cloaks of the same make and material, with a little prejudice. Hitherto, however, I have seen nothing to find fault with; but, if in the course of this season, or the next, I detect either cloak or hood departing from the bounds of elegance and moderation, I shall not hesitate to cut it up, without fear or favour, pity or remorse.

COCKNEY.

THE Description of Cockaygne, a rude, satirical poem, probably written about the year 1200, in ridicule of the monastic life, is curious, as affording the etymology of the modern term cockney. From the Latin, coquina, a kitchen, came the French words coquin and cocagne. Coquin was originally coquinus, an attendant in the kitchen, a turnspit; and thence came to signify any other mean, worthless person. Cocagne was the luxury of the kitchen. Hence, to this day, among the amusements of the common people in France, at public feasts and rejoicings, it is usual to erect a mast called the Mât de cocagne, at the top of which are placed roast meats, and other delicacies, as prizes for those who can most quickly reach them by climbing. The land of Cocagne, therefore, is an imaginary land of luxury, which the author of the abovenamed poem "far in the sea to the westward places far in see bi west Spaynge," i. e. of Spain"-the supposed situation of the great island Atlantis, the Hesperian gardens, and other fancied scenes of happiness, beyond the reach of navigation, as then practised. The metropolis of England being considered, by the rude inhabitants of the country parts, as a seat of mere luxury and idleness, afterward received, in contempt, this name of cokayne, corrupted by them into cockney, as appears by a scoffing rhyme of one of the old barons

Were I in my castle of Bungay,

Beside the river of Waveney,

I would not care for the king Cockeney.

And it is somewhat amusing to trace in the satirical description of cockaygne, the origin of the puerile story of roasted pigs running about the streets of London, crying, "come, eat me."

The gees irostid on the spitte,

Fleegh to that abbai God hit wot,
And gred ith gees, al hote, al hot.

CONNUBIAL AFFECTION.

"How doth your lady-worthy peer,"
My lord's companions said-

"I left her dying, Sir, and fear,

By this time she is dead."

"A hundred on it"-" Done"-the watch

Is set, the stakes they lay,

The messenger's enjoined dispatch,

The bucks impatient stay.

Soon he returns with brow of woe,
"Your loss, my lord, is great :"

"What loss?" "Your wife, my lord." "Oho!
I feared I'd lost my bet."

W.

Coo

PRIDE SHALL HAVE A FALL. A Comedy in 5 Acts, with Songs, 1824. Hurst, Robinson, & Co.

THOUGH We usually intend to devote the pages of the Literary Magnet, to the more stable pursuits of literature-and to avoid noticing the ephemeral productions of the drama, yet as a new comedy has appeared, which has excited some attention, by the propriety of its incidents, and by the spirit of its passages, we must briefly regard that anomaly in modern literature-a successful comedy. The author, the Rev. George Croly, is known as the writer of the pleasing poems of " Paris, in 1815;" the Angel of the world," &c.; and he has now produced a play, spirited and dramatic, interspersed with allusions and descriptions, which will remind the reader and the audience of that peculiar mannerism of comedy which distinguishes our great dramatic bard. The play is dedicated to Mr. Canning, in a style of elegant compliment, equally creditable to the minister and to the man.

"As a tribute to public and private excellence to the great and popular Minister, by whose firmness, temperance and ability, Peace has been preserved to the Empire-and to the Man, eminent for those virtues and accomplishments which give Peace its highest dignity and splendour."

de

The plot of this piece, which is not very complicated, resembles the Precieuses Ridicules of Moliere. Lorenzo, an officer of hussars, returns from Morocco to Palermo, in the opening of the play, expecting to be married to Victoria, the daughter of a wealthy merchant, Ventoso.During the absence of the captain, the merchant has been ennobled ; and the fair one, is assailed by her parents, to reject the captain. In revenge, Lorenzo and his brother-officers, impose a person, whom they conceive to be of mean birth, on the family, as a man of rank and fortune. This is Torrento, a young extravagant, and who is in love with Victoria's sister, Leonora. He is introduced to the family as a Prince Pindemonte, the title adopted by the conspirators, after rejecting the more familiar ones of Duke of Monté-Pulciano, Sauterne, Cotéroti, or Vingrave. Lorenzo not wishing to carry the joke too far, hastens to Ventoso, and relates the whole affair; and Torrento is surprised at being introduced to Victoria, believing the lady involved in the plot to be his Leonora, not knowing that there were two sisters in the family. Some amusing incidents occur at the count's house, in which a quarrel ensues, between Lorenzo and Torrento, in which the latter asserts, that he is a person of real rank; and, after some unaccountable adventures, Lorenzo and Torrento are finally united to the two sisters. The former turning out to be the son of the viceroy of Sicily; and the latter, the heir of the estate and title, unlawfully assumed by his apparent father-in-law, Count Ventoso. Great wit and spirit exist in this comedy; and whatever may be the simplicity of the plot, the action of the drama never ceases. puns are perhaps too numerous. The license of Shakspeare is not an authority in this respect. In the succeeding extracts, however, there are evident Shaksperian touches and allusions, in the accustomed manner of the writers of the age of Elizabeth.

