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refused to remunerate him. Thus situated, the unfortunate dramatist was compelled to sell his paternal estate and retire into private life. He took up his abode at Tunbridge, and there poured forth a variety of dramas, essays, and other works, among which were two epic poems, Calvary and The Erodiad, the latter written in conjunction with Sir James Bland Burgess. None of these efforts can be said to have overstepped the line of mediocrity; for though Cumberland had erudition, taste, and accomplishments, he wanted, in all but two or three of his plays, the vivifying power of genius. His Memoirs of his Own Life (for which he obtained 4.500) are graphic and entertaining, but too many of his anecdotes of his contemporaries will not bear a rigid scrutiny. Mr Cumberland died on the 7th of May 1811. His first novel, “Arundel' (1789), was hurriedly composed; but the scene being partly in college and at court, and treating of scenes and characters in high-life, the author drew upon his recollections, and painted vigorously what he had felt and witnessed. His second work, “Henry' (1795), which he polished with great care, to imitate the elaborate style of Fielding, was less happy; for in low-life Cumberland was not so much at home, and his portraits are grossly overcharged. The character of Ezekiel Dow, a Methodist preacher, is praised by Sir Walter Scott as not only an exquisite but a just portrait. The resemblance to Fielding's Parson Adams is, however, too marked, while the Methodistic traits introduced are, however faithful, less pleasing than the learned simplicity and bonhomie of the worthy parson. Another peculiarity of the author is thus touched upon by Scott: “He had a peculiar taste in love affairs, which induced him to reverse the natural and usual practice of courtship, and to throw upon the softer sex the task of wooing, which is more gracefully, as well as naturally, the province of the man.' In these wooing scenes, too, there is a great want of delicacy and propriety: Cumberland was not here a “mender of hearts.” The third novel of our author was the work of his advanced years, and is of a very inferior description. It would be unjust not to add, that the prose style of Cumberland in his memoirs and ordinary narratives, where humour is not attempted, is easy and flowing—the style of a scholar and gentleman.
Thomas Holcroft, whose singular history and dramatic performances we have already noticed, was author of several once popular novels. The first was published in 1780, under the title of Alwyn, or the Gentleman Comedian. This had, and deserved to have, but little success. His second, Anna St Ives, in seven volumes (1792), was well received, and attracted attention from its political bearings no less than the force of its style and characters. The principal characters are, as Hazlitt remarks, merely the vehicles of certain general sentiments, or machines, put into action, as an experiment to show how these general principles would operate in particular situations. The same intention is manifested in his third novel, Hugh Trevor, the first part of which appeared in 1794, and the remainder in 1797. In ‘Hugh Trevor, Holcroft, like Godwin, depicted the vices and distresses which he conceived to be generated by the existing institutions of society. There are some good sketches, and many eloquent and just observations in the work, and those who have read it in youth will remember the vivid impression that some parts are calculated to convey. The political doctrines inculcated by the author are
Another novelist of a similar stamp was Robert BAGE, a Quaker, who, like Holcroft, imbibed the principles of the French revolution, and infused them into various works of fiction. Bage was born at Darley, in Derbyshire, on the 29th of February 1728. His father was a paper-maker, and his son continued in the same occupation through life. His manufactory was at Elford, near Tamworth, where he realised a decent competence. During the last eight years of his life, Bage resided at Tamworth, where he died on the 1st of September 1801. The works of this author are, Mount Kenneth, 1781; Barham Downs, 1784; The Fair Syrian, 1787; James Wallace, 1788; Man as He Is, 1792; Hermsprong, or Man as He Is Not, 1796. , Bage's novels are decidedly inferior to those of Holcroft, and it is surprising that Sir Walter Scott should have admitted them into his novelists' library, and at the same time excluded so many superior works. ‘Barham Downs' and ‘Hermsprong’ are the most interesting of the series, and contain some good satirical portraits, though the plots of both are crude and defective.
Sophia AND HARRIET LEE.
