The city had been leaving her foundation, Oh, foolish people, though I justly might This is in the true plague-spirit, we are never so apt to laugh as when on the point of crying. A loud and unnatural burst of laughter was wanting to complete the horror of the scene. There are numerous passages more to our purpose. When the plague has regularly set in, and all are dying about him, Wither is excited to express his feelings even more poetically than any one who has yet been mentioned. "To others, Death, no doubt, himself convey'd With her cold breast, and childish game to make Sometimes when friends were talking, he did force Sometimes their morning meetings he hath thwarted, Some children for their parents moan were making; For loss of all their children did complain. The mother dared not to close her eyes, Through fear, that while she sleeps, her baby dies. Lest they might back again return no more. And, in their absence, if they did but hear One knock or call in haste, they quak'd through fear, That some unlucky messenger had brought Here is a picture from the life. "But, when the morning came, it little shewed, Of nought but dying pangs and lamentations. Here, one man stagger'd by, with visage pale; A little further off, one sits and shows The spots, which he Death's tokens doth suppose, Again, a similar one. "This way, a stranger by his host expell'd, Burials, graves, and corpses, of course, are as conspicuous objects here as in all the rest. "You scarce could make a little infant's bed In all those plots, but you should pare a head, Of one or other who there buried lay. One grave did often many scores enclose Yon lay a heap of skulls; another there; Thrust out their arms for want of elbow room. Much of this poem is taken up with Wither's own contemplations during the plague, and more especially with arguments relative to his stay in the city or flight into the country. He determines, at length, upon the former, and appears to have shut himself up in a kind of solitary imprisonment. "So long the solitary nights did last, That I had leisure my accounts to cast; To their consideration, who do know From whence they came, and whither they must go. And in the rooms adjoining lodged none. Yet, through the darksome silent night, did fly Sometime an uncouth noise; sometime a cry; And sometime mournful callings pierc'd my room, Which came, I neither knew from whence, nor whom. And oft, betwixt awaking and asleep, Their voices who did talk, or pray, or weep, Unto my list'ning ears a passage found, And troubled me, by their uncertain sound.” His morning was not much to be preferred to his night. "No sooner wak'd I, but twice twenty knells, Should bid the world good night, ere it were noon." The poet, however, is far from repining, and, like a true enthusiast, glories in his resolution. He thus expresses his satisfaction at remaining to record the suffering of the city, and thanks the Almighty for his preservation in the midst of danger. "Oh! God, how great a blessing, then, didst thou And give me fortitude and resolution Thus far had we advanced in this review, when we cast a glance on the heap of blotted papers which had already accumulated before us. The ghost of all our good resolutions about short articles, variety, &c. &c. struck us with horror. "A plague upon the plague," we exclaimed. It used to be reckoned a rapid disorder, but us (we hope not our readers also) it keeps in lingering torments-we fear we shall be thought to have it periodically, and that, like the tertian ague, the Plague will recur in every third number. Not so. In the next number, or the next but one," the Plague" shall positively die. But it would be unpardonable to rake up the ashes of the excellent M. Bertram, for a hasty gaze at the end of an article, and the glorious bishop of Marseilles, Henry de Belzune, must be treated ceremoniously and with reverence. If, too, we should drop the curtain over this great tragedy at this moment, we should eternally close a book, which ought to be looked into again before its leaves for ever lose the light. We are certain that the Britain's Remembrancer never will be opened again; when we came to the FINIS, we suggested to the little fat volume, that it should now take leave of mortal readers; for there was something within us (whether sleep, or fatigue, or what not) which instinctively revealed, that this book would be a sealed book for all future ages. ART. II.-The History of the famous Preacher Friar Gerund de Campazas, otherwise Gerund Zotes. Translated from the Spanish, 2 vols. T. Davies. London, 1772. We partly meditate the surprising our readers with certain indiscretions-witty, humorous, or jocose,-" pleasant, but wrong:"-Should we do this, however, and aberrate from the serious track of Reviewers, it must be at another season,perhaps in the warm July weather, when our fancy is heated and the air is clear, and we can both see our way through the humours of the multitude, and handle them with becoming spirit. It is not in these cold days of March, when the sharp winds are abroad, blowing even the critics (the sturdiest of the wit tribe) home to their chimney corners, that we shall undertake the task. But, let the mild May open her blossoms, and June tinge the roses, and July bring forth the red peeping strawberries-and then, with the golden air about us, and the bright blue roof to look at, we may try what we can do. Then, indeed, we may luxuriate in witty indolence, and tell our readers gaily all we know of the gay and gallant spirits that have gone before us. We assure them, that there is a fine host, a dazzling array; and it will be hard indeed if we cannot catch a little of the lustre which will envelope us. There is the Senor Miguel de Cervantes; the historian of Gil Blas ("Blas of Santillane," the reader recollects him); the renowned Philibert de Grammont; and the wittiest of historians, the Count Antony Hamilton: there is the famous author (and true father, we understand) of Mr. Thomas Jones, "a foundling;' |