HONEST PRIDE.
The man who gave me

being, tho' no Lord,

Was nature's nobleman, an honest man!

The

And prouder am I, at this hour to stand,
Unpedestall'd, but on his lowly grave,
Than if I tower'd upon a monument
High as the clouds with rotten infamy.

HOPE AND BEAUTY.

Till hope and beauty like twin flowers decay,
For want of cherishing.

DISAPPOINTED LOVE.

The maddening hour when first we met,
The glance, the smile, the vow you gave:
The last wild moments haunt me yet;
I feel they'll haunt me to the grave!
Down, wayward heart, no longer heave;
Thou idle tear, no longer flow:
And may that heav'n he dar'd deceive,
Forgive, as I forgive him now.
Too lovely, oh, too lov'd, farewell!
Though parting rends my bosom strings,
This hour we part! the grave shall tell
The thought that to my spirit clings.
Thou pain, above all other pain!
Thou joy, all other joys above!

Again, again, I feel thy chain,

And die thy weeping martyr, Love.

MOON.

How lovely thro' those vapours soars the moon!

Like a pale spirit casting off the shroud,

As it ascends to heaven!

The imitation of Mercutio and his queen Mab, is evident in the following lines on Curiosity!

CURIOSITY.

True, lady, by the roses in those lips,

Both man and woman would find life;

But for the cunning of curiosity! a waste,

She's the world's witch, and through the world she runs,

The merriest masquer underneath the moon!

To beauties, languid from the last night's rout,

She comes with tresses loose, and shoulders wrapt

In morning shawls; and by their pillow sits,

Telling delicious tales of-lovers lost,

Fair rivals jilted, scandal's smuggled lace,
The hundredth novel of the Great Unknown!

And then they smile, and rub their eyes, and yawn,
And wonder what's o'clock, then sink again;
And thus she sends the pretty fools to sleep.
She comes to ancient dames—and stiff as steel
In hood and stomacher, with snuff in hand,
She makes her rigid muscles gay with news
Of Doctor's Commons, matches broken off,
Blue-stocking frailties, cards, and ratafia;
And thus she gives them prattle for the day.
She sits by ancient politicians, bowed
As if a hundred years were on her back:
Then peering through her spectacles, she reads
A seeming journal, stuff'd with monstrous tales
Of Turks and Tartars; deep conspiracies,

(Born in the writer's brain ;) of spots in the sun,
Pregnant with fearful wars. And so they shake,
And hope they'll find the world all safe by morn:
And thus she makes the world, both young and old,
Bow down to sovereign Curiosity.

We are glad to see the spirit of the ancient drama revive in a modern comedy. The undisguised emotions of the heart," with nature's feelings warm," the language of passion and of truth, are surely better than the frigid civilities, and the vapid movements of fashionable life-a life spent in artifice and masquerade.

DEMOSTHENES.

BEFORE the time of Demosthenes, there existed three distinct styles of eloquence; that of Lysias, mild and persuasive, quietly engaged the attention and won the assent of an audience: that of Thucydides, bold and animated, awakened the feelings, and powerfully forced conviction on the mind; while that of Isocrates, was, as it were, a combination of the two former. Demosthenes can scarcely be said to have proposed any individual as a model; he rather culled all that was valuable from the various styles of his great predecessors, working them up, and blending them into one harmonious whole: not however that there is such a uniformity or mannerism in his works, as prevents him from applying himself with versatility to a variety of subjects; on the contrary, he seems to have had the power of carrying each individual style to perfection, and of adapting himself with equal excellence to each successive topic. In the general structure of many of his sentences, he very much resembles Thucydides; but is more simple and perspicuous, and better calculated to be quickly comprehended by an audience. His clearness in narration; his elegance and purity of diction; and (to borrow a meta-phor from a sister art) his correct keeping, remind the reader of Lysias.