These ladies, authoresses of The Canterbury Tales, a series of striking and romantic fictions, were the daughters of Mr Lee, a gentleman who had been articled to a solicitor, but who adopted the stage as a profession. Sophia was born in London in 1750. She was the eldest of the sisters, and the early death of her mother devolved upon her the cares of the household. She secretly cultivated, however, a strong attachment to literature. Her first appearance as an author was not made till her thirtieth year, when she produced her comedy, The Chapter of Accidents, which was brought out at the Haymarket theatre by the elder Colman, and received with great applause. The profits of this piece were devoted by Miss Lee towards establishing a seminary for young ladies at Bath, which was rendered the more necessary by the death of her father in 1781. Thither, accordingly, the sisters repaired, and their talents and prudence were rewarded by rapid and permanent success. In 1784 she published the first volume of The Recess, or a Tale of Other Times; which was soon followed by the remainder of the tale, the work having instantly become popular. The time selected by Miss Lee as the subject of her story was that of Queen Elizabeth, and her production may be considered one of the earliest of our historical romances. It is tinged with a melancholy and contemplative spirit; and the same feeling is displayed in her next production, a tragedy entitled Almeyda, Queen of Grenada, produced in 1796. In the succeeding year, Harriet Lee published the first volume of “The Canterbury Tales,' which ultimately extended to five volumes. Two only of the stories were the production of Sophia Lee, namely, The Young Lady's Tale, or the Two Emilys, and The Clergyman's Tale. They are characterised by great tenderness and feeling; but the more striking features of the ‘Canterbury Tales,' and the great merit of the collection, belong to Harriet Lee. Kruitzner, or the German's Tale, fell into the hands of Byron when he was about fourteen. “It made a deep impression upon me,’ he says, “and may indeed be said to contain the germ of much that I have since written.' While residing at Pisa in 1821, Byron dramatised Miss Lee's romantic story, and published his version of it under the title of “Werner, or the Inheritance.” The incidents, and much of the language of the play, are directly copied from the novel, and the public were unanimous in considering Harriet Lee as more interesting, passionate, and even more poetical, than her illustrious imitator. “The story,’ says one of the critics whom Byron's play recalled to the merits of Harriet Lee, “is one of the most powerfully conceived, one of the most picturesque, and at the same time instructive stories, that we are acquainted with. Indeed, thus led as we are to name Harriet Lee, we cannot allow the opportunity to pass without saying that we have always considered her works as standing upon the verge of the very first rank of excellence; that is to say, as inferior to no English novels whatever, excepting those of Fielding, Sterne,
Smollett, Richardson, Defoe, Radcliffe, Godwin, Edgeworth, and the author of Waverley. It would not, perhaps, be going too far to say, that the “Canterbury Tales” exhibit more of that species of invention which, as we have already remarked, was never common in English literature, than any of the works even of those first-rate novelists we have named, with the single exception of Fielding. “Kruitzner, or the German's Tale,” possesses mystery, and yet clearness, as to its structure, strength of characters, and, above all, the most lively interest, blended with, and subservient to, the most affecting of moral lessons. The main idea which lies at the root of it is the horror of an erring father, who, having been detected in vice by his son, has dared to defend his own sin, and so to perplex the son's notions of moral rectitude, on finding that the son, in his turn, has pushed the false principles thus instilled to the last and worst extreme—on hearing his own sophistries flung in his face by a murderer.” The short and spirited style of these tales, and the frequent dialogues they contain, impart to them something of a dramatic force and interest, and prevent their tiring the patience of the reader, like too many of the threevolume novels. In 1803 Miss Sophia Lee retired from the duties of her scholastic establishment, having earned an independent provision for the remainder of her life. Shortly afterwards she published The Life of a Lover, a tale which she had written early in life, and which is marked by juvemility of thought and expression, though with her usual warmth and richness of description. In 1807, a comedy from her pen, called The Assignation, was performed at Drury Lane; but played only once, the audience conceiving that some of the satirical portraits were aimed at popular individuals. Miss Lee finally settled at Clifton, where she resided twelve years, and died on the 13th of March 1824, in the arms of her affectionate and accomplished sister. Miss Harriet Lee, besides the “Canterbury Tales,' wrote two dramas, The New Peerage, and The Three Strangers. The plot of the latter is chiefly taken from her German tale. The play was brought out at Covent Garden theatre in December 1835, but was barely tolerated for one night.
