These persons and their colleagues, all equally fools and knaves, are supported in place and power by means of the Mohawks." And who are these? Burke was the bloody Mohawk of his day, and the present time is abundant in fit successors to his dignified office. Mr Canning is one of them; and his paragraphs in the papers are about to be rewarded with the vice-royalty of India. Mr Croker is another; and he is soon to have a peerage for his pains. Lord Eldon, the Duke of Wellington, Earl Bathurst, Leach, Southey, and Theodore Hooke, are the Mohawks who write JonN BULL. Blackwood's Magazine is another theatre on which Mohawks," we are not informed whether the same or others, play their pranks. Whoever they be, they are, we are told," tigers," "bedlamites," ‚"" snakes," and "lost to all selfrespect," which for tigers, bedlamites, and snakes, seems wonderful. The British Critic is another work of the same class-So is the Courier-so is the Morning Post-so is the New Times and last, not least, so is the Quarterly Review. The enormities of which this Tast-named journal has been guilty, are numberless, beyond all number; but we are favoured with a sample. For instance, then, the Quarterly Review has denied that Peterloo was a murderous massacre of right-hearted Englishmen ; it has uniformly run down Butonaparte, and extolled Pitt and Wellington-two mere ninnies; it has cut up Shelly, Cobbett, Hone, Carlile, Volney, Voltaire, Hume on Miracles—in short, all authors" that are worth a groat." These are the words; and, lastly, to put the touch and finish to its sinful career, the Quarterly has touzled Mother Morgan !!! These are all unquestionably hor rible crimes. As for the affair of Granny, to use the language of M.Talleyrand, late Bishop of Autun, " c'est plus qu'un crime c'est une faute." We trust our readers will lose no time in examining the clear and beautiful verses in which all the offenders are lashed as they should have been. We are much puzzled to guess who can be the author of this classical performance. As the poem overflows with bulls and blunders, and severe castigations of different writers in the Dublin newspapers; and as chair is uniformly made to rhyme to peer-there can be no doubt the writer is Irish. From the fine, free, and dashing-like style in which atheism is introduced every now and then-from the (what fools and Tories will call) treason of almost every page-and from the gross allusions and phrases with which the whole composition is sprinkled, we are inclined to think " the Mohawks" must have been indited by an IrishMAN, "a wild tremendous Irishman.” But to be sure there is one passage, far the most eloquent in the book, which staggers us as to this. In the course of crucifying Mr Gifford, for having taken improper liberties with the "Magna Parens" of " Italy," the writer takes occasion to mention that culpable individual as having been "With an Eunuch's fury fir'd, And with a more than Tory's rage inspir'd, The Woman, Author, Wife, and Wit to wound." From these fine lines, we are constrained to see that, in the writer's opinion, there is, after all, one worse creature in the world than A TORY-and that this ("Monstrum horrendum mingens cui lumen ademptum") is an EUNUCH!!! We, therefore, suspect that the author of the Mohawks is an Irish WOMAN. Whoever her husband may be (for she is too knowing to be a spinster), we wish him much joy of his "Wife and Wit." How happy must he be, when he hears the lips of his Lovely Thais at his side" murmur the soul-thrilling notes of 66 "Charlie is my darling, So farewell you two sweet creatures. VOL. XI. 4 T 'CATILINE; A TRAGEDY." It was a bold adventure for Mr Croly to think of presenting anew, in a dramatic form, what Lord Orford so properly calls, in his Memoirs, "the most brilliant Episode in the History of Rome.". Several of the chief masters of the art had already exerted all their genius on the story of Catiline; and yet none of them had been in any true sense of the word successful; and nobody ever dreamt of any thing, when the name of this great conspirator was mentioned, but the unrivalled orations of Cicero, and the equally unrivalled narrative of Sallust. Nobody ever thought of the Catiline of Crebillon but as a miserable failure; that of Voltaire is better, but still bad; and Ben Jonson's Tragedy, rich as it is in learning and rich in masterly declamation, is cold in its stateliness and undramatic, in the midst both of historical truth and of poetical or nament. The poet now