crowd, like a stalk of wild flower in a bed of nettles?" Of the subordinate faults we have remarked more than may well be tolerated in a performance whose perfections are so scanty: we find such passages as these:

• Elizabeth!

At it again the strong idea still!' P. 29.

In page 83 we have the following valuable instance of the

Bathetic :

Hardibrand. What corps I pray thee

Didst thou belong to in thy prince's service?

Rayner. The first division in his fourth brigade

Was that in which I served.'

We are inclined to think that Swift would have been proud to enumerate this amongst his noblest examples of the art of sinking; and that the officer in the first division of the fourth brigade would have been regarded as a worthy comrade of the lieutenant-colonel to the earl of Mar.'

་

Is miss Baillie aware that unblest head' and 'blood-avenging spirits' recur twice in the course of twelve lines? or is this offensive repetition intended as a beauty?

It would be easy to spend more time in exposing the defects of this performance. But we shall willingly turn from them to contemplate its merits, which must be sought for chiefly in separate passages. The reflections of Rayner on his friendless and desperate poverty, display considerable strength of language and warmth of conception:

Rayner. Be still, ye idle thoughts that toss me thus,
Changing like restless waves, but ever dark;

Or some one of you o'er his fellows rise,
And bear a steady rule. Adversity!
Thou'st come upon me like an ambush'd foe
In armed strength. If I had mark'd thy course,
I might have girt myself for thine approach,
While distant still, and met thee like a man.
But when new-fetter'd in a lover's bonds,
And dazzled too with hope's deceitful brightness,
Cam'st thou like a thick cloud of desart sand,

And in dark night o'erwhelm'd me: deepest night,
Thro' which no waking vision ever gleams,
Save thy grim visage only, loathly want,

In all thy varied forms of misery.

My night, my day dreams, ah! how are ye changed,
Since in the new-betroth'd, the lover's fancy,
Ye-wove your sheeny maze of mingled thoughts,
Like sparkling dew-webs in the early sun!

(after a pause.)

Elizabeth! methinks ev'n now I see her,

As in the horrors of my last night's dream,
When, after following her thro' flood and fire,
She turn'd to me, and her weak arms stretch'd forth.
But ah! how changed, how pale, and spent, and keen!
As if already blighting poverty,

That portion which her love must share with me,
Had marr'd-cease, cease, base thought, it shall not be!'

P. 26.

Miss Baillie's powers appear to considerable advantage in the scene between Rayner and Elizabeth, in which, though there is no striking novelty of sentiment or of situation, there will be found enough to affect the heart, and to interest the imagination. The warmth and tenderness of female attachment is very pleasingly delineated; and we cannot confer higher praise than to say, we have little doubt that many of our fair readers will find in their own bosoms the originals of the following sentiments.

Elizabeth. We ask not liberty; we ask but life.
O grant us this, and keep us where they will,
Or as they will. We shall do no disquiet.

O let them grant us life, and we will bless them!

Rayner. And would'st thou have me live, Elizabeth, Forlorn and sad, in lothly dungeon pent,

Kept from the very use of mine own limbs,

A poor, lost, caged thing?

Eliz. Would not I live with thee? would not I cheer

thee?

Would'st thou be lonely then would'st thou be sad?
I'd clear away the dark unwholesome air,

And make a little parlour of thy cell.

• With cheerful labour eke our little means,
And go abroad at times to fetch thee in
The news and passing stories of the day.
I'd read thee books: I'd sit and sing to thee:
And every thing would to our willing minds
Some observation bring to cheer our hours.
Yea, ev'n the varied voices of the wind
O' winter nights would be a play to us.
Nay, turn not from me thus, my gentle Rayner !
How many suffer the extremes of pain,

Ay, lop their limbs away, in lowest plight

Few years to spend upon a weary couch

With scarce a friend their sickly draughts to mingle!
And dost thou grudge to spend thy life with me?' p. 85.

A prominent specimen of our authoress's cast of thought,

and style of diction, may be found in the following reply te father Mardonio, who had reproved Rayner for a degree of levity unbecoming his situation; the latter part of which will necessarily recall to the recollection of our readers the beautiful passage put into the mouth of Belial, by Milton, ( For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being?' &c.) and that still more awful portraiture of a mind shrinking from the terrors of dissolution, given to Claudio in 'Measure for Measure.'

'Rayner. Thou dost me wrong; indeed thou dost me
wrong.

I laugh'd, but, faith! I am not light of soul:
And he who most misfortune's scourge hath felt
Will tell thee laughter is the child of mis'ry.
Ere sin brought wretchedness into the world,
The soberness of undisturbed bliss

Held even empire o'er the minds of men,
Like steady sunshine of a cloudless sky.

But when she came, then came the roaring storm,
Lowering and dark; wild, changeful, and perturb'd;
Whilst thro' the rent clouds oft times shot the gleam
More bright and powerful for the gloom around it.
E'en midst the savage strife of waring passions,
Distorted and fantastic, laughter came,
Hasty and keen, like wild-fire in the night;
And wretches learnt to catch the fitful thought
That swells with antic and uneasy mirth

The hollow care-lined cheek. I pray thee pardon !
I am not light of soul.