For my own part, I always preferred animate to inani
mate nature; and would rather post to the antipodes to mark a new character, or develop a singular incident, than become a fellow of the Royal Society by enriching museums with nondescripts. From this account you, my gentle reader, may, without any extraordinary penetration, have discovered that I am among the eccentric part of mankind, by the courtesy of each other, and themselves, yeleped poets—a title which, however mean or contemptible it may sound to those not honoured with it, never yet was rejected by a single mortal on whom the suffrage of mankind conferred it ; no, though the laurel leaf of Apollo, barren in its nature, was twined by the frozen fingers of Poverty, and shed upon the brow it crowned her chilling influence. But when did it so? Too often des: tined to deprive its graced owner of every real good by an enchantment which we know not how to define, it comprehends in itself such a variety of pleasures and possessions, that well may one of us cry—
Thy lavish charter, taste, appropriates all we see!
* Blackwood's Magazine, vol. xii. 547
Happily, too, we are not like virtuosi in general, encumbered with the treasures gathered in our peregrinations. Compact in their nature, they lie all in the small cavities of our brain, which are, indeed, often so small, as to render it doubtful whether we have any at all. The few discoveries I have made in that richest of mines, the human soul, I have not been churl enough to keep to myself; nor, to say truth, unless I can find out some other means of supporting my corporeal existence than animal food, do I think I shall ever be able to afford that sullen affectation of superiority. Travelling, I have already said, is my taste; and, to make my journeys pay for themselves, my object. Much against my good liking, some troublesome fellows, a few months ago, took the liberty of making a little home of mine their own; nor, till I had coined a small portion of my brain in the mint of my worthy friend George Robinson, could I induce them to depart. I gave a proof of my politeness, however, in leaving my house to them, and retired to the coast of Kent, where I fell to work very busily. Gay with the hope of shutting my door on these unwelcome visitants, I walked in a severe frost from Deal to Dover, to secure a seat in the stage-coach to London. One only was vacant; and having engaged it, “maugre the freezing of the bitter sky,' I wandered forth to note the memorabilia of Dover, and was soon lost in one of my fits of exquisite abstraction. With reverence I looked up to the cliff which our immortal bard has, with more fancy than truth, described. With toil mounted, by an almost endless staircase, to the top of a castle, which added nothing to my poor stock of ideas but the length of our virgin | queen's pocket-pistol—that truly Dutch present: cold and weary, I was pacing towards the inn, when a sharpvisaged barber popped his head over his shop-door to reconnoitre the inquisitive stranger. A brisk fire, which I suddenly cast my eye on, invited my frozen hands and feet to its precincts. A civil question to the honest man produced on his part a civil invitation; and having placed me in a snug seat, he readily gave me the benefit of all his oral tradition. ‘Sir,’ he said, “it is mighty lucky you came across me. The vulgar people of this town have no genius, sir—no taste; they never show the greatest curiosity in the place. Sir, we have here the tomb of a poet l' “The tomb of a poet !' cried I, with a spring that electrified my informant no less than myself. “What poet lies here? and where is he buried?” ‘Ay, that is the curiosity, returned he exultingly. I smiled; his distinction was so like a barber. While | he had been speaking, I recollected he must allude to the grave of Churchill—that vigorous genius who, well calculated to stand forth the champion of freedom, has recorded himself the slave of party, and the vic|tim of spleen! So, however, thought not the barber, who considered him as the first of human beings. “This great man, sir, continued he, “who lived and died in the cause of liberty, is interred in a very remarkable spot, sir; if you were not so cold and so tired, sir, I could show it you in a moment.” Curiosity is an excellent greatcoat: I forgot I had no other, and strode after the barber to a spot surrounded by ruined walls, in the midst of which stood the white marble tablet, marked with Churchill's name—to appearance its only distinction. ‘Cast your eyes on the walls,” said the important o ; “they once enclosed a church, as you may See On inspecting the crumbling ruins more narrowly, I did, indeed, discern the traces of Gothic architecture. ‘Yes, sir, cried my friend the barber, with the conscious pride of an Englishman, throwing out a gaunt