before us had displayed in his previous works many fine qualities-a great power of strong and grasping description-an impetuous elevation of feeling and passion —a command of the English tongue in many varieties of serious and tender expression-a rich musical ear in his versification-and throughout the whole of his composition, a massy and masculine pith and vigour of intellect. It is therefore no wonder that the public attention should have been directed eagerly to a tragedy from his hand. His CATILINE has unquestionably many faults. In the first place, in his manner of treating the subject he has, as we think, quite needlessly violated the truth of history, far beyond what is justified either by any sane theory of the art, or by the example of any who are entitled to be classed among its legitimate masters. Liberties with time are almost always necessary to the poet who dramatizes an historical action, and with them rightly taken no critic will quarrel. Liberties with place and scene are, in like manner, to a certain extent fair. But there is a plain rule which we at least can never consent to lose sight of; and this is, that the writer who weaves either drama or romance from the materials of history, must keep these materials in all essential particulars sacred; and from this rule Mr Croly has in our opi nion very unwisely departed. The supposed ignorance of the spectator is, we maintain, the only ground on which the dramatist who violates history can really hope to escape condemnation. No man who knows what happened at any particular period of time, can endure to see it misrepre sented. Every violation of fact is to his mind a pain. He cannot sit out a tragedy full of such violations, without having at least a very great part of the pleasure, which the poet's genius might naturally have excited within him, neutralized. Would any man have dared to bring a falsified account of Catiline's conspiracy-an account falsified in any important particular whatever-before the eyes of an intelligent Roman Assembly? The answer is plain. We see in the volume before us the most clear evidence that Mr Croly is a very accomplished scholar, and the more we reflect on it, we are the more astonished that he should have ventured upon such liberties as he has taken with such a well known story as that of Catiline. He himself alludes to some of these very liberties as if they were mere trifles. We can only tell him in return, that such as they are, they have very materially diminished our satisfaction in the perusal of what we can have no hesitation in saying is the most brilliant effort of his genius, and to our mind by far the best acting tragedy, we mean the tragedy best adapted for being acted, that has in our time been added to the stock of the British drama. The Marianism of Catiline-his imaginary wife-the imaginary daughter. of Marius-his Hamilcar-his Aspasia, and many things besides, were all perfectly needless. Why might not the Roman Fulvia and her real Roman lover have served him just as well as the imaginary Moor and the *Catiline: a Tragedy, in five acts; with other Poems. By the Rev. George Croly, A. M. author of "Paris in 1816," "The Angel of the World," &c. London: Printed for Hurst, Robinson, and Co. Cheapside; and Archibald Constable and Co. Edinburgh, ideal Greek? We think they might have served his purpose infinitely better; but we have no inclination to go into this matter at any length on the present occasion. We throw out merely what we mean as a friendly caveat to a poet who will much disappoint our expectations, if he do not ere long place his name high indeed in the English Theatre. Why was not Catiline brought out upon the stage? If it was offered to either of the great London theatres, the manager's wits must have been a' wool-gathering when it was rejected. Nothing of this kind, however, is hinted at; and we suppose Mr Croly has himself alone to blame. We have little doubt next winter will be enough. to convince him how much his diffi-` dence was mistaken. In the whole management of the piece in the structure of the plot-in the exposition, which is alike clear, natural, and powerful-in the dialogue, above all, which is throughout full of true dramatic vigour, we see, if we ever have seen them, the proofs of his dramatic vocation. Perhaps we never read any first tragedy, by any dramatist whatever, abounding so much in happy dramatic situations. It would be ridiculous to enter into any thing like an analysis of a tragedy on the