Death is to me an awful thing; nay, father,

I fear to die. And were it in my power,

By suffering of the keenest racking pains,

To keep upon me still these weeds of nature,

I could such things endure, that thou would'st marvel,
And cross thyself to see such coward-bravery.

For oh! it goes against the mind of man

To be turn'd out from its warm wonted home,
Ere yet one rent admits the winter's chill.' P. 90.

If our limits permitted it, we should also transcribe the soliloquy of Rayner in the dungon, a short time previous to his expected execution; and then we conceive that nearly all would be done which could be expected from the most indulgent criticism. We shall now therefore dismiss this play, having nothing further to remark, but that we do not think miss Baillie's literary merits quite sufficient to give currency to words of new coinage or ambiguous authority: we are not at all desirous of seeing the English language enriched with such adjectives as "grumly' and 'swoltring.'

For the transient sunshine with which miss Baillie promised that her comedy should refresh us in our passage from the sombre gloom' of one tragedy to that of the other*, we confess we have looked anxiously, and in vain. We fear we shall be deemed deficient in the courtesy which may be thought due to a female candidate for literary fame, if we declare that it has not enlivened us by a single beam. The lady tells us that this performance has lain by her for many years; and most devoutly do we wish, for the sake of her own reputation, that it were still safe in her portfolio. Its pretensions certainly are not great. For we are told that to those who are chiefly accustomed in works of this kind to admire quick turns of thought, pointed expression, witty repartee, and the ludicrous display of the transient follies and fashions of the world, this play will have few attractions.' We are then tempted to ask, to what class of readers is the Country Inn' likely to recommend itself? We believe that few will be found who do not think sprightliness and wit essential to the perfection of comedy; nor do we imagine that the severest critic will be disposed to condemn it for holding up to the follies of the day their own image, and for shewing the body of the time, its form and pressure. If these allurements be rejected, it will be necessary to ascertain what others of equal value are adopted in their stead, and to know by what means the absence of more brilliant and striking decorations is supplied. The plan of the comedy is briefly this. Sir John Hazelwood, and Worshipton his nephew, are stopped at a country inn, in consequence of the illness of an old servant of sir John's. Lady Goodbody, and her two nieces miss Martin and miss Clodpate (the latter of whom, as may readily be guessed, is next to an ideot), by singular good-fortune, put up at the same inn. The parties, of course, meet; and lady Goodbody, who is extremely impatient to see her niece Martin well married, endeavours by many intelligible hints to propose the match to sir John, who is a middleaged bachelor with a good estate, and a man of honour. By this conduct, however, the delicacy of miss Martin is so keenly offended, that she thinks it necessary to treat sir John with pointed incivility; nor would her attachment to him have been discovered, had not the door of her room been fortunately left open, by which he is enabled to overhear an avowal of her partiality, in a conversation with miss Clodpate. This attachment so suddenly conceived, he as suddenly resolves to return; and after some very aukward explanation, their union is fixed.

upon.

Proface, page xiv.

Worshipton in the mean time, under the mistaken belief that the accomplished miss Clodpate is an heiress, persuades her to run off with him, and marry him privately and after the ceremony is performed, finds, to his unspeakable discomfiture, that her fortune is miserably scanty; her father sir Rowland having since his late wife's death married his own cook, by whom he has two fine boys! The third couple provided for in this piece, are incomparably more lucky: Amaryllis, a crazy poet, who happens to be at the inn at the same time, marries Dolly the house-maid; and finds, on his return from church, that a rich uncle has lately left his bride a fortune of ten thousand pounds!!

After this, perhaps our readers will require but little more to convince them that this lady would do well to abstain in future from writing comedies: and will not perhaps be inclined to charge us with unwarrantable rashness when we predict, that if, in nature's spite, she still perseveres, infelix totâ cantabitur urbe,' that she will be the sad burden of a merry song;' and that unfortunate miss Baillie !' will soon become as popularly descriptive of a luckless poetess, as it now is of a lovelorn deserted fair-one.

Lest, however, she should complain that we use her ungenteelly,' we shall appeal to the public for the justice of our sentence, and transcribe at random a sample or two of her comic powers.

Worshipton is an empty fop and a dull one; and it will probably be thought that in the scene of courtship between him and miss Clodpate, the two lovers are well worthy of each other.

Hannah. Ola! are you there, Mr. Worshipton? I saw nobody here but the great coats hanging by the wall.

Worshipton. You are not offended, I hope, that a great coat should be turned into something that can speak to you, and gaze upon you, and admire you, miss Clodpate. (Ogling her.)

Hannah. La, now; it is so droll!
Jenkins (peeping from his hiding place). Droll enough, by my

faith!

Worshipton. I have been waiting here concealed a long time for this happiness; for your aunt is so jealous I can find no opportunity of speaking to you. She knows well enough it is impossible to behold such beauty and attraction without - pardon me : you know very well what I would say to you if I durst.

Hannah. La, no! how should I know. Do you mean that I am beautiful, and what d'ye call it ?

• Worshipton. Indeed I do your beauty must be admired, though your prudent aunt does all she can to conceal it.

'Hannah. La, now! you say so because my hair has been allowed to grow so long, and aunt and every body says that my ears