leg and arm, “Churchill, the champion of liberty, is
interred here! . Here, sir, in the very ground where King John did homage for the crown he disgraced.” The idea was grand. In the eye of fancy the slender pillars again lifted high the vaulted roof that rang with solemn chantings. I saw the insolent legate seated in scarlet pride. I saw the sneers of many a mitred abbot. I saw, bareheaded, the mean, the prostrate king. I saw, in short, everything but the barber, whom in my flight and swell of soul I had outwalked and lost. Some more curious traveller may again pick him up, perhaps, and learn more minutely the fact. Waking from my reverie, I found myself on the pier. The pale beams of a powerless sun gilt the fluctuating waves and the distant spires of Calais, which I now clearly surveyed. What a new train of images here sprung up in my mind, borne away by succeeding impressions with no less rapidity From the monk of Sterne I travelled up in five minutes to the inflexible Edward III. sentencing the noble burghers; and having seen them saved by the eloquence of Philippa, I wanted no better seasoning for my mutton-chop, and pitied the empty-headed peer who was stamping over my little parlour in fury at the cook for having over-roasted his pheasant. The coachman now showed his ruby face at the door, and I jumped into the stage, where were already seated two passengers of my own sex, and one of would I could say the fairer! But, though truth may not be spoken at all times, even upon paper, one now and then may do her justice. Half a glance discovered that the good lady opposite to me had never been handsome, and now added the injuries of time to the severity of nature. Civil but cold compliments having passed, I closed my eyes to expand my soul; and, while fabricating a brief poetical history of England, to help short memories, was something astonished to find myself tugged violently by the sleeve; and not less so to see the coach empty, and hear an obstinate waiter insist upon it that we were at Canterbury, and the supper ready to be put on the table. It had snowed, I found, for some time; in consideration of which mine host had prudently suffered the fire nearly to go out. A dim candle was on the table, without snuffers, and a bell-string hanging over it, at which we pulled, but it had long ceased to operate on that noisy convenience. Alas, poor Shenstone! how often, during these excursions, do I think of thee. Cold, indeed, must have been thy acceptation in society, if thou couldst seriously say, Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, Where'er his various course has been, Must sigh to think how oft he found His warmest welcome at an inn.
Had the gentle bard told us that, in this sad substitute for home, despite of all our impatience to be gone, we must stay not only till wind and weather, but landlords, postilions, and ostlers choose to permit, I should have thought he knew more of travelling ; and, stirring the fire, snuffing the candles, reconnoitring the company, and modifying my own humour, should at once have tried to make the best of my situation. After all, he is a wise man who does at first what he must do at last; and I was just breaking the ice on finding that I had nursed the fire to the general satisfaction, when the coach from London added three to our party; and common civility obliged those who came first to make way for the yet more frozen tra
vellers. We supped together; and I was something ||
surprised to find our two coachmen allowed us such ample time to enjoy our little bowl of punch; when lo! with dolorous countenances they came to give us notice that the snow was so heavy, and already so deep. as to make our proceeding by either road dangerous, if not utterly impracticable.
