-importance. He fees the injured form of Virtue, in fupplication before him, look up to his exertions for fupport; and Vice, pale and trembling, await, in awful fufpence, the moment of that attack which is to shake her empire to its foundation.'

Such, perhaps, are the glowing fcenes which elerate every youthful imagination, and fill the mind, as with realities, till time withdraws the veil, and neither virtue appeals for fedrefs,

nor

nór Vice fears the fhock. Our enterprifing author pursues this fancied progress to the moment when time reveals every thing; when the ftage coach, a fimile of one of his brother effayifts, reaches the end of its journey, and the paffengers, instead of the characters they have importantly affumed, appear in their own shapes. Of the affumed or the real character of the author an account generally appears in the first stage, or, to speak less metaphorically, in the firft paper. The Speculator, it seems, has lived in the world rather than with it; and, when unavoidably whirled in its vortex, his mind rose above it into the region of contemplation. From fome difappointments, from which his feelings rather than his fortunes were injured, he retired from this bufy fcene, to a life of meditation rather than to a cynical mifanthropy, cherishing a pleafing melancholy, which coloured every object with a foft, inftead of a gloomy hue, and cultivating letters without the noify impediments, the interrupting buftle of business. This is the garb which the Speculator affumes, and which he wears with grace: it fits him exactly, and no impertinent reviewer has a right to tell him that it is not his own. Life and letters will, he informs us, be the objects of his attention: the tale will occafionally relieve the tedioufnefs of mere inftruction, and literary remarks will often vary the fcene. The literary part of the plan will confift in pieces of original poetry, and in a new and fertile fource of entertainment and inftruction, the drama of Germany, from which some of our modern popular plays are derived. As it is not the custom to follow the periodical publications minutely, we shall give some account of our author's fuccefs in the different departments which he profeffes to be his objects.

As the fecond Number contains a narrative, a Swiss story, we fhall firft examine our author's fuccefs in this line. The Swiss ftory is fimple, plain, and artless; the language a little animated by a spark, seemingly from the torch of Offian, which scarcely appears unfuitable to the fcenery and objects; yet it is debafed by one circumftance, which we think lefs natural: in the moment of furprize and affliction, a mother would not point out the moon to her children, as the residence of departed spirits.— The other narratives are pleafing, and generally of the fame artless caft. The story of Maria comes very near to that of La Rocque, in the Mirror; and, like it, is plain, fimple, and affecting. We had determined to transcribe nothing from the narratives, for we feared that we should be led to transcribe too much; yet the following fhort pathetic trait may be given as a proof of the author's tenderness of heart.

VOL. LXX. Dec. 1790.

A refpectable character, after having long figured away in the gay world at Paris, was at length compelled to live in an obfcure retreat in that city, the victim of fevere and unforeseen misfortunes. He was fo indigent, that he fubfitted only on an allowance from the parish. Every week a quantity of bread was fent to him fufficient for his fupport, and yet at length, he demanded more. On this the curate fent for him. He went :

Do you live alone ?" faid the curate: "with whom, fir," anfwered the unfortunate man," is it poffible I fhould live? I am wretched, you fee that I am, fince I thus folicit charity, and am abandoned by all the word." But, fir, continued the curate, if you live alone, why do you ask for more bread than is fufficient for yourself?" The other was quite difconcerted, and at last, with great reluctance, confeffed that he had a dog. The curate did not drop the fubject. He defired him to observe, that he was only the diftributor of the bread that belonged to the poor, and that it was abfolutely neceffary that he should difpofe of his dog, "Ah, fir," exclaimed the poor man, weeping, and if I fhould lofe my dog, who is there then to love me?" The good paftor, melting into tears, took his purfe, and giving it to him, "take this, fir," faid he ;-"this is mine- this I can give."

The little fcenery round Graffmere is described with great feeling; and the old Felton, with his enchanting daughter, we hope again to vifit.

Our author's poetry is nervous, animated, and often glows with true poetic fire. We fhall extract a fpecimen from the Ode to Superstition.

In the drear depth of fuch dim pathless shade,

The ftream of infant blood

Damps the blue flame, and o'er th' unhallow'd glade
Hell's deepest drknefs frowns the confcious wocd.

Round the wither'd witches go,
Mutt'ring death and difmal woe,
On their uncouth features dire
Gleams the pale and livid fire:
The charm begins, now arife
Shadows foul and piercing cries,
Storm and tempeft loud affail,
Beating wind and rattling hail;
Thus within th' infernal wood,

Dance they round the bubbling blood,

Till the rite ended, then they fly

To taint the breath of yonder ky,

Where on the defert vaft, and boundless wild,
Mid the lightning's livid glare,

Or at the balmy clofe of evening mild,

They're feen to glide athwart th' affrighted air.'

