"Nay," said Reginald, solemnly, "not happiness - but I trust calmness to endure my misery. You may, but I cannot forget;" and with this his tears also flowed, for hitherto not one drop had eased his burning eye-lids.

Neither for a few moments said any thing- at last, Ellen rubbed aside her tears with a hot and rapid hand and "Hear me," she said, "hear me, Mr. Dalton. We are both too young

we are both inexperienced and we have both our sorrows, and we should both think of other things. Go, Sir, and do your duty in the world; and if it will lighten your heart to know, that you carry with you my warmest wishes for your welfare, do take them with you. Hereafter there may come better days for us both, and then, perhaps — but no, no, Sir, I know 'tis folly

She bowed her head upon her knees he drew her hand to his lips, and kissed it, and wept upon it, and whispered as none ever whispered twice, and was answered with a silence more eloquent even than all the whispers in the universe.*

Before we conclude, we may remark that Reginald Dalton is distinguished both for the loyalty and the gastrology of its pages, if we may be allowed the term. The author is exceedingly fond of kings, and of good living; evidence of which fact may be found throughout his volumes, passim. In vol. i. p. 323. we have a long and ingenious dissertation on the pleasures of eating and drinking, and on their close conneetion with those of literature. Even the Catholic priest is not happy without a bottle of the "rich Rudelsheimer," which had been presented to him by the Count de Lisle, (Louis XVIII.) then resident at Hartwell; and which, we are told, Reginald did not, as it may be supposed, relish any the less because it had come from the cellars of a prince and a Bourbon. With regard to the style, also, we must observe that it is not free from marks of haste and inaccuracy. Besides Scoticisms, intended and not intended, we have (often, but not always,) the now almost characteristic Scotch violation of grammar in using the adjective scarce for the adverb scarcely, to which "the author of Waverley" so pertinaciously adheres; the aukward phrase (also Scotch, we believe,) brother uterine : the vulgarisms, with that the Squire thrust,' &c., and I'll tell you what it is, Dalton: the bad French, ami du maison, &c. &c. The actual meaning, moreover, of the real French phrase, ami de la maison, is not implied in this application of it.

6

MONTHLY

MONTHLY CATALOGUE,

Art. 12.

FOR FEBRUARY, 1824.

POETRY.

Mirth for Midsummer, Merriment for Michaelmas, Cheerfulness for Christmas, Laughter for Lady-Day: forming a collection of Parlour Poetry, and Drawing-room Drollery, Suitable for all Seasons; and Supplying Smiles for Summer, Amusement for Autumn, Wit for Winter, Sprightliness for Spring. 12mo. 4s. Boards. Baldwin and Co. 1823.

After this ingenious alliterative title, a short preface occurs, which justly eulogizes the merits of laughter, and prefers the author's claims to excite this desirable convulsion, without raising a blush while he invites a smile. We allow his pretensions, and have pleasure in assuring our readers that they may here meet with numerous unoffending jeux d'esprit to "tickle their fancies:" though we are more ready to admit that they are suitable to any season, than able to discover their particular adaptation to the changes of the year. We must add that very few of these good things can belong to the writer as their inventor, nearly all of them being familiar to our recollection: but he has the merit of clothing them in verse, and has usually finished his work neatly. -Our readers must have a few Spring-Sprightlinesses.

"How do you know?"

• One said to his friend, "He's so shallow, and dull,
So long in the ears, and so thick in the skull,

(To Churchill, who chanc'd to stand by him,)
If one says a good thing, why my poor silly friend
Can neither the wit nor the force comprehend.'
Said Churchill, "Did you ever try him ?"'

'The Book and the Bellows.

A humorous spark,

Whose name was John Clark,
Of a college-companion desired,
Whose name was Tom Friend,
That a volume he'd lend
Of an author he greatly admired.

But this answer came back:

66

My worthy friend Jack,

I can't lend it, I'm sorry to say:

But tho' I refuse,

You may come if you chuse,

To my chambers, and read it all day."

A week or two after,

Clark read with much laughter

This note which from Friend had been brought;

My prince of good fellows,

Do lend me your bellows,

As mine are worth little or nought."

REV. FEB. 1824.

P

• Said

Said Clark, "My friend Tom,
Ne'er out of my room

My bellows I suffer to stray;
But tho' I refuse,

You may come, if

you chuse,

And blow in my chamber all day."

If we omitted the following lines, we might be accused of the quality which is the subject of them:

R

Dulness.

A cause on which was much dependant,
When A. was plaintiff, B. defendant,
Was open'd in his usual way

And technic phrase by Serjeant K.
The proofs were strong the evidence
Most plain to men of common sense;
And it appear'd as clear as day
The verdict ought to be for A.;
But this the jury did not see,"

So gave the victory to B.

This rous'd the anger of the Serjeant,
Who, oft in metaphor immergent,

Said half aside, "Good Heavens! for B.?