“If that is really the case, cried I mentally, “let us see what we may hope from the construction of the seven heads that constitute our company.’ Observe, gentle reader, that I do not mean the outward and visible form of those heads; for I am not amongst the new race of physiognomists who exhaust invention only to ally their own species to the animal creation, and would rather prove the skull of a man resembled an ass, than, looking within, find in the intellect a glorious similitude of the Deity. An elegant author more justly conveys my idea of physiognomy, when he says, that “different sensibilities gather into the countenance and become beauty there, as colours mount in a tulip and enrich it.’ It was my interest to be as happy as I could, and that can only be when we look around with a wish to be pleased: nor could I ever find a way of unlocking the human heart, but by frankly inviting others to peep into my own. And now for my survey.
In the chimney-corner sat my old gentlewoman, a little alarmed at a coffin that had popped from the fire, instead of a purse; ergo, superstition was her weak side. In sad conformity to declining years, she had ut on her spectacles, taken out her knitting, and thus so retired from attention, which she had long, perhaps, been hopeless of attracting. Close by her was placed a young lady from London, in the bloom of nineteen: a cross on her bosom showed her to be a Catholic, and a peculiar accent an Irishwoman: her face, especially her eyes, might be termed handsome ; of those archness would have been the expression, had not the absence of her air proved that their sense was turned inward, to contemplate in her heart some chosen cherished image. Love and romance reigned in every lineament.
A French abbé had, as is usual with gentlemen of that country, edged himself into the seat by the belle, to whom he continually addressed himself with all sorts of petits soins, though fatigue was obvious in his air; and the impression of some danger escaped gave a wild sharpness to every feature. ‘Thou hast comprised,’ thought I, ‘the knowledge of a whole life in perhaps the last month: and then, perhaps, didst thou first study the art of thinking, or learn the misery of feeling!' . Neither of these seemed, however, to have troubled his neighbour, a portly Englishman, who, though with a sort of surly good nature he had given up his place at the fire, yet contrived to engross both candles, by holding before them a newspaper, where he dwelt upon the article of stocks, till a bloody duel in Ireland induced communication, and enabled me to discover that, in spite of the importance of his air,
credulity might be reckoned amongst his charac
teristics. The opposite corner of the fire had been, by general consent, given up to one of the London travellers, whose age and infirmities challenged regard, while his aspect awakened the most melting benevolence. Suppose an anchorite, sublimed by devotion and temrance from all human frailty, and you will see this interesting aged clergyman: so pale, so pure was his complexion, so slight his figure, though tall, that it seemed as if his soul was gradually divesting itself of the covering of mortality, that when the hour of separating it from the body came, hardly should the greedy f. claim aught of a being so ethereal! ‘Oh, what essons of patience and sanctity couldst thou give,’
thought I, “were it my fortune to find the key of thy
heart l” An officer in the middle of life occupied the next seat. Martial and athletic in his person, of a countenance open and sensible, tanned, as it seemed, by severe service, his forehead only retained its whiteness; #. that, with assimilating graceful manners, rendered im very prepossessing. That seven sensible people, for I include myself in
that description, should tumble out of two stagecoaches, and be thrown together so oddly, was, in my opinion, an incident; and why not make it really one I hastily advanced, and, turning my back to the fire, fixed the eyes of the whole company—not on my person, for that was noway singular—not, I would fain hope, upon my coat, which fhad forgotten till that moment was threadbare: I had rather of the three imagine my assurance the object of general attention. However, no one spoke, and I was obliged to second my own motion. ‘Sir, cried I to the Englishman, who, by the time he had kept the paper, had certainly spelt its contents, “do you find anything entertaining in that newspaper?' ‘No, sir,’ returned he most laconically. “Then you might perhaps find something entertaining out of it,” added I. “Perhaps I might,’ retorted he in a provoking accent, and surveying me from top to toe. The Frenchman laughed—so did I–it is the only way when one has been more witty than wise. I returned presently, however, to the attack. ‘How charmingly might we fill a long evening,” resumed I, with, as I thought, a most ingratiating smile, “if each of the company would relate the most remarkable story he or she ever knew or heard of l’ ‘Truly we might make a long evening that way,’ again retorted my torment, the Englishman. “However, if you please, we will waive your plan, sir, till to-morrow ; and then we shall have the additional resort of our dreams, if our memories fail us.' He now, with a negligent §: rang, and ordered the