The general tone of his oratory was admirably adapted to an Athenian audience, constituted as it was of those whose habits of life were mechanical, and of those whom ambition or taste had led to the cultivation of literature. The former were captivated by sheer sense, urged with masculine force and inextinguishable spirit, and by the forcible application of plain truths; and yet there was enough of grace and variety to please more learned and fastidious auditors.

The indefatigable industry of Demosthenes gave his enemies an opportunity of denying his natural talents: this malicious opinion would easily find credit; and in fact, a similar mistake is very frequently made; for since it is acknowledged on all hands, that all successful men who are naturally dull, must be industrious; the converse of the proposition grows into repute, and it is inferred that men who are industrious must necessarily be dull. The accusation against Demosthenes seems to have rested chiefly on his known reluctance to speak without preparation; the fact is, that though he could exert the talent of extemporary speaking, he avoided, rather than sought such occasions, partly from deference to his audience, and partly from apprehending the possibility of a failure. Plutarch, who mentions this reluctance of the Orator, mentions at the same time the great merit of his extemporaneous speeches.

W.

SAYINGS AND DOINGS. 3 vols. 12mo.

Colburn.

"To do as people say, and not as they do," is a rule that we have often heard prescribed, but to which we could never assent, because we have uniformly felt, that he who gives prudent counsel, is above all others bound to exhibit in practice, what he advances in doctrine.

The Author whose Work is now before us, reverses the order observed in his title -His doings are not dependent on his sayings, but his sayings are made to chime in with his doings. Not that there is any necessary connexion between them; on the contrary, they are generally introduced unnecessarily, and rather spoil than improve the effect of those pieces which would appear to much greater advantage without them.

The contents of these volumes are four tales, which are related with considerable ease and spirit, displaying a close observation of life and manners, and a shrewd penetration into the motives which commonly influence mankind. As the minute examination of the whole series, would far exceed the limits to which the plan of our publication confines us, we shall consider the first more particularly, which is a fair specimen of the whole; and from that our readers may form a tolerably correct opinion of the style, talents, and design of the Author.

Burton, the hero of the tale, after leaving Oxford, where his studies have been pursued with the greatest success, enters himself a member of the Temple, and in due time is called to the bar. Possessed of more taste than perseverance, his attention is diverted to many objects more agreeable than Blackstone or Comyns. An appointment luckily obtained in his twenty-eighth year, puts him in possession of twenty thousand pounds per annum for life. He resolves to marry, and singular to relate, this learned man, and member of a learned profession, excludes most determinedly, every well-educated girl from his choice. He finds one of good family and connexions, endued with a most amiable disposition, very affectionate, and courteous, and possessed of thirty thousand pounds. Their union is productive of great happiness, which suffers a temporary interruption from the unreasonable conduct of Mrs. Burton's uncle, an old bachelor of seventy-four, whose long life has been successfully devoted to the acquisition of wealth. Returning from the east with a shattered constitution, more anxious to determine on whom he shall bestow his fortune than he had been to acquire it; hasty, impetuous, and suspicious, he forms a striking contrast to Burton, whose mild virtues, and peaceful habits, are broken in upon by the arrival of a couple of adjutants, a rattlesnake, seven Cashmere goats, a Cape jackass, four monkeys, and a couple of parrots," with shrill voices, and excellent lungs," all favourites of the old uncle, Mr. Danvers, and intended as presents to his niece.

A company of such visitors is sufficient to destroy the order and comfort of any well-regulated family. One of the monkeys, on his first arrival, escapes from his keeper, and long displays his agility to the annoyance of all the household. One of the adjutants breaks the gardener's leg the same evening. The following morning the rattle-snake makes a private retreat into the flower garden, the varied beauties of which are destroyed in the attempt to re-take him; the eldest child is rescued from becoming his prey by the maternal courage of Mrs. Burton, but the exertion is attended by the premature birth and death of a son and heir, and the imminent danger of the mother. She recovers, and when restored to her husband and family, old Danvers condescends to favour them with his company.