I must confess it seems to me

These jurors have, so shallow-pated,

For dulness been inoculated."

"It may be so," a juror said,

And smiling, archly shook his head,
"But all must own that, Serjeant K.,

You have it in the natural way."!

The ensuing we believe to be among the few novelties :

6

Spinning and Reeling.

"A canon of Windsor enjoying a stroll,

One night when the evening was fine,
Met one of his vicars, a good merry soul,
Now rather elated with wine.

"Ah, Sir," said the latter, a little dismayed,
"To meet me you wonder, no doubt;

I have stopp'd overlong with my friend, I'm afraid,
Indeed we've been spinning it out."

"From your manner of walking, your tale I don't doubt,
(Though 'tis wrong on these frolics to roam,)

I see," he replied, "you've been spinning it out,
And now you are reeling it home."

We close with a good specimen of Irish wit, rather than of an Irish bull:

• The Tea-kettle not lost.

A young Irish sailor, approaching in doubt,

To his naval commander, with fear stammer'd out,

"Pray

"Pray, Captain," (while terror distorted his phiz,)
"Can you call a thing lost, if you know where it is?"
The Captain made answer, "No certainly, Pat."
"Ah fait," he rejoin'd, "sure I'm quite glad of that,
For your honor must know that, as sure as can be,
Your tea-kettle's safe in the bed of the sea."'

An anachronism is committed at p. 66., by attributing to the celebrated Foote a dialogue with the late jovial Duke of Norfolk; and at p. 135. a well known pun of the late facetious Caleb Whitefoord is assigned to Mr. Burke, seemingly for the mere sake of a rhyme.

Art. 13. Poetical Sketches: the Profession; the Broken Heart, &c. With Stanzas for Music, and other Poems. By Alaric A. Watts. 12mo. 6s. Boards. Hurst and Co. 1823. No one among our duties do we hold in greater aversion, than the necessity of reading and of passing our judgment on those third, fourth, and fifth rate rhymers, who at the present day are so prolific a generation. The operation, which we have to perform on these occasions, is almost as disagreeable to us as it can be to those who are the objects of it; and were it not that our ire, being roused by the compulsory perusal of their works, seeks to vent itself on paper, we believe that we should leave the poetasters to meet their fate untroubled by our criticisms. On the other hand, whenever we meet with a volume of poetry which we feel pleasure instead of disgust in perusing, the relief which we experience is marvellous. Such was the case when we cut open the leaves of Mr. Watts's Poetical Sketches; a little volume containing much pleasing poetry. He is not, however, a first-rate poet, though he often writes with pathos, and occasionally with power. In style, he is a decided Byronist. The ensuing stanzas will give a favorable impression of his poetical talents:

'Lines to the Memory of William Power Watts (aged Three Years.) A cloud is on my heart and brow,

The tears are in my eyes,

And wishes fond, all idle now,

Are stifled into sighs;

As musing on thine early doom,

Thou bud of beauty, snatched to bloom,
So soon, 'neath milder skies!

I turn thy painful struggle past

From what thou art, to what thou wast !

I think of all thy "winning ways,"
Thy frank but boisterous glee;

thy coy delays,

Thy arch sweet smiles,
Thy step, so light and free;
Thy sparkling glance, and hasty run,
Thy gladness, when the task was done,
And gained thy mother's knee;
Thy gay, good-humoured, childish ease,
And all thy thousand arts to please!

P 2

• Where

"Where are they now? And where, oh, where,
The eager fond caress?

The blooming cheek, so fresh and fair,
The lips, all sought to press? -
The open brow, and laughing eye,
The heart, that leaped so joyously?
(Ah! had we loved them less!)
Yet there are thoughts can bring relief
And sweeten even this cup of grief.

• What hast thou 'scaped?
A wilderness of woe;

A thorny scene,

Where many a blast of anguish keen
Had taught thy tears to flow?
Perchance some wild and withering grief,
Had sered thy summer's earliest leaf,
In these dark bowers below!

Or, sickening chills of hope deferred,
To strife thy gentlest thoughts had stirred!

• What hast thou 'scaped?

Before the storm arose ;

Life's weltering sea,

The rose-bud, emblem meet, was there,
The violet blue, and jasmine fair,

That, drooping, seemed to weep;
And, now, I add this lowlier spell;

Sweets to the passing sweet; Farewell!'

From a prefixed advertisement, we learn that these compositions were first published privately but that the commendation which they received from a limited circle induced the writer to trust them to the wide world.

Art. 14. Don Juan. Cantos XII. XIII. XIV. 12mo. 1s. Hunt. We cannot but regret the continuance of this misapplication and degradation of Lord Byron's great talents. Don Juan is now voted a bore, and to see him figuring ad infinitum in these little oneshilling duodecimos, in very un-aristocratic company, is really lamentable. The writer himself appears aware that he has lost caste, and yet he will proceed. Among several instances, what says stanza 17., canto xii. ?

Well,