chambermaid. The two females rose of course, and in one moment an overbearing clown cut short ‘the feast of reason and the flow of soul.” I forgot it snowed, and went to bed in a fever of r A charming tale ready for the press in my travelling desk—the harvest I might make could I prevail on each of the company to tell me another Reader, if you ever had an empty purse, and an unread performance of your own burning in your pocket and your heart, I need not ask you to pity Ine. Fortune, however, more kindly than usual, took my case into consideration; for the morning showed me a snow so deep, that had Thomas à Becket condescended to attend at his own shrine to greet those who inquired for it, not a soul could have got at the cathedral to pay their devoirs to the complaisant archbishop. On entering the breakfast-room, I found mine host had, at the desire of some one or other of the company, already produced his very small stock of books, consisting of the Army List, the Whole Art of Farriery, and a volume of imperfect magazines; a small supply of mental food for seven hungry people. Vanity never deserts itself: I thought I was greeted with more than common civility; and having satisfied my grosser appetite with tea and toast, resumed the idea of the night before—assuring the young lady that “I was certain, from her fine eyes, she could melt us with a tender story; while the sober matron could improve us by a wise one:” a circular bow showed similar hopes from the gentlemen. The plan was adopted, and the exultation of conscious superiority flushed my cheek.
DR John Moore.
Da John MooRE, author of Zeluco, and other works, was born at Stirling in the year 1729. His father was one of the clergymen of that town, but died in 1737, leaving seven children to the care of his excellent widow. Mrs Moore removed to Glasgow, where her relations resided, possessed of considerable property. After the usual education o the
university of Glasgow, John was put apprentice to Mr Gordon, a surgeon of extensive practice, with whom Smollett had been apprenticed a few years before. In his nineteenth year, Moore accompanied the Duke of Argyle's regiment abroad, and attended the military hospitals at Maestricht in the capacity of surgeon's mate. From thence he went to Flushing and Breda; and on the termination of hostilities, he accompanied General Braddock to England. Soon afterwards he became household surgeon to the Earl of Albemarle, the British ambassador at the court of Versailles. His old master, Mr Gordon, now invited him to become a partner in his business in Glasgow, and, after two years' residence in Paris, Moore accepted the invitation. He practised for many years in Glasgow with great success. In 1772 he was induced to accompany the young Duke of Hamilton to the continent, where they resided five years, in France, Switzerland, Germany, and Italy. Returning in 1778, Moore removed his family to London, and commenced physician in the metropolis. In 1779 he published A View of Society and Manners in France, Switzerland, and Germany, in two volumes, which was received with general approbation. In 1781 appeared his View of Society and Manners in Italy; in 1785 Medical Sketches; and in 1786 his Zeluco : Various Views of Human Nature, taken from Life and Manners, Foreign and Domestic. e object of this novel was to prove that, in spite of the gayest and most prosperous appearances, inward misery always accompanies vice. The hero of the tale was the only son of a noble family in Sicily, spoiled by maternal indulgence, and at length rioting in every prodigality and vice. The idea of such a character was probably suggested by Smollett's Count Fathom, but Moore took a wider range of character and inci| dent. He made his hero accomplished and fascinating, thus avoiding the feeling of contempt with which the abject villany of Fathom is unavoidably regarded; and he traced, step by step, through a succession of scenes and adventures, the progress of depravity, and the effects of uncontrolled passion. The incident of the favourite sparrow, which Zeluco squeezed to death when a boy, because it did not perform certain tricks which he had taught it, lets us at once into the pampered selfishness and passionate cruelty of his disposition. The scene of the novel is laid chiefly in Italy; and the author's familiarity with foreign manners enabled him to impart to his narrative numerous new and graphic sketches. Zeluco also serves in the Spanish army; and at another time is a slave-owner in the West Indies. The latter circumstance gives the author an opportunity of condemning the system of slavery with eloquence and humanity, and presenting some affecting pictures of suffering and attachment in the negro race. The death of Hanno, the humane and generous slave, is one of Moore's most masterly delineations. The various scenes and episodes in the novel relieve the disagreeable shades of a character constantly deepening in vice; for Zeluco has no redeeming trait to link him to our sympathy or forgiveness. Moore visited Scotland in the summer of 1786, and in the commencement of the following year took a warm interest in the genius and fortunes of Burns. It is to him that we owe the precious autobiography of the poet, one of the most interesting and powerful sketches that ever was written.