story of Catiline; we shall therefore merely quote a few passages, to justify what we have said in Mr Croly's praise, as a master of dramatic dialogue, leaving it to himself to correct hereafter some errors, of which, on more mature reflection, he will be, we are sure, as sensible as we could wish him to be and to our readers, when they have the tragedy itself before them, to judge of its merits as a dramatic whole. HAMILCAR, a Carthaginian hostage in Rome, of royal blood and ambition, is introduced alone in a grove of trees near the city, meditating on the degradation of his country and himself, when CETHEGUS breaks in upon his solitude. These two men had been feasting together the same evening, at the mansion of Catiline, their common friend; but the Moor had left the banquet early, because their mirthfulness did not suit the state of his spirits. Their mirth, it is true, had been. but hollow; for that day Cicero had been elected Consul, and the proud Catiline defeated in the object of his Ceth. How now, Hamilcar? Ham. (going.) Fare you well, my lord. [He suddenly returns. Conspiracy! Is not the man undone? All over bankrupt, broken right and left Within this week he'll be without a rood, A roof, a bed, a robe, a meal to eat! Conspiracy! He's levell'd;-on the earth! His last denarius hung upon this day, And now you have him. This day has dissolved His last allegiance. Go-you'll find him 66 We have indicated by our Italics two or three of what we think the finest things in this scene; but as a whole it is superb. The description of Catiline's behaviour at the debauch appears to us to be quite Shakespearean; so is the fine image of the oak, that, stript by winter, stands immoveable;" and the beginning of the last speech of Hamilcar, "Be THOU my God," is worthy of the poet who said "Qu'il mourut." This passage must be accepted by our readers as a sufficient specimen of the two first acts, in which the conspiracy is gradually worked up and discovered by the patriotic CONSUL. The third act closes with a scene of very great art, and of great power. It is that in which Cicero is bearded by Catiline in the senate-house, after the whole of the guilty machinations have been discovered, through the weakness, (so far as the truth of the history is adhered to,) of a Woman and a Mistress, the famous night of the Quousque tandem, O Catilina," &c. 66 THE SENATE HOUSE. The Temple of Jupiter Stator. The Senate, Of this rebellion.-Lucius Catiline votes ;- [CATILINE comes in hastily, and flings Where have I levied troops, tamper'd with Bribed fool or villain, to embark his neck what? The gates of honour on me,-turning out The Roman from his birthright; and for [Looking round him. To fling offices to every slave ;Vipers, that creep where man disdains to climb; And having wound their loathsome track to the top Of this huge mouldering monument of Rome, Hang hissing at the nobler man below. Cic. This is his answer! Must I bring more proofs ? Fathers, you know there lives not one of us, But lives in peril of his midnight sword, Lists of proscription have been handed round, In which your general properties are made Your murderers' hire. Bring in the prisoners. [The Lictors return with CETHEGUS, and others. Cat. (startled.) Cethegus! (aside.) Came to my house to murder me; and came Suborn'd by him. Cat. (scornfully). Did you say this? Ceth. Cethegus! Not I. I went to kill A prating, proud plebeian, whom those fools Palm'd on the Consulship. Cic. And sent by whom? Ceth. By none.-By nothing but my zeal to purge The senate of yourself, most learned Cicero ! [A cry is heard without: "More Prisoners! The Allobroges!" An officer enters, with letters for CICERO; who, after glancing at them, sends them round the Senate. CATILINE is strongly perturbed. The Allobroges come in, chained. Cic. Fathers of Rome! If man can be convinced By proof, as clear as day-light, there it stands! [Pointing to the prisoners. Those men have been arrested at the gates, Bearing despatches to raise war in Gaul. Look on these letters! Here's a deep-laid plot To wreck the provinces: a solemn league, Made with all form and circumstance. The time Is desperate, all the slaves are up;Rome shakes!_ The heavens alone can tell how near our graves We stand ev'n here!-The name of Catiline And still do scorn, to hide my sense of Is foremost in the league. He was their king.-- Tried and convicted traitor, go from Rome! Cat. (haughtily, rising.) Come, consecrated lictors! from your thrones; [To the Senate. |