' are all highly interesting and poetical; as is the prophetic gibbering from Dun Edin's cross before the battle of Flodden, the description of the battle, the death of Marmion, and the relenting tenderness of Clare.

Ó woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made,

When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!

From the opinion of those who discover so much more merit in The Lady of the Lake, than in the two poems which preceded it, an implied censure is deducible on the general manner of the Scottish bard. In this last we are told, the versification is more full and harmonious; that is perhaps, less quaint and uncouth, more in the style of those poems we have hitherto been accustomed to admire, and to deem models of poetical excellence.

Though in general well pleased with the nautical humour of Smollet's commodore Trunnion, I never could relish the extravagance of his tacking against the head-wind, when on horseback on his way to church to be married. The improbability is too violent.

Quodcumque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi.

Neither in Rosseau's Eloisa, are we agreeably affected by the singular state of society which prevails between Wolmar, his wife, and her former lover St. Preux. Although Rousseau had experienced somewhat like it in the intercourse which subsisted between himself and Claude Anet, as equal sharers in the affections of their common protectress Madame de Warrens, yet the circumstance is improbable, and therefore improper to be introduced into his novel. Justly says Boileau,

Jamais au spectateur n'offrez rein d'increyable;

Le vrai peut quelque fois n'etre pas vraisemblable.

Every writer for the stage, must no doubt experience considerable difficulty in introducing the principal personages well,

and in such a way as to give the audience a favourble impression of them. Cumberland tells us, that in a conversation with Garrick on the subject, the player enjoined it upon him as essential to a good reception, to have his West Indian announced before his appearance; and if he could hit upon no better mode of doing it, to set the servants a talking about him. Boileau in his Art of Poetry, recognizes this difficulty, and says that rather than see the characters unfolded by the clumsy disclosure of a wearisome intrigue, he would have the actor come forward, and at once declare who he is.

J'amerois mieux encor qu'il declarât son nom,

Et dit, Je suis Oreste, ou bien Agamemnon:

a method actually adopted in the once fashionable drama recited in the christmas holidays, by persons called mummers; one of the bouncing speeches of which, I recollect to run thus:

I am the king of Egypt, which plainly doth appear,
Prince Tegeus is my son, my son and only heir;
And if you don't believe me, what I say,
Step in saint (somebody) and act your play;

who accordingly comes forward and delivers his speech.

NOVELS.

No one, I believe, reads less for the sake of a story than myself: of course, I am but a poor novel reader, and never complain that Tristram Shandy has no story at all. In a book I look for thought, sentiment, language, humour, wit, and sometimes instruction; if it has these I care little for the tale; though no doubt where this is the main object, it ought to be a good one. But of all things in a novel or play, I hate a series of perplexities and cross accidents; for which reason however admiring Miss Burney's talent for painting life and drawing characters, I always get out of patience with her at the winding up of her plots, as then it is she never fails to pelt her poor hero or heroine with a tempest of unforeseen and distressing occurrences. When the reader, good easy man or woman, fancies that all difficulties at length are over, and is ready to join in congratulation

with the wedding guests, already invited or about to be invited, there comes a frost, a nipping frost, and the already opening buds of connubial felicity, are thrown back to undergo the process of a new vegetation.

But of all productions the most monstrous in my eyes, are those in which fiction is engrafted on history. Let me have fact or fable, but not a preposterous mixture of both. There are many however, who think differently, and I am by no means disposed to impugn the correctness of their opinion. Let each enjoy his De gustibus non est disputandum.

own.

DESCRIPTION OF CINTRA-FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

MY DEAR F

Lisbon.

Il faut, autant qu'on peut, obliger tout le monde, is a very judicious remark of the sagacious La Fontaine, and I feel much disposed to practise this maxim, in extenso, with regard to your. self; but should my letter not excite the interest, that in a manner, peculiarly flattering to the writer, I find you anticipate; be kind enough to recollect, that I have just jumped from my quadruped companion, after having kept his company for several days, during which time, to the no small fatigue of my person, and to the infinite gratification of my mind, I have visited a delightful portion of the country, embracing Cintra and Mafra: the former the paradise of Portugal; the latter, one of the late royal residences, and celebrated for its immense palace and monastery.

