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RICHARD GLOVER.

actor, and the weakness of the dramatist. In this likeness, Whitehead wears a heavy unintellectual countenance, and looks, indeed, almost like a candidate for Bedlam.

No. 123. RICHARD GLOVER.

From a Miniature by Hone, in the Collection of Richard Glover, Esq.

MR. GLOVER, the author of “ Leonidas,” and “ Boadicea”—has a shrewd, gentlemanlike, and not very good-tempered look. He was one of the protegés of Frederic Prince of Wales, and wrote his poem of Leonidas to further the cause of liberty which was theu in vogue with the prince. If we could forget Beaumont and Fletcher's "Bonduca," we might be inclined to say a word or two in favour of some parts of our author's tragedy; though, we like, on the whole, his well-known ballad of " Admiral Hosier's ghost"—

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"As near Porto Bello lying," &c.

as well as anything that he has written. His blank verse is frequently abrupt and very defective in harmony, and he had not an original imagination. Almost all his figures are commonplace, and were so when he began to write. What can be worse' than the modulation of the following?

There are not two thoughts knit together. The following is much better.

"On his aspect shine

Sublimest virtue, and desire of fame,

Where justice gives the laurel; in his eye
The inextinguishable spark which fires
The souls of patriots, while his brow supports
Undaunted valour, and contempt of death.”

No. 124. JOHN LOGAN.

From a Drawing by Brown, in the possession of Carlyle Bell, Esq.

We thought, on the first glance, that this had been mad LOGAN— (i. e. American Logan)-who dealt out death and thunderbolts, and washed his hands in blood and tears throughout a long life, which reaches through three considerable octavo volumes, and was published at New York, some three years since, to the utter confusion of criticism. The author of that book (who is also the author of a novel, called, "Sixty-five,” we believe) is a patriot of the most exclusive character. He lauds his native soil, till we really doubt whether our grass be as green as his, or whether we have the same compliment of legs and arms. Unhappily, after he has described some of his dramatis personæ as models for heroes, and spoken of them and others as the very pink" of elegance, he

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admits us to their dialogues, and here we discover their infirmity. His plan is impartial, but unwise: and he convinces us of nothing but that his women are a little-coarse, (if we must speak,) and his men the mere swollen phantoms of courage. Some are exaggerations of Drawcansir; and some are like Bobadil---only bolder. His motto of " Our country, right—or wrong," is an unlucky exposition of the modern principle of patriotism.

H

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WILLIAM J. MICKLE.

But our friend before us is not "mad Logan," or rather he is not American Logan. On the contrary, he is the author of a very reasonable and pretty poem on the "Cuckoo," (which has been - repeatedly given in books of " Extracts," besides other agreeable verses. If we are to credit this portrait, he had a staring eye--a large projecting and unpleasant mouth-almost like that of an animal; and his whole face will remind the reader of that unhappy culprit in Hogarth, (in the "Harlot's Progress,") who has given his mistress the wrong bottle of medicine, and put a premature close to her sorrows.

No. 125. WILLIAM J. MICKLE.

From a Picture by Taylor, in the possession of C. J. Mickle, Esq. THE translator of Camoëns appears to have had a shrewd, determined, and unaffected look. He reminds us of-(we forget which, but)-one of the late French revolutionists. He had little of the revolutionist in him, however, for he wrote repeatedly in defence of religion, and did not violate the orthodoxy even of the school of poetry which prevailed when he rose into public notice. He is occasionally a pleasant, graceful writer, but certainly cannot be said to have thrown any new light upon the art which he professed and practised. Mr. Campbell has decided that he is more spirited than Sir Richard Fanshawe, and we are not inclined to dispute his tasteful decision. Nevertheless we can, we think, find solitary passages in the writings of Fanshawe, which are in every respect superior to anything that MICKLE has produced. His account of the devices of Thrift, (the grandmother of the present utilitarians,) an "auncient crone," is very pleasantly written.

"All round the borders where the pansie blue,

Crocus, and polyanthus speckled fine,

DOCTOR COTTON.

And daffodils in fayre confusion grew
Among the rosebush roots and eglantine,
These now their place to cabbages resign,
And tawdrie pease supply the lilly's stead;
Rough artichokes now bristle where the vine
In purple clusters round the windows spread,
And laisie cucumbers on dung recline the head."

"The fragrant orchard, once the summer's pride,
Where oft by moonshine on the daisied green,
In jovial daunce, or tripping side by side,

Pomona and her buxom nymphs were seen"

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and, in short, all the bloom and beauty, and all the fine fragrance of the meadows and the flowers, are swept down and sacrificed at the shrine of that doubtful deity-Utility.

No. 126. DOCTOR COTTON.

From an original Sketch, in the possession of Captain Cotton. DOCTOR COTTON, whose name is associated with Cowper, was not certainly an eminent poet. As he contributed, however, to our hoards of verse, we find his profile in our collection. We have nothing to remark as to the worthy physician's verses, except that they are simple and somewhat moral: nor as to his person; except that it looks like a pleasant section of a man. His lines entitled "The Fireside" are well known. They may be considered, in some respects, as a post-connubial epithalamium. Though fools," he says

"Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers,

We, who improve his golden hours,

By sweet experience know,

That marriage, rightly understood,

Gives to the tender and the good

A paradise below."

WorM

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THOMAS WARTON.

No. 127. THOMAS WARTON.

From a Picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds, in the possession of Mrs. Morgan.

WARTON seems, if we may judge from this portrait, which looks exceedingly like truth, to have had a heavy person, but a sensible countenance. He very much resembled the present Chancellor, Lord Eldon; and he was as deeply read in the antiquities of literature, as the law lord is said to be in jurisprudence. Warton is the author of that elaborate work entitled "The History of English Poetry," in which, though he has not come down very low amongst the moderns, he has done good service to the cause. Although a professed poet, and having much of the sensibility of the poet, he was in spirit more perhaps of an antiquarian. This overhangs almost every subject upon which he has written, and it must be confessed sometimes adds very considerably to the grace of his verses. His Odes on the "Crusade," and the " Grave of King Arthur," are by no means deficient in spirit, and are richly illuminated by the light of antiquity which he has thrown upon them. In his " Inscription on a Hermitage," there is a pleasant account of an anchoret's enjoyments (Warton, by the way, was fond of ale, and of playing with the schoolboys at Winchester) -of his visitors, the blackbird and the wren, of his opening primroses, and "brass-embossed book," which he reads at evening, and then chants, as he says

"Then, as my taper waxes dim,

Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn,
And, at the close, the gleams behold

Of parting wings bedropt with gold."

But, of all Warton's productions, we prefer on the whole his sonnets, which are exceedingly good, although inferior, in our opinion, to some of Mr. Wordsworth, to some of Shakspeare, and to almost all of Milton.