5

Tis

'Tis thee, O Goddess! thee I hail,
Of Hefper born and Cynthia pale,
That wont the fame rude name to bear,
Yet gentle all, and void of fear:
O come, in Fancy's garb array'd,
In all her lovely forms difplay'd,
And o'er the Poet's melting foul
Bid the fweet ride of raptu e roll
To dying mulic, warbling gales,
Mid moonlight fcenes and woody vales,
Where Elves, and Fays, and Sprites difport,
And nightly keep their feftive court ;
There, mid the pearly flood of light,
It tincts cerulean richly dight,
Light-fporting o'er the trembling green,
Glance they quick thro' the magic fcene,
And from the fparkling mofs receive,
Shed by the fragrant hand of eve,
The filver dew, of matchlefs pow'r,
To guard from harm at midnight hour
The lonely wight, who, loft from far,
Views not one friendly guiding star,
Or one kind lowly cottage door
To point his track across the moor;
Whilst the storm howling, tells his mind,
Some fpirit rides the northern wind,
And, 'plaining, mourns his cruel doom,
On tempeft hurl'd, and wintry gloom.'

It is fometimes

. His poetical vein does not flow quite pure. debased by a profaic line, by a comparatively weak one, or a laboured effort to find a correfponding found. These faults are, however, far from being frequent.

We reserved for this place our author's remarks on fuperftition, illustrated by the adventures of Sir Gawen, one of the numerous progeny of the Castle of Otranto. Superftition he divides into the terrible and the sportive, and each clafs is characterised in the lines which we have tranfcribed; yet we suspect that he is less correct in confining the former to the Highlands, the latter to the Lowlands, and confidering each as Celtic. Indeed he thinks the fuperftition of the Lowlands differs little from the lighter Gothic: it is in fact the fame; and the terrible graces of the other kind seem to have been only dictated by the scenery of the more mountainous countries, the fury of their storms, the gloomy heaths of the cloud-capt mountains. We think, with our author, that if the lighter Gothic fuperftitions are forgotten, our poetry will degenerate into cool criticisms, didactic morality, or harfher fatire. Perhaps, as he remarks, Mr. Hole's Northern

X x 2

Northern Enchantment may revive the tafte for thefe pleafing

reveries.

The tale of Sir Gawen seems defigned to illuftrate the more gloomy as well as the more lighter and airy scenes of magic; but there are fome effential faults in it. The hero is conducted through the caftle only to be terrified: no end is answered, no magician's power is overthrown; the old hag, who defigned his death, efcapes unpunished. Each fcene is feemingly intended to be more dreadful than the former, yet the foul harrowed at once by the adventures of the vault, and the truly terrible description of the wrinkled hag,' ten times more terrible than Otway's witch, feels every fubfequent event with comparative indiffer

It derogates alfo from the honour and spirit of knighthood, to be terrified, to fly, to faint with apprehenfion.

German literature is introduced in the fifth Number: the causes of the little attention that has been paid to it, are pointed out; and the æra of a more just discrimination of the beauties of the German authors, feems to be fixed at the period of the tranflation of Werter. The varied verfification, and the truly poetical beauties of Klopftock and Gefner, were loft in a monotonous profaic tranflation.' From the time of the Minnefingern, a fpecies of Troubadours of the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries, fome poets have occafionally arisen; but the vigour, the fpirit, the fire of the German Mufe, began only to be peculiarly confpicucus fince the days of Haller. The influence of the feudal fyftem divided fovereignties, and deftruc tive wars have oppofed the progress of the milder arts of peace.

The origin of German drama was, as in other countries, refigious; and, from this fource it has gradually arose to its prefent ftate, which, if it be not a ftate of perfection, appears to be a very improved one. The outline is bold and mafterly, the terrible graces of Efchylus, or our own Shakspeare, are frequently confpicuous, and the language, at once animated and expreffive, fpeaks to the heart.

It is on the strong and vivid delineation of mental emotion, that the merits of the German stage may safely be rested; often full of the groffeft truths, and violating every rule, their tragedy moves the foul, feizes the attention, wakes vivid curiofity, terror and pity; the mafter-strings of the human foul are touched in every feene, and though often with too rude a hand, the feelings acknowledge the influence. This is the animating fpirit, that gives life and energy to the tragic drama; without its prefence all other aids are feeble, play round the head, but come not near the heart. It is not cold approbation, not the mere reafoning verdict of judgment, this fpecies of poetry is to claim. The breaft must be moved, agitated, torn; the author must

cease