| In their correspondence we see the colossal strength
and lofty mind of the peasant-bard, even when placed by the side of the accomplished and learned traveller and man of taste. In August 1792, Dr Moore accompanied the Earl of Lauderdale to Paris, and witnessed some of the early excesses of the
French revolution. Of this tour he published an account, entitled A Journal During a Residence in France, from the beginning of August to the middle of December 1792, &c. The first volume of this work was published in 1793, and a second in 1794. In 1795, Dr Moore, wishing to give a retrospective detail of the circumstances which tended to hasten the revolution, drew up a carefully digested narrative, entitled A View of the Causes and Progress of the French Revolution, in two volumes. This is a valuable work, and it has been pretty closely followed by Sir Walter Scott in his animated and picturesque survey of the events preceding the career of Napoleon. In 1796 Dr Moore produced a second novel, Edward: Various Views of Human Nature, taken from Life and Manners, chiefly in England. As Zeluco was a model of villany, Edward is a model of virtue. The work, altogether, displays great knowledge of the world, a lively rather than a correct style, and some amusing portraits of English character; among these, that of Barnet the epicure (who falls in love, and marries a lady for her skill in dressing a dish of stewed carp, and who is made a good husband chiefly by his wife's cookery and attention to his comforts) is undoubtedly the best. In the following year Moore furnished a life of his friend Smollett for a collective edition of his works. In 1800 appeared his last production, Mordaunt: Sketches of Life, Character, and Manners, in Various Countries, including the Memoirs of a French Lady of Quality. In this novel our author, following the example of Richardson and Smollett's Humphry Clinker, threw his narrative into the form of letters, part being dated from the continent, and part from England. A tone of languor and insipidity pervades the story, and there is little of plot or incident to keep alive attention. Dr Moore died at Richmond on the 21st of January 1802. A complete edition of his works has been published in seven volumes, with memoirs of his life and writings by Dr Robert Anderson. Of all the writings of Dr Moore, his novel of “Zeluco’ is the most popular. Mr Dunlop has given the preference to ‘Edward.' The latter may boast of more variety of character, and is distinguished by judicious observation and witty remark, but it is deficient in the strong interest and forcible painting of the first novel. Zeluco's murder of his child in a fit of frantic jealousy, and the discovery of the circumstance by means of the picture, is conceived with great originality, and has a striking || effect. It is the poetry of romance. The attachment between Laura and Carlostein is also described with tenderness and delicacy, without degenerating into German sentimentalism or inmorality. Of the lighter sketches, the scenes between the two Scotchmen, Targe and Buchanan, are perhaps the best; and their duel about Queen Mary is an inimitable piece of national caricature. On English ground, Dr Moore is a careful observer of men and manners. The conventional forms of society, the smartness of dialogue, the oddities and humours of particular individuals, the charlatanry of quacks and pretenders, are well portrayed. He fails chiefly in depth of passion and situations of strong interest. In constructing a plot, he is greatly inferior to Smollett or Fielding. Edward, like Tom Jones, is a foundling; but ‘the winding up of the story by the trite contrivance of recognising a lost child from a mark on the shoulder, a locket, and a miniature picture,' forms a humbling contrast to the series of incidents and events, so natural, dramatic, and interesting, by which the , birth of Fielding's hero is established. There is no
less it be in depicting..the wretchedness of vice, and
great aiming at moral effect in Moore's novels, un