The Portuguese speak of Cintra with great enthusiasm, and esteem it the most charming spot in the creation, and, indeed, enough cannot be said in praise of its beauties. Its situation is romantic in the extreme, being the highest point in Portugal. The naked rocks which cap it, are wildly heaped together, and have an indescribably grand and impressive effect: thence you have a fine extensive and varied prospect, embracing Lisbon, the ocean, Coulares, and Mafra. On one of its highest points is a small convent, and on another, the ruins of a Moorish castle; to

the westward of which stands the famous little monastery of Capuchins, better known by the name of the Cork Convent, so designated from its being lined with cork, to prevent the bad effects that might otherwise arise from the extreme dampness of the place. It is truly a penance to ascend this mountain, but when you attain the summit, you are amply repaid for all your exertion and fatigue, in one of the most commanding views ever presented to the eye of man: in the language of lord Byron, who was highly gratified with these noble scenes, I may truly ask

"What hand can pencil, guide, or pen,

To follow half on which the eye dilates

Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken,

Than those whereof such things the bard relates,

Who, to the awestruck world unlock'd Elysium's gates!"

To those who have never beheld the scenery, here so beautifully and so justly described, the noble author whom I have quoted, might be thought to have been under the influence of a too highly wrought imagination; but I can assure you, the reality fully justifies his expressions, and nothing can be more just and truly accurate than the following description from the same pen, embracing the tout ensemble of this sublime spectacle:

"The horrid crags by topling convent crowned,
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep,
The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd,
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep,
The tender azure of the unruffled deep,

The orange tints that guild the greenest bough,

The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,

The vine on high, the willow branch below

Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow."

Here many of the first families of Lisbon have their quintas, and in the summer season, there is much gayety, it being the general resort of both citizens and strangers; the latter of whom always make it a point to visit Cintra, even should they go no where else. The houses being seated on the declivity of the hills, enjoy a beautiful view of the richly cultivated vallies at their feet, in all their varied hues. Here

"The ruddy orange and the paler lime
Peep through their polished foliage at the storm

And seem to smile at what they need not fear."

Camoens and other poets have repeatedly celebrated its beauties. It is truly the abode of Love; and its ever verdant bowers constitute a shrine where sit

"The queen of Beauty and of smiles,

Her nymphs and jocund Mercury,"

to receive the homage of these subjects, for whom she has left her favourite isles, to take possession of the Temple, so kindly planted by Nature, in this delicious spot.

While at Cintra, we were fortunate in an introduction to some Portuguese ladies, with whom we visited the curiosities of the place.

The palace is an ancient building, and most of its apartments very spacious. Our attention was immediately directed to the council chamber of Dom Sebastian-a true Bayard in valour and romance; the arm chair and long bench on which he and his council sat whilst planning their wild expedition against the Moors, was still preserved; they are both of brick, covered with handsome tiles, and are affixed to the wall; the room is very small, and in a very retired part of the palace. Miss Porter has written a very interesting novel of the adventures of this hero, and the Portuguese delight to dwell on his actions. There is still a sect in Portugal who believe their king will return to his thronethere having been something mysterious in his disappearance; of his being carried up in a cloud, and other stories of a similar nature. These people firmly believe he will reappear, notwithstanding more than two centuries have elapsed since the action in which he lost his life. A piece called the Sebastianists, was performed on the stage a few nights since, severely satirising this sect, and was received with great applause, but the author must have a care of himself. I should venture upon a thing of this nature with great caution, as in this stabbing nation, the proverb of "do couro lhe sahem as correas," is very often put in practice. This sect believe they are never to be conquered, whilst Sebastian watches over their safety, "nil desperandum Teucro duce es